Flowers for Algernon

you.'

'Yeah,' she laughed strongly, 'but Wednesday we turn the mattresses. It smells a lot better here on Thursday.'

I noticed that she kept to my left so that the blotch on her face was hidden. She took me through the dormitory, the laundry, the supply rooms, and the dining hall—now set and waiting for the food to be delivered from the cen­tral commissary. She smiled as she talked, and her expres­sion and the hair piled in a bun high on her head made her look like a Lautrec dancer but she never looked straight at me. I wondered what it would be like living here with her to watch over me.

'They're pretty good here in this building,' she said. 'But you know what it is. Three hundred boys—seventy- five on a floor—and only five of us to look after them. It's not easy to keep them under control. But it's a lot better than the untidy cottages. The staff there doesn't last very long. 'With babies you don't mind so much, but when they get to be adults and still can't care for themselves, it can be a nasty mess.'

'You seem to be a very nice person,' I said. 'The boys are fortunate to have you as their house- supervisor.'

She laughed heartily still looking straight ahead, and showed her white teeth. 'No better or worse than the rest. I'm very fond of my boys. It's not easy work, but it's re­warding when you think how much they need you.' The smile left her for a moment. 'Normal kids grow up too soon, stop needing you…go off on their own…forget who loved them and took care of them. But these children need all you can give—all of their lives.' She laughed again, embarrassed at her seriousness. 'It's hard work here, but worth it.'

Back downstairs, where Winslow was waiting for us, the dinner bell sounded, and the boys filed into the dining room. I noticed that the big boy who had held the smaller one in his lap was now leading him to the table by the hand.

'Quite a thing,' I said, nodding in that direction.

Winslow nodded too. 'Jerry's the big one, and that's Dusty. We see that sort of thing often here. When there's no one else who has time for them, sometimes they know enough to seek human contact and affection from each other.'

As we passed one of the other cottages on our way to the school, I heard a shriek followed by a wailing, picked up and echoed by two or three other voices. There were bars on the windows.

Winslow looked uncomfortable for the first time that morning. 'Special security cottage,' he explained. 'Emo­tionally disturbed retardates. When there's a chance they'll harm themselves or others, we put them in Cottage K. Locked up at all times.'

'Emotionally disturbed patients here? Don't they be­long in psychiatric hospitals?'

'Oh, sure,' he said, 'but it's a difficult thing to con­trol. Some, the borderline emotionally disturbed, don't break down until after they've been here for a while. Oth­ers were committed by the courts, and we had no choice but to admit them even though there's really no room for them. The real problem is that there's no room for anyone anywhere. Do you know how long our own waiting list is? Fourteen hundred. And we may have room for twenty-five or thirty of them by the end of the year.'

'Where are those fourteen hundred now?'

'Home. On the outside, waiting for an opening here or in some other institution. You see, our space problem is not like the usual hospital overcrowding. Our patients usu­ally come here to stay for the rest of their lives.'

As we arrived at the new school building, a one-story glass-and-concrete structure with large picture windows, I tried to imagine what it would be like walking through these corridors as a patient. I visualized myself in the middle of a line of men and boys waiting to enter a class­room. Perhaps I'd be one of those pushing another boy in a wheelchair, or guiding someone else by the hand, or cuddling a smaller boy in my arms.

In one of the woodworking classrooms, where a group of older boys were making benches under a teachers su­pervision, they clustered around us, eyeing me curiously. The teacher put down the saw and came towards us.

'This is Mr. Gordon from Beekman University,' said Winslow. 'Wants to look over some of our patients. He's thinking of buying the place.'

The teacher laughed and waved at his pupils. 'Well, if he b-buys it, he's g-got to t-take us with it. And he's g-got to get us some more w-wood to w-work with.'

As he showed me around the shop, I noticed how strangely quiet the boys were. They went on with their work of sanding or varnishing the newly finished benches, but they didn't talk.

'These are my s-silent b-boys, you know,' he said, as if he sensed my unspoken question. 'D-deaf m- mutes.'

'We have a hundred and six of them here,' explained

Winslow, 'as a special study sponsored by the federal government.'

What an incredible thing! How much less they had than other human beings. Mentally retarded, deaf, mute— and still eagerly sanding benches.

One of the boys who had been tightening a block of wood in a vise, stopped what he was doing, tapped Winslow on the arm, and pointed to the corner where a number of finished objects were drying on display shelves. The boy pointed to a lamp base on the second shelf, and then to himself. It was a poor job, unsteady, the patches of wood-filler showing through, and the varnish heavy and uneven. Winslow and the teacher praised it enthusiasti­ cally, and the boy smiled proudly and looked at me, wait­ing for my praise too.

'Yes,' I nodded, mouthing the words exaggeratedly, 'very good… very nice.' I said it because he needed it, but I felt hollow. The boy smiled at me, and when we turned to leave he came over and touched my arm as a way of say­ing good-bye. It choked me up, and I had a great deal of difficulty controlling my emotions until we were out in the corridor again.

The principal of the school was a short, plump, moth­erly lady who sat me down in front of a neatly lettered chart, showing the various types of patients, the number of faculty assigned to each category, and the subjects they studied.

'Of course,' she explained, 'we don't get many of the upper I.Q. s any more. They're taken care of—the sixty and seventy I.Q.'s—more and more in the city schools in special classes, or else there are community facilities for caring for them. Most of the ones we get are able to live out, in foster homes, boarding houses, and do simple work on the farms or in a menial capacity in factories or laundries—'

'Or bakeries,' I suggested.

She frowned. 'Yes, I guess they might be able to do that. Now, we also classify our children (I call them all children, no matter what their ages are, they're all children here), we classify them as tidy or untidy. It makes the ad­ministration of their cottages a lot easier if they can be kept with their own levels. Some of the untidies are severely brain-damaged cases, kept in cribs, and they will be cared for that way for the rest of their lives…'

'Or until science finds a way to help them.'

'Oh,' she smiled, explaining to me carefully, 'I'm afraid these are beyond help.'

'No one is beyond help.'

She peered at me, uncertainly now. 'Yes, yes, of course, you're right. We must have hope.'

I made her nervous. I smiled to myself at the thought of how it would be if they brought me back here as one of her children. Would I be tidy or not?

Back at Winslow's office, we had coffee as he talked about his work. 'It's a good place,' he said. 'We have no psychiatrists on our staff—only an outside consulting man who comes in once every two weeks. But it's just as well.

Every one of the psych staff is dedicated to his work. I could have hired a psychiatrist, but at the price I'd have to pay I'm able to hire two psychologists—men who aren't afraid to give away a part of themselves to these people.'

'What do you mean by 'a part of themselves'?'

He studied me for a moment, and then through the tiredness flashed an anger. 'There are a lot of people who will give money or materials, but very few who will give time and affection. That's what I mean.' His voice grew harsh, and he pointed to an empty baby bottle on the bookshelf across the room.

'You see that bottle?'