haphazardly through the muddy quadrant of the hospital grounds edge. Peonies, baby's breath, violets, and tulips had sprung from the murky soil. The garden was as chaotic as any of their minds, with sheets and slices of vibrant color heading in every direction, planted without order or organization, but flowering wildly nevertheless. Francis stared, a little astonished, reminded in that instant how drab their lives truly were. But even this depressing thought was shunted aside, in exuberant delight over the growth in front of him.
Within a few seconds, Big Black had distributed some modest gardening tools. They were children's implements, made out of plastic, and they didn't do particularly well at what the task at hand was, but still, Francis thought, they were better than nothing. He plunked himself down next to Cleo, who seemed barely aware of his presence, and started working at organizing the flowers into rows, trying to bring some order to the explosion of color surrounding them.
Francis was unaware how long they worked. Even Cleo, still muttering obscenities to herself, seemed to put some of her stress on hold, although she occasionally sobbed as she dug and scraped in the moist loam of the garden, and more than once Francis saw her reach out and touch the fragile blooms of one flower with tears in her eyes. Almost all the patients at one point paused and let the rich, damp dirt dribble through their fingers. There was a smell of renewal, and vitality, and Francis thought the fragrance filled him with more optimism than any of the antipsychotic drugs they were forever ingesting.
When he rose, after Big Black finally announced that the sortie was over, he stared down at the garden, and had to admit that it looked better. Almost all the weeds that threatened the flower beds had been plucked out; some definition had been imposed upon the rows. It was, Francis thought, a little like seeing a painting that was still only half-completed. There was form and possibility.
He tried to dust some of the dirt from his hands and clothes, but only halfheartedly. He found he didn't mind the sensation of being filthy, at least not on that afternoon.
Big Black arranged the group into a single line, and returned the plastic gardening tools to a green wooden box, counting them at least three times as he did so. Then, as he was about to give the signal to start back down the pathway to Amherst, he stopped, and Francis saw the huge attendant's gaze focus on a small group that was gathering about fifty yards away, on the very edge of the hospital property, behind a wire fence.
'That's the cemetery,' Napoleon whispered. Then he, like all the others, quieted.
Francis could see Doctor Gulptilil and Mister Evans and two other senior staff. There was also a priest, wearing a collar and several workmen in gray hospital maintenance uniforms gripping shovels, or leaning on the shafts, awaiting a command. As the group gathered together, Francis heard a chugging, diesel noise, and he saw a small backhoe being driven over to where the group was standing. Behind the backhoe there was a single black Cadillac station wagon, which with a shock, Francis recognized as a hearse.
The hearse came to a stop, and the backhoe shuddered forward. Big Black muttered 'Maybe we should leave,' but remained rooted to his spot. The other patients lined up to watch.
It didn't take more than a couple of minutes for the backhoe, making all the mechanical grunting noises of machinery at work, to carve out a hole in the ground and deposit a modest pile of dirt beside it. The hospital maintenance men worked at the sides with shovels, preparing the hole. Francis saw Gulp-a-pill step forward, examine the work, and signal the men to stop. Then, with a second wave, he directed the hearse to pull forward. It did, parking a few feet away. Two men in black suits stepped out and walked to the rear, opening up the back. They were joined by four of the maintenance men, and this motley group of pallbearers removed a plain metal coffin from the back. The late afternoon sun glistened dully against the coffin's lid.
'It's the Dancer,' Napoleon whispered.
'Motherfuckers,' Cleo said quietly. 'Murdering, killing fascists.' Then, she added, sonorously, in theatrical tones, 'Let's bury him in the high Roman fashion.'
The six men struggled forward with the coffin, which Francis thought was odd, because the Dancer had hardly weighed anything at all. He watched them lower it into the grave, then step aside while the priest said a few perfunctory words. He saw that none of the men had even bothered to lower their heads in mock prayer.
The priest stepped back, the doctors turned and headed up the pathway and the funeral parlor assistants had Doctor Gulptilil sign some paper before they returned to the hearse and drove slowly off. The backhoe followed with a chugging noise. Two of the maintenance men started shoveling dirt from the pile onto the coffin. Francis could hear the thudding sound of clumps of dirt hitting the steel, but even that faded after a moment.
'Let's go,' Big Black said. 'Francis?'
He realized he was supposed to lead the way, which he did, slowly, although he could feel Cleo's presence pressuring him to move quicker with every stride. Her breathing was coming in short, machine-gun-like bursts.
Their bedraggled parade had only made it partway back to Amherst when suddenly, with a sort of mangled half curse, half gurgle, Cleo pushed right past Francis. Her bulk swayed and jiggled as she rushed forward down the path, torpedoing in the direction of the back side of the Williams housing unit. She surged to a halt on a grassy spot, where she peered up into the windows.
The late afternoon light was dropping fast against the side of the building, so that Francis couldn't see the faces gathered behind the glass. Instead, each window frame seemed to be like an eye staring out of a blank, opaque face. The building was like so many of the patients; it gazed out flat and unaffected, concealing all the electric turmoil within.
Cleo gathered herself together, put her hands on her hips and shouted: 'I see you!'
This was impossible. The reflected light blinded her, as it did Francis. She continued, raising her voice further.
'I know who you are! You killed him! I saw you and I know all about you!'
Big Black pushed past Francis. 'Cleo!' he cried out. 'Hush! What're you saying?'
She ignored him. She lifted a single accusatory finger and pointed it up toward the second floor of the Williams Building.
'Killers!' she shouted. 'Murderers!'
'Cleo, Goddamn it!' Big Black thrust himself to her side. 'Shut the hell up!'
'Animals! Fiends! Motherfucking, fascist murderers!'
Big Black reached out and grasped the bulky woman by the arm, spinning her toward him. He started to open his mouth and shout into her face, but Francis saw the huge attendant stop short, regain some composure, and whisper to her, instead, 'Cleo, please, what are you doing?'
She huffed toward Big Black. 'They killed him,' she said, matter-of-factly.
'Who killed who?' Big Black asked, spinning her so that her back was to Williams. 'What you mean?'
Cleo cackled a bit, grinning wildly.
'Marc Anthony,' she said. 'Act four, Scene sixteen.'
Still laughing, she let Big Black lead her away. Francis stared up at Williams. He didn't know who might have heard the outburst. Or what they might have interpreted it to mean.
Francis did not see Lucy Jones, who was standing not far away, beneath a tree, on the pathway that led past the administration building to the front gate. She also had witnessed Cleo's explosion of accusations. But she did not give them much thought, because she was far too centered on the errand that she was about to run, which would, for the first time in days, take her on a brief excursion outside the hospital gates and into the nearby town. She watched as the single file of patients made its way back into the Amherst Building, then she turned and rapidly headed out, believing it would not take her long to find the few items that she needed.
Chapter 27
