Feb.4
   Dear Harold:
   There was a terrible big fight here last nite. after they opened the doors to the dormitory where we sleep, they open them I think about 8 oclock and you can go to bed after night time pills, one of the women walks around the room all day, the room we're locked in all day, and growls and swears and they dont seem to growl at anyone but just sort of to themselves, they frighten me. I wish they were somewhere else. I try and watch them all day so they cant hurt me but sometimes Im so sleepy I cant keep my eye on them, and sometimes they just scream out loud and slap the air like windmills or maybe its not all of them but only the one, the one I was telling you about who started the big fight, she suddenly grabbed another woman and accused her of taking her Sunday shoes and started to strangle her and the woman started hitting her and we all screamed and some of them started pounding on the door but they wouldnt open the door and it was really terrible and I was scared to death but I was good, and the woman kept choking her and finally the attendants came in and grabbed the women and dragged her away but the strangling lady wouldnt stop screaming about her Sunday shoes and she starting hitting the attendants, and so the attendants dragged her into a room and kept her there for awhile and there was an awful commotion and when they brought her out she was in a straightjacket and couldnt stand and they dragged her down the hall but they wouldnt let us watch, they put us all back in the room and locked the door. I didnt see her today, a lady whispered to me that they put her in a dungeon way way down under the building. I dont think I believe that.
   Feb. 10
   Dear Harold:
   They let me watch television for a while last night. It was nice, its a nice room with regular chairs, you know, lounge chairs and those other plastic ones. I sat in a plastic chair, but if I get to the t.v. room earlier I might be able to get a regular sitting chair, it was kind of relaxing. I mean everyone seemed to be quiet and some of the ladies were sleeping, mostly the ones in the easy chairs, it didnt seem fair that they took up the really good chairs and slept. I wish they would let them go to bed and then maybe I could have one of those chairs but maybe if I get there earlier tonight, theyre going to let me go every night, most of the people there are from the open wards, were in what they call the locked ward because were locked in all day. theres only 3 of us allowed from the locked ward, were being good, the people on the open wards have a lot of places they can walk around. I think they can even go outside but its cold now. theres a canteen where you can get things and they can go there. I think they also have a movie sometimes and other things, a library too. maybe if I keep being good theyll put me on an open ward and I can get one of those nice big easy chairs to sit in. during the day too. how are you?
   Feb. 15
   Dear Harold:
   It was a nice visit, thank you for coming on Valentines Day. you look so handsome in your suit, and thats my favorite tie. Im so glad you wore it. I was really sorry when the visiting time was over, its always so sad to see all those people walking down the path to the cars and buses, we stay by the window when they let us and watch the visitors go. sometimes we stay there a longtime afterwards, they tell us its not good to do that, that we upset ourselves but its so hard to leave the window even after theres nobody there anymore. I watched a candy wrapper blow down the walk and across the street. I watched it all the way to the fence. I couldnt see if it went through the fence. Im still allowed to go to the open ward at night, now right after supper, we sit in the chairs and talk or just sit. I like the television too. there was some funny programs on last night, we laughed a lot. at least some of us did. I guess its not such a loud laugh but we do laugh, sometimes some ladies just sleep. I dont seem to be as sleepy as I was. Im only getting 2 little pills a day now. I hope you can visit soon. I miss you. its been so long since Ive seen you. I know its hard with kids yelling and screaming and running around, maybe in a bigger place, they wont upset you. are you feeling better?

   Feb. 20
   Dear Harold:
   I was going to wait until your visit to tell you the good news but I cant wait so Im writing, theyre letting me out on the open ward during the day. I still have to come back here to the locked ward to sleep but during the day I can stay on the open ward, its sort of a trial basis and if Im good it will become permanent, isnt that wonderful? Im really excited, today was my first day. I walked around and its so nice, nobody was growling or screaming like those other ladies and there are chairs to sit in and books to read if you can stay awake, they have jigsaw puzzles too. And you can go to the bathroom any time you want to. anytime, and I am going to go to occupational therapy too. I promise not to make any more wallets or book marks, maybe just a new belt for Bobby. I know O.T. doesnt seem like much but its something to do to break the boredom, it gets so tedious, but they have something new theyre going to try starting next week, its some kind of writing class. I dont know what kind of writing but theyll provide all the supplies. I think lm getting better. I hope easter hurries up and gets here, maybe you can come see me soon.
   Feb. 27
   Dear Harold:
   It seems like so long since We written, has it been? I havent kept track. I am looking forward to your visit, it will be good to hold hands though I must confess I feel embarrassed in the visiting room, youll look so sexy in your 3 piece suit and my favorite tie. and just like I promised Im doing everything they tell me and being real good. Im sure theyll let me home for easter maybe for a couple of days. Im really feeling stronger and stronger each day. I cant wait to see my little darlings and give them all a big hug and kiss, thousands of them, like I promised Im not doing any leather work, just needlepoint, and its not a home sweet home, its a nice picture of a kitten and a ball, youll like it when its finished, we can always give it to your mother for Christmas.
   The writing class, its called OT-III-writing, is kind of fun. its co-ed and there was a lot of moving around as the men tried to get to sit near the pretty girls, and some of the girls did some moving around too. it looked like there was going to be fooling around all day for a while, but the woman leading the class got things under control fast enough, theres only about a dozen of us so its not too bad. some people read a few things and then we talked about writing something during the week and then reading it at the next class. I thought I'd write something about ice cream cones. I know it sounds silly but it might be fun. you know when you were a kid how you had to push the ice cream down right away without breaking the cone, and then how you had to lick the edges and be careful how you bit the cone, and how you kissed it up to God if you dropped it on the ground before you started eating it again, no matter how dirty it got. I think its a fun idea. What do you think? anyway, it gives me something to think about for the next week, how are you? I no I'll be seeing you soon.
   March 7
   Dear Harold:
   I've been spending most of my time writing that piece about ice cream cones I mentioned to you. its so much fun. it brought back a lot of memories about my childhood and especially the summer time and the times we all went to the beach and Coney Island and the rides, it was a marvelous time of my life, so happy and carefree, nothing to do but run around and play games, we used to go to the park a lot when we were kids, you couldn't get a real ice cream cone there, but there was always an ice cream truck of some kind, usually a good humor. I remember there was always a breeze on the top of the hill, and I used to love the feel of the air on my face as I ran down the hill screaming and screeching, kids love to scream and screech dont they, but I was a good girl, I really was. I was quiet.
   We had a good time at the writing class this week, we got down to work much faster this week and there was less maneuvering. It looked like a couple of them were playing a little more then kneesees in the back of the room, some people had written some things and read them and they were nice, one girl wrote a real nice poem and she let me copy it. Here it is.

   I walk along a quiet shore,
   And look at the ocean still,
   Whilst thinking of the one I adore,
   And wondering does he love me still.
   I close my eyes and kiss his hand,
   And bathe in the light of his eyes,
   And sink my feet into the sand
   And wonder where does his heart lie.
   And then I know where heart and love
   Can blend and be soothing and warm,
   As I gaze into his face above,
   Then surrender into my lovers arms.
   Isn't that nice? I guess its not a great poem, but I love it. it has such a nice feeling, we're all so lonely here. I've been really good, you can visit now, can't you?
   March 9th
   Dear Harold:
   I'm sorry you still cant get to visit. I no the kids bother you and you cant stand them but Im here, no kids, and Im being really good and doing everything Im told. Im sure I can get a pass for easter if you would come get me. probably the whole weekend, we could go some place alone. I could meet you. where would you like to go? I dont care, if we could just be together. I miss you so much, it seems like forever since I saw you. I wish you would hold me and everything, lots of fathers get upset by their kids. Ill make sure they wont bother you. we wont see them, just the two of us for the whole weekend, we could be happy, if you could just write. O I hope easter comes early this year.
   Mar 14
   Dear Harold:
   Im in the writing class and cant stop crying and Im afraid to let them see me or theyll put me back in the locked ward and I dont want to go back there I cant let them see me cry but I cant seem to stop. I want so much to see you I miss you so much and the doctor said I shouldnt go home for easter but should wait a while maybe next month when the weathers nicer and I was looking forward to being with you and snuggling in your arms and everything but now they wont let me out even for a day and if they see me crying I just know theyll put me back in that ward. O I wish you could come see me or write or something now instead of worrying about those little monsters whore always interfering in everything O just let us be alone for a second and no matter where they are it could be a hundred miles and they would no it and come running to make sure we dont have any time together. O I know they chased you away but what about my attention? I cant get out to even take a walk and you cant come to visit, and in the writing class when I started to read my peace I only got to read about a page when one of the men started yelling and screaming at me that I had no right to write such silliness when children all over the world were starving and dying like flies and all kinds of horrible things he said to me and accused me as if I were some sort of monster and Im trying to be so good I honestly am Im even eating all the food. I love my children honest honest true I love them and dont want them to go to a home or some place O I wish I could stop crying. I dont want them to see me crying so Im trying to write something for the class pretty soon itll be dark in the tv room and no one will see my eyes I cant let them know Ive been crying O harold please where are you please
   SYLVIA WILSON
   O.T.-III WRITING
   MY RETURN TO LOWELL STATE HOSPITAL
   I had spent 7 months here between 1978 and 1979. when I left I said I hope I would never have to return again, not knowing that god has ways that we become sick to the point that only hospital care would be the only way out. In august of this year my children and myself were living in Sheepshead bay on welfare. I was told to go to court because my husband was back on payments toward our support, not that this has anything to do with this but it seemed that my voices started with a court house, one week after going there I started to hear voices that seemed to be having a large court session on all the past friends and people that I had known from a little girl, hearing their voices and debating on putting me in a institution, for things that I was falsely being accused of. these voices continued night and day for about three weeks and then it ceased, then there was a group of men and women who said they were a hired mind readers organization speaking to me mental telepathy and had picked my mind up on the beach, they were telling me we had only until xmas to live and to either commit suicide or they will come up on xmas eve in santa clause uniforms and kill us. so through the strain of it all for my childrens sake I gave up and came willingly back to lowell state hospital for my cure, the voices remained with me for 2 or 3 weeks and then they just politely walked out of my life, the peace and quiet is wonderful. I hope they dont come back. O please dont come back

Indian Summer

   The sky was cloudless and blue, the air warm, crisply clear. The previous few days had been prematurely cool, but today was the kind of day you dream of all through a hot humid summer of stifling subways, burning pavements and faulty air conditioners. And it was Sunday. He could just sit around and read the Times and later watch the Jets game.
   Yes, a truly marvelous day. And for New York a rare one. You dont get too many days like this where the air is so clear and clean you feel as if you could rub it between your finger tips. He breathed deeply as he left the newsstand with his Times, and stopped for a moment to enjoy the sky and the relaxed quiet of the morning, thinking of the day of leisure that awaited him.
   He glanced at the newspaper and smiled as he anticipated sitting in their small backyard and going through the many bulky sections, looking forward with eagerness to reading the sports pages now that the football season had begun. And too, an occasional can of cold beer wouldnt dim his spirits any. He breathed deeply again and smiled as he looked up and down the tree-lined street. It sure will be good to relax after the hectic week . he just put in. That damn Goodwin account is enough to drive anyone batty. But he wasnt going to think about that now. Not on a day like this. Thats how you get ulcers. No, he was just going to relax and take it easy and leave that for tomorrow. Monday morning will come soon enough. It always does.
   I wonder if we should go for a drive? The countryside will be lovely with the trees changing colors and the fall flowers blooming. Bet it would be beautiful in Connecticut, and we could stop at a nice restaurant and have dinner. Im sure Ethel would like that. Give her a chance to get out of the kitchen, and Suzie likes riding in the car—bouncing the Times against his hip as he walked—but the damn road will be packed with Sunday drivers and we would probably hit one traffic jam after another. No, I guess it would be better to just forget the whole thing and spend a nice quiet day at home. Actually Sunday is really a day to spend at home with the family, and he did not want to miss the Jets game, hoping Ethel would not say anything about being a football widow.
   When he got home his wife was just finishing the breakfast dishes. He put an arm around her waist as he kissed her on the cheek. Its a beautiful day.
   Yes, I know. I was out back for a few minutes before. Makes you feel like doing something or going somewhere.
   Yeah, I suppose it does, but what it really makes me want to do is sit in the sun with the Times and a beer. After all, I have to be well rested if Im going to do a good job at the office. He smiled at his wife and kissed her again, then put the paper on the table and took a can of beer out of the refrigerator. Wheres Suzie?
   In her room.
   O. Shes so quiet I thought maybe she was in the yard.
   No. Shes playing with her coloring book. Ethel dried her hands and hung up the towel. You know Harry, it might be a good idea if you took Suzie to the park later. Maybe while Im fixing dinner you can take her to the playground.
   Gee, I dont know honey. I was planning on taking it easy today. I put in a rough week and I have another one in front of me.
   I know, darling, but it would be nice if you could.
   Well, we’ll see what happens.
   He started to go out to the yard when Suzie came out of her room. We going to the park, daddy?
   Maybe later, sweetheart—patting her on the head.
   On the swings?
   We’ll see, honey. Maybe later. Right now daddy has something to do—still patting her on the head—maybe in a little while. Suzie looked up at him for a moment then went back to her room.
   Harry went out into the yard and moved his chair so it was in the sun and started reading the paper. Whether or not he took Suzie to the playground wasnt a matter of life or death. She did look a little disappointed, but it wasnt that important. And that damn Goodwin account. And anyway, its still early. He could always take her later, after he read at least part of the paper and relaxed for a while. There’d be time before dinner. Perhaps he should spend a little more time with her alone. He really didnt spend too much time with her and lately she was almost ready for bed by the time he got home. Of course that wasnt his fault, but still… when was the last time he took her to the park? Well, after all thats not really my responsibilty. Harry continued reading, vaguely aware of the sound of voices coming from the house.
   He glanced up at the sky from time to time and breathed deeply. He browsed through the «News of the Week in Review» section noting a few headlines, looking at all the political cartoons and reading their captions. Harry slowly leafed through the Theater Section and decided to save the Magazine and Book Review Section for after dinner, before the game. Keeping the Sports Section on his lap he put the remainder of the paper on the ground then stretched his legs and leaned back in his chair.
   The sun was warm on Harry Swansons face as it slowly rose higher in the sky, moving from his left to his right. He finished the beer and thought for a moment about getting another, but the idea gradually faded as he continued reading. When he finished reading about all the games he thumbed through the rest of the section, then let the paper slide from his hand and had one last cigarette before going back into the house.
   He plopped the paper on the couch and stretched his arms out over his head a few times while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Man O man, what a beautiful day. Its really beautiful out Ethel, you should go out and enjoy it and do whatever youre doing later.
   I think I will, in just a few minutes, as soon as I get the roast started.
   Suzie still coloring?
   I dont know. I suppose so. Shes being quiet so Im not going to look at any gift horses.
   Harry smiled, I know what you mean. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet, I was thinking maybe I’d take her to the park before dinner. Itll be a couple of hours yet, wont it?
   Thats a good idea. Figure about 2:30, or maybe youd better make it 2 to be on the safe side.
   O.K. You want to get her ready?

   Suzie had learned how to skip and she tugged Harrys arms as she periodically started skipping. Harry asked her several times to stop, yanking her arm once to emphasize his request but she could not stop using her new toy so Harry eventually let go of her hand cautioning her not to cross the street without him. When they got to the park Suzie started running toward the playground, but Harry stopped her. Wait a minute honey, daddy wants to go over there for a few minutes first.
   A crowd of a few hundred people were watching a football game and Harry, holding Suzies hand, walked to the near side of the field and rapidly worked his way to the sideline, pushing Suzie in front of him. Between plays he questioned those around him until he learned the score and the quarter and how the game was going.
   Harry immediately became involved in the game and impatiently told Suzie to wait a minute, just a few more minutes, as she pulled at his arm. Swings daddy, I want the swings—and she wriggled and squirmed between the many sets of legs surrounding her as the crowd moved with the development of each play.
   Eventually Harry became aware of Suzies petulance and picked her up and held her so her head was on a level with his.
   There we are, honey. Is that better?
   My nose itches.
   Well rub it, honey.
   Can we go on the swings now?
   Just a few minutes and they’ll stop, then we’ll go. I promise. Harry continued to watch each play unfold, ooing and aaing with the crowd and, of course, quarterbacking; and Suzie continued to ask to go to the swings and squirm with boredom, and Harry growing more and more impatient with her insistence telling her to stop and stay still and squeezing her thigh a few times to emphasize his demand.
   When the half finally ended Harry wanted to talk to the others about the game, but Suzie wiggled around so much he knew it would be useless to try so he left the crowd of spectators and put Suzie down. O.K., o.k., we’ll go to the playground. You happy now? completely exasperated and frustrated. She trotted off, her mind empty of everything but the forthcoming pleasure of the swings, the sliding pond and the see-saw, Harry walking rapidly behind her, turning his head occasionally to look back at the football field.
   Suzie was hanging from a swing when Harry caught up with her. Now be careful. Youll hurt yourself doing that. He picked her up and put her in the swing and told her to hold on tightly to the safety bar across the front. He pushed the swing and Suzie kicked her legs with glee and at first Harry told her to stop kicking and to sit still, but after a few minutes of his daughters giggling, and the silence from the football field, he relaxed and continued pushing until Suzie suddenly announced, Sliding pond.
   He held his hands out ready to catch her as she climbed the steps one by one, then waited for her at the end of the slide, but she vigorously shook her head, no, and so he allowed her to slide down alone still standing ready as she climbed the steps once again and waited for her to come running back after she slid down. There seemed no end to the amount of laughter the sliding pond could evoke from her.
   Soon the noise from the football field made it obvious that the second half had started. Harry continued to watch his daughter as she climbed the ladder, but he was getting more and more fidgety. Then a loud cheering, and the movement of the crowd, indicated that someone had scored. It must have been a touchdown, the cheering had that kind of sound to it. Suzie was skipping her way back to the ladder when Harry picked her up and spun her around a few times and she giggled happily. When he put her down he knelt beside her, Did you have fun, sweetheart?
   Suzie nodded her head vigorously, Put me on the seesaw now, daddy.
   Im afraid we havent time, honey. We have to go home soon.
   We got time. Its not time to eat yet—sounding as if she actually knew dinner would not be ready for another hour or so.
   Well no, not exactly, but daddy wanted to watch the football game for a few minutes before we have to go home.
   O I dont like it. I dont wanna watch anymore—scrunching her face into a complete pout. We only been here a few minutes. I wanna stay here—her voice on the brink of a sob.
   Ah please, sweetheart. I’ll tell you what. I’ll carry you piggy back all the way. Hows that?
   We could stay here and you could carry me piggyback. You said we’d go to the playground. You said—lowering her head, still pouting, her voice even closer to tears.
   Look, I know what. How about a nice surprise after dinner? How about that?
   What sprize?
   O, I cant tell you that. Then it wont be a surprise.
   She looked up at him for a moment, still pouting, Honest? A sprize?
   Of course—feeling a blush warming his face—I wouldnt lie to my little girl.
   One more slide?
   O.K.—standing up and following her to the ladder. When she reached the bottom he knelt and his daughter climbed on Harrys back after he cautioned her to hold on tight to his neck, but not to choke him.
   He walked toward the field quickly, holding his daughters legs, then broke into a jogging lope as Suzie prodded him with a giddyup, she enjoying the breeze on her face as she put her cheek next to her daddys and relished not having to bend her head backwards to look up at people, even being able to look down at many.
   Harry swiftly worked his way back to his previous spot and found out that the score was now tied. He immediately became completely involved in the game as one team put the ball in play on their own 20 after a touchback, and the fullback picked up 12 quick yards on a draw play. After that the quarterback moved his team upfield by continually outthinking the defense with trap plays and slants off the tackles and guards, and a couple of short hook passes at just the right time.
   His daughter remained satisfied with the novelty of her position and her daddy moved around just enough to make it interesting. For a while. Then the novelty faded, just as the defense recovered a fumble inside their own 20—and just when they were really moving the ball too.
   I wanna go on the swings again, daddy—tapping him on the head with her hand.
   I told you, Suzie, not now—what a jerk. A few more plays and they wouldve been over.
   Suzie bounced up and down repeating, Please more—tugging at Harrys neck.
   Not now, and stop that. Youre hurting daddy—lets see what this other quarterback can do. If he can get them out—I said stop—turning to look at Suzie. Do you want me to put you down?

   No—still bouncing but no longer tugging at his neck—but I wanna go on the swings, you said—slowly pouting the words—I was hardly on them.
   A time out was called and Harry knelt and his daughter slid off his back and he held her hands as he spoke softly, but firmly, to her, his irritation growing. I told you if you are a good girl I would give you a surprise after dinner. We have to go home soon—glancing at his watch—and we dont have time to go back to the playground. Now be a good girl and dont bother daddy for few minutes and I’ll piggyback you home and youll get a nice surprise after dinner. O.K.?
   What sprize daddy?
   Youll see after dinner—time was back in—now climb on daddys back and be a good girl. Harry stood up with Suzie on his shoulders and decided he had enough time to watch at least the next series of downs before he had to start home, and perhaps more if this guy didnt move the team. His daughter hung on quietly for a few minutes then started jiggling up and down and then jabbering and asking questions, wanting to know what they were doing and why they ran after the boy and when they were going back to the swings… and Harry grunted a few answers while moving along the sidelines as the teams moved down the field, occasionally telling Suzie not to choke him, her whining increasing his irritation. Then Suzie started humming to herself and rocking her head back and forth as she jiggled up and down and Harry started getting angry and squeezed her leg and yelled at her to stop as she fell forward and banged her head on his and Suzie hung completely motionless for a second, stunned from the blow and Harrys voice, then started whimpering and Harry fought his anger and knelt and rubbed her head for a moment and told her not to cry. She was still whimpering slightly, asking to go back to the swings, when the quarterback threw a perfect strike to his running back and he went in for the score. Harry decided to go home as it was a little after 2.
   When they were out of the crowd he wiped Suzies face with his handkerchief, We dont want mommy to know we were crying now do we?
   We going home now, daddy?
   Yes, honey.
   Can we go on the swings first, huh?
   No.
   Please. I hardly didnt get to go.
   No, its too late—the sadness in her voice causing Harry to respond angrily—dinners ready now. He paused and took a deep breath, thinking how his wife would react to Suzies complaint. He smiled, But dont forget I promised you a piggyback ride all the way home. O.K.?
   And a sprize you said.
   Yes, I wont forget. Youll get a surprise. Now climb on and we’ll go home.
   Harry played horsie to his daughters giddyup and between that and an occasional tickle Suzie was laughing when they romped into the house.
   Well, its about time you two vagabonds got home—taking her daughter off Harrys back, kissing her before putting her down -a few more minutes and you would have had a catastrophe instead of a roast.
   Hmmmm, smells good. I guess we had better get washed. Come on honey, lets get our hands and face washed.
   Ethel set the table while they washed and by the time they came back into the kitchen it was filled with savory smells, the table set, and the roast waiting for Harry to carve.
   As Harry carved, Ethel put Suzie in her highchair and asked her to tell her all about the park. Were there other children there?
   Uhuh. We watched a game. I was on daddys back.
   A game? Didnt you go to the playground, Harry?
   Of course, of course. We just stopped for a minute on the way home to watch a football game. I dont even know who was playing.
   O Harry, you and football. Dont you get enough on t.v.?
   It was just for a minute—here give me your plate. Heres a nice center piece.
   And daddys giving me a sprize. What is this about a surprise?
   I thought we’d get some I-C-E C-R-E-A-M after dinner. You know -
   Cause I was a good girl at the game, wasnt I daddy? Thats a good girl—putting her dinner in front of her—Now you eat this all up.
   Whats the sprize daddy?
   Now I told you a dozen times, after dinner.
   Take it easy, Harry.
   Well, ever since I mentioned it shes been haunting me about it.
   Well, lets forget about it and enjoy our dinner.
   Ethel and Harry started eating their Sunday dinner, but Suzie just toyed with her food, I want my sprize.
   Now you listen to me, young lady -
   Harry. Dont lose your temper.
   But Ive been hearing this all day—Suzie had lowered her head and watched and listened -
   But getting yourself upset isnt going to do any good. Youll just ruin our dinner. Relax honey. I’ll take care of Suzie. Now you be a good little girl and eat your dinner. Ethel separated the food on Suzies plate into individual piles and told her to start eating.
   Suzie pouted, I was a good girl.
   Well, you just continue to be a good girl and eat.
   I want my sprize.
   You listen to mommy—glancing at Harry, noticing his face redden—and eat. If you dont eat like a good girl youll not only get no surprise, but daddy wont take you to the park again. Now you wouldnt like that, would you?
   Suzie toyed with her food for a few minutes, then started whimpering very softly, a few tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. Ethel reached over with her napkin and wiped her face dry. Now you dont have to cry, honey, no one is yelling at you. I dont understand why you are so upset. We just want you to eat your dinner. Now stop crying for mommy. Ethel turned to Harry, What happened at the park, Harry, Ive never seen her in such a state? Harry glared at her, mouth jammed shut.
   Suzie continued to whimper softly and shook slightly with a sob. Good girl. I want my sprize.
   Harry slammed his fork down on the table and jerked himself up, Goddamn it! I’ll give you a surprise—reaching over to her plate, scooping up a handful of mashed potatoes with gravy and slapping it on her head—Heres your surprise! Ethel and Suzie just stared at Harry, their mouths open, potatoes and gravy slowly sliding down the sides of Suzies face, and then she started crying hysterically. Good! Good! Cry and get it over with! Ethel hugged Suzie as she continued to stare at the potatoes and gravy dripping from Harrys hand.

A Little Respect

   Morris pushed the papers on his desk into piles, any old pile, and rushed to the elevators. He hated those last minute phone calls. He never could figure out why people waited until five to five to call. He rushed to the elevator, looking at his watch. He could still make the 5’20 if there were no more hangups. The first two elevators went right past his floor because they were filled and he groaned inwardly. He kept looking at his watch, but it didnt seem to do any good so he lit a cigarette and put it out when an elevator stopped and the doors opened. He squeezed himself in and the elevator went directly to the ground floor.
   He rushed to the subway and stood on the platform constantly looking at his watch complaining loudly to himself about the service, and what in the hells keeping the train, wishing he could light a cigarette. The more he looked at his watch the more convinced he became that he would miss the 5’20 and end up on the damn 5’30, the cattle car. Eventually the train came in and he pushed and was pushed into the car. He was jammed so close to the guy in front of him that the guys mustache kept tickling Morrises nose, and whoever it was behind him must have had spaghetti and meat balls for lunch with extra garlic. He wondered what time it was.
   Everybody flooded out of the train when they reached the terminal and Morris rushed, almost running, toward the proper track. He glanced at his watch and the clocks on the wall and knew it was hopeless. It was already 5’21 and it would take him at least five more minutes to get there no matter how fast he walked and god knows that if they ever left on time they would today. When he got there at 5’25, never, but today… The end of the train was just barely visible when he got to the track. He looked at the dark tunnel for a moment feeling and listening to his heart pound. He bought a paper and waited.
   A cattle car, thats what the 5’30 is, a cattle car. And not only that, the 5’30 doesnt know what a schedule is… not even a nodding acquaintance. Who knows what time I’ll get home.
   When he reached his station he almost stopped for a moment to breathe the air, but decided to continue rushing to the bus stop, sneaking a few looks at his watch. The bus was there in a matter of minutes and thank god he got a seat. He read about a flood, a hatchet murder, an earthquake that killed 10,000 people, and relaxed.
   The short walk to the house was almost pleasant. He looked forward to sitting and taking it easy for a few minutes, if possible, before dinner. The street was relatively quiet, quiet enough to hear the birds. Morris liked to hear the birds. It was so bucolic, like the city was a million miles away. Nice.
   He opened the door of his home and was immediately ASSAULTED by the sound of machine guns, cannons and the screams of planes. His 10 year old son Milton was sitting on the floor in the living room surrounded by a few empty bowls and numerous candy wrappers. There were crumbs of crackers, popcorn and potato chips everywhere. Morris stuck his head in the doorway, Hi Miltie, how are you?
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Morris looked at him for a moment then raised his voice slightly, I said hello. How are you?
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Morris stared at his son, but couldnt outlast him. Turn it down Miltie.
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Miltie, I said to turn it down, its too loud. Morrises head was raging, but he just stood over his son, squeezing his newspaper, raising his voice just a little each time he spoke.
   His son continued to stare at the screen.
   Finally there was a commercial break and Morris tried again, Milton lower the volume.
   Milton finally acknowledged his fathers presence by giving him his best Fonzie posture, without getting up. Be cool, eh?
   I’ll be cool—grabbing for the control unit and Milton holding tight with both hands. Give me that you -
   Look out, look out, ya jerk, ya wanna break it?
   I’ll break your head you little -
   Morrises wife Maya yelled from the kitchen, Is that you Morris?
   He stood up, Yes. Its me.
   The movie suddenly came back on with an artillery barrage that caused Morris to drop his paper. He retreated to the kitchen.
   Milton stared at the screen.
   Maya was turning back the aluminum foil on the t.v. dinners, Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes. A special treat. Yeah?
   Your favorite, Salisbury steak. Morris nodded, With homemade water? What? Nothing. What was all that noise, were you yelling at Miltie again? Yelling? How could you tell? I heard you. How could you hear me over that racket? Maya I tell you somethings got to be done. Done? About what? About what? About Miltie. Why, what did he do now? What did he do? Thats it, he doesnt do anything. He doesnt say hello, he doesnt say goodbye. He doesnt say anything. He just sits in front of the television like a blob. He likes it, Morris. And anyway, it keeps him out of trouble. Im his father. He should say hello. Is that something terrible, to want your son, your only child, to say hello? I work all day. I work hard. Like a slave—Maya was nodding her head and continued to nod as she put the dinners back in the oven, Morris following her around the kitchen—to give my family a nice house in the suburbs so you dont have to live in the crowded city. Am I asking for a bugle call when I come home? Am I asking for trumpets and kettledrums? All Im asking for is a little consideration, thats all. Is it asking so much to have him say hello? I always say hello. You say hello, but does he? Maybe I should get a tape recorder and have him say once, only once, hello dad, and then youll play it when I come home. Maya shrugged, Excuse me, Morris, I want to set the table. Maya set the table and Morris continued to follow her around, Im going to make some changes around here. Im going to get some respect from my son. Do you hear? I hear you, Morris, and youre right. You should get some respect. Excuse me while I get the silverware. From now on, when I get home hes to turn that thing off and say hello. Maya nodded, How was your day today? My day? My day? The days I survive very well, its the nights that arent so good. The timer started ringing and Maya took the dinners from the oven. Tell Miltie its time to eat. Morris went into the living room, grim determination steeling his resolve. Come to dinner, Milton

   Bring it here.
   What do you mean, bring it here?
   Milton slowly turned his head and looked at his father as if he were an imbecile, then turned back to the screen.
   Morris stared at his son for a moment then spun around and went back to the kitchen. He wont come to dinner. He isnt hungry? He wants to be served in there. Maya shrugged. Let him eat in there. I’ll fix a tray so… What do you mean let him? Morris, dont get so excited, its bad for your digestion. Here, sit and relax. Maya pushed Morris into his seat and then quickly fixed a tray for Milton and took it to him. She came back and served the food and sat and smiled at Morris. Come on, Morris, eat while its hot. Morris was continually shaking his head. Bring it here, bring it here. All the cannons and machine guns in the movie seemed to be exploding in his head. Through the trauma of the cannonading he heard his sons voice and Maya got up and cut a big piece of pie and put a big scoop of ice cream on it and took it to Milton. Morris was eating. He could feel the food. He chewed. He swallowed. He must be eating. Maya sat down. He could see her, but somehow she wasnt there. Was’wasnt. Thoughts stabbed his head. They broke through his skull. Pierced his nose and ears. They spewed forth from his mouth and wrapped themselves around his head and squeezed at his throat. Some respect you can say hello Im your father I work all day the 5’30s a cattle train for what a broadside of guns and planes a little respect I dont have to listen therell be changes—Morris you alright?—yes, some changes and then the respect without the bombs—Morris stood up, tall and straight, stiff—Maya looked up at him as she continued eating—right now we’ll start with the changes, and he strode forth from the kitchen, right past Mayas frown, and into the living room, past the blob of Milton sitting, staring, and yanked the t.v. cord from the plug and started wheeling the set out of the room.
   Milton yelled. Hey, whatta ya doin?
   Doing? Im making some changes.
   Hey ma, MA!!!!
   Maya rushed to the living room. Whats wrong? Milton was yanking at his fathers arm, hitting him, tugging at the set and yelling, NO, NO, GIVE ME THE SET!
   Be careful I dont give you what you deserve. Whats going on? Morris what?—out of my way. Out! He pushed his son and Maya automatically stepped aside as Morris heaved the set out the front door and dumped it on the lawn. Maya and Milton watched as he went to the garage, From now on therell be changes, hahahahahahaha, I ‘ll get a hello, hahahahahaha!!!! He came out of the garage with a can of gasoline and an axe. He continued laughing hoarsely and screaming as he attacked the set with the axe, the tube exploding, huge hunks of glass scattering everywhere, Morris getting a few cuts on his hands that started bleeding, Maya and Milton screaming, Milton yanking on his mothers arm, STOPIM, STOPIM!!!! and then ran into the house, still screeching, and called the police.A few neighbors peeked out of their windows, and then came out to watch Morris chop up the t.v. set, laughing and laughing, little splotches of blood swinging from his hands, then more neighbors came out of their homes as phone calls were made to spread the news, and they came closer and closer until almost a hundred people were lined up on the sidewalk and street watching Morris as he finally stopped chopping to pour the gasoline over the shattered set and toss a match on it and the fire started with a loud POOUUFFFF, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN, BURN, BURN!!!!!!!!! and he started jumping up and down and Milton ran toward the fire and Maya held him back and a couple of the neighbors children screamed, Put it out, put it out!!! and their parents started chanting, Burn, burn, burn, burn!!! and then more of the neighbors applauded and came closer to the fire, cheering Morris as he continued chanting BURN YOU BASTARD, BURN YOU BASTARD, and a siren was heard in the distance and got louder and louder and before the cops got to Morris and Maya the fire engine came screeching around the corner and two firemen came running over with extinguishers as one cop was asking Maya what was going on and Milton jumped up and down screaming KILLIM! KILLIM!!! then suddenly ran into the house and got his video camera and the other cop was trying to drag Morris away from the fire and he kept shaking the cop off yelling, Leave me alone, you have no right, burn you bastard, now he’ll say hello, and the cop dragged harder and harder and Morris resisted stronger and stronger and finally the cop turned on him, Youd better take it easy buddy or I’ll break ya head open, and then called his partner and they grabbed Morris and twisted his arms as he flailed and jumped and screamed and the three of them rolled on the lawn, the firemen telling them to look out and get out of the way as neighbors applauded Morris and booed the cops. The cops had torn almost all the clothes off Morris and finally got him face down on the lawn, Morris bruised and bleeding, and one had his nightstick pressed, hard, against the back of Morrises neck as the other one cuffed his hands behind his back and Milton was busy filming the scene on his tape machine and Maya stood quietly watching as the cops dragged Morris, still laughing’screaming, to the patrol car and the firemen spread the ashes and made certain the fire was out before leaving.
   Milton spent the night with his grandparents. He hooked his tape machine to their set and watched the cops drag his father away, laughing hysterically and shaking his fist at the screen, Killim, Killim, Killim!!! then played the tape over and over and over…

Puberty

   The boy leaned against the fender of a car bouncing a rubber ball lightly on the palm of his hand… then bounced it on the ground hitting the crack between his feet, four, five, six, seven times, unaware of his actions, his eyes staring, his movements automatic.
   He stopped bouncing the ball and just held it, his hands hanging at his side, unconsciously squeezing the ball. He had always had a special feeling about a ball, not just that it meant he would soon be with his friends and a game would start, but something more personal. He not only loved the feel and texture, he loved the smell and the sound it made as it hit the pavement or a wall, or was being hit by a bat or a hand, each sound different and special. Sometimes, if he had a ball long enough, he would wash it, and though it never looked the same as a new one, it had its own particular look and he loved it. And though he never defined the feeling all these things about a ball evoked in him, he experienced it whenever he tapped it lightly in the air or bounced it on the ground as he walked. And now that joy was not only absent, he didnt even know that it was missing, aware only of a hollowness within him.
   On Saturday he always rushed through breakfast and ran to the schoolyard (time measured as the distance between Saturdays, each long hour of school that passed bringing Saturday nearer), and now he stood on Third Avenue staring at the ball. He had always been the first in the schoolyard yet the others had been there for hours and he still stood on the avenue, only a block away, wondering why he didnt want to join them and why he felt so strange… so sad.
   He threw his ball against a building, caught it, then put it in his pocket and slowly started walking. The avenue was crowded with the usual weekend shoppers rushing from store to store, testing fruits and vegetables, asking questions, stopping to talk with each other, young children wiggling in strollers and tugging at arms… and the trolleys, trucks and cars made the same accustomed noises. Even the little old Italian man with the pushcart of snails was there today with a group of kids standing around watching and laughing as the snails crawled on the sides of the pushcart, the little vendor picking them up and dropping them back into the baskets. The boy ignored a call from one of the kids and continued walking through the crowd, puzzled by the strange feeling that seemed to be responsible for his being on the avenue instead of the schoolyard, and not watching, as he had always joyfully done, the snails and the way the vendor plucked them off the sides of the cart and twirled his gigantic mustache after dropping them in the baskets. For the first time in all the years he had been fascinated by the man and his pushcart he didnt wonder if his mustache smelled of snails. It seemed wrong, for some inexplicable reason, for him to be here (had he always thought about his mustache?) instead of the schoolyard, yet he could find no new desires to replace the ones that had formed the boundaries, as well as the center, of his world.
   He left the avenue and walked down 69th Street, stopping in front of the firehouse and joining the onlookers watching the firemen clean the trucks and test the equipment. Hoses were stretched up and down the street, men were shining and polishing brass, a spotlight was turned on and spun in an arc, the huge ladder raised and directed against the side of the building, men climbing up…
   The boy watched, without excitement, and started to take the ball from his pocket… then shoved it back and walked away, not turning as he heard the grinding of gears and the whish of water, continuing down the street, looking at the familiar houses and stores, feeling more and more the uneasy urgency in his body and strange weighted feeling in his chest.
   He looked around and nothing was different and that puzzled him. Something within him demanded that the street, the buildings, the people be different, yet they were all the same but now he lacked identity with them. The footprints he had left on these streets all the thousands of times he had walked them were gone, they no longer felt like his streets, yet he continued to wander through them seemingly seeking something without the slightest idea what it might be, not knowing for sure if he was looking for something or really trying to get away. He felt the need for companionship yet was driven to aloneness, unable to ask why, nor sure that there was a question to ask, wandering through the suffocating point in time where the old is left behind before the new is even known to exist; that point where even memories cannot be evoked, only vaguely felt without comfort.
   He stopped and watched a cat rummaging through a garbage can, its scars and matted fur symbols of its valiant fight against all who would try to kill it, and of its devotion to its kittens (feeling that the cat did not want simply to satisfy its hunger, but was looking for food to feed its young hidden from harm in a dark cellar) and he wanted to pick it up and pet it, take it home, wash it, feed it, listen to it purr as it lapped milk… take it to bed with him and feel its soft fur as it snuggled close to him…
   he could even put a little bell around its neck and watch it chase a ball or rubber mouse and listen to the tinkle…
   and no one would hurt Lucky. He wouldnt be chased by kids throwing rocks. They wouldnt spin him by the tail and toss him high in the air. Lucky wouldnt have to claw his way free from rough hands and run panicky down the street dodging between legs and parked cars… being crushed by the wheels of a truck. He had to help her! He walked toward the cat but it instinctively jerked its head up, looked for a second, then sprang from the can and ran. He didnt try to chase it but watched it run down the street, sad that the cat had not understood.
   The cat disappeared and the boy stood staring for a moment, then slowly continued down the street, watching his shadow dim the cracks in the pavement, the bottle caps, scraps of paper, popsicle sticks and old pieces of chewing gum that had been ground into the cement. He turned the corner and walked along Colonial Road to Bliss Park. He met another kid at the entrance who walked beside him. See Rusty taday?
   The boy shook his head.
   Ya think hes here?
   Dont know, Joey.
   I got a couple a broken light bulbs in here—rattling a paper bag and grinning—I hope hes aroun.
   The boy nodded and they continued walking down the path, across the grass and stopped under a large berry tree and ate some berries, the boy feeling the warm, sweet juice trickle down his throat and enjoying the flavor which somehow made him feel even sadder. The other boy grabbed handfuls and chomped them happily, aint they great? Man, I could eat a million ofem.
   They continued walking across the grass, the boy enjoying the feel of it under his feet; looking at the sky and trees; hearing the voices of kids, their mothers; of skaters on the paths; the sudden yells of ball players; the sound of his steps on the grass; the rustle of branches and leaves; the sight and the sound of the birds…
   His loneliness didnt decrease, but he felt more content within his feeling of isolation, as if such a feeling belonged here with the grass and trees.
   Hey, look, there he is. Joey was pointing to a group of a few men and a couple of boys sitting on the side of the hill. When they reached the group they sat with the other kids who were laughing and yelling at Rusty to feed the squirrels. Rusty waved his hand at them and took a drink of wine from a bottle, still in the brown paper bag, then passed it to the guy next to him. There were three of them and they continued to pass the bottle.
   Joey shook his bag in front of the other kids then said to Rusty, I brought ya somethin ta eat. They all laughed and he shook the bag again before giving it to Rusty. Rusty opened it and looked at the pieces of broken light bulbs, took another drink, passed the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Jesus Christ, could ya spare it? He ripped open the bag and laid it on the ground. Ya know, when I was with the circus they used ta serve it on a tray. He burst out laughing and the kids laughed and the boy could feel his face starting to smile but something within him fought against it. Rusty stopped laughing and picked up a large piece of glass and put it in his mouth and started chewing. The kids stared, their eyes getting wider and wider. He swallowed and licked his lips, Musta been a GE. Can always tell a GE. They got a Michigan taste. He burst into another laugh, stopping when the bottle was passed back to him. He ate all the glass in the bag, the kids watching him, amazed no matter how many times they had seen him do the same thing. The boy watched too, transfixed, aware of what he was watching yet that little something that turned the viewing into amazement was missing and he didnt even wonder what happened to all that glass in Rustys stomach.
   When Rusty had finished the glass he folded the bag and gently wiped his lips with it and said, My compliments to the chef. The kids giggled and laughed.
   One of the kids handed him a few peanuts, Feed the squirrels, Rusty. Rusty took the peanuts and giggled, then crawled a few feet away and held out a peanut to a squirrel who had just descended a tree. The squirrel looked for a moment, then took a few steps toward Rusty who threw the nut to him. The squirrel picked it up, examined it carefully, then scooted off and buried it. Rusty crawled after him and when the squirrel left Rusty dug up the nut and held it up in the air—the kids screeching and laughing—then put it in his mouth and crawled back to the group, everyone laughing loudly, the boy smiling, the other kids yelling and slapping each other. Rusty sat up, the nut in his mouth, his arms extended, hands dangling, and cheeped, then turned and crawled away looking for another squirrel. The boy watched feeling his face fighting to giggle, to laugh, his hands wanted to clap and slap one of the other kids on the back, but the oppressive weight on his chest made it all impossible, and the unfamiliar feeling within let him know that there is no joy, no reason to laugh and so he felt even more cut off from his friends and his familiar world.
   He left the group and walked slowly up the hill, hearing the screaching of bluejays mingling with the voices and laughter, to the open summer house on top, standing for a moment in its shade watching a squirrel running spirally up a tree, then walking to the stone wall around the seaside perimeter of the hill. He sat on the wall and looked at the harbor… watching the tugs towing barges of mud, coal, railroad cars, white smoke coming from the tall stacks and small black rings pumping from the short stubby ones… the ferries entering and leaving their slips… the cars moving along the parkway… the people walking along Shore Road… the kids running, their kites slowly staggering up as they yanked the string…
   then dropped from the wall and walked down the hill to the shore.
   He walked along the shore looking across the bay at the Staten Island shoreline. He watched and listened to the waves slapping lightly against the seawall and whirling between the rocks, leaving bits of wood and debris amongst them when it ebbed, the next swell picking them up again and bobbing them on its peak before breaking on the rocks and slapping the seawall, then folding back on itself and whirling between the rocks as it returned to its source, once again leaving behind the unwanted debris.

   He stopped, leaned on the railing running along the edge of the seawall and stared at the water… hearing the clang of the ferry mooring winch, the bell buoys, the horns and whistles of the ships in the bay… thinking of the sadness, loneliness, (but none of the adventure) that has always been associated with the sea… feeling a connection between himself and that loneliness…
   He looked down at the rocks and the small crabs crawling over and between them, remembering the previous summer when he and his friends sat here for hours catching them, throwing most of them back, saving a few to scare the girls with…. But it all seemed unreal now… not as if it had never happened, but as if it had happened in some remote age or different life, there seeming to be no connection between then and now. Nor did he find any joy in the vague memory, feeling only more saddened and depressed.
   He lifted his head and looked at the Narrows… then gazed toward the sea. The horizon seemed strangely significant, but trying to define it only confused his thoughts more….
   Once (it couldnt have been too long ago) he and his friends came here on a gray day when the water was dark and whipped with whitecaps, the waves crashing against the rocks and seawall, the spray leaping above the railing and cascading down on them as they held fast to the railing, moving instinctively with the swaying of the ship, the boy yelling orders to his crew as the ship lurched dangerously close to the rocks in the violent and uncharted sea. He refused to turn his back to the biting spray but remained steadfast at his post, ignoring the water as it lashed his face, barking the crucial orders that would bring the ship safely through the storm…
   Many times he thought happily of that day and whenever the wind blew and the water in the bay kicked up and the spray lashed the wall, he would try to get his friends to go with him to the shore, but something always prevented it and so he never relived it except in his mind, remembering each wave and tasting once again the salt as he felt the spray sting his face.
   He tried reliving it now, and though each time in the past the old joy and excitement not only returned but increased, he now remembered only that it had happened and nothing more. That day was dead.
   He turned from the bay feeling deserted (for if he could find no joy here or even raise its memory, where could it be found?) and walked back to Third Avenue. The plaintiveness and tragedy of before were completely inside him now and he felt the sadness of the world within him, feeling every tear that had ever rolled down a cheek flooding his being, and though a part of him tried to fight this sadness the effort was weak. It seemed right for the worlds misery to flow through him because he was, in some unknown way, responsible for its pain.
   He stood on the corner for a moment wondering what there was he could do…
   where he could go…
   feeling completely isolated from the people walking by yet sensing a new relationship between himself and them.
   He turned and instinctively walked toward home, feeling strangely conspicuous among the people, as if he were wearing a mask that advertised his feelings. He looked at the people, expecting them to stop talking and smiling and laughing and stand there, just stand there and stare at him.
   He lowered his eyes and walked a little faster (vaguely wondering why they were laughing—could he laugh?). Surely Mom can help. He could always run to her and put his arms around her, tell her what was wrong, what was troubling him. She would comfort him, reassure him. Maybe that was all that was needed, just to cry and have Mom kiss him, hug him, and everything would be alright, nothing changed, nothing to fear????
   The boy stopped and looked across the avenue at the entrance of the apartment house, his eyes tearing…. He did not hear the noises of the cars, the trucks, the trolleys, the people, but an etherized drone…
   the newsstand next to the doorway whirled and the traffic on the avenue blurred into a meaningless mass…
   Why couldnt he run across the street and up the stairs to Mom? Why couldnt he move????
   Tears fell from his eyes, his lungs and chest felt like they were collapsing.
   Was he sitting?
   Standing? lying anesthetized, strapped to a table and slowly losing consciousness with a mask clamped tightly on his face listening to a repetitious drone of final words
   loud then soft
   loud then soft, dragging, spinning, dragging…
   The drone whirled to a highspeed whine
   poles reversing
   orbits tilting flashing suns and planets spinning away
   colliding, bursting
   showering spermlike sparks….
   A groan of overwhelming agony screamed through him and rattled in his throat. His head jerked up and he turned and staggered to the corner…
   then fled in panic down the street past the people standing and talking, past the walkers and the women with their baby carriages, past the trees and the parked cars, and past the yells of ball players in the schoolyard…