Chapter 30 Samson
I walk out of school and a police cruiser passes, its sirens screeching. It’s a relief to be away, to increase the distance between me and my classmates, but I need to keep my head down, not make eye contact, remain in the shadows.
Past the auto mechanic and on up the hill. I walk through the park. Boys from the grade above smoking weed and flirting with girls from the other school. A man walking seven or eight dogs, their leashes tangling.
Exhaust fumes heavy in the dry December air.
The hill is the steepest in town. My bag weighs me down, the strap digging into my shoulder, but I am walking toward something, and that is all that matters.
I crest the peak, my heart racing. The hospital looks more like a country club or a hotel, that is, until you see the tall fence and the boarded-up door and bars on the windows and the signs in the parking lot.
ST. MARY’S PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL, ESTABLISHED 1937
It’s dark now, the headlights of pickups and delivery trucks coming and going as I wait outside the high perimeter fence.
I step toward the public reception.
I never expected to have butterflies in my stomach. Nerves and excitement.
The door opens automatically as I approach.
There is nobody else in the waiting room.
It’s the anticipation of seeing her after all this time. But also, the sensation of taking control of a situation. Nobody gave me permission to do this. I am here because I decided to be here.
Long corridors lead off in all directions. Closed doors. Color-coded route maps.
I approach the counter. Glass screen. A lady with large blue glasses and a permanent. She pushes the screen to one side.
“Hello, son. What can I help you with?”
Son?
I am not your son.
“Can I see my mom, please? Her name is Mrs. Jenkins.”
“Oh, I am sorry. You’ll need to come back with your father or guardian. And you need to read about visitation hours.” She points to the board on the wall.
“Can I drop something off for her? It’s Mrs. Jenkins.”
“OK, let me see. Mrs. Jenkins, you say?”
“Margaret Jenkins. Her friends call her Peggy.”
She doesn’t reply, she just checks her computer.
“Ah, yes. Here we are. Now, just a moment.”
She adjusts her glasses and says, “What would you want to be leaving for her?”
I unzip my schoolbag. The smell of gym gear and damp books. I pull out my football socks. Remove my Walkman.
“It’s just this. It has a special cassette for her inside. Music. Radio recordings and stuff.”
She grimaces.
“What’s wrong?”
She says, “Wait there a minute. I need to check on something real quick. Take a seat.”
I sit down. There’s a stack of magazines on the table. Glamour. National Geographic. Cosmopolitan.
I open the tape deck of my Walkman. It’s a cassette I’ve had for years.
I bought it as a blank, part of a pack of three, from Smith’s Bookstore and Stationers.
It has an hour or more on each side. Some ballads, songs Mom likes, half a radio quiz, most of a Russian play, and some classical concertos as well.
The lady comes back.
I approach the counter.
“I’m ever so sorry. It’s hospital policy, see. I tried my best but there’s no tape recorders or radio player machines allowed inside. Not on your mom’s ward. I’m real sorry about that.”
“Can I just give her the tape?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, young man. If it was up to me, but it isn’t. They have a radio inside and a decent TV set as well. Don’t worry, she’s in good hands.”
“Is she OK, please? Have you seen her yourself?”
She swallows. Smiles. Purses her lips. “She’s being well looked after. I’m sorry.”
“Can I bring her in anything else?”
“Course you can. What a nice idea. If there’s any socks or cotton undergarments, anything like that. If she needs some face cream or a toothbrush, that kind of thing is usually permitted.”
“Can I write her?”
“You can write her a letter and have your father bring it in. Talk to him about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Take care, son.”
I leave.
When I reach home Dad’s already writing. He told me last night how he’s deep into act two and he can’t risk slowing down. He said he isn’t satisfied with it, but it’s moving forward, it has momentum now, and he needs to go with it, see where it takes him.
He’s wearing foam earplugs from the scrapyard.
The boat is warm but it is not hot. He still has his shirt on.
As quietly as I can, I make us oatmeal. I pour on syrup but it’s almost frozen from being improperly stored outside on deck.
Comes out like molasses. Dad doesn’t come to the table.
I take his bowl to him and he doesn’t acknowledge me.
But then he eats as he writes, his cracked fingertips banging away at the word processor, his trophy at eye level on the bureau, visible every time he glances up.
I’m pleased he is eating something hot and nourishing. He needs it.
The next day I arrive at school. I receive an A- for my history assignment and a B+ for my biology project.
My bag is stolen twice—once by two short kids, which really irritates me, little shits, who do they think they are?
And then I was spat at from a second-story window in the music building.
I was walking past, minding my own damn business.
Must have been six or seven juniors all spat at once.
Nothing hit me. But they laughed and jeered and it may as well have struck me right in the eye.
Two days left until the end of term.
At least there’s that.
I walk to the bus station, ice in the air, and linger in Smith’s, which sells more newspapers, CDs, and sodas than books these days.
I look at the car magazines. One of the stories, something about a new model of Porsche, is set in Austin, Texas.
Photos of them driving fast on a bridge across the Colorado River.
Maybe I’ll live someplace like Austin one day.
Anonymity. Opportunities. The possibility of reaching the rest of the world.
I look up and the woman at the cash register nods at me.
She has two plaits today and I don’t know if she’s aware of the way she helps save my life each afternoon, never kicking me out for browsing.
I buy a two-finger KitKat and walk toward my bus stop.
Three of them.
Gunner, Johnno, and Ballbag.
I walk faster, acting like I haven’t noticed.
Gunner walks straight into me and keeps on walking like a plow pushing a ridge of snow, effortlessly slamming me into a low wall.
I fall on my ass, my schoolbag pulling tight.
“How’s your mom?” says Ballbag.
I try to stand up.
They push me back down.
“I said, how’s your mother? Still insane?”
“Yeah.”
They snicker.
“You know they do experiments up there at that place, right?” says Gunner.
“Couldn’t do it in a prison or a private hospital like we’d go to.
But they’re so out of their minds they don’t have a clue.
I heard there’s a mortician and an incinerator up there.
Burning stuff so there’s no trace. People just disappear off the face of the earth sometimes. ”
I make a break for it and Ballbag catches me by the arm and slams me back into the wall. There are people around, staring, but nobody comes.
Blood starts gushing from my nose.
I wipe my face with my jacket sleeve.
Gunner says, “She’s not coming out of there, Noodles. You know that, yeah? Your mom’s never coming back to you, little man.”
I grit my teeth. I’ll miss the bus if they don’t stop.
Gunner pulls his zipper and rests his boot on my chest.
The other two laugh and look at each other. They do the same.
I push and twist and struggle to run away but they push me back down. It’s over in seconds.
A trio of girls walk past, and they pause and step back a pace.
“Animals!” yells Jennifer, the girl from the railroad footbridge. “You should be ashamed of yourselves. Cowards.”
“We’re just having a joke,” says Gunner, helping me up. “Relax. He’s our little buddy, aren’t you, Noodles?”
I walk away.
Jennifer tries to follow me, but I say, “I’m fine.”
She says, “Sammy. Wait.”
I don’t wait.
I have never felt more shame in my life. My cheeks must be bright red, and hot urine has seeped down into my socks.
Nobody sits next to me on the bus.
I stare out of the window at the lifeless fields scrolling by.
What did I ever do to them?
I walk down the towpath, my back curved, my head low, thinking what I’ll write to Mom.
I’ll need to wash my clothes tonight in the sink. Rub down my jacket with soap.
“Samson?”
I turn my head. It’s Mr. Turner’s boat. It’s been moved closer to ours, only thirty yards’ gap, and the fire’s been lit.
His black leather jacket gleams in the warm light from the boat.
“You all right, dude?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look all right.”
I don’t want him to move closer. He might smell me.
“Shit day, that’s all.” I take a step back.
He nods.
“Same here. I’m gonna move the boat up closer to yours if that’s all right?”
“Do what you want.”
“We all appreciated you coming to Uncle Jeff’s send-off. We talked about you in the bar after. Was good of you to come, man.”
I shrug.
“He liked you, you know. I think he liked you better than he did any of us.”
I look at him.
“He said you were his friend.”