two hundred maybe. But got nearly three hundred peoples crowded in. You'd think they'd figured that part out, but no, not yet.'
Francis didn't reply.
'Got a bed for you, though,' Mr. Moses added. At the nursing station, Mr. Moses stopped. 'You gonna be A-OK. Hello, ladies,' he said. Two white-clad nurses behind the wire mesh, turned toward him. 'You looking ever so sweet and beautiful this fine morning.'
One was old, with graying hair and a well-lined, pinched face, but who still managed a smile. The other was a stocky black woman, far younger than her companion, who snorted her reply like a woman who had heard nice words that amounted to false promises more than once. 'You always talking so sweet, but what it be you need this time around?' This was said in a mock-gruff tone, that caused both women to crack smiles.
'Why, ladies, I'm always looking only to bring a little joy and happiness into your lives,' he said. 'What more?'
The nurses laughed out loud. 'Ain't no man ever not looking for something,' the black nurse said. The white nurse quickly added, 'Sweetheart, that's the God's truth.'
Mr. Moses also laughed, while Francis suddenly stood awkwardly, unsure what he was to do. 'Ladies, may I be presenting you with Mister Francis Petrel, who be staying with us. Mister C-Bird, this fine young lady be Miss Wright, and her lovely companion, there, be Miss Winchell.' He handed over a clipboard. 'The doctor listed out some meds for this boy. Look to be pretty much the usual.'
He turned to Francis and said, 'What you think, Mister C-Bird? You think the doc maybe prescribed a cup of hot coffee in the morning and a nice cold beer and a plate filled with fried chicken and cornbread at the end of the day? You think that's what the doctor ordered?'
Francis must have looked surprised, because the attendant quickly added, 'I'm just having some fun with you. Don't mean nothing.'
The nurses looked over the chart, then placed it along with a stack of others on a corner of their desk. The older one, Miss Winchell, reached below a counter and brought forth a small, cheap plaid cloth suitcase. 'Mister Petrel, this was left for you by your family.'
She passed it through an opening in the wire mesh, turning to the attendant, saying, 'I've already searched it.'
Francis took the suitcase and fought back the urge to burst into tears. He had recognized it instantly. It was a bag he'd been given as a gift one Christmas morning, when he was young, and because he'd never actually traveled anywhere, he'd always used for storage whenever he wanted to keep something special, or something unusual. A sort of portable secret place for the items collected during childhood, because each small item was, in its own way, a sort of journey in itself. A pine cone collected one fall; a set of toy soldiers, a book of children's verse never returned to the local library. His hands quivered slightly as they ran across the fake leather edging on the satchel, and he touched the handle. The zipper on the bag was open, and he saw that everything that the bag had once held had been removed, replaced with some clothes from his drawers at home. He knew instantly that everything that he'd accumulated in that bag had been emptied out and discarded. It was as if his parents had packed what little they thought of his life into the small luggage, and sent it to him to send him on his way. He could feel his lower lip trembling, and he felt completely and utterly alone.
The nurses passed a second gathering of items through the wire. These included some rough sheets and a pillowcase, a threadbare army surplus olive drab wool blanket, a bathrobe much like the ones he'd already seen on some patients, and some pajamas, again like those he'd already seen. He placed these on top of the suitcase and lifted both in front of him.
Mr. Moses nodded. 'All right, I'll show you your bed. Get your stuff squared away. Then what have we got for Mister C-Bird, ladies?'
Again, one of the nurses checked the chart. 'Lunch at noon. Then he's free until a group session in Room 101 at three with Mister Evans. He comes back here at four thirty for free time. Dinner at six o'clock. Medications at seven. That's it.'
'You get all that, Mister C-Bird?'
Francis nodded. He didn't trust his own voice. He could hear, echoing deep within him, orders to comply, keep quiet, and stay alert. He followed Mr. Moses through a door into a large room with some thirty to forty beds lined up in rows. All the beds were made up, except one, not far from the door. There were a half dozen men lying on beds, either asleep, or staring up into the ceiling, who barely looked in his direction as he entered the room.
Mr. Moses helped him to make the bed and stow his few clothes in a foot locker. There was room for the tiny suitcase, as well, and it disappeared into the empty space. It took less than five minutes to square him away.
'Well, that's it,' Mr. Moses said.
'What happens to me now?' Francis asked.
The attendant smiled a little wistfully. 'Now, C-Bird, what you got to do is get yourself better.'
Francis nodded. 'How?'
'That the big question, C-Bird. You gone have to figure that out for yourself.'
'What should I do?' Francis asked.
The attendant leaned down toward him. 'Just keep to yourself. This place can get a bit rough, sometimes. You got to figure out everybody else, and give 'em what space they need. Don't be trying to make friends too fast, C-Bird. Just keep your mouth shut and follow the rules. You need help, you talk to me or my brother, or one of the nurses, and we'll try to see you straight.'
'But what are the rules?' Francis said.
The large attendant turned and pointed at a sign posted high on the wall.
NO SMOKING IN SLEEPING ROOM
NO LOUD NOISES
NO TALKING AFTER 9 PM
RESPECT OTHERS
RESPECT OTHER PEOPLE'S PROPERTY
When he finished reading through twice, Francis turned. He wasn't sure where to go or what to do. He sat down on the edge of his bed.
Across the room, one of the men who had been lying down staring at the ceiling, feigning sleep, abruptly stood up. He was very tall, well over six and one half feet, with a sunken chest, and thin, bony arms that protruded from beneath a tattered sweatshirt with the logo of the New England Patriots on it, and stovepipe legs that jutted from lime green surgical scrubs that were six inches too short. The sweatshirt sleeves had been sliced off just below the shoulders. He was far older than Francis, and wore stringy gray-tinged hair in a matted clump that fell to his shoulders. His eyes were suddenly wide, as if half-frightened and half-furious. The man instantly lifted one cadaverous hand and pointed directly at Francis.
'Stop it!' he shouted out. 'Stop it, now!'
Francis shrank back slightly. 'Stop what?'
'Just stop! I can tell! You cannot fool me! I knew it as soon as you came in! Stop it!'
'I don't know what I'm doing,' Francis replied meekly.
By now the tall man was waving both arms in the air as if trying to clear cobwebs from his path. His voice was rising with each step he took across the room, 'Stop it! Stop it! I can see through you! You can't do it to me!'
Francis looked around for somewhere to run, or to hide, but he was hemmed in by the man lurching toward him and the back wall of the room. The few other men in the dormitory were still asleep, or ignoring what was happening.
The man seemed to have stretched in size, growing in ferocity with every stride. 'I know! I could tell! From the moment you walked in! Stop now!'
Francis felt frozen with confusion. Inwardly, his voices were all screaming in a cascade
