She was gone, and I couldn't strike back at her, yes, kill her, for what I'd been made to feel she'd done to me. But that was all right. She was the first woman I'd ever known; she was woman to me; and all womankind bore her face. So I could strike back at any of them, any female, the ones it would be safest to strike at, and it would be the same as striking at her. And I did that, I started striking out… and Mike Dean took the blame.
Dad tightened the reins on me after that. I could hardly be out of his sight an hour without his checking up on me. So years passed and I didn't strike out again, and I was able to distinguish between women and the woman. Dad slacked off on the reins a little; I seemed to be normal. But every now and then I'd catch myself in that deadpan kidding, trying to ease the terrific pressure that was building up inside of me. And even without that I knew- though I wouldn't recognize the fact-that I wasn't all right.
If I could have got away somewhere, where I wouldn't have been constantly reminded of what had happened and I'd had something I wanted to do-something to occupy my mind-it might have been different. But I couldn't get away, and there wasn't anything here I wanted to do. So nothing had changed; I was still looking for her. And any woman who'd done what she had would be her.
I'd kept pushing Amy away from me down through the years, not because I didn't love her but because I did. I was afraid of what might happen between us. I was afraid of what I'd do… what I finally did.
I could admit, now, that I'd never had any real cause to think that Amy would make trouble for me. She had too much pride; she'd have hurt herself too much; and, anyway, she loved me.
I'd never had any real cause, either, to be afraid that Joyce would make trouble. She was too smart to try to, from what I'd seen of her. But if she had been sore enough to try-if she'd been mad enough so's she just didn't give a damn-she wouldn't have got anywhere. After all, she was just a whore and I was old family, quality; and she wouldn't have opened her mouth more than twice before she was run out of town.
No, I hadn't been afraid of her starting talk. I hadn't been afraid that if I kept on with her I'd lose control of myself. I'd never had any control even before I met her. No control-only luck. Because anyone who reminded me of the burden I carried, anyone who did what that first her had done, would get killed…
Anyone. Amy. Joyce. Any woman who, even for a moment, became her.
I'd kill them.
I'd keep trying until I did kill them.
Elmer Conway had had to suffer, too, on her account. Mike had taken the blame for me, and then he'd been killed. So, along with the burden, I had a terrible debt to him that I couldn't pay. I could never repay him for what he'd done for me. The only thing I could do was what I did… try to settle the score with Chester Conway.
That was my main reason for killing Elmer, but it wasn't the only one. The Conways were part of the circle, the town, that ringed me in; the smug ones, the hypocrites, the holier-than-thou guys-all the stinkers I had to face day in and day out. I had to grin and smile and be pleasant to them; and maybe there are people like that everywhere, but when you can't get away from them, when they keep pushing themselves at you, and you can't get away, never, never, get away.
Well.
The bum. The few others I'd struck out at. I don't know-I'm not really sure about them.
They were all people who didn't have to stay here. People who took what was handed them because they didn't have enough pride or guts to strike back. So maybe that was it. Maybe I think that the guy who won't fight when he can and should deserves the worst you can toss at him.
Maybe. I'm not sure of all the details. All I can do is give you the general picture; and not even the experts could do more than that.
I've read a lot of stuff by a guy-name of Kraepelin, I believe-and I can't remember all of it, of course, or even the gist of all of it. But I remember the high points of some, the most important stuff, and I think it goes something like this:
"… difficult to study because so seldom detected. The condition usually begins around the period of puberty, and is often precipitated by a severe shock. The subject suffers from strong feelings of guilt… combined with a sense of frustration and persecution… which increase as he grows older; yet there are rarely if ever any surface signs of… disturbance. On the contrary, his behavior appears to be entirely logical. He reasons soundly, even shrewdly. He is completely aware of what he does and why he does it…"
That was written about a disease, or a condition, rather, called dementia praecox. Schizophrenia, paranoid type. Acute, recurrent, advanced.
Incurable.
It was written, you might say, about- But I reckon you know, don't you?
23
I was in jail eight days, but no one questioned me and they didn't pull any more Stunts like that voice recording. I kind of looked for them to do the last because they couldn't be positive about that piece of evidence they had-about my reaction to it, that is. They weren't certain that it would make me put the finger on myself. And even if they had been certain, I knew they'd a lot rather I cracked up and confessed of my own accord. If I did that they could probably send me to the chair. The other way-if they used their evidence-they couldn't.
But I reckon they weren't set up right at the jail for any more stunts or maybe they couldn't get ahold of the equipment they needed. At any rate, they didn't pull any more. And on the eighth day, around eleven o'clock at night, they transferred me to the insane asylum.
They put me in a pretty good room-better'n any I'd seen the time I'd had to take a poor guy there years before-and left me alone. But I took one look around and I knew I was being watched through those little slots high up on the walls. They wouldn't have left me in a room with cigarette tobacco and matches and a drinking glass and water pitcher unless someone was watching me.
I wondered how far they'd let me go if I started to cut my throat or wrap myself in a sheet and set fire to it, but I didn't wonder very long. It was late, and I was pretty well worn out after sleeping on that bunk in the cooler. I smoked a couple of hand-rolled cigarettes, putting the butts out real careful. Then with the lights still burning- there wasn't any switch for me to turn 'em off-I stretched out on the bed and went to sleep.
About seven in the morning, a husky-looking nurse came in with a couple of young guys in white jackets. And she took my temperature and pulse while they stood and waited. Then, she left and the two attendants took me down the hall to a shower room, and watched while I took a bath. They didn't act particularly tough or unpleasant, but they didn't say a word more than they needed to. I didn't say anything.
I finished my shower and put my short-tailed nightgown back on. We went back to my room, and one of 'em made up my bed while the other went after my breakfast. The scrambled eggs tasted pretty flat, and it didn't help my appetite any to have them cleaning up the room, emptying the enamel night-can and so on. But I ate almost everything and drank all of the weak lukewarm coffee. They were through cleaning by the time I'd finished. They left, locking me in again.
I smoked a hand-rolled cigarette, and it tasted good.
I wondered-no I didn't, either. I didn't need to wonder what it would be like to spend your whole life like this. Not a tenth as good as this probably, because I was something pretty special right now. Right now I was a hideout; I'd been kidnapped, actually. And there was always a chance that there'd be a hell of a stink raised. But if that hadn't been the case, if I'd been committed-well, I'd still be something special, in a different way. I'd be worse off than anyone in the place.