Confinement Read online

  I couldn't help wondering what really happened. I needed more details, concrete information. I knew it was crucial to read every word. As I deciphered her letters, my mind grew quiet, like an autumn lake, where ripples of compassion could arise in a moment.

  The letters wove back and forth in front of my eyes. At times they seemed like chicken scrawl, the markings of a lunatic, then suddenly, a cluster of letters combined and three new words danced in front of my eyes. I couldn't believe it! I understood them: IN ANY WAY.

  Immediately, I combined the words I could read into the first part of a sentence; I DO NOT, IN ANY WAY.

  What did that add up to? Nothing at all. I flung the papers on the ground and decided to forget the whole thing. What was the point of it all? I was hunting for gold in a swamp.

  Better to concentrate on the guards, and slipping through the cracks in a different way.

  A few seconds later, I picked the papers up. I'd plunge on for another few days.

  Later that night, before I went to sleep, I picked up the papers casually. To my amazement, a whole sentence flashed in front of my eyes.

  I DO NOT, IN ANY WAY, DISCLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR WHAT HAPPENED! I shuddered and yelped. An admission of guilt! Electrified, I squinted my eyes and pierced through the paper with my whole mind.

  The words were clear. My suspicions were confirmed. There was nothing wrong with Duffino. She knew exactly what she was doing. She had known the whole time! Her silence was a shield. A lie she was telling the whole world.

  I slammed the papers down, jumped out of bed, and flew around the room, like a trapped bird. The floor was damp and cold under my bare feet. It was strictly forbidden to run around barefooted. Once lights were out, and we were wrapped in our blankets, all us inmates had to stay in bed.

  It was cool tonight, but I was almost steaming. Duffino was laying there, fast asleep. I wanted to wake her. I thought of the convent. There, we were awakened all hours for prayer. Prayer was invited, demanded of us. Gongs went off for prayer all through the night. We woke and turned to Jesus for everything.

  I stopped running, went straight to her bedside and spoke into her ear.

  "Duffino?"

  No answer.

  "Are you sleeping?"

  No movement. Not even the flicker of an eye.

  Lights had been out for about two hours but a sliver of moon shone in. Did she know I was awake, plotting her recovery? Did she know I only slept fitfully? That I knew she was sane and knew what she was doing. She would speak up and tell all. She would tell the press her entire story. Not only her story, but mine too.

  "Duffino," I spoke more loudly. In the dim light from the window I could see her toss in bed. "Duffino, wake up." I wanted her to catch me reading her papers. I wanted to see her shock and alarm. Then suddenly my voice got louder, like a piercing bird sounding its cry.

  "Yiiiiie," I called out.

  "Ooooh," she responded into her pillow.

  "Oooh isn't enough." My voice got heavy and somber, "Wake up."

  She began to lift her head slowly. It looked like it weighed a thousand pounds.

  "I've been reading your papers," I whispered, and lifted the box to make a rustling sound.

  She stared into the darkness.

  "I've read everything you've written down."

  An agonized look flashed across her face.

  "You understand what I'm saying? You said, I do not disclaim responsibility for anything that happened."

  My voice got higher. Less pleasant. I grabbed the papers and

  continued reading. It was easy now to make out the rest.

  "I used to think that perfection was order and order was God!"

  She rolled over to grab the papers. I snatched it back just in time and scurried across the floor.

  "You wrote these words? Duffino," I yelled out, "you knew what the truth was. There's nothing wrong with you and you know it!" The words shot like cannons out of my mouth.

  Her eyes flew open, they were focused and glistening. Then she hissed at me with all her might.

  "Hiss all you want. We are all liars here."

  She hissed louder.

  I looked down at the paper. More sentences flashed before me. I could make them out in an instant.

  "Now I'm forgetting to think of those things. As one grows well, one grows silent and blind."

  She threw her head back and a shock of black hair fell across her face.

  "Wake up, Duffino." I hollered. "You don't have to be silent and blind."

  Her slim hands clutched the edge of the bed.

  "Stop looking for a way out of the pain."

  I stopped as suddenly as I began. Sitting bolt upright in bed, wrapped in her white hospital gown, she looked like she walked right out of a dream. A bad dream. Poor Duffino. Her beautiful, long hair was tangled, and her thin, ivory hands looked incredibly cold.

  But I couldn't stop reading her scrawled letters. My eyes fastened furiously to the page.

  "I never hoped for a moment for a way out of the pain. I only hoped for a road into its heart, where the purity lies."

  "Where does purity lie, Duffino? We'll find out

  together one day. There's nothing wrong with you Duffino. Don't be afraid. It's my job to help you go free, become innocent. First, you have to confess. There's nothing wrong with me, either," I continued, "but no one realizes. I'm here for a reason, though. Mother Mary is watching over me."

  Duffino tried to get up, but was too weak to make it.

  "There's nothing wrong with any of us," I continued softly.

  She was a captive audience. "There's no such thing as insanity. We're all playing games here, deceiving each other. But the Great One can never be deceived."

  She growled in her throat at that one, grimacing at me.

  All right. Enough was enough. Nothing further could be done at this very moment. After all it was the beginning of autumn. And autumn was not a good time for us loonies. The days grew shorter. Cool breezes found their way down from the mountain. Depression intensified. We all had to fight harder.

  Duffino turned on her stomach and dug her face deep into her pillow. Soon all became still. She had fallen into a dark sleep, but I was completely awake!

  Why should she sleep and I be awake? I sat up in bed and scrutinized her. In the eyes of the staff, our cases were different. I knew that was just an illusion, though.

  So what if interest in her trial had not subsided? So what if people wrote begging for her to be released? She could not go anywhere until she spoke up.

  "Wake up, wake up," I started grumbling loudly.

  I rolled out of bed, crept over and heard muffled sounds that amounted to nothing.

  I started rattling the edge of her bed.

  "There's a real person here," I went on, practically breathing on her face. "That person needs you. You know who it is? It's me," I yelled right in her face. "Me. me. Open your eyes."

  I shook her fragile shoulder lightly. "Duffino. Wake up.

  What you did had its reasons. You were too young, too close to the pain."

  She started making strange, incoherent sounds.

  "Everything changes. We grow older. When we're older, the pain becomes different, assigned to general things, like human cruelty, and the bomb."

  I gave the rim of her bed a strong shake.

  "But there's really only one thing that haunts you, Duffino. You believe that life is not good. You believe it's not fair. That part is wrong. Life is good. Completely fair." I said it right into her ear.

  No criminal thought life was fair. Neither did the stupid doctors. I knew better, though.

  "Fair, fair," I whispered, as she wrapped herself up in stony silence that closed around her like a prison wall.

  Then I thought better of it. Maybe I shouldn't have told her she was wrong. Here the key word here was "compassion". Their definition of compassion, of course.

  "Take back your dignity, Duffino," I whispered to her now.


  She started moaning again.

  "Stop moaning. I hate it. I said I'm sorry for whatever happened to you."

  It was unusual to say "I'm sorry" at Bingham. When Duffino hears it she'll be startled, I thought. It will work far better than Insulin Therapy.

  "Sorry, sorry," I repeated like a silly, chirping bird.

  She wouldn't buy it, she just kept moaning, on and on.

  Now, I have a theory about uncontrolled moaning. It is really hatred, rising from the bottom of the soul. Not sorrow, hatred. Inflicted on others. I felt in that moment that she hated me, too.

  "Hate me if you want to!" The words blurted from me, as her lousy moaning went on. "What can I do about it? Nothing!"

  I tore away from her bedside. She folded her white fingers folded across her chest. The sight of her hands folded like that stopped me cold. Sister Dorothea used to do the same.

  "Pray, Duffino," I whispered.

  Naturally, she didn't reply. But in her silence it was easy to see Duffino was filled with kindness. After all those years in the convent, I was especially good at seeing these things.

  "Talk to me, Duffino," I begged then. "I'll never tell anyone a word you say. I promise."

  Silence. She was listening, though. I was certain of it.

  She turned and looked at me, her eyes full.

  My heart quivered. Something had happened. Her eyes were bright and glistening. Some rage in them had subsided. Could it be she heard me? Could it be I had found a friend?

  Chapter Six

  Usually an inmate had to have had at least two months of group therapy sessions before they were considered for free hours. Those of us who were judged to be in good enough condition were given free hours every day from three to five, in the afternoon. We were free to leave the building and wander without supervision on the sprawling lawns, sit under the trees, run down to the brook, or if we felt brave enough, really talk to one another.

  Although she had only been here for one month, and hadn't attended group therapy yet, because she wasn't speaking, Duffino had been given this permission. It took me much longer because I was not in good repute from the moment I came. In the beginning, the staff told me it was not likely I would get them for a long time. My act was so heinous, how could they ever trust me?

  But from the beginning, I knew mercy must be granted. I told the staff that even at the convent mercy had been granted to me. Right after the nuns found Dorothea, I was locked up in a small cell. Through my tiny door I heard them saying their rosaries. Say them louder, I urged. Louder, please! Louder. Say them so loud God himself will tumble out of the skies.

  Just as I expected, mercy was granted, and it was decided immediately that I should be sent straight to Bingham.

  When I heard that Duffino had been granted free hours, I was

  extremely excited. I wanted to tell her that now she had to be extra careful. Otherwise, they would take them away. And once you get the taste of free hours, there's nothing like it. You can't stand to be without them again.

  I remember the first time I had free hours. I was fourteen years old. I had tip-toed out the open doors on my tip toes. The hills seemed so green, the skies looked so blue. I held out the palms of my hands, to take it all in.

  There was a good deal of controversy about giving Duffino free hours. Most of the staff didn't want her to have it, though

  they couldn't exactly say why. But the first thing Dr. Ethan did, in his official capacity, was to insist that Duffino go free.

  "She must have free hours," I heard him declare at a staff meeting. "There is absolutely no two ways about it."

  I was outside the white paned glass door of the conference room peering in, cheering for Dr. Ethan. Naturally, not one of them saw me there.

  "Give me your reasons, Dr. Ethan," Dr. Farbin, said calmly. I think he was particularly possessive of Duffino.

  "It is obvious," Dr. Ethan said, "that the freeing of boundaries around this patient, will allow repressed material to arise. That will be good for her."

  "I doubt it."

  "Very good. It will break into her muteness."

  "Pure conjecture," Dr. Farbin replied. "Patients like these need firm boundaries. It helps them feel secure."

  "I disagree," Dr. Ethan said. "They need the opportunity to express the chaos they have buried within."

  "Gentlemen," Dr. Whitney said softly.

  Both doctors turned and looked at him, but he said nothing further. I knew he was thinking of his lost son again. I could tell by the flickering of his eyes.

  "I vote that this matter be delayed," Dr. Farbin said.

  But Dr. Ethan was so adamant, he pressed with such intensity, that the rest of the staff agreed to give Duffino Free hours. They didn't like agreeing, though, and weren't sure why they were.

  Dr. Whitney stood up after Dr. Ethan had spoken, and touched all his fingertips to one another.

  "Dr. Ethan," he said patiently, "we deeply appreciate your concern and enthusiasm. This is an interesting case and a difficult one. We welcome new viewpoints."

  Dr. Farbin scraped his throat. "It is my view that Duffino needs two more months in confinement. At least. All that free space could undo her defenses. She won't feel protected. Her violent behavior could be unleashed again. We don't want that to happen. This is a case that has garnered a great deal of public attention."

  Dr. Farbin paused for a moment to allow Dr. Ethan to reply. It was easy to see that Dr. Whitney preferred Dr. Ethan to Dr. Farbin. Everyone knew it. The minute Dr. Ethan came to Bingham looking for a job, Dr. Whitney hired him immediately.

  "What do you feel about this point, Dr. Ethan?" Dr. Whitney said to him. "We all appreciate your kind concern."

  "Thank you," Dr. Ethan answered, a little hesitant.

  The rumor was that Dr. Ethan reminded Dr. Whitney of his son, who died as a child. He was left with a daughter, Clea, a girl of about Duffino's age, whom he rarely saw and who lived with his

  sister, far away.

  "We have to be careful," Dr. Whitney continued, "when we make our decisions. Warm feelings are fine. Certainly, they are necessary. But we have to be on the alert, too. In this respect,

  Dr. Farbin is right. These patients require the structure we offer. When we allow them free time and free space, we are taking a calculated risk."

  Dr. Ethan sighed deeply. "I don't believe it."

  Dr. Whitney went on, "Fantasies can develop. We must be sure patients are ready for them."

  "Duffino's not ready," Dr. Farbin joined in.

  "But I disagree," Dr. Ethan emphasized each word intensely. "Duffino has been here for a month, and it's only a matter of two hours we are discussing. She will benefit from them. Her drawings are improving. They are fantastic, if you ask me."

  "I don't see that much improvement," Dr. Farbin interrupted.

  "She still cannot keep to the margins. There are large distortions everywhere."

  "Birds," Dr. Ethan called out quickly. "There are birds all over now. It's a good sign. Very good. Duffino is beginning to expand herself greatly. She needs space. Her birds are stretching. If we want her to ever speak again, we must listen. We must let her fly. Just a little." Dr. Ethan said it with such conclusiveness, that Dr. Whitney began to nod.

  Dr. Farbin walked to the front of the room. He was writing a long paper about Duffino. This paper itself could make his career. Still, it was policy at Bingham to have the cases rotate with different doctors. All points of views were listened to.

  "Drawing birds day and night can mean other things, Dr. Ethan," Dr. Farbin spoke bitterly. "She needs direct contact with reality now. Forget about flying. Feet on the ground. Human interaction. Accountability. Truth that's tough. For example, she

  must be forced to read the letters she gets from her family each

  week. My understanding is that she stacks them away."

  Dr. Ethan wouldn't stand for it. "The human spirit requires freedom," he called out, too loudly. "For now let her avoid th
ose letters from her family. She may not be ready to take them in."

  "Not ready? Freedom?" Dr. Farbin scoffed plainly. "Easier said than done. And what does freedom mean, exactly? Precisely how

  is it attained? By avoiding letters from one's family? It's the tough human interaction that will make her sane again."

  "Sane again," Dr. Whitney echoed in a strange, hopeless tone.

  Everyone stopped and stared at him, and Dr. Ethan started to perspire.

  "I haven't heard it put exactly that way, Dr. Farbin," Dr.

  Whitney said.

  "Well," Dr. Farbin rebutted, "that is how I would put it. Besides, the very nature of her crime suggests it is a mistake to give her free time."

  The sudden bitterness in Dr. Farbin's voice took everyone

  back.

  "There are extenuating factors," Dr. Ethan interrupted.

  "Oh cut that, Dr. Ethan. There are extenuating circumstances everywhere. So what? I have statistics to back my assertions. Statistically, we can prove the criminal mind has certain patterns. Subtle games. Addictions it thrives on. If you forget that, you're lost. If you start getting sentimental."

  "Sentimental?" Dr. Ethan was aghast. "It's a matter of perspective," he replied, as coolly as he could.

  "Really? Is that all it is?"

  "There are serious question about her verdict." Dr. Ethan could would not let go. "It was this case that drew me to Bingham."

  "Enough. Enough," Dr. Whitney came out from behind his desk and stood between them.

  "Drew you to Bingham? Really? Dr. Ethan is subjectively involved." Dr. Farbin turned straight to Dr. Whitney.

  "Let us keep our focus gentlemen."

  The air bristled, though.

  "To actually admit that this case drew him to Bingham! It's

  unthinkable."

  "Why?"

  "Unprofessional."

  "Not necessarily." Tiny beads of perspiration broke out over Dr. Ethan's upper lip.

  Dr. Whitney took the meeting into his hands. "Residency at a hospital like Bingham is professionally demanding and challenging in the extreme. All kinds of things draw our fine staff to us, Dr. Farbin. It is not necessarily unprofessional to have a particular interest in a case. I think Dr. Ethan's point is well taken. Birds are a wonderful sign."