I snort with mirth. Once I thought Carver was a nuisance, butperhaps he is a blessing in disguise. Who else could bring humor to the Pit?
Pardon me, he says, cheeks blooming with embarrassment.
Carver fades away, and I shake my head at his absurdity. Asound near the iron lid of my cell makes me lift my face toward the ceiling. Daviswalks along the corridor upstairs. I know it is he because of the unhurried,simple stride—the way a child moves without thinking much about it.
The lid to the Pit lifts. “Brought you something,” Davis says,cheerily descending the stairs. This is what my young friend always announcesbefore handing over a gift. Brought you something.
He unveils the bowl with a flourish, snapping the cloth thatcovered it. “Chicken noodle! But there’s only one piece of cornbread. Sorry.”
Thank you, I sign.
Davis knows this gesture well by now. I perform it for himseveral times a day. Thank you for more jerky… clean blankets… a new shift.
“Think nothing of it,” he says, casually sitting on the table andswinging his leg. “I threw away Faust’s schedule this morning. I hoped he’dforget your appointment if he didn’t see it on paper, but my idea didn’t work.He always remembers you.”
Come hell or high water.
Faust has injected me each afternoon for six days straight. Asa result, my brain feels fuzzy, and I find it difficult to concentrate and planmy escape. I hate to admit it, but I’m beginning to enjoy what the drugs do tome. I’m intrigued by my ability to speak while under their influence. It mustbe all those ideas and opinions whirling about in my head, waiting for thechance to be heard.
I finish the soup, and swallow the last bit of bread, wishingthere was more. That’s your problem, Hester. You’ve always wanted what you can’thave.
Davis gets to his feet. “We better go, before Titus or Roy comelooking for you.”
We climb the stairs leading out of the Pit. I lower my chin,hoping to appear submissive to the other staff members as we walk to a new location—Faust’stemporary office. Davis tells me that the usual treatment rooms are beingpainted. Evidently, the evil doctor chose a warm, buttery yellow.
Davis opens the door, and I follow him inside. He takes thecuffs out of his pocket, once I am stretched out on the cot, and slips themaround my wrists. “I’m afraid I must,” Davis whispers, the metal ratchetsnapping into place. “They’re as loose as I can make them.”
Having caused little trouble recently, and by working well atmy assigned tasks, I’m no longer forced to wear heavy irons. Should I thankFaust for this? I shake my head, fearing I have actually gone insane.
Faust disrupts my thoughts by storming into his office.
Doctor’s tardy—ten demerits.
He despises lateness of any kind, especially in himself, and goesabout readying the syringe. The needle plunges into my arm without preamble,and then the fun begins. Except this time the dosage is off. I pull against therestraints, filled with aggression. It is a thrilling, terrifying experience.
“Now, Hester,” Faust says. “You claim that you reveal truth.I’d like to test this assertion. Tell me something about my childhood.”
Manic energy runs through me, and the raspy voice emerges from mythroat. “You were punished. Harsh and often. Didn’t know what you’d done todeserve it, or how to please her.”
Faust does not respond for some time. “Who told you about mymother?” he finally asks. “Was it Harriet? I mean, Matron Latham?”
The doctor stands, knocking the Book to the floor, and tellsDavis to fetch a vial of another drug. He injects it into my arm, lacking hisusual finesse with the needle. Within moments, I feel such fatigue thatbreathing is nearly impossible. Head spinning, I concentrate on sucking airinto my lungs, exhaling it a few seconds later. What’s happening, Faust? Helpme. But he never helps anyone. Instead, the doctor opens the door, calls forTitus, and walks out. If this is how he treats his favorite, how do theneglected ones fare?
“You okay?” Davis asks, patting my shoulder. He gives my arm ashake, and I nod in response.
Titus enters the room, picks me up, and carries me to the Pit.I hear Faust upstairs, stamping into the staff quarters for women. He slamsthrough a door, and Matron lets out a shriek of surprise. Before she can utter aword, Faust strikes her. He hits the woman repeatedly, and I listen to eachblow.
“Please, stop,” she begs. “What have I done, darling?”
Faust abandons his lover without a word.
I cannot feel victorious over my involvement in this. I closemy eyes and strange dreams come—images of the people in Faust’s Book. Stuck inlimbo, they do not rage like Maude Lambson, appearing dramatically when I leastexpect it. But they haunt me nonetheless. Like a sorrowful Greek chorus, theyprophesy of doom from their little corner of my mind.
Promising to drive me mad if I fail them.
“Everyone’s scared to death because of the murder.”
Davis sits with me in the Pit, sharing Ironwood gossip as I eatthe leftovers in his dinner pail. He mentions the murder while I chew a pieceof gingerbread, and I choke on a wayward crumb. For a moment, I worry thatMatron Latham was fatally injured during her encounter with Faust and that Iwill burn in hell for causing the fight.
Davis slaps my back a few times to dislodge the crumb. “It wasa new nurse. Margaret Hotchkiss, I think. Titus says Lazarus strangled her todeath.”
Although the whole asylum calls my friend Lazarus, I nevershall. He is indeed Gabriel, like his namesake, and Titus is wrong. The man whosaved me from Harry Swinton would never kill a woman.
“Oh, and you’re being moved to the Unresponsive Unit in Ward E,”Davis adds. “With everyone else being catatonic, Faust thinks that you won’t beable to cause trouble in there. They need the Pit for Lazarus since he brokethe door on his cell upstairs.”
I don’t like the idea of Gabriel living in this horrible place.Taking up my pencil and paper, I write Davis a note.
CAN I VISIT MARGARET?
