BEN MARCUS TAKES me through the lobby, where I have to sign in at a security desk behind thick glass, and up an elevator that requires two sets of keys to operate. When we get off the elevator, the hallway is painted a perfectly pleasant shade of yellow. Framed paintings—modern abstracts with floating blobs of color—line the walls and the carpet is thick and clean. There’s nothing institutional about it at all, but still I feel as if I can’t breathe. “Don’t worry,” Marcus says, “the center of the building is only for administrative and doctors’ offices. The patients are in the wings, and the doors to the wings are locked and guarded.”
“What makes you think I’m worried?” I ask.
“You look a little green,” he says, not unkindly. “Everybody does their first time.”
“Yeah,” I admit, “it feels . . . claustrophobic somehow.”
“It took me a while to get used to it too.”
I shudder at the thought of getting used to such a place and turn my attention to the paintings lining the wall so he won’t notice my reaction. The paintings are no comfort, though. What had first looked like abstract blobs of color I see now are pieces of a face rearranged in random patterns: a nose floating beside an ear, a lock of hair curled like a seashell beside closed lips. Each picture by itself would be disconcerting enough, but viewed together they create the effect of a body splintered into a million pieces. As if the artist had been trying to reassemble the features of someone he had lost.
“One of the patients did those.”
“What?” I ask, startled by Ben’s voice.
“The paintings. They were done by a painter who was here in the sixties. He was famous. I guess that’s why Bennett keeps them, but I’ve always thought they were kind of creepy.”
I turn away from an eye staring up from a breast. “Did he end up here because of these paintings?” I ask.
“Oh no,” Marcus answers. “He painted rather ordinary portraits before he got here. Maybe this was always inside him or . . .”
“Or what?”
“Or maybe he went crazy after he came here. I’ve always thought that if a person wasn’t crazy when they got here, they would be soon enough.”
Before I can think of a response to that, Ben Marcus knocks on the door at the end of the corridor and opens it. “I’ll be out here to take you back,” he says as I step through the door.
I almost say, Thank God! and Please don’t leave me here! but instead I say thank you and walk in.
Dr. Hancock, a white-haired, tan man in his sixties, rises from his desk to greet me. “Ah, Miss Hobbes, so nice to meet you. Sky has been singing your praises.” He shakes my hand and shows me to a comfortable chair in front of his desk. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?” He waves to a sideboard set with a water carafe and an electric kettle.
“Some water would be nice,” I say, sinking into the plush chair. “I walked over.”
“Did you?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up. “Good for you. I’ve always envied Dr. Bennett that commute. I drive from Garrison every day.”
I flinch. Garrison is only a few towns north of where I live. What if Dr. Hancock knows Laurel or Stan? Crantham feels so isolated that I’d forgotten how close the real world is. “That’s a long commute,” I say to cover up my reaction. “You must be very dedicated.”
He shrugs. “My wife wasn’t willing to give up the amenities of the suburbs and the proximity of our grandchildren. After what happened to Mrs. Bennett I thought it was better to yield to her needs.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I thought you knew . . .” He looks at me suspiciously as if my not knowing about this means I’m not a real archivist.
Remember, you’re here to ask the questions, I hear Laurel’s voice say in my head. Don’t let this officious prick rattle you.
“Sky hasn’t talked much about her mother,” I say, hoping my use of my employer’s first name will put me back on better footing. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“I’m not surprised Sky doesn’t talk about it. She was only seventeen when her mother killed herself. Hanged herself. It was a terrible thing.”
“That is terrible,” I say, thinking that at least my mother had the good grace to die in a drunken car accident that left a little wriggle room as to her intentions. “Did you know the family then?”
“Only slightly. I’d met Dr. Bennett when I was doing my residency at the Hudson Valley Psychiatric Center over in Poughkeepsie. Dr. Bennett was a consulting psychiatrist there. When he retired he personally recommended me for his replacement. He was quite the imposing figure. I’ve always hoped Sky would write about him. I gather that you’re assisting her in her memoir?”
“Yes,” I say, gratified that Sky has mentioned this to him. But of course she would have to explain my interest in E.S.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here to help. I worry about Sky all alone up there in that big old house.”
“She’s got Billie,” I say, looking up at the doctor. Instead of going back around behind his desk he’s perched on its edge. I suppose he means it to be informal but I feel like he’s hovering over me.
“Ah, the inestimable Billie! Loyal to a fault. Did
