Yeah, thats their schtick man.
   Well, I’ll tellya one thing—grabbing his crotch—this is one pair a balls she aint gonna put no strings around, or any other broad!
   Hey!
   Right on!
   They all laughed and poked each other on the shoulder and finished their beers and banged their glasses on the bar for Bob. Their laughter quickly dropped to faint chuckling as Mikey no legs came into the bar, stopped just inside the door and looked around.
   Mike was feeling pretty good by the time he pushed the door open. The rest had refreshed him and the wine he drank before leaving his cellar had revitalized him. He was in the mood for fun, and did not notice that there was a sudden and prolonged decrease in laughter and conversation immediately he entered, the juke box suddenly seeming very loud. He smiled and walked to the bar and waved at Bob who started gingerly toward him, watching Mikes eyes for any hint of trouble. Whatta ya say Bob, giveus a beer, eh? Bob smiled and relaxed when he realized Mike knew who he was and seemed to be alright. He put the beer in front of Mike, smiling, picking up the proper change. Wally been in tonight?
   Bob looked at him for a moment, having been behind the bar when Mike had been in earlier in the evening and broke Wallys thumb. He had seen Mike crazy drunk many times and knew he never remembered what happened so he just shrugged, He was in earlier but left.
   Yeah? Who was he with?
   I dont know—shrugging—maybe Matt and Artie.
   Mike nodded and Bob went to the other end of the bar and the men resumed their previous conversations, the laughter growing in volume and the juke box receding to its proper place. The tension continued to decrease, rapidly, as Mike drank his beer He looked around and noticed Harry and the others and smiled at them and picked up his glass and walked toward them.
   They were leery of drinking with Mike after what had happened earlier that evening. O shit, no legs is coming over.
   Thats okay Ron, just cool it.
   He looks pretty straight, maybe he slept it off.
   I fuckin well hope so, I dont need anymore shit tonight.
   Whatta ya say guys, whats goin on?
   Eh—shrugging—you know Mike.
   Same ol thing. The Mets lost again.
   No shit? Krist, whats with those guys? I missed the game tanight—shrugs—big deal, eh? He chuckled and the others smiled cautiously. Mike finished his beer and put the empty glass on the bar, Comeon, drink up. I’d rather buy one than be one, eh? Mike laughed and the others relaxed and finished their beers.
   They continued drinking and laughing, getting a little drunker with each round, everything that had happened earlier in the evening dissolved by the alcohol and unable to dim the increasing joy that each drink brought.
   Then Wally came in. Larry nudged Ron and nodded toward the door as Wally stopped and looked at Mike who had just finished a beer and was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He saw Wally and his face opened in a quick, wide smile and he waved at him, Hey Wally, comere, Youre just in time for Harry to buy a drink. Mike laughed and walked to meet his brother and put an arm around his shoulder, Where ya been? ya missing all the fun, Bob was in the process of bringing beers for everyone and they all quieted and waited to see what would happen. Mike was happy and chuckling and pushed the beers along the bar to everyone, then picked up his and looked at his brother, Drink up, the brewery needs the barrels. Mike laughed, then took a drink and when he put his glass back on the bar he looked down and noticed his brothers hand. His face fell into a look of bewilderment and he stared at the cast and wire, What happened Wal? What the fuck happened? He finally looked up into Wallys face, his concern bringing tears to his eyes.
   Wally knew that he would be seeing his brother sooner or later and had been trying to prepare himself for the confrontation, but even now did not know what he was going to say. Mike always looked to him for answers, for help, and Mike loved him. Mike had never hurt Wally before, but he had gotten into fights when he was crazy drunk, and never remembered them, and when he came to Wally was always there to help Mike through the remorse and guilt when he found out what he had done, or to protect him from the truth. But now Wally didnt know what to do. If he told him somebody did it to him he would want to know who, and if Wally didnt give him a name sooner or later Mike would decide that somebody walking the street did it and might try and kill them. Sooner or later Mike was bound to get crazy drunk again. And he sure as Krist couldnt tell him he just fell, even Mike wouldnt buy that. Wally didnt know what in hell to do. What would happen if he told Mike the truth? Shit! Wally loved his kid brother. He had told him a thousand fuckin times not to drink and Mike always swore he never would again, but eventually Mike had a beer with the guys, and sooner or later that led to another crazy drunk and trouble, and Wally felt that this would lead to the kind of trouble no one could get Mike out of, that some day he would kill somebody and wouldnt even know he did it. Wally looked into his brothers eyes and saw tears behind the sadness in them and felt Mikes pain, a pain so much more terrible than the pain Wally had felt in his thumb, and that would grow each time he looked at Wallys hand.
   Mike lowered his gaze and once again stared at the cast and the tip of the thumb sticking in the air, the wire going from the tip of one finger to the other. It not only pained him to look at it, but it confused him too. The only thing Mike could see or think about was his brothers hand. He slowly reached down and touched the cast with the tip of his finger, gently, tentatively, as if it were alive and had feelings, like a child touching a turtle for the first time not knowing if he might kill it by pushing too hard on the shell. He stroked and patted it then held it gently in both hands and lifted it—the juke box suddenly went silent and those who knew Mike and Wally watched them until the music once more blared from the multicolored machine—and held it as if he were holding a baby for the first time, Who did it Wally? Who did it? Its nothing Mike. Forget it. Wally took his hand out of Mikes and smiled at him reassuringly. Who did it Wally—his voice louder and more anxious—I’ll killim. Take it easy Mike for Krists sake—Wallys anxiety mounting—its nothin ta get fucked up about. Mike put his arm around Wallys neck, I swear ta God Wally—his voice full of tears—Aint nobody gonna fuck with ya. Aint nobody gonna hurt ya. Wally put his hands on Mikes shoulders, then quickly yanked his injured one down. Im tellin ya Mike ta drop it. Just drop it, okay? Mike was crying and almost hanging on Wallys neck, I cant. I cant let somebody hurtya like that an get away with it. I dont give a shit how fuckin big he is or how fuckin many, I’ll getem. I swear on our Mothers head Wally I’ll—Wally shook his head and finally looked Mike in the eye and spoke as gently as he could through his confusion and fear, You did it Mike. Mike just stared, mouth hanging open, head shaking no. Yeah Mike. Earlier. Right here. Mikes mouth was still hanging open and his head shaking, I couldnt Wally, I couldnt—he looked at Wallys hand and more tears rolled down his cheeks. The tension and apprehension of the evening and the years, the worry and concern for his kid brother knocked down all the walls Wally had built and he almost cried as he shook Mike with his good hand, Jesus Krist Mike, I keep tellinya not to drink like that but you wont fuckin listen to me, I keep tellin ya every fuckin time—Mike was still shaking his head and crying, Wallys voice cracking with an occasional sob—to just take a couple a drinks an cool it but you gotta get stoned an go fuckin crazy and worry the shit outta me until I dont know whats comin down sometimes—Wally shook Mike again as he sobbed—I dont wanna see ya fucked up like this, Mike, Jesus Krist, I dont know what the fuck ta do for ya—Mike was once again staring at Wallys hand, his tears falling from his cheeks onto the cast -listen to me for Krists sake Mike, eh? ya listen to me this time???? Mike slowly raised his head and blinked his eyes, his expression so sorrowful Wally wanted to cry and just hug his brother—Does it hurt Wally, I mean did it,—Mike shrugged—hurt… real bad? Wally was smiling and shaking his head, Naw, naw, I dont feel nothin Mike. They fixed it up one, two, three and—Im sorry Wally, Jesus Krist Im sorry—agony ringing in his voice -I’ll break my own—grabbing his thumb—if thatll help, I—Wally grabbed his hand, No Mike, for Krists sake comeon, eh? Wally smiled and tried to look reassuringly at his brother who stared soulfully at him, I really did it Wally? Wally nodded, Yeah Mike. But its alright. I—I honest ta God did it? Wally nodded his head and gently touched his brother on the shoulder. Mike looked at Wallys hand, head shaking, then put his arms around Wally and hugged him and cried into his shoulder, the others shuffling awkwardly, some averting their eyes trying to ignore the scene, those who didnt know them assuming they were just a couple of maudlin drunks. Mike suddenly turned from his brother and started pounding the bar with his hand, I cant believe it, I cant fuckin believe it -the others stiffened until Mike stopped and just leaned over the bar, head hanging. Wally put an arm around his kid brothers shoulder, Why dont we go out an get some air? After a few seconds Mike raised his head, nodded, and continued to look at the floor as they left the bar, their friends automatically following.
   Mike sat on a car fender, Wally standing next to him. The others stretched. I forget what fresh airs like after a few hours in that joint.

   Yeah. Its the fuckin air conditioner.
   Yeah, it smokes too much. They all chuckled.
   Man, its some night, eh?
   Yeah, its really nice out.
   Why dont ya leave it out?
   Because I dont want anybody steppin on it—they started horsing around and Wally suggested they walk and put his hand on his brothers shoulder, Mike still looking at the ground, shaking his shoulders occasionally in response to the voices that were constantly dinning in his head. From time to time he would look at Wally and tell him he was sorry and Wally would tap him on the shoulder and tell him to forget it, its alright. No more Wally. I swear. No more. And they continued walking, leaving the avenue and walking along the path in the park area bordering the parkway, Harry, Ron, Kelly and Larry, once more feeling the effects of the nights drinking, joking and kidding around as they walked, Mike hearing their laughter and resenting it, not because he didnt want them to be happy, but because he wanted their laughter to somehow ease his pain, the pain that grew in gnawing knots within him, twisting his body and mind with tension, pain that was magnified by his guilt and overwhelming remorse, a pain that increased as he fought accepting the truth that he had broken his brothers hand, yet deep within him he knew he had. The truth continued to settle in and grow and be accepted and as it did Mikes agony increased because he didnt want it to be true. He didnt want to have done that to his brother. He had gotten into fights and didnt remember them, but he didnt give a shit about that. What the fuck did he care about those hardons? But how could he have done that to Wally? How?—hitting his head with his hands—How? How???? How could it happen? He didnt want to hurt his brother and the more he tried to figure what happened the more intense the pain and confusion became, and the more the pain grew the more he tried to figure out what happened and he kept getting deeper and deeper into a black nausea that twisted itself from his gut up to his throat threatening to make him puke, and up to the top of his head until it felt like it was about to be fuckin ripped open, and he was powerless to do anything about the pain or the cause of the pain, all he could do was be victimized by it and be a part of the process without having any control, flailing impotently at the process and pain and trying to wish it all away: everything that had happened, the entire evening, and he kept telling himself that if he could only remember what had happened he could somehow change it, make believe it never happened, but then he would look at Wallys hand and the truth would descend on him like a dull and rusty guillotine and all he could feel was the crushing pain of dying without the release of death, and so he continued walking along the path, watching his feet and the shadow of Wallys hand, hearing painfully the laughter of the others and then he became vaguely aware of another sound that worked its way through their laughter and the sounds of their walking, the sound of cars passing along the parkway, and the screeching in his head; it was the sound of chuckling and giggling and words that were barely audible but the sound was undeniably happy… yeah, thats what the voices said, they said they were happy. He couldnt figure the words out for shit but the voices said they were happy. He raised his head and noticed a young couple in the distance walking in their direction across the grass that sloped to the parkway. They passed through the cone of light from a streetlamp and he could see a guy and a girl, his arm around her waist, slowly walking, their voices happy, happy, and when they passed from the relative brightness near the lamp to the misty aura of the light they stopped and kissed and were quiet for a few moments… and then their happy voices started up again and saying Krist knows what to each other. Mike watched them from the corner of his eye for a few minutes, then raised his head slightly, not wanting anyone to see what he was doing, and kept his eyes trained on them as they approached, ten feet or so off the path, and as he watched, seeing them more and more distinctly as they got nearer, his head got quieter and the grinding pain started to subside and a new excitement wormed its way through his tensed body, and as they drew abreast of them he stopped and watched them, Wally and the others stopping and looking at Mike.
   Mike continued watching them then suddenly turned and looked around and ran to the fence and found an old, splintered piece of 2 x 4, and holding it like a club he walked toward the young couple and as he passed the guys he told Wally, Comeon, youre gonna get laid—and continued down the slope toward the couple. Wally and the others stood still for a moment, Mikes words not registering until they heard him yell at them -COMEON, IM GONNA GETYA LAID WALLY—the couple stopping and turning and looking at Mike as he descended on them waving the 2 x 4—Ya betta get outta here asshole unless ya wanna get ya head bashed in. Were gonna fuck the ass off that cunt—and Mike laughed a sick laugh and the guy stepped forward in front of the girl and started looking around for a way to run when he noticed the other guys running toward them, screaming, MIKE! MIKE! ITS WALLY! Comeon Wally, Im gonna get ya fucked—and the girl started screaming and her boyfriend pushed her and told her to run but she could only hold on to him and scream as Mike stood in front of him waving the 2 x 4 and a couple of guys came up behind him and grabbed the club and a guy with a cast on his hand stood in front of the guy with the club saying something and someone else came over and told him to take his girl and beat it, and the guy put his arms around the trembling girl and they trotted then ran up the slope to the path and to the street and Wally continued to try to reason with Mike who seriously wanted to get a piece of ass for his brother, I mean, what the fuck Wally, it’ll take your mind off ya hand, right? and Wally nodded and did his best to smile as the others stood nervously around wondering if the cops would be there soon and if they would all suddenly end up in the fuckin slammer and wanting very much to get the fuckin hell outta there but didnt want to leave their friends so they stayed and Wally told Mike that he was tired, Its late Mike. I dont feel like gettin laid, okay? But she was a real doll Wally. She probably give ya a good blow job. Yeah, yeah, Mike, but not now, okay? Im fuckin beat Mike an Im tired of all this fuckin shit, ya hear me—his voice getting louder and angrier—I just want to go fuckin home and sleep and forget about this whole fuckin night—Mike nodding his head, Okay, okay, Wally, I didnt mean nothin—Good because Im goin home and I dont give a shit what you do—Wally turned and started walking rapidly—Ive had it with your bullshit. Okay Wally, no offense. Mike quickly caught up with Wally, the others following a few feet behind, hoping to Krist they could get rid of Mike and go back to STEVES and pick up where they left off before Mike fucked up the night. Mike had to almost run to keep up with Wally who refused to look at him or talk to him, and once again the pain and the voices started twisting him, creating a pressure inside that threatened to blow the top off his skull and he tried to vent it by pounding his feet on the pavement but it not only did not relieve the pressure, it seemed to increase it, and soon Mike was having trouble seeing properly as the anxiety caused his head to shake and his vision to blur and he kept telling his brother he was sorry and Wally kept walking rapidly and when they turned a corner they passed a newsstand and Mike suddenly screamed and yanked and tugged the hundreds of pounds of newsstand and eventually wrestled it off the ground and heaved it through the plate glass window of the store, still screaming, his screams piercing through the sound of the broken glass that thundered to the street in the late night stillness, and when the glass had stopped falling Mike still screamed and when he ran out of breath he inhaled and screamed again and the guys stopped and stared, wanting to run like hell but afraid to leave Wally alone with Mike and finally Mike stopped screaming as a head occurred in the window above the store and Wally grabbed Mike and they quickly disappeared around the corner as a voice from the window wanted to know what the hell was going on and the others went around the corner and ran along the avenue as Mike quietly followed Wally home.
   Harry and his friends continued walking rapidly, toward STEVES, but just before they got there Harry said he didnt feel like drinking anymore and left them, wanting to be alone.

   Harry walked down the street not certain where he was going or what he was going to do. He didnt feel like going home so he thought he would just walk around and maybe get his head cleared a bit. He had gone through so many emotions in the last few hours that he wasnt sure how he felt about anything. He wasnt even sure he knew what had happened. He walked along the quiet, tree-shadowed street and suddenly became aware of an urgent need to pee. He stood in the shadows of a tree between two cars and sighed with relief, then chuckled as he remembered the Gothic H he was going to carve in the ice. Shit, it was good to feel his face smile. That crazy Mikey no legs got him so fucked up it seemed like years since he laughed even though he knew it was just a short time ago they were laughing and having a ball… Yeah, I dont need her to have a good time. I had more laughs tonight then Ive had in a long time. He continued walking down the breezeless street, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, suddenly aware of the humid heat. He took a deep breath, Yeah, a lot of laughs…
   No breeze.
   Not even a hint of one. His place would be like an oven. Even with the fan. Maybe I shouldve gone back to STEVES with the guys. A lot cooler. Couldve had a few more laughs. O well… shit…. He heard the sound of a tugboats horn and then another vessel answering and thought of the pier. Yeah. It’d be cooler there, a hell of a lot cooler. And quiet. Probably deserted this time a night. Yeah, good idea. There was a slight spring to his step now, now that he knew where he was going, a destination clearly in mind, a purpose to his walking.
   He walked to the end of the pier and sat down. He was heated from the walk, but there was a breeze, faint but refreshing on his face and arms. He sat quietly and allowed his body to cool down, enjoying the breeze and looking across the bay at the splotches of light on the shore lines, and the little dots of lights of the small harbor craft. He could only make out two ships anchored. Only two. And not much happening on the piers. Not like it used to be. He could remember when the harbor was always active and full of all kinds of ships but now there aint much goin on. Even the 69th Street ferry is gone. Even the old slips are gone. He looked down the pier where the ferry slips used to be, then at the Veranzanno Bridge that made the ferry a memory. Krist, what a gasser that was. Especially on a night like this. Ride to Staten Island, then over to the Battery and back all the way around again and just lean on the rail and feel the breeze and watch the water roll away from the sides of the ferry… Jesus that was great. Natures air conditioning. And they had the guy playing the accordion and singing songs and that bootblack. Jesus, he mustta been there for ever. Wonder what that son of a bitch is doin now. Shit. Aint the same anymore. All changed. Ah, what the hell. She wants to play it that way what do I care. She has a bug upper ass that one, a bug upper ass. She’ll get over it. Probably… How can you be so goofy for a movie??? Yeah, I guess ya cant. Must be something. He shrugged and looked again at the shorelines of Manhattan, Jersey, and Staten Island, watching a ferry going to the Battery. They should bring back the ferry for the summer. Everybody and his brother would want to ride it on a night like this. Just for July and August. Ah well, at least the piers still here. For now. Good ol 69th Street pier. Wonder how old the son of a bitch is? Had a lot of fun here. Right around this spot too. Learned to fish here. Tommy cods, eels, some crabbin. Had a lot a fun here when we were kids. Yeah, some good times…
   Yeah, good times.
   O, what the fuck—his stomach suddenly felt hollow and sick—Rons right, shes ballin some other guy. So its over, whats the big deal? She aint the first… or the last. Got myself in a little too deep. Big deal. Fuck it. He looked down at the dark water and the bits of debris floating out on the ebbing tide, the undertow creating sudden and ephemeral whirlpools around the end of the pier. He looked out a few yards from the corner of the pier. Used to be a mud hole out there. Get your line in there an you always got a bite. Pop used to be able to cast right there and always got a good sized eel. Probably still a good spot… Maybe. Might even be the same water… goes out and comes in, out and in… back and forth… Ah screw it. In a month I wont even remember her name… Probably.
   He stared at the water and the currents eddying around the pilings. Probably the same
   water
   probably

The Sound

   His eyes opened and he stared at the wall. The nightlight flickered and shadows jumped eerily around the 9 x 6 room. He lay still and listened. What woke him? He listened for a sound… Nothing. He looked up at the window. Darkness. There was no hint of dawn. Moving only his eyes, he looked up at the ceiling light. Only the flickering nightlight burned. What time was it? Had he slept one hour? Five hours? No way to tell. He lay on his side and slowly, unconsciously, pulled his legs up to a foetal position as he desperately clutched his pillow. His eyes started to tear as he continued staring at the flickering light, feeling the shadows float through the room. He blinked. His eyes filled with water and when he opened them the light shimmered and the room rolled slowly like a small boat on deep swells. The walls pulsated and undulated, threatening to close in on him. He shivered and blinked rapidly until his eyes dried. The room stilled. Still he heard nothing… the silence hostile.
   Something awakened him, but what? A dream? He tried remembering… Nothing. It couldn't have been a dream…
   He stared at the wall and the leaping shadows, straining to hear something… anything. There was only silence, heavy, ominous. Suddenly he became aware of painful cramps in his hands. He forced his hands open. At first they resisted and continued clutching his pillow. But slowly, painfully, his fingers straightened as he concentrated on the effort. He looked at his hands as the pain slowly subsided. Suddenly he jerked his head up, his vision blurring, wondering why he had bolted up. His body tensed even more as he listened intently…
   Then he heard it. Or did he? It was so faint he couldn't be certain. Was this a dream? Was he still sleeping???? No. He must be awake. The pain in his hands; the flickering light and eerie shadows were real. They had to be real! He had heard that sound. He was sure of that. Wasn't he? It must have been real He straightened his legs slowly and slid them over the side of the bed and sat up. He turned his head until he was looking at the locked door. Or was it locked???? He strained so hard to hear the sound that his body was gradually leaning toward the door. Fearfully he raised his eyes to look through the small window in the door. He sighed audibly, shocked at the unexpected sound. All was dark and shadowless in the hallway. All was normal. Then the sound once again pierced his ears. It chilled him. Why was he so frightened? It didn't make sense. The sound must be real. It couldn't be his imagination. He was safe. There couldn't be anything to fear. And anyway, the door was locked. Locked? He stared at the door. An unbelievable chill, deep within his body, making him shiver. Locked? What could he do if it was open? Where could he hide? There was no place in the small room he could hide, nothing to crouch behind. Just the bed and a small stainless steel stand next to it. If it wasn't locked he could shove it open, look away from the sound and run… Where??? Where? Where was he???? Didn't matter. Couldn't go out there anyway. He shook his head. He knew he couldn't go out there. He had no idea what was out there in the darkness… in the darkness with the sound. He shivered again. He must get to the door and try to see what was out there… Goddam that light! The way it flickered he couldn't be sure the door was closed. He had to find out if it was locked! He lifted his head slightly and leaned further toward the door. No—no, there was no sound. How long had it been since the last time he heard it??? He had no idea. He tried to think about time. He floundered and quickly abandoned the attempt. Then he realized he had no idea what day it was. Month? O God. It's October, isn't it? Yeah. That's right. It's October. Yeah, I'm sure of that. It must be—never ceasing to stare at the door and small window. But it's been so long since the last time he had heard the sound. Too long? Was it outside his door waiting for him? It? It what? It was nothing. Why should anyone… anything… be out there in the dark waiting for him? O God. Please. Please—a whimpering sound coming from a clenched mouth. The fear that there might be something beyond the door was stronger than the fear that kept him on the side of the bed and forced him to silently slide off and stand leaning against it, his eyes never leaving the door. A spasm jerked his body and thrust him forward. He padded, barefoot and silent, to the door. He stopped abruptly just a foot away. He stared. It must be. It has to be. He closed his eyes. O God—O God! GOD!! With his eyes still closed he thrust his arms forward. The sound of the door banging against the lock broke the silence like the clanging of a steeple bell. He eyes popped open and he stared at the door for a moment, fully assimilating the meaning of the sound. He almost collapsed as his tensed body suddenly relaxed with the realization that the door was locked. Locked! He was safe. Safe. Thank God—startled by the sudden sound of his voice. Then his face slowly relaxed into a smile… then a frown. Safe from what? Who? He shrugged. What difference does it make now? The door was locked. He was safe. But what was the sound he had heard? How long ago was it now? Had an hour passed? Or was it only minutes? O well, it didn't make any difference now. He smiled securely as he pushed the door, lightly at first, then harder. Securely locked. And nothing… no one… could break down that door. And anyway, what… or who—could be out there? Not important now. His room was impenetrable. He looked through the window but could only see about 10 feet down the narrow and darkened corridor. He put his face against the glass, his face filling the small recess. He shielded his eyes with his hands. Soon he could make out the shapes of the dirty linen baskets against the opposite wall and then the signs above them. He strained his eyes yet could see nothing else. Nothing. He turned his head and looked down the wide, main hallway running perpendicular to the corridor. Nothing. No one… His head jerked around as he once more heard the sound. It seemed louder this time. Was it closer? Was that why it was louder? Or was it simply because he was closer to the source? Or was it closer to him? The door? The old, undeniable fear returned. Then slowly the terror subsided. Whatever else might be, he knew the door was locked. That was the only important thing. He was safe. He stared down the corridor for many endless minutes, a vague thought disturbing him. Suppose they had a key. They could get in. But no one was after him. He didn't have to worry about that. He was—there it was again! He peered harder. Nothing. Was it louder? He wasn't certain. If it was moving up the hallway it was moving slowly. Very slowly. He tried to think what it sounded like, but nothing came to mind. It was just a sound. That was it. Of course. That's all it was. It was only a sound. Nothing to fear. Didn't something have to cause a sound? He shook his head, fighting against the logic of this new idea as it tried to force itself and the consequences upon him. No! No! Again he pushed against the door and felt comforted as it resisted the pressure. He leaned even harder against the glass, eyes still shielded with his hands, trying to see a few more feet, a few more inches down the hallway. Then he leaped back from the door and fell over the end of the bed as the lights suddenly went on. He twisted around and stared at the door. He felt his pajamas stick to his sweaty skin. Then he heard the sounds of voices and footsteps coming from the brightly lighted hallway. Faint light slanted through the window over his bed. He looked around the brightly lighted and shadowless room, then fell back on the bed and slept.
   Chow time. Chow time.
   His sleep had been dreamless and so deep it took many seconds for him to open his eyes. He heard the sound of the large food trays and pans being banged around in the dining hall.
   Chow time. He raised his head and looked into the hallway. His door was open and two other inmates walked past on their way to breakfast. The normal sounds of morning were loud and made him jump from the bed. He staggered slightly as he joined the others on their way to the dining hall. Their voices and laughter weren't loud, but the sound of other voices and the activity around him helped prevent any thought of the previous night from disturbing him.
   He joined the others standing in line against the far wall in the dining room. The six seats at each of the three stainless steel tables were occupied. He leaned against the wall as his legs threatened to collapse. He wasn't conscious of what anyone was saying, but the sound of voices and the presence of the others was comforting. It helped keep his mind blank. When a seat was available he was given a tray of food, and as he walked to the table he noticed the coffee spilling over the side of the cup. The few feet to the table seemed endless and he gratefully sat down sighing deeply. The sugar was pushed to him and he automatically poured some in his coffee and cereal. He stirred his coffee staring at his tray for several seconds. Then he noticed bread on the tray of the man opposite him. There was none on his. He looked behind him where the food was handed out and he noticed the bread. He looked at the bread for a few seconds, then started to stand, but sat back down. Somehow it didn't seem to be worth all the trouble of walking the few feet to the bread. He turned back to his coffee cup and choked it with both hands, then lowered his head to it. The coffee spilled over into his eggs, but he managed to drink half of it. He put the cup down and sat up straight. He stared at his shaking hands.
   Give it up fellas. Give it up. It's been fun, but it's time to run.

   The man opposite him got up and carried his tray over to the garbage can, dumped what was left into it, then put the tray on the small cart. He followed, automatically doing the same, then wandered back to his room.
   He stood just inside the door and looked around the room—at the bed, the stainless steel stand next to it, then up at the window over the bed. A small bare room. Nothing unusual, yet, at the same time, nothing familiar. He felt as if he had never been here before. But it was only a short time before that he had left this room. He had been in this room before. How long? The thought was vague and rushed through his mind. He glanced at the commode, the wash basin and mirror over it. He looked in the mirror. His face was haggard and bearded. He rubbed his chin with a shaking hand. If he could remember when he shaved last, he might be able to figure approximately what day it was. He tried to think but no matter how hard he tried to force his mind it was useless. A thought would almost start to form, then be quickly smothered by a thick haze. He blinked and continued staring at the mirror.
   He turned as the door was closed and locked. He glanced at the door, stared at it quizzically for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and sat on the side of the bed. He opened the drawer of the bedside stand. It was empty except for a few grains of tobacco. He stared at it a second, then closed it and lay down. He looked at the light on the ceiling, then furtively at the wall. He frowned, nodded his head then sat up and looked at the door and the small window in it, his frown deepening. What was it he should remember? What was it that was stuck in his mind… that was struggling to make itself known? He shook his head and lay back down. He closed his eyes and drifted through a half sleep. It was a good bed. And a thick comfortable pillow. The covers were up around his neck, his hands clutching the edge. He snuggled into the bed, the comfort of a bed and clean sheets almost forgotten, bringing ancient memories vaguely to mind. His bearded face relaxed into a smile as he felt the cool water of the stream on his feet as he stretched out on the grass, his pole beside him. You will never catch any fish like that son. I know Dad, but I just feel like hanging my feet in the stream. I can always get some fish later. The older man looked at his young son and smiled. Maybe you're right Roy. It is a nice day. He continued to look at his only child with, perhaps, a slight hint of envy as the bright sun seemed to make his son's face and blond hair glow. The stream moved with the smallest of sounds, the slight rustling of the leaves on the trees barely audible. Birds flew to and fro deep within the branches and chirped and sang contentedly as they floated and fluttered from tree to sky and sky to ground. Butterflies hovered over groups of buttercups shining amidst green grass.
   The boy let his feet hang still as the cool water flowed over them. The warmth from the sun penetrated deep within him. The father smiled, he too responding to the surroundings—the bright sun and the pleasant sounds of a summer's day. It's nice to just lie in the sun and look at the blue sky. He looked back at the stream and the reflection of sky and trees rippled by the movement of the warter. An image drifted into sight and he looked up as a bird reached the apex of its climb—hesitated—sharply defined against the cloudless sky, then banked to the left, glided a few feet, then beat its wings and flew from the man's sight. He looked back at his line where it angled into the water.
   The ground felt soft and warm to the boy as he looked straight up, not really conscious of the sky, but vaguely aware of the smell of the earth and grass, hearing the sounds that floated pleasantly through the air. He wiggled his toes and put a blade of grass between his teeth. Maybe in a little while he'd fish. Maybe.
   The clanging of the lock dragged him from his reverie. Come and get your medication, Mr. Rawls. Huh? – What? Your medication. Here, extending the small paper cup. He got up abruptly and stepped quickly to the door. She emptied the cup into his hand. Go ahead and take them. He filled a cup with water then swallowed the pills. He looked at her quizzically as she started to close the door. Aaa, how long have I been here? Do you feel alright Mr. Rawls? He thought for a second. I think so. A little shaky. Well the medication will help. He nodded his head and went back to bed as the door was once again locked. He plopped on the side of the bed, then jerked his head toward the door and started to speak. His mouth remained open for a moment, a deep frown on his face, then he shrugged and lay back down on the bed.
   He stared at the ceiling, blinking his eyes, then felt something in the pocket of his pajamas as he scratched his shoulder. It was a brown envelope He opened it and took out a yellow form. The first thing he noticed were the words COUNTY JAIL. He gazed at it for a moment, then looked up, his eyes half closed as he tried to think… There were many small boxes on the form with printed titles at the'top and handwritten numbers and words in them. He stared for many minutes at the box: DATE BOOKED. The date was clear. There was no mistaking it, but what was today's date? If he knew that he would know how long he had been here. He continued to stare at the date thinking as hard as he could, then suddenly, as realization penetrated his mind, started counting on his fingers. So that's what month it is. And it's almost over. Again he forced his memory, trying to recall what month he could last remember. The only thing he was certain of was that it was warm. How many days… or months had he forgotten? Trying to remember upset him so he simply let his mind go blank and started to relax. He curled up and drifted through a half slumber until he once again heard the lock clanging and the door opening.
   Chow time.

   He sat up slowly, then slid from the bed and followed the others to the dining hall.
   Automatically falling in line he shuffled along with the others, hearing the sounds of feet, voices and the banging of pans and trays. His tray shook as his cup was filled with coffee. He walked slowly and carefully to the table, but still the coffee spilled over on to the tray. He toyed the food with his spoon then scooped it up and raised it toward his mouth. Halfway up the food fell off the shaking spoon and splattered on the tray. He stared at the empty, wavering spoon, then tried again. He heard faint laughter as he tried again and failed. There seemed to be sound all around him, but he ignored it and concentrated on the elusive food. It was hard, but he did manage to eat some of the food and drink some coffee. By the time he got back to his room he was exhausted and again fell on the bed. There was something he wanted, but it was many minutes before he realized it was a cigarette. He sat up and noticed the door was still open and the other men were slowly walking back to their rooms. He went to the door and asked each man for a smoke, his voice weak, sounding distant. One of the men gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. Feel better today? He half nodded and grunted an answer. You were in bad shape when they brought you in yesterday. Yesterday? Looking at him. Don't you remember? He tried to grin. The man smiled. Yeah, that wine can get to you after awhile—OK. Back to your room. The man left, and he backed into his room as the door was closed and locked.
   He sat on the edge of the bed as he smoked. Been here since yesterday. County Jail. Yeah, that's right, I remember. County Jail. Must have been arrested the night before last if I got up here yesterday. By the time they finish booking you and everything it's a long time. His face flashed into a smile. Yeah. I remember this place. The County Jail Hospital. Self-satisfaction beaming from his face as he congratulated himself for remembering so much. He still couldn't remember being arrested, or where it had occurred. Many months still forgotten, but that knowledge was easily avoided by continuing to think about what he could remember. It was a rare accomplishment lately to remember with such clarity.
   Suddenly he looked at the door and strained, for a second, to remember something. But what? The hell with it. Not important. He took a final drag on the cigarette and tossed the butt in the commode.
   Once more he luxuriated as he stretched out on the bed. The sun still warm on his face and the water cool on his bared feet. But some clouds drifted through the blue sky and then seemed to fall to earth. Or did a mist rise from the rapidly cooling earth? And what happened to the soothing sounds that had floated through the air, and the gentle breeze that had feathered his face? Then the silence was disturbed with an unfamiliar sound. It seemed to come from the clouds, or somewhere. It couldn't be traced or identified. It was just a sound. Slowly raising himself he lifted his feet from the now silent and cold water, his fishing pole still beside him. He looked toward his father but he seemed to be dissolving in the rapidly increasing mist. He jumped up, wanting to run to Daddy, but he barely moved, his body floating slowly up, then taking many minutes to float to the ground. He called to his father, tears streaming down his cheeks, trying to extend his arms to reach Daddy, but his arms took hours to start to raise and when they did they suddenly were straight down by his sides. Daddy! Daddy! The mist didn't whirl, it was simply there, as was the sound in the air, getting thicker and more impenetrable. The sound didn't get any louder, but it seemed to be more piercing, seeming to remain in his head, increasing and increasing… DADDY!!! An endless screech, the arms still refusing to respond, Daddy becoming vaguer and vaguer… tears still flowing down his face, panic making breathing difficult… A deep agonizing groan dragged him from sleep. He shook his head and sat up, his face slightly stiff from dried tears. He thought hard trying to identify the sound that woke him. Panic spun his head—he looked at the light, the window, the door, vague memories tormenting him, yet never defining themselves. The light burned bright and constant; the corridor outside his door still illuminated. It's ok. Everything's ok. The sound of his voice startled him slightly. The panic subsided, but the vague uneasiness still pervaded him. He sat still, staring at the wall, on the verge of tears…
   The sound of the door being opened forced his head around. Medication, Mr. Rawls. She put the cup of pills on the sink. The door was slammed shut. He stepped over to the sink and picked up the cup. The sound of the pills rattling in the cup brought a frown to his face. He stared at the jumping pills for a moment before he put them in his mouth, filled the cup with water then slowly raised it, lowered his head and drank the water. Turning, he started to go back to the bed, then stopped and put the cup on top of the sink, nodding his head with satisfaction at the cup before going back to the bed.
   His preoccupation with the vague feeling that there was something he should remember lasted through dinner and the remainder of the evening. He tried so hard to remember what was on the fringe of his consciousness that it was painful, the effort so enervating that shortly before the lights were turned out he fell into an exhausted sleep.
   The sweat prickling his sides and burning his eyes forced him to rub them and shake his head. He turned slightly and fell back against the door, a fearful cry forced from his throat as his reflection leaped at him from the mirror, the staring eyes burning back at him unfamiliar. Many moments passed before he realized that the sound frightening him came from his throat as he fought to get air in his lungs… the recognition eventually registering as he stared at his image. He tentatively touched the red spot on his forehead, marked by pressing his head against the window in the door. He leaned against the door, vaguely aware of the leaping shadows and the sound from the flickering night light. Then slowly he became aware of where he was. He stared at the empty bed and crumpled linen—then swiftly turned around, his head hitting the door. Quickly he turned around again, again falling against the door. The sound from the stuttering light more frightening than the spastic shadows rolling through the room. The crawling sweat stung, yet he couldn't move his hand to wipe his eyes. Eventually the pain in his chest and the feeling of suffocation forced an end to his paralysis. He deliberately took a few deep breaths until his breathing was almost normal. Many times he looked at the short space between his bed and where he leaned against the door. He felt sure he was leaning against the door—he must be, he had to be—but the only thing he could remember was sitting on the edge of the bed. Maybe he was still there—somehow—yet he could feel the door against his back. He couldn't be sitting on the bed. Slowly he reached back, his eyes closed, and touched the door. He opened his eyes. He looked at the bed. It was empty. He must be standing here leaning against the door. THE DOOR! THE DOOR

  His body jerked spastically. Something was familiar. He whimpered as a battle screamed in his head and something fought to be remembered. He wanted to get back to his bed, pull the sheet over his head and blank the sound and mayhem from his mind, but movement was impossible. He tried leaning forward to force himself to move, but fear continued to paralyze him. If only he could.
   ooohhh… ooohhh, the whimpering cry wrenched pathetically from his twitching mouth. He stumbled around, fell against the wall and slid to the floor never ceasing his whining as he curled in a corner, the shuffling sound still resounding in his head, trying to disappear in the corner as the memory of the previous night suddenly saturated his mind. A blubbering, simpering NO slobbered from his lips. He wanted to dissolve as he pushed harder into the corner; yet, too, he tried desperately to reach to someone unseen for comfort, but his arms remained wrapped tightly around his chest.
   He remained huddled in the corner until the sound stopped reverberating in his head. Then all was silent. All was silent save the flickering light. Even his breathing. The distraction of watching the shadows tumble about the room helped calm him, as did the sound clicking from the light. Time was meaningless, non-existent, as his arms slowly loosened from around him and ended up resting on his crossed legs. He sat thus for many minutes……
   Eventually he raised his head and looked up toward the small window in the door. As terrified as he was of standing and looking through the window, he was more terrified of not knowing what might be out there. He continued to sit in the corner weighing his fears—then his eyes brightened slightly with remembrance. He pushed against the door tentatively—looked at it—shoved it again, harder, then leaned his weight against it as he slowly and fearfully raised himself to his feet and approached the window.
   Oh please God, Please. Don't let it be there. It has to be silent out there. It just has to be. The shadows mottled his face as he got closer and closer to the window, not stopping until his face was pressed hard against the glass. Sweat continued to trickle and the light flickered noisily.
   He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tighter until they ached. He listened… listened…
   the only sounds that of the light and his breathing. His lids slowly separated and he became conscious of the gloom of the darkened corridor. Soon his eyes were accustomed to the darkness and familiar objects and the silence eased some of the tension in his body. Maybe he hadn't heard it. Heard what? If he had, what did it sound like? If he couldn't remember anything about the sound then maybe it didn't exist. The empty bed was reflected in the window. It's still empty so he must be leaning against the door. Yeah, he was here looking through the window trying to see down the corridor. But that doesn't mean there's a sound out there. No matter how real this is, it doesn't mean it's out there. But what was he doing here?
   He knew he had been in the bed. Of this he was certain. Of course he was. Just look at the way the linen was all messed up. Yeah, it's only a few feet, a few steps, from the side of the bed to the door, but that doesn't mean anything either.
   But how—Uhhh—Pain shocked him as the sound once again reached his ears and his body stiffened. Then all was silent. Not even the clicking of the light could be heard. Holding his breath he remained pressed against the door, conscious of nothing, not even the pain in his stiffened body. He listened intently, his body starting to twitch. His vision blurred as his head vibrated violently. His muscles cramped so painfully that he instinctively forced his body to relax before it shattered from the tension.
   Then it came again, a little louder. And a little closer? It seemed to be. His body trembled as he tried to figure just how close it was. Or how far away. Yes. Away. He would think of it as far away. But that would mean it was huge if it was far away and he could still hear it so plainly. No matter how he thought of it, he could find no comfort. His whimpering was louder than the flickering light.
   He stood petrified against the door. Again time was suspended until it was moved by the sound piercing the dark silence. Tears dropped from his eyes and he clutched at the door. This time there was no doubt about its being louder. And too he started to recognize it, but he fought desperately against this recognition. His head was shaking as he continued to fight and blubber. He tried to speak, but only an incoherent groan was agonizingly wrenched from his throat.
   The glass in the window was wet with his tears as the sound shuffled closer and louder, his pleading increasing in intensity and volume in his mind, only a wet blubbering coming from his mouth.
   His arms were stretched above him, his hands still tapping pathetically against the door as he slowly, still whimpering, folded to the floor, slowly stretching out on his back as tears rolled down his cheeks, spittle dribbling from his mouth. He fell into the release of unconsciousness.
   Light stabbed his eyes and he moved slightly and smiled for a moment. Then he frowned as the sun failed to warm him. And why was the ground so hard and bare of grass? And the sounds that should be floating through the air were missing.The silence was startling.
   He opened his eyes, then closed them immediately as they focused on the ceiling light. He turned his head and opened his eyes again. His vision was filled with the grayness of the door. He looked up and saw the sink. He could feel the coolness of the concrete floor and understanding slowly seeped into his mind. He sat up, hesitated for a second as he looked at the bed, then stood up. He looked all around the room—once, twice, then satisfied he sat on the edge of the bed. He shook his head… shook it again, harder, as if shaking off a blow. Yeah, this was his room. He remembered it. Yet something was wrong. But what? He remembered being in the room and it hadn't changed. But he had been on the floor…
   The hell with it. He had awakened so many times in unfamiliar places with no memory of how he had gotten there that he just shook it off. Yet he felt something was different this time. What in the hell was it that kept nagging at him???? It couldn't be anything. He was in a locked room and he wasn't drunk. No, there couldn't be anything wrong. He went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He wiped at his face with a towel, then sat back on the edge of the bed until the door was opened and he went to the dining room.

   All through the day he responded automatically and un-questioningly to the calls for medication and food. In between he sat on his bed still feeling uneasy about something. Usually his mind was blank, or at least he couldn't remember thinking about anything. But now there was something bothering him. O hell, it's nothing. Better to concentrate on the goddamn itch that was bugging him. He looked at the red streaks and blotches on his hands and arms. He looked at his legs covered with the same angry red streaks. He examined them carefully. Ain't a damn bug anywhere. The sound of his voice startled him for a second, but he simply shrugged and continued speaking aloud, as if he were talking to someone sitting opposite him. Again and again he tried to find the lice that he knew were crawling all over him, always without success. He scratched—hands, arms, chest, every part of his body he could reach. He scratched so hard he drew blood from the back of his hand. What the hell is that? The sons of bitches bit me so hard I'm bleeding—looking at the small drop of blood. Ain't never had nothing like this before. Can't even see the bastards. Go ahead you bastards, crawl your asses off. I don't give a good goddamn. And what the hell you laughing at you lousy bastard? Yeah, that's it. You better leave I dont need any of your shit. At least I know what a clean bed is. That's more than you can say… Oh bullshit. Go on. Get the hell out of here -waving his arm. Wise ass. It's just an itch. That's all. Just a damn itch—scratching and scratching, the back of one hand smeared with blood. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard on his burning eyes, and shook his head.
   He lay down, frowning for a moment, thinking, but nothing defined itself so he let his face relax and closed his eyes. He continued scratching as he drifted toward oblivion. He tossed and mumbled as an image started to form in the mist over his head. The features weren't distinct, but he was aware of a full thick beard and felt accusation burning into him. The image started to become more distinct as he gradually penetrated the fringe of unconsciousness. He mumbled louder and struggled back and forth on the bed as he fought the accusing eyes of the image. He screamed again and again, the sound of his terrified voice loud in his head, but no sound passed his lips. He continued to fling his body from side to side, his screaming voice continuing to pierce his mind, until he hit the corner of the bedstand, hard, with the back of his hand, the pain quickly yanking him awake. His breathing was rapid and shallow as he waited for the fear to drain from him.
   After many minutes he became aware of the pain in his hand and sat up and started rubbing it. Soon, he didn't know when, he stopped rubbing and was scratching. Later he was still trembling, unaware that he was scratching all over with both hands. There was no attempt at thought, remembering or understanding. Only the sound of his pleading voice preventing a complete collapse. Was it sweat or tears that moistened his face? Or both? He covered his face with his hands, then looked at his moist palms. I don't know why it's raining. Every time I want to do something it rains, the rain suddeny turning into a downpour and roaring from the heavens drowning his screams. He watched as the young boy ran from the brook into the trees. He heard nothing as he ran and stumbled toward the swaying trees. He felt his pounding heart and saw his father vaguely through the cascade of rain, his arms waving and yelling to the fleeing boy to stay away. He continued to run through the trees, then suddenly seemed suspended as lightning cracked and flashed, a huge oak splitting and groaning to the ground, his father disappearing in the fiery flash and smoke.
   He rocked back and forth on the side of the bed, face covered with reddened hands, trying to whine away the image. He lowered his hands, still rocking, and stared at the wall until he saw the floating shadows and the sound of rain and lightning faded away. He scratched harder and harder. It's just that my skin's dry, you stupid son of a bitch. I ain't got no damn bugs. And anyway it's none of your damn business. Get lost. He nodded at the wall. He's nothing but a big mouth. I'm not afraid of the rain. I'm not afraid of nothing. You just watch. I'll show them. And anyway, I don't care. Let them say what they want. I don't care. The back of both hands were seeping blood, his head continually nodding, as he rambled on. What do you want… the shadows suddenly started sliding down the wall as the lights went out and the night light flickered. He watched the shadows and faint splotches of light floating from one form into another. He scratched a thigh with one hand, a cheek with the other. Ha -hehehe -hahahahaha—Yeah. That's it. Go getim.
   HA HA HA HA HA HA
   His laugh dissolved into a giggle as Mickey Mouse butted Donald Duck with his antlers. Then Donald fell to the floor and jumped on a motorcycle and roared under the bed. Mickey leaped from the wall onto his motorcycle, but it wouldn't start. He leaned over, anxiously watching Mickey kicking the starter. Comeon Mickey, comeon, Hurry up. Getim, Getim, bouncing up and down.
   BA ROOOMMM
   ROORMMMM
   BRRUPPPPP
   UPPPP
   A ROOMMMMM
   That's it Mickey. He's under the bed, getim, getim. Mickey roared off with a screech of burning tires. He leaned all the way over, clapping his hands as Mickey disappeared under the bed. Then Donald roared out from under the end of the bed and leaned into a sharp turn, just missing the door. Mickey quickly followed. They raced around the room, under the bedstand, the bed, up one wall, down another, and across the ceiling. He fell back on the bed, twisting in all directions as he watched the pursuit with bouncing glee.
   Abruptly there was silence as they disappeared under the bed. He leaned over and waited for a few minutes, then slid off the bed, kneeled on the floor and looked under it. Come out. Come on fellas. Come on out. He stared into the corner, then slowly scanned the entire area, reaching under the bed as he flattened himself on his stomach. Where are you? What happened, Mickey? Why did you stop? We were having fun. Please come… he froze, his body rigid as he lay motionless on the floor, his head and arms under the bed listening… listening…
   then he scrambled under the bed as the sound once again shattered the stillness. He huddled under the bed, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. A low wail bubbled in his throat as the sound shuffled closer and closer… louder and louder. He rolled on the floor trying to compress himself into an invisible ball and disappear into the wall. He scrambled so desperately that he banged his head into the wall again and again and crashed into the underside of the bed, the sound shuffling closer and closer

  Then he heard it. Distinctly. And everything suddenly started strangling him: the previous nights; the dreams; the warm sun and cool brook; the song of birds and gentle breezes; the sudden stinging of the flooding rain, the lightning and the groaning splitting of the tree and the gagging smell of smoke. It all descended on him as the sound threatened to crush the door. And with it a new sound, a pelting sound of rain falling on leafy trees.
   The bed bounced wildly as he continued to scramble until he once more froze and just screamed, then suddenly bolted up, the bed falling over on its side, as the sound was no longer one of rain on leaves, but that of dirt falling on a wooden box. His piercing screams grew louder and echoed through the corridors…
   The orderlies and nurse rushed to his room and looked through the window, then quickly opened the door.
   His screeching became louder as he saw the sound peering at him through the window. He curled into the corner behind the overturned bed, tears streaming from his eyes as the door opened and the sound started in.
   They stood looking at him for a moment, then one of the orderlies rushed away, returning quickly with a restraining sheet.
   His feet scratched madly against the floor as he once more screeched hysterically and cringed into the wall as the sound came toward him, partially hidden by a white mist. . .
   Then it was silent. Its work accomplished.

Im Being Good

   Jan. 6
   Dear Harold:
   we get pills 4 times a day and it makes me very drowsy. I am having trouble writing, we have to stay awake all day and its hard, my eyes hurt all the time. I dont know how long exactly Ive been here but they dont let you lay down during the day. the place is locked where they keep the beds. Its all sort of like a big long room with small rooms, they get us up early in the morning, the trees are bare and there are lots of birds I can see them from the window, they almost look like funny leaves.they make a lot of noise bird noise. I think I saw a doctor sometimes but I dont know, he talked funny, the birds are very noisy I think before daylight they make a lot of noise, when they wake us up a woman comes and yells and I worry the sun wont come up. Im so tired, the sun will come up wont it harold?
   Jan. 10
   Dear Harold:
   I dont think Im so confused today. I wish I didnt have to take the medicine it makes me so tired I feel so sick in my stomach all the time. O I wish I could sleep for a long time, but Im not hungry, but sometimes a little bit I feel like eating but I cant chew it hurts my jaws or something to chew, they ache and the ears. I cant seem to hear so good, was I hearing good when you visited? I hope I was hearing good and heard you and the children together, they looked so nice in their dresses and roberts new clothes. I hope they get nice things for Christmas, they could use some clothes. O it makes me sad they dont have new clothes. I mean brand new clothes for the holidays, but we had a nice visit, but I miss everyone. I wish the children could come and see me. but they wont let them why wont they let them visit me? Im their mother I know I am. they look like me dont they? they call me mommy, but we had a nice talk didnt we harold? it was a nice visit and we talked, and you looked so nice, and I liked the candy bars you brought I think I ate them all already. O harold you did visit? I know my eyes hurt so much and Im so tired but you did visit didnt you harold? didnt you please.
   Jan. 12
   Dear Harold:
   I feel very cold, the birds were so loud today they chased the sun away, its still dark so dark I can feel it in my stomach, and in my bones its so cold because the sun didnt come up. I wish it would come up and be warm. I dont like it so cold.
   Jan. 16
   Dear Harold:
   We cant sleep during the day. theres no chairs. I sneaked into a corner and I think I sleeped but they caught me and made me get up. you see theres lots of us in the room. Its big and has some great big wooden benches, you cant pick them up or even hardly move them I dont think. They let us out sometimes to go pee pee but I dont think some people go there, we are in this room all day. I think they play music. Theres a couple of girls they walk around all day. I think Ive been in this room before. I dont think this is the first day. Maybe for lots of days. I dont know they dont tell me but its warmer today, and the birds were noisy this morning very noisy but its warmer anyway. Why is that harold? how come its warm and theres day light when the birds screamed this morning? I think they scream every morning, its so terrible its like a million zillion monkeys or little babys making funny noises only its not the same but every morning when its still dark they make a terrible racket and then this woman comes around and screams to get up and sometimes bangs the bed. but we dont have to walk far to the eating place its just outside. I think and the showers too sometimes. I can get by the window for a while and I see people walking around outside, it looks cold.
   Jan. 26
   Dear Harold:
   Im pretty sure Ive written other letters. I cant seem to remember too well. I think I have some from you which I read today, but I dont seem to remember them but Im glad you wrote. I dont remember the holidays but I hope the children had fun and liked the tree and santa. I wonder how come I dont remember the holidays? I guess maybe I was in here I dont think I know how long. I think they said I came here the day before the day before Christmas eve. I know it was something about Christmas or Christmas eve but I cant remember if it was Christmas eve or the day before. O Harold I didnt want to miss Christmas eve again I really didnt. I wanted to be home I honestly to goodness did want to be home with my family with you on Christmas eve so we could fill the stockings and put up the tree and put the presents around, and the lights I love the lights on the tree with the big white angel on top and the blue light under it. O remember how Bobby clapped his hands the first time he saw the angel, he thought it flew to the top of the tree and wanted it to fly down, and he waited and waited and Im sorry harold please forgive me for not being home on Christmas eve. how are the children? are they alright? did they have a good Christmas? did the gramas and granpas make big over them? I hope it was a good Christmas, did you eat lots of nice pies and stuff. I hope the children had a good time, are they alright? O Harold I wish you would write, how are you?
   Jan. 28
   Dear Harold:
   There are so many of us in this room. Have you seen it! when you were here? I dont think so I think they dont have visitors here only in the visiting room where you sit with your visitors, there are a lot of us in the room and some of them are so angry and growl and sometimes hit. I think maybe some of them are bad. but Im being good, the attendants call them bad and take them out someplace and sometimes they scream but I guess youve never seen this room, theres a window on the door, its always locked, we are put in here right after breakfast except if we have a shower and sometimes we can brush our hair, sometimes I get up early enough to brush my hair, the birds are always making noises before sunrise, its an awful racket and sometimes I get up before the attendant comes and screams to get up and brush my hair, at least I know I did it this morning, they dont let you have a comb but I dont like one anyway. I think maybe Ive gotten up a couple of times and brushed my hair before breakfast. Im trying to eat like they tell me so I can get some strength and go home. Im sorry I missed the holiday but they said if I eat and get strong I can go home and even if I wasnt home for Christmas eve and the holidays. I could maybe be alright to go home for easter. If not for good maybe at least anyway on a pass. I wish I wasnt here. I dont like it here. Im scared. I wish I was home. I think its the pills that make me so tired. Im being good, its different ones now. theyre green. Im not so tired but sometimes I just wish I could lie down and take a nap even just a little nap. its so hard to move I can hardly lift my feet sometimes. I just sort of shuffle and these funny slippers they give us keep coming off. O how are the children? I miss them so much. I wish they didnt run around so much. I hope mother doesnt let them run around so much back and forth all day. tell them I miss them and give them a big kiss from me and make sure theyre quiet, they wont bother you to get upset