“Good, because I’d have to clear it, you know, with the powers that be.”
I don’t say anything.
I can hear the wheels turning at the other end of the receiver. Finally he says, “Looks like I have a window Thursday afternoon. If you can be here at three o’clock?”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll tell the gate.”
Louis Armstrong Airport, New Orleans. Along with every other locale in the States, New Orleans had commoditized itself, with jazz and voodoo and Mardi Gras ruling the T-shirt and trinket trade. The voodoo connection – the coins – seems more evidence that I’m on the right track. If I can get Peyton Anderton to talk about Vermillion…
The woman at the Alamo counter is friendly, asks where I’m headed, do I need directions?
“Port Sulfur.”
“Say where?”
“Plaquemines Parish.” I pronounce Plaquemines so it rhymes with nines. She corrects me.
“Plak-a-mihn,” she says. “And we don’t bother with that s, no.” She slides my license and credit card back to me, pulls out a map, and marks the route with a green pen. “Follow I-10 across the river to 23. You get to Belle Chasse and then you just head on south. The highway follows the river all the way.” She folds the map and hands it to me with a smile. “Now, why you want to go there for? You got all the city, Cajun country, and what-all, and you gonna pick Plaquemines?” She cocks her head. “Must be here on business and not pleasure.”
“No fun in Plaquemines?”
“Not unless you really like to fish; you don’t go to Plaquemines for fun, no. Oil and gas and fish, that what they got down there. Oranges. Also, it’s scary.”
“Scary? What do you mean?”
“Plaquemines give a bad name to Louisiana a while back – and that ain’t so easy, know what I’m saying? And I don’t know it’s really changed all that much. You take me – I’m half black. I just wouldn’t go there. No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“You heard of Leander Perez?”
I shake my head.
“Back in the day, he ran that place like… I don’t know. He was like a dictator and people like me, we were slaves there. Vote? Forget it. Black people couldn’t vote. Hell, they could hardly drive. It was all… like… juke joints and lynchings…” She shakes her head, plunks down the car keys. “Row seven, space twelve.”
I scoop up the keys and I’m about to leave when she adds something. “You ain’t no person of color, but you’re a Yankee – so y’all be careful.”
I promise I will.
“And wear your seat belt. They’ll bust you for that in Plaquemines.”
An hour later, I’ve made the turn at Belle Chasse. It doesn’t seem scary except for an excessive number of patrol cars, but it does seem… boring.
Sprawl gives way to orange groves and back to more sprawl. Land carved up into ten-acre parcels, bright For Sale signs everywhere, big McMansions under construction.
And then I’m past the sprawl, driving down a new four-lane highway through undeveloped countryside. I pass an occasional cattle farm, a few little towns, and not much else.
The names are a trip in themselves: Concession, Live Oak, Jesuit Bend, Myrtle Grove.
There’s not much to see. On the river side, the levee blocks any view, and as far as I can tell, the Gulf side is just flat country. I know that there are oil rigs out there, and a big deepwater port, but all I can see is low-lying trees and reedy vegetation and, once in a while, a lone house. I read in one of the guidebooks that the area had been hit hard by hurricanes a few years back, with many old houses destroyed.
West Point a La Hache, Diamond, Happy Jack, Magnolia.
And then I’m there: Port Sulfur. I read in a guidebook that the town got its name from a sulfur mine out in the salt marsh.
Downtown is a gas station/convenience store. Across from this stands the Port Sulfur High School (home of the Mighty Broncos), along with the library, sheriff’s office, and Department of Human Services. Half of these establishments are housed in trailers.
I pass the gas station and follow Anderton’s directions, turning right a mile past town on Lousiana 561. After the specified two point seven miles, I see the small sign for the Port Sulfur Forensic Facility and turn up a long drive. I can see the hospital, an ugly rectangle of yellow brick – but in front of it is a fine old plantation house, with white pillars and a verandah, and glorious live oaks. Surrounding both structures is a fence strung with concertina wire.
The guardhouse windows are occluded by condensation. The man inside slides open his window with some reluctance, then asks my business. I spell my name for him and he slides his window shut again. He studies his clipboard, running his finger down a list, finds what he’s looking for, then laboriously fills out two bright orange visitor’s passes. He slides open his window and passes them to me. “Clip one on your shirt,” he tells me, “and place the other on your dashboard. Turn them both in when you leave.” He raises the gate and retreats to the comfort of his air-conditioned cubicle.
I know from his CV that Dr. Peyton Anderton is forty-three years old. But with his round baby face and rosy skin he still looks like a boy pretending to be a man. Even his mustache has the look of being pasted-on for the senior play, and I’m sure he grew it to make himself look older. He wears a seersucker suit and a bright smile.
“Mr. Callahan!” he says, shaking my hand with an enthusiastic grip. “Glad you found us.” He’s wearing some kind of cologne.
It’s a big room, and still has the graceful dimensions of another age and use. High ceilings, generous windows, heavy moldings. A ceiling fan turns overhead. Several antique maps of Louisiana grace the walls behind Anderton’s desk, and a set of beautiful wood-and-glass display cases line the walls. “Some of the artwork,” Anderton says, following my gaze, “created by the patients. We’ve had some talented folks here.”
We sit in a pair of easy chairs, drinking iced tea and talking about the challenges the workforce faces in what he refers to as “the facility.”
“For myself, it’s not so bad,” he says, after we’ve been shooting the breeze for fifteen minutes or so. “Down here in the administration building, where I spend most of my time, it’s quite pleasant, as you can see.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He beams with pride. “It tends to surprise folk,” he says. “The main building is a whole different story. It’s what you’d expect of a facility that’s a hybrid of hospital and prison. Security for the patients and staff is a priority, of course, and it doesn’t exactly make for a comfortable ambience.”
“And the work – do you find it gratifying?”
He thrusts his chin forward and nods sadly, then gives me a look that is meant to be frank, but again has a rehearsed quality. “Not really,” he says with a sigh. “Most of our patients fall into two categories. Many are here for pretrial evaluations – to see if they’re capable of standing trial. The rest are insanity acquitees.”
I must look puzzled because Anderton explains: “‘Not guilty by reason of insanity.’ Not guilty, see what I mean? The point being, our patients are here to be treated, not punished. And we do treat them. But I’m afraid we don’t cure too many.”
“Because…?”
“Because their illnesses are often chronic – like diabetes. We can manage that disease with insulin and diet, but we can’t cure it. It’s the same with schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. And that can make the job very frustrating.”
“Ah.”
“So long as the patients are monitored and taking their medication, they’re not a threat to themselves or anyone else. But when they’re released – and we have to release many of them at some point – we have no means of keeping track of them or their meds.”