Date:         Thu, 14 Jan 1999 21:51:25 -0500
From: "a bibliobibuli! beware, beware!" <mbarker@MIT.EDU>
Subject:      [WRITERS] SUB: Pilgrimage (Captivity - 6) [2]

[Another entry in the Pilgrimage Contest!  See
http://web.mit.edu/mbarker/www/pilgrim/ for more details... and send your
submissions to mbarker@mit.edu ]

Captivity

     I suppose many lonely souls have sat at their windows many nights looking
out into the flood of moonlight, sad with a sadness that knows no comfort, a
sadness underlined by a beauty that is in itself a pleasant kind of
sorrow--but very few ever have seen what I saw that night.

     Hadley Buker was normally a jolly soul, smitten only occasionally with a
crippling paranoia that required his sporadic confinement in this most unholy
of places.  I didn't much associate with Hadley, finding him a bit
insufferable with his constant references to family wealth and standing. At
any rate, he didn't deserve to be shot directly through the temple and that's
exactly what I saw that moonlit night.

       Of course I immediately summoned assistance in the form of our floor
Aide for the evening.
      "Someone just shot Hadley Buker!" I shouted excitedly to the pretty and
very young psychiatric Aide. The Aide rushed to the window at my summons and
leaned over to gaze  in the direction of my pointing and shaking finger.
     "I don't see anything, Hannah," she said in the soothing tones they teach
in Psychology 101.  "Perhaps you're just tired."
      My own release was due within the week, so the demons that once danced
in my head had been calmed through the miracle of Prozac and Lithium, enough
for the doctors to pronounce me "cured".  I knew I wasn't seeing things though
three weeks prior I might well have been seeing flying monkeys as I bottomed
out from a horrifying depression.
      "I know what I saw and I saw a car stop for Hadley.  They looked liked
they were arguing and the next thing, a guy pulled a gun and shot Hadley.  Two
men were pulling his limp body in a car when I called you."
      I spoke with a force and resolve but in spite, the young Aide stood with
her hands on ample hips and regarded me as just another crazy in the insane
asylum.  Which, of course, I was.
     But I wasn't insane.  I'd witnessed a murder.  Of that I was certain.

     As soon as I opened my eyes the next morning, the image of Hadley Buker's
murder flashed through my mind.  Tentatively I stepped down from the bed,
slipping each foot carefully into a waiting slipper.  I wiggled my fingers and
toes, then took three deep breaths.
      Nothing.
     Before my drug regimen of Lithium, even these most ordinary of physical
activities would start an episode of out of control mania or deliver me smack
into a black depression.  Depending on what phase my see-saw mind was
currently upon, of course.
     The phone at my bedstead rang.  I knew it was Randy.
     "Hey, sweetheart, four more days!" he responded to my sober phone
greeting.
      For several seconds I remained silent.  The mental debates raged in my
mind.  Should I tell Randy what I saw?  Would he think the dark voices of my
depression have returned?  Might such a mention affect my impending release?
     "I can't wait," I finally answered and heard Randy's very audible sigh of
relief.  One way phone conversations often indicated a deep depression.
     I decided I was going to do a little investigation before I mentioned my
murder by moonlight to anyone else.

     It took a little sweet talk and a lot of cajoling, but I managed to get
Hadley Buker's home phone number.  There were over ten people milling about
the medical records office.  Four of them refused my request to reveal the
number, even with my pleas of precious jewels that I wished to return.  The
fifth person, who admitted this was only her third day on the job, smiled and
with no pause gave me the phone number.
    Hadley Buker was "unavailable".  He was unavailable all of the ten times I
called him over a span of as many hours.  He also did not return my phone
calls though I'd left my return number with each call.
    I continued my calls with regularity over the next two days.  Whoever was
answering Hadley's phone got a bit short with me and the excuses became more
outrageous.  Finally I was told that Hadley had been given my messages and
said he didn't wish to speak to me.
     This was strange, in that Hadley had often exhorted me to keep in touch
after we both were released.  I paid him no mind at the time.  The Bukers were
a monied family but their fortunes were rumored to have sprung from illegal
activities.  Though I didn't consider myself a snob, the roots of my family
tree spread all the way back to the Mayflower. My mental distance sprung less
from snobbery than from my shame at bringing disgrace to the Smythe name.  No
Smythe had ever been a resident of a mental hospital. Associating with former
co-patients would be part and parcel of my embarrassment.  Though there were
few Smythes left, our history was long and proud.
    "Ruh, ruh, ruh."  I looked over at the source of the sounds.  Dana Butz
towered over me, grunting mightily and delivering no meaning.  I wiped a bit
of her drool off of me, patted her fondly, and walked away.  I'd come to like
Dana during my stay here, though her communication consisted of nothing but
grunts.  Still, her eyes had a softness and depth that flashed a great
intelligence. But I was deep in thought over the fate of Hadley Buker and just
what I was going to do about it.  I had no time for Dana this morning.

    "Outside of the Williamsport hospital, huh?"
     Once again I repeated the location of the murder to the rather bored
voice on the other end of the line.
     "Please, is there any way you can just go and see Hadley Buker?" I gave
the dispatcher Hadley's address, obtained on another visit to medical records
and from another new filing clerk.  "If I'm wrong, then I'm wrong.  But what
if I'm right?  I know what I saw."
     "Ruh, ruh, ruh."  Exactly what I didn't need was Dana grunting in the
background as I desperately tried to convince a bored police dispatcher to
send an officer to investigate a murder outside of a mental hospital.
     "I'll call you back," I said quickly and slammed down the phone.
      "Dana, please, can you give me some peace here?  I'm trying to do
something very important!"
       Dana responded to my plea in an odd manner that gave me pause.  Still
grunting, she walked over to the window, the same window from which I'd
witnessed a cold-blooded murder.  Dana's grunts grew louder and more urgent.
She pointed her finger towards the cul-de-sac below, right where Hadley Buker
was shot.
     It was an odd place, this delivery cul-de-sac, far from the busy entrance
of the hospital where Hadley's murder would have been witnessed by many.
There was the oddball mental patient that might be observing but they were
crazy, right?  Dana was trying to tell me something and she had my attention.
     "Dana, did you see what I saw the other night?"
     I asked this in perfectly plain English though I'm not sure Dana could
even begin to understand me, or more, if she could respond with anything other
than grunts.
     That's how it was with Dana.  Though she drooled and grunted, I'd often
detected glimmers of complete comprehension.  Her eyes were truly windows to
her soul and I'd often suspected that all input was processed properly.  It
was her output that landed her here, where's she's been for the past three
years of her life.
      "No one knows why she grunts like that," another patient told me.
"According to the docs, there's nothing wrong with her.  Her family wants her
released, but she always takes a turn for the worse when anyone mentions
sending her home."
      "Dana, I saw a man murdered down in that cul-de-sac the other night.
Hadley Buker.  You remember him?"
     Dana stopped her grunting and gazed sadly out of the window.
      I grabbed Dana by both shoulders and shook her.
      "Damn it Dana, try to talk to me.  What did you see?  No one will listen
to me, but they might listen to both of us."
      Dana tore her gaze from the window and regarded me soberly.  She grabbed
a pad and pen from a nearby table and began scribbling.
      "Call from a pay phone.  Ask if Hadley is still a patient here."
       I read the words with furrowed brow than raised my eyes to meet Dana's.
So far as I knew, Dana couldn't communicate in other than grunts.
     My thoughts were interrupted by more grunts and I found myself being
pushed along towards our floor's pay phone.  I read the words again.
     "You want me to call from here to the main desk and ask if Hadley Buker
is a patient?"
      Dana nodded, grunted and pointed excitedly to the pay phone.  I
shrugged, dropped in some coins, called the Williamsport hospital main line
and asked for patient information.
     "Mr. Buker's a patient in our hospital.  He's in the third floor east."
       I hung up the phone without a response.  I wanted to know what was
going on and what Dana knew.  Even if I had to spend the rest of the day
translating her grunts, I was going to get the truth out of Dana.  I was
scheduled for release the following day.  While I had every intention of
continuing my Hadley investigation on the outside, this might be my last
chance to get Dana's take on all of this.
      Pulling Dana into a little used conference room, I sat her down firmly,
placed a pad of paper and pen in front of her, and firmly told her to write
down the answers to my questions.
      "How did you know the hospital would have Hadley still listed as a
patient?"
       Dana scribbled on the pad.
      "They always do."
      "What do you mean they always do?" I asked Dana, irritation plain in my
tone.  Dana held the pen poised above the pad, hesitant.
      "Never mind that.  Answer me this, did you see Hadley Buker get murdered
the night before last?"
     Again Dana scribbled.
      "NO."
      Now I was really losing my patience.  If Dana didn't see what I saw then
why was she so furiously pointing out the window to the very spot where'd
someone shot Hadley, pulled his lifeless body inside a car and pulled off?
More, what's the deal with calling the patient information and being told
Hadley was still a patient?
     Of course I didn't ask Dana any of these questions.  I was too distraught
to wait for her to write the answers.
      "I'm going to run over to medical records and see if they have Hadley
still listed as a patient.  Wait here, Dana."
      Dana pulled my arm to prevent my leaving.  Furiously she scribbled more
on her pad.
     "Ask about Dorothy Hinton.  Then call main desk, like before."
     I grabbed the paper from Dana and took off down the hall.  I wasn't at
all sure what she meant, but I had every intention of finding some new clerk
and finding out all I could about Hadley Buker as well as Dana's Dorothy
Hinton.

      "Nope, neither are patients here.  We show Hadley released just this
week.  The Hinton woman's been gone almost three months."
       This medical records person was young and fresh-faced.  I told her I
was a floor Aide and she never once questioned this statement.  Employee
turnover in this place was unending.
     I asked her why the front desk still listed Hadley as a patient.
     The dewy-eyed sweet thing shrugged.  "Takes a few days for all the
departments to get coordinated."
       "Yes, Dorothy Hinton is a patient here.  She's on third floor east."
      Quietly I thanked the cheery voice and replaced the phone in its cradle.
Third floor east was my own floor and I knew there was no Dorothy Hinton on
the floor.  Then Hadley Buker was also on this floor, so the main desk said,
and I saw him murdered just the other night.
      I went back to find possibly the only person who could explain all of
this to me.
     Dana Butz was nowhere in sight.

     I packed my suitcase with an eagerness that was not mania, just good old
excitement. My mind had finally settled with peaceful decision.  I decided I'd
get out of this place tomorrow.  After a few days in the comfort of my own
home and in the company of my beloved husband, Randy, I'd gather my strength
then find out more about Hadley Buker and the mysterious Dorothy Hinton.
     "Ruh, ruh, ruh."
     I didn't even turn to the sound of the grunts.  Nothing Dana could grunt,
or write, would move me from my resolve.
      Dana tapped me on the back and handed me a pad of paper.
     "Power of Attorney?"
      I held the pad and gave Dana a long look.  Dana pointed to me.
      "I don't know what this means, Dana.  I don't know what any of it means.
I do know that tomorrow I'm scheduled to go home and I intend to do just that.
Maybe later I'll come back and try to figure it out.  Right now, the cops
don't care, the hospital doesn't care, and frankly, I don't care."
      Dana didn't catch the resolution in my tone at all.  Instead she shook
her head  furiously and continued to point at the words on the pad.
     "Dana, what?  Are you asking me if I have power of attorney?"
     Now Dana shook her head yes and I pondered that I might be getting
somewhere.
      "How could I have power of attorney, Dana?  I'm a patient about to be
released from a mental institution.  My husband has power of attorney....."
      I couldn't finish my sentence with the way Dana was jumping up and down
and grunting.  In a split second of calm, she grabbed a pad.
     "Hinton....Buker....power of attorney?"
     There seemed to be developing some sort of pattern here, though it was
very unclear to me.
      This time I breezed right into the medical records department and
grabbed the files. I was cloaked in a lab coat I grabbed from somewhere.  It
was credibility enough.
      Both Hadley Buker and Dorothy Hinton had a signed power of attorney on
file.  Buker authorized his brother to handle his affairs, Hinton, her sister-
in-law.  I slammed the metal jackets shut.  Probably many mental patients had
powers of attorneys in their files.  I didn't know what significance this had.

      "It'll be so good to have you home."
     I kissed my husband eagerly.
     "Did you bring Rosco?"
       "He's in the car, babe.  Had to sneak by the guards.  That's one dog
that wants to see his mother."
       I bade my goodbyes to the patients and the Aides, most of whom I barely
knew.  Dana held both my hands and stared into my eyes.
    "I'll be back, Dana," I told her.  "Really.  We'll get to the bottom of
this.  You trust me don't you?"
     Dana's eyes welled with tears.
     "Hey, while you two say goodbye, I'm going to get the car and one eager
dog and sneak over to that cul-de-sac.  Meet me there and we'll avoid that
traffic and get you home."
      Randy said most of this over his shoulder as he carried my suitcases and
headed out the door.  Dana and I stared at the cul- de-sac below the window
where Randy had just pointed.  Neither of us made a sound.
      We didn't make a sound for the entire five minutes it took Randy to get
the car and we didn't make a sound as we both watched the white Mercedes pull
into the cul-de-sac.
     Thoughts of bullets and cul-de-sacs and mixed up mental hospitals and
powers of attorneys flooded my mind.
      "Point is," Dana said slowly but very plainly, "can you trust him?"
     Below, Randy looked up to the window and waved for me to come down
quickly.
     "The hospital collects the per diem fees, those with powers of attorney
get access to any money and the patients end up victims."
     It wasn't me speaking those words.  They were all spoken by Dana and with
nary a grunt.
     Of course Randy loved me.  Then, Hadley Buker probably thought his
brother loved him and Dorothy Hinton must have had some faith in her sister-
in-law to give her rights to sign her name.
     Yet there was some abyss that took them away;  perhaps a bullet in a
quiet cul-de-sac, perhaps an accident nearby.  Someone at the hospital helped,
of course.  I might not have understood how, but for sure a per diem rate for
a patient that didn't need care must be incentive.  Not to mention the cover
for the curious.  I could still hear the cheerful voice telling me that Hadley
Buker was indeed a patient at Williamsport hospital, right up on the third
floor east.
       The circumstances had to fit a certain scenario:  few relatives, some
money worth the effort, good health insurance.  My only living relative
besides Randy was a distant Uncle.  My health insurance was in full force and
covered mental illness indefinitely.  I had a modest inheritance.
      In the minute Dana and I looked out the window while Randy urged me
down, so many thoughts filled my mind.  The least of which was this Dana Butz
beside me who spoke perfectly and intelligently.
     "I saw Dorothy Hinton.  Like you, I called the police.  Like you I tried
to get answers. Question is....do you trust him?"
      Randy continued to wave me down, now enlisting Rosco's help by waving
his paw .
     At first I thought the wail came from Dana.  It was a long, mournful
wail, loud and high and unending.  Aides and doctors came running.  They
wrapped me in a strait jacket then put me in solitary confinement.

     It's been a few months.  I'm still working it out.  Randy visits.  Always
I wail.

"Take me up into your mind once or twice before I die (you know why: just
because the eyes of you and me will be full of dirt some day).  Quickly take
me up into the bright child of your mind."  Edward Estlin Cummings

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