Andrew looked at her, but he couldn’t see her properly. She was just a blur of colors, a whirling chart of colors without form or meaning or substance. He didn’t even feel his own hand pushing her aside, and though his legs moved, his feet didn’t seem to touch the floor.
His eyes functioned but only if he looked at one thing at a time, one separate stationary thing, the door, the instrument bag packed and ready in the front seat of the car, a street lamp, a house, a tree.
She sat upright in a chair. Beside her the steam radiator was turned on and gave off blasts of noise and heat that smelled of paint. But her face remained cold and waxy and her eyes frozen.
“Mrs. Morrow...”
(There is a man in my room. Is it my room? No. Yes, my room. One man and another man. Two men.)
“...I’ve phoned your husband. He’s coming right away.”
(What a lot of men in my room and so much talk.)
“If there’s anything I could get you...”
(They might be talking to me.)
Bascombe shifted uneasily. “I don’t think she hears you.”
(But I do. You’re making a mistake, young man. Young man? Old man? Two, anyway. Two, two.)
“Mrs. Morrow, I’d like to help you. If you can remember what happened to you...”
An expression moved across her face, softly, like a cat walking. She knew she must be clever now, these were her enemies.
(She was in the lake, she was swimming, and the water was cold and dark and the waves passionate against her and so strong. She saw a hand stretched out to help her, she reached for the hand and it pushed her savagely away, down, down, down, so black, so dying, dying.)
“Mrs. Morrow, here is your husband.”
“Lucille... Lucille, darling...”
He came into the sweltering room. She turned her head very slowly and saw him hold out his hand to her.
She began to scream. The screams came out of her throat smoothly, almost effortlessly, like a song from a bird.
When the ambulance came she was still screaming.
The ambulance neglected to pick up Mr. Greeley. The headlights just missed him.
He was sitting in the alley behind the hotel propped up against the wall. The wind from the lake stabbed at his face but Greeley didn’t mind it. Life was a stinker but he, Greeley, had it licked. The night was dark but full of bright dreams — warm women, silk, thick soft fur, velvet hills and soft snug places.
Dreaming, he passed into sleep and sleeping into death.
Part Two
The Fox
Chapter 6
She felt safe again. Behind her there was an iron gate and a hundred doors that locked with a big key. One of the nurses kept the key in the palm of her hand all the time.
There were no steps, only inclines that you walked up with someone beside you talking pleasantly and impersonally, and then finally the last door, the last clink of a key and the enemy was shut out. The room had windows but no one could get in through them. On both sides there was steel mesh.
She went immediately to the windows and felt the mesh, knowing that the nurse was watching her and would report it to the superintendent. But she had to know the room was safe and the feel of the mesh under her fingers was reassuring.
“It’s strong, isn’t it?” she said.
“Oh, yes,” the nurse said cheerfully. She was young, with blonde curls and a pretty smile. She looked trim and efficient, but her eyes seemed to be laughing as though they lived a secret giddy life of their own. “I’m Miss Scott.”
“Miss, Scott,” Lucille repeated.
“We’ll just unpack your clothes now and put them away, Mrs. — Morrow.”
“Mrs. Morrow.”
“You’ll be sharing this room with Miss Cora Green. Miss Green is down in the library at the moment. I’m sure you’ll like her very much. We all do.”
She began to unpack Lucille’s clothes, keeping the key flat in the palm of her left hand. She did not turn her back to Lucille or take her eyes off her, but her vigilance was unobtrusive. She talked pleasantly and steadily. When Lucille finally noticed how closely she was being watched she did not resent it. Miss Scott was so smooth. She gave the impression that she was being merely careful, not suspicious, cautious but not in the least mistrustful.
“What a pretty blue dress,” Miss Scott said. “Almost matches your eyes, doesn’t it? I think we’ll save that one for the movie night.”
“I didn’t know I was to share a room.”
“We find it’s better to have two people in a room. It’s not so lonely. And you’ll love Miss Green. She makes us all laugh.”
“I wanted to be by myself.”
“Of course you may feel like that at first. Would you mind handing me another hanger, Mrs. Morrow?” Lucille moved automatically. The familiar act of hanging up one of her own dresses made her feel more at home. She picked up another hanger.
Miss Scott observed her. “Perhaps you’d like to finish up by yourself, Mrs. Morrow? Then you’ll know where everything is.”
“All right.”
“We let everyone help herself as much as possible. We like to feel that each suite is a little community...”
“I don’t want to see the others.” The others, the crazy ones. “I want to be by myself.”
“You’ll feel a little strange at first, but we find our system is the best.”
It was Lucille’s first contact with the dominant “we.” We, the nurses: we, the doctors, the brass keys, the steel mesh: we, the iron gate, the fence: we, the people, society: we, the world.
“There are four rooms to each suite,” Miss Scott said.
“Two to a room. We try to put people of similar background together.”
From somewhere outside the door a woman began to moan, “Give me more food and more clotherings.” The voice was weak but distinct.
“That’s Mrs. Hammond,” Miss Scott said briskly. “Don’t pay any attention to her, she has plenty to eat and to wear.”
“Give me more food and more clotherings.”
“That’s all she ever says,” Miss Scott added.
“Give me...”
Lucille bent over the suitcase, as if her body had flowed suddenly out of her dress and the dress itself was ready to fold itself up in the suitcase and go home.
“Do you feel ill, Mrs. Morrow?”
There was a blur in front of her eyes and beyond the blur words dangled and danced, and beyond the thickness that clothed her ears voices spoke, out of turn, out of time.
Give me more food. People of similar background. Mrs. Morrow, here is your husband. More clotherings. What a pretty blue dress. Do you feel ill, Mrs. Morrow? Do you feel ill? Ill? Ill?
“No,” she said.
“Just a little upset, eh?” Miss Scott said. “We expect that. Perhaps you’d like me to leave you alone for a minute or two until you get used to the room. I’ll go down to the library and get Miss Green. Here, you’ll find this blue chair very comfortable.”
“Are you going to lock my door? I want my door locked.”
“We never lock individual doors during the day.”
“I want my door...”
“Tonight, when you’re all tucked in, we’ll lock your door.”
Miss Scott reached the door without exactly walking backward but without turning her back to Lucille. She hooked the door open and stepped into the hall.
Mrs. Hammond was standing just outside, her arms folded across her flat chest. She was a handsome young woman with thick black hair and somber brown eyes, but her skin was yellowish and stretched taut over the bones of her face. She wore a black skirt and a heavy red sweater.