other patients, and saw that a couple of them were eyeing him closely. He must have been mumbling something out loud, as he’d tried to impose order on the assembly within him. But neither Big Black nor his brother seemed to have noticed the sudden struggle that had engaged him.
Lanky had, however. He had been working on some dirt a few feet away, and he lurched over to Francis’s side.
“You’ll be okay, C-Bird,” he said, his voice cracking a little with some emotion that abruptly seemed to be spinning a bit out of control. “We all will. Aslong as we keep up our guard, and keep a weather eye out. Got to keep close watch,” he continued. “And don’t turn your back for a minute. It’s all around us, and it could happen any time. We have to be prepared. Like Boy Scouts. Ready for it when it comes.” The tall man seemed more agitated and desperate than usual.
Francis thought he knew what Lanky was speaking about, but then understood that it could be almost anything, but most likely concerned a satanic presence on earth. Lanky had a curious manner, where he could slide from manic to almost gentle in the course of seconds. One instant, he would be all arms and angles, moving like a marionette, strings being pulled by unseen forces, and the next diminished, where his height made him seem no more threatening than a lamppost. Francis nodded, took a few seeds from a package and pushed them into the dirt.
Big Black rose up and shook his white attendant’s outfit clean of dirt. “Okay, folks,” he said cheerily, “gonna spray this place with some water and head on in.” He looked over at Francis, and asked, “C-Bird, what did you plant?”
Francis looked down at the seed package and said, “Roses. Red ones. Pretty to look at, but hard to handle. They’ve got thorns.” Then he got up, got into line with the others, and marched back toward the dormitory. He tried to drink in and store up as much fresh air as he could, for he feared it might be some time before he got out again.
Whatever had caused Lanky to loosen his already weak grip on the day, persisted at the group session that afternoon. They gathered, as usual, in one of the odd rooms inside Amherst, a little like a small classroom, with twenty or so gray metal folding chairs arranged in a rough circle. Francis liked to position himself where he could stare out past the bars on the window if the conversation got boring. Mister Evil had brought in that morning’s paper to spur a discussion on current events, but it only seemed to agitate the tall man even more. He sat across from where Francis perched next to Peter the Fireman, shifting about constantly in his chair, as Mister Evil turned to Newsman to recite the day’s headlines. This the patient did extravagantly, his voice rising and falling with each reading. There was little good news. The hostage crisis in Iran continued relentlessly. A protest in San Francisco had turned violent, with a number of arrests and tear gas deployed by helmeted police officers. In both Paris and Rome, anti-American demonstrators had burned flags and effigies of Uncle Sam before running wild in the streets. In London, authorities had used water cannon against similar protestors. The Dow Jones Industrial Average had taken a beating and there had been a riot in a prison in Arizona that hadn’tbeen quelled without grisly injury to both inmates and guards. In Boston, police were still puzzled by several homicides that had taken place during the prior year, and reported no new leads in the cases which involved young women being abducted and molested, before being killed. A three-car accident on Route 91 outside Greenfield had claimed a pair of lives, and a lawsuit had been filed by an environmental group accusing a large local employer of dumping untreated waste into the Connecticut River.
Every time Newsman paused in his reading, and Mister Evil launched into an effort to discuss any of these stories, or others, all
Lanky had, however. He had been working on some dirt a few feet away, and he lurched over to Francis’s side.
“You’ll be okay, C-Bird,” he said, his voice cracking a little with some emotion that abruptly seemed to be spinning a bit out of control. “We all will. Aslong as we keep up our guard, and keep a weather eye out. Got to keep close watch,” he continued. “And don’t turn your back for a minute. It’s all around us, and it could happen any time. We have to be prepared. Like Boy Scouts. Ready for it when it comes.” The tall man seemed more agitated and desperate than usual.
Francis thought he knew what Lanky was speaking about, but then understood that it could be almost anything, but most likely concerned a satanic presence on earth. Lanky had a curious manner, where he could slide from manic to almost gentle in the course of seconds. One instant, he would be all arms and angles, moving like a marionette, strings being pulled by unseen forces, and the next diminished, where his height made him seem no more threatening than a lamppost. Francis nodded, took a few seeds from a package and pushed them into the dirt.
Big Black rose up and shook his white attendant’s outfit clean of dirt. “Okay, folks,” he said cheerily, “gonna spray this place with some water and head on in.” He looked over at Francis, and asked, “C-Bird, what did you plant?”
Francis looked down at the seed package and said, “Roses. Red ones. Pretty to look at, but hard to handle. They’ve got thorns.” Then he got up, got into line with the others, and marched back toward the dormitory. He tried to drink in and store up as much fresh air as he could, for he feared it might be some time before he got out again.
Whatever had caused Lanky to loosen his already weak grip on the day, persisted at the group session that afternoon. They gathered, as usual, in one of the odd rooms inside Amherst, a little like a small classroom, with twenty or so gray metal folding chairs arranged in a rough circle. Francis liked to position himself where he could stare out past the bars on the window if the conversation got boring. Mister Evil had brought in that morning’s paper to spur a discussion on current events, but it only seemed to agitate the tall man even more. He sat across from where Francis perched next to Peter the Fireman, shifting about constantly in his chair, as Mister Evil turned to Newsman to recite the day’s headlines. This the patient did extravagantly, his voice rising and falling with each reading. There was little good news. The hostage crisis in Iran continued relentlessly. A protest in San Francisco had turned violent, with a number of arrests and tear gas deployed by helmeted police officers. In both Paris and Rome, anti-American demonstrators had burned flags and effigies of Uncle Sam before running wild in the streets. In London, authorities had used water cannon against similar protestors. The Dow Jones Industrial Average had taken a beating and there had been a riot in a prison in Arizona that hadn’tbeen quelled without grisly injury to both inmates and guards. In Boston, police were still puzzled by several homicides that had taken place during the prior year, and reported no new leads in the cases which involved young women being abducted and molested, before being killed. A three-car accident on Route 91 outside Greenfield had claimed a pair of lives, and a lawsuit had been filed by an environmental group accusing a large local employer of dumping untreated waste into the Connecticut River.
Every time Newsman paused in his reading, and Mister Evil launched into an effort to discuss any of these stories, or others, all
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