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  For a moment I wanted to cry.

  "But I'm sorry for everything anyway, Duffino. So sorry. I really am."

  Chapter Three

  We were awakened early the next day by the tin sound of the morning bell, clanging up and down the hallways. I jumped out of bed, as usual, and started washing and dressing quickly, slipping into an old khaki smock.

  "Come on, Duffino. This is it. Hurry it up. There's no time to lose."

  She jumped up out of bed and started copying me, slipping on a navy blue, wool jumper.

  "Not a minute to lose, not a minute to lose," I chanted, as we got ready.

  Then I ran over to the wall with the portrait of Jesus, and kneeled down for a second, on the cold floor.

  "Oh Lord, protect us and love us. Don't forget us. We need you."

  I could have sworn the portrait smiled back at me.

  After that, there was a knock on the door - Dr. Whitney. I flung the door open, Dr. Whitney motioned, Duffino came over, and all three of us started walking, shoulder to shoulder, along the narrow hallways to the main dining room.

  On the way we saw other inmates floating along. Some walked in twos, talking a little. Others walked alone, murmuring to themselves. Some rushed, others could barely move. A few turned and stared at us.

  "That's her."

  "Who?"

  "Duffino."

  "It isn't?"

  What a strange procession, I thought as we walked, as if we were all going to a grand ballroom.

  The French double doors of the dining were wide open, and the morning sun was streaming through the huge windows, as inmates poured in from all directions. Before we walked in, Duffino flinched and drew back.

  "Nothing to it," I said to her. "Come on, you'll sit next to me."

  At that point Dr. Whitney nodded and left us and I led her to a round table in the center of the room that I sat at everyday.

  Meals were a pleasant affair here at Bingham. Everyone ate together, both inmates and staff. The dining room was enormous, with white stucco walls, and big round tables. Each inmate was permitted to sit where he chose, and we were encouraged to change places all the time.

  "Don't take the same place over and over," the nurses announced. "Try something new for a chance. Try to meet new people. Test the view from a different corner."

  Despite the seriousness with which the instructions were given, almost no one paid any attention, and the nurses repeated the same phrases day after day, we entered the wide, doors. In fact, their words became like background music, drifting behind our soft routine.

  Most of us took the same place we sat in from the day we arrived. One or two took the nurses seriously and moved here and there. They never seemed to notice that the nurses themselves huddled together day after day at the same few tables in the corner.

  Barney was one of the people who listened to everything he heard and obeyed faultlessly. This morning, Barney was sitting at a table behind ours. Tomorrow he would probably join us. When he sat with the group that always sat at my table, everyone made a special effort to be friendly to him.

  Our table was a medium sized one with enough room for six people. Freddy sat at it, Else the sparrow, Irene who mourned for her children, crafty William, and me, Charlotte, the conscience of the world. Now Duffino joined us too.

  We were quite a collection of remarkable people and we had a good location, near the big, picture window in the middle of the room.

  Duffino sat down next to me slowly. The others, who were already seated, looked up at her. They didn't seem to know what to do. Irene was seated to Duffino's left. Little Else sat next to Irene, and William next to her. Freddy, who was in love with me, was seated next to William. He was so excited to see Duffino, he slid to the edge of his chair. We made a pretty picture, the lot of us, showered and gathered together. Out of a family album. I was thrilled when I noticed reporters come close and snap plenty of shots.

  Duffino flinched as the cameras went off.

  "It's nothing, honey," Irene said. "You'll get used to everything."

  "Maybe she won't?" William piped in, and cocked his head to the side. "I didn't get used to anything, did I?"

  Else smiled at that. She always smiled at William's remarks.

  "You're different, silly Willy," she said, and turned to

  Duffino, waiting for a smile.

  She didn't get one.

  "She's mad at me," Else whispered to Irene.

  "So what? Everyone's mad at something," Irene snapped back.

  Before the food was served, Dr. Whitney stood up in front of the crowd. He rang a cowbell that meant we were to be silent and turn our attention in his direction. We were to pull our attention out of holes, up from crevices into which it had landed, and listen to him.

  "Before we say grace this morning," Dr. Whitney started, "I would like to tell you all that Duffino is here today in the dining room with us."

  As if one person, all heads turned towards us and stared. Reporters snapped two pictures of that.

  "Turn back and look at me now," Dr. Whitney went on. "I want you all to be especially considerate of Duffino. She's had a very hard time."

  I glanced at Duffino. Her face registered nothing.

  We said a preemptory grace, everyone distracted, then heads still turned to Duffino despite his request.

  Eggs, rolls, juice and muffins were served on huge platters by the orderlies, who placed them in the middle of the table. Each of us were to take turns passing the platters around. It was considered a good lesson in cooperation.

  William always grabbed for the hot platter of eggs, took a huge scoop and then passed it on.

  "Come on, William," Irene scolded. "Is that a way to act with someone special?"

  "Who's special?"

  "Duffino. That's who."

  William cocked his head in the opposite direction, and took another look at her. "Hmmm."

  He stuffed hot eggs down his mouth with two forks.

  Else took the platter from him and one by one we took the rest of the food, eating our breakfast silently. Duffino hardly ate a bite.

  After breakfast, Dr. Whitney came over and told Duffino and I to go with him to a special corner of the dayroom, so Duffino could meet the doctors assigned to her case. I was delighted to be invited along.

  Two doctors besides Dr. Whitney were waiting for us in the corner of the dayroom, standing behind a long table where doctors and nurses met every morning to go over details of their cases.

  Some of the doctors here were nice-looking. Others were ugly, like anywhere else. One of the doctors, Colin Ethan, was new, and too sweet to be dealing with us loonies all day. He was strikingly handsome, with light brown hair and a delicate manner, and he came very close to Duffino as we approached.

  When they heard she was coming, several psychiatrists had wanted to head up Duffino's medical team. Dr. Whitney chose Dr. Farbin, a tall, intense psychiatrist, in his mid thirties, with very straight, black hair that fell in a shock over his forehead. He was standing behind the table now, as well.

  Dr. Farbin was chosen because during his three years in residence, four of his patients had gone back home. No one could pinpoint exactly how he'd achieved it, but he'd published a handful of papers about it, and was said to be working on an unusual book, Mazes Of The Criminal Mind. Dr. Whitney also especially liked that Dr. Farbin had a fine working relationship with the press.

  Dr. Ethan, because of his pleading, had also been assigned to the case, and Dr. Whitney decided to join the primary care group as well. There was a mandate from the courts to have Duffino speaking as soon as possible, or else she could be shipped elsewhere, possibly even to jail.

  Dr. Ethan stepped forward. "Hello Duffino, I am delighted to meet you."

  There was no reason, of course, why he should not try to approach her. She was beautiful, with deep, dark eyes and a full mouth. Her black, silky hair was growing longer and longer. It was short at the beginning of her trial, but since then she
had not cut it, so it had grown, marking the passage of time.

  "Of course I know this is difficult for you," Dr. Ethan went on.

  "Don't overwhelm the patient," Dr. Farbin interrupted.

  "I beg your pardon?" Dr. Ethan was put out.

  "The experience of over stimulation for this patient could have a poor secondary effect," Dr. Farbin replied.

  "Gentlemen," said Dr. Whitney.

  "I was simply going to ask Duffino to sit down on the couch at the other end of the dayroom. I was going to suggest that she draw with crayons on a pad," Dr. Ethan continued, unruffled.

  "Fine," Dr. Whitney said. "We have all agreed on this procedure previously."

  "It is not the procedure I am disagreeing with," Dr. Farbin said, "it's Dr. Ethan's manner."

  "Duffino, will you please take these crayons, go over to that yellow couch, and draw with them all you like on that pad?" Dr. Ethan asked.

  He came closer and put the black crayons in her hand.

  She looked down at them.

  "Good," he said.

  Dr. Farbin turned his back.

  "Charlotte, will you take Duffino over to the couch and help her get set up?" Dr. Ethan continued.

  "I will."

  "Fine."

  As I did that, the three doctors drew into a huddle and continued to confer.

  * * * * *

  Duffino sat on the long, yellow couch she was motioned to. Stony came over and handed her two black crayons and a large pad, as the doctors stood back and watched. She put them in her lap and said, "Draw."

  She looked at her strangely.

  "Go ahead. Draw anything."

  Duffino threw the pad off onto the floor.

  Stony flushed red and looked at the doctors. They nodded to her, and she went over, picked it up, and put it back on Duffino's lap.

  "You've got to draw! Scribble if you want to."

  Duffino picked up the pad and hurled it across the room. It landed with a crash.

  She turned her back and faced the wall.

  "Duffino, be careful," I whispered, "they're watching you."

  The doctors and nurses came over quickly. Nurse Stony grabbed the pad, tacked it up on the wall and ordered, "Draw on the pad now, Duffino."

  Duffino got up, turned her back to them, and started scrawling wildly on the pages.

  The staff conferred. Every line she drew was carefully inspected. Every whirl was minutely assessed.

  Dr. Whitney rubbed his palms together. "There is clearly a breakdown in her process of association. The traumatic event has caused her to split. Part of her is still there at the murder, the other part is here, like a ghost."

  "I beg your pardon," Dr. Ethan, offended, said.

  "Please, Dr. Ethan, I know you are eager, but let me finish," Dr. Whitney stood his ground. "It is obvious Duffino is still unable to put things together. Notice how her lines do not touch at the end."

  Dr. Farbin had his own point of view. "The intensity of the lines show there is still inner struggle going on. Life is not dormant. Disassociation not complete."

  Dr. Ethan said nothing, just gazed at the scribblings for a long while. "Why don't we speak to Duffino about them?" he ventured. He had a great desire to be near her at all costs. "What good will that do?" Dr. Farbin objected. "What is the point of questioning her about anything so soon? She won't say a word."

  "There are other ways she can speak," Dr. Ethan said softly. "Besides, I feel she hears everything."

  "All right. We'll question her," Dr. Whitney agreed. He had a particular fondness for Dr. Ethan, who, some thought, reminded him of his long lost son.

  The three of them lined up in front of her, like toy soldiers at a parade.

  Duffino kept drawing fierce, intersecting lines all over the pad.

  Dr. Ethan stepped forward immediately. "Duffino," he said, much too tenderly.

  The wild drawing continued.

  "Tell us what these drawings mean."

  She kept scrawling.

  Dr. Ethan took a small step closer. Her arm flew up in front of her face, as if to guard herself from attack.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. Ethan stepped back.

  Dr. Farbin stepped forward. "It's enough for now. Leave the patient alone."

  Duffino turned, and eyed Dr. Farbin through the crook in her arm.

  "We are agitating the patient," Dr. Whitney agreed.

  "We are here to help you, Duffino," Dr. Ethan called from behind Dr. Farbin's back. "She's not ready," Dr. Farbin proclaimed definitively.

  "I agree. Enough for today." Dr. Whitney backed away. "Let her continue drawing as long as she likes. Soon we'll understand what she wants to say."

  Duffino turned around and glared at Dr. Whitney.

  Dr. Farbin caught it, and intervened. "Maybe we will understand her drawings one day, and maybe we will not."

  He turned swiftly to the other doctors. "Gentlemen, we can confer further outside."

  Before they left, Dr. Ethan was compelled to try one more time.

  "Say one little word, Duffino. A hum will do."

  She turned her back to all again, and stared at the wall.

  "Now look what we've done," Dr. Whitney was petulant. "We can't push too fast. We have to be careful. Things will ease up."

  Dr. Farbin didn't like this at all. "There is no point in raising false hope, Dr. Whitney," he said. "From the way it looks now, there's little expectation Duffino will ever speak again. All my research points to that conclusion."

  "Pessimistic!" Dr. Ethan declared.

  "Realistic," said Dr. Farbin.

  "It's time she needs," Dr. Ethan said simply. "Write an order: Duffino is to sit on the couch after breakfast each morning and draw on the pad. After she draws, we will question her carefully. Sooner or later, she will have to reply."

  Why do they want to question her? Why don't they question me? They had the wisdom to choose me for her roommate, but after that, they pass me right by. If even once they questioned me, I could have easily answered every question. Her black crayon marks, doctors, you men of the world, her scribblings mean nothing. Do you hear? They are merely the traces of a lunatic's sorrow. That's not where the meaning lies.

  Why don't you listen? Why can't you see that my friendship for Duffino is the only thing with hope of real repair?

  Still, the staff passed me by and clung to their theories, and bottles of assorted pills. There were yellow pills for the bad ones, blue pills when depression was lifting, and pink pills for the rare moments when signs of hope were seen.

  I followed the doctors down the hall as they finished their meeting, overhearing every word.

  Dr. Farbin spoke firmly. "Let's put on the record that Duffino's prognosis is guarded. Her affect is inappropriate. There are significant signs of paranoia. Obviously, she has been greatly harmed. We can't hope for much improvement right now."

  I scrambled closer, as if I, too, belonged in this meeting. I didn't want something like that on the record.

  "Doctors, I disagree," I spoke up loud.

  They all turned and looked at me, surprised to see me there.

  Dr. Whitney waved me away. "Quiet, Charlotte," he said.

  I pushed in between them though, and stuck out my neck.

  "Don't write that in the record! Duffino will recover. You've got it all wrong. She's powerful. She's struggling. I can feel her struggling late at night, the way Dorothea struggled. Just give her time."

  The stopped and stared together at me.

  "Nothing further for now," Dr. Farbin said, summing up the records.

  Then they all turned away and gazed back down the hall, where Duffino had resumed drawing on the papers tacked up on the wall. They gazed and gazed and gazed.

  But it was not her beauty which held them captive, and it was not her lack of words. It was something else which they could not account for, deep inside her eyes, beneath the lashes. It was something they searched for on the walls, in her drawings. But that was not
the way to understand beauty - though no one ever told them so.

  Chapter Four

  From the day Duffino arrived, the staff received letters from the public, asking about her progress. Many people out there disagreed with the verdict. Some wrote begging Duffino to fight for her life. Others cried for her death. Her silence dumbfounded the public. They wanted her to defend herself. Most had no idea that some of the staff did not expect she would ever talk again.

  Dr. Whitney was thrilled with the challenge. He was purposely going slow in her case, had not yet started Insulin Therapy. But he made continual statements to the press.

  "Duffino will speak again. If anyone can do it, we can. This is a most unique, experimental institution. We give treatment at the perfect time."

  The first month passed with absolutely no change. When reporters came to observe Duffino, she sat mute before them, and staff had to brief the press on what was going on.

  Of course no one suspected that I, Charlotte, had taken on the case as well. And no one even knew I was living here, convicted of murder, without a proper trial. All the press activity made me hopeful. If I helped Duffino, it was possible the press might find out about me as well. If I could only get a fair trial, if they only knew I was just a kid when it happened and that Dorothea had asked for it, had begged to be sent home to her Maker. I heard her begging every day.

  It was a long shot though. So I kept up my minute observations of each guard's routines. There was a loophole somewhere, waiting for me to find it. One way or another I would get out.

  Then, late one night, something happened which showed me exactly what to do. When Duffino thought I was sleeping, she got out of bed and tip-toed around the room. I wasn't sleeping though, I never sleep, just breathe in the cool night air. I wanted to say, keep quiet Duffino, don't make noise, Miriam Stony will hear you. She hears every sound we make. But I was so surprised to see her up and moving, I just lay there and stared.

  Suddenly she stopped, knelt down, and pulled out a shoebox from under her bed. She opened it, ruffled through papers, then carefully took out some scraggly pages and held them up in the moonlight. For a long time I watched her gaze at them sadly.