[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
A SEPULCHRE OF SONGS
Orson Scott Card
She was losing her mind during the rain. For four weeks it came down nearly
every day, and the people at the Millard County Rest Home didn't take any of the
patients outside. It bothered them all, of course, and made life especially hellish
for the nurses, everyone complaining to them constantly and demanding to be
entertained.
Elaine didn't demand entertainment, however. She never seemed to demand
much of anything. But the rain hurt her worse than anyone. Perhaps because she
was only fifteen, the only child in an institution devoted to adult misery. More
likely because she depended more than most on the hours spent outside;
certainly she took more pleasure from them. They would lift her into her chair,
prop her up with pillows so her body would stay straight, and then race down the
corridor to the glass doors, Elaine calling, "Faster, faster," as they pushed her
until finally they were outside. They told me she never really said anything out
there, just sat quietly in her chair on the lawn, watching everything. And then later
in the day they would wheel her back in.
I often saw her being wheeled in -- early, because I was there, though she
never complained about my visits' cutting into her hours outside. As I watched
her being pushed toward the rest home, she would smile at me so exuberantly
that my mind invented arms for her, waving madly to match her childishly
delighted face; I imagined legs pumping, imagined her running across the grass,
breasting the air like great waves. But there were the pillows where arms should
be, keeping her from falling to the side, and the belt around her middle kept her
from pitching forward, since she had no legs to balance with.
It rained four weeks, and I nearly lost her.
My job was one of the worst in the state, touring six rest homes in as many
counties, visiting each of them every week. I "did therapy" wherever the rest
home administrators thought therapy was needed. I never figured, out how they
decided -- all the patients were mad to one degree or another, most with the
helpless insanity of age, the rest with the anguish of the invalid and the crippled.
You don't end up as a state-employed therapist if you had much ability in
college. I sometimes pretend that I didn't distinguish myself in graduate school
because I marched to a different dnunmer. But I didn't. As one kind professor
gently and brutally told me, I wasn't cut out for science. But I was sure I was cut
out for the art of therapy. Ever since I comforted my mother during her final year
of cancer, I had believed I had a knack for helping people get straight in their
minds. I was everybody's confidant.
Somehow I had never supposed, though, that I would end up trying to help the
hopeless in a part of the state where even the healthy didn't have much to live
for. Yet that's all I had the credentials for, and when I (so maturely) told myself I
was over the initial disappointment, I made the best of it.
Elaine was the best of it.
"Raining raining raining," was the greeting I got when I visited her on the third
day of the wet spell.
"Don't I know it?" I said. "My hair's soaking wet."
"Wish mine was," Elaine answered.
"No, you don't. You'd get sick."
"Not me," she said.
"Well, Mr. Woodbury told me you're depressed. I'm supposed to make you
happy."
"Make it stop raining."
"Do I look like God?"
"I thought maybe you were in disguise. I'm in disguise," she said. It was one of
our regular games. "I'm really a large Texas armadillo who was granted one
wish. I wished to be a human being. But there wasn't enough of the armadillo to
make a full human being; so here I am." She smiled. I smiled back.
Actually, she had been five years old when an oil truck exploded right in front of
her parents' car, killing both of them and blowing her arms and legs right off. That
she survived was a miracle. That she had to keep on living was unimaginable
cruelty. That she managed to be a reasonably happy person, a favorite of the
nurses -- that I don't understand in the least. Maybe it was because she had
nothing else to do. There aren't many ways that a person with no arms or legs
can kill herself.
"I want to go outside," she said, turning her head away from me to look out the
window.
Outside wasn't much. A few trees, a lawn, and beyond that a fence, not to keep
the inmates in but to keep out the seamier residents of a rather seamy town. But
there were low hills in the distance, and the birds usually seemed cheerful. Now,
of course, the rain had driven both birds and hills into hiding. There was no wind,
and so the trees didn't even sway. The rain just came straight down.
"Outer space is like the rain," she said. "It sounds like that out there, just a low
drizzling sound in the background of everything."
"Not really," I said. "There's no sound out there at all."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"There's no air. Can't be any sound without air."
She looked at me scornfully. "Just as I thought. You don't really know. You've
never been there, have you?"
"Are you trying to pick a flght?"
She started to answer, caught herself, and nodded. "Damned rain."
"At least you don't have to drive in it," I said. But her eyes got wistful, and I knew
I had taken the banter too far. "Hey," I said. "First clear day I'll take you out
driving."
"It's hormones," she said.
"What's hormones?"
"I'm fifteen. It always bothered me when I had to stay in. But I want to scream.
My muscles are all bunched up, my stomach is all tight, I want, to go outside and
scream. It's hormones."
"What about your friends?" I asked.
"Are you kidding? They're all out there, playing in the rain."
"All of them?"
"Except Grunty, of course. He'd dissolve."
"And where's Grunty?"
"In the freezer, of course."
"Someday the nurses are going to mistake him for ice cream and serve him to
the guests."
She didn't smile. She just nodded, and I knew that I wasn't getting anywhere.
She really was depressed.
I asked her whether she wanted something.
"No pills," she,said. "They make me sleep all the time."
"If I gave you uppers, it would make you climb the walls."
"Neat trick," she said.
"It's that strong. So do you want something to take your mind off the rain and
these four ugly yellow walls?"
She shook her head. "I'm trying not to sleep."
"Why not?"
She just shook her head again. "Can't sleep. Can't let myself sleep too much."
I asked again.
"Because," she said, "I might not wake up." She said it rather sternly, and I
knew I shouldn't ask anymore. She didn't often get impatient with me, but I knew
this time I was coming perilously close to overstaying my welcome.
"Got to go," I said. "You will wake up." And then I left, and I didn't see her for a
week, and to tell the truth I didn't think of her much that week, what with the rain
and a suicide in Ford County that really got to me, since she was fairly young and
had a lot to live for, in my opinion. She disagreed and won the argument the hard
way.
Weekends I live in a trailer in Piedmont. I live alone. The place is spotlessly
clean because cleaning is something I do religiously. Besides, I tell myself, I
might want to bring a woman home with me one night. Some nights I even do,
and some nights I even enjoy it, but I always get restless and irritable when they
start trying to get me to change my work schedule, or take them along to the
motels I live in or, once only, get the trailerpark manager to let them into my
trailer when I'm gone. To keep things cozy for me. I'm not interested in "cozy."
This is probably because of my mother's death; her cancer and my
responsibilities as housekeeper for my father probably explain why I am a neat
housekeeper. Therapist, therap thyself. The days passed in rain and highways
and depressing people depressed out of their minds; the nights passed in
television and sandwiches and motel bedsheets at state expense; and then it
was time to go to the Millard County Rest Home again, where Elaine was waiting.
It was then that I thought of her and realized that the rain had been going on for
more than a week, and the poor girl must be almost out of her mind. I bought a
cassette of Copland conducting Copland. She insisted on cassettes, because
they stopped. Eight-tracks went on and on until she couldn't think.
"Where have you been?" she demanded.
"Locked in a cage by a cruel duke in Transylvania. It was only four feet high,
suspended over a pond filled with crocodiles. I got out by picking the lock with my
teeth. Luckily, the crocodiles weren't hungry. Where have you been?"
"I mean it. Don't you keep a schedule?"
"I'm right on my schedule, Elaine. This is Wednesday. I was here last
Wednesday. This year Christmas falls on a Wednesday, and I'll be here on
Christmas."
"It feels like a year."
"Only ten months. Till Christmas. Elaine, you aren't being any fun."
She wasn't in the mood for fun. There were tears in her eyes. "I can't stand
much more," she said.
"I'm sorry."
"I'm afraid."
And she was afraid. Her voice trembled.
"At night, and in the daytime, whenever I sleep. I'm just the right size."
"For what?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said you were just the right size."
"I did? Oh, I don't know what I meant. I'm going crazy. That's what you're here
for, isn't it? To keep me sane. It's the rain. I can't do anything, I can't see
anything, and all I can hear most of the time is the hissing of the rain."
"Like outer space," I said, remembering what she had said the last time.
She apparently didn't remember our discussion. She looked. startled. "How did
you know?" she asked.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]