ONE
Olshaker Psychiatric Hospital
South Turvey, Washington
Most of the men incarcerated in the forensic unit of Washington State's largest psychiatric hospital play basketball or cards during rec time. The more delusional converse with imaginary friends. A few spend time exploring their private parts.
As Daryl Wayne Flint steps into the rec yard, he hears an older guard say to a rookie, "See that longhaired guy with the wild beard? The one that looks like Charles Manson? Watch what he does."
Flint ignores the comment and struts across the damp grass toward the asphalt basketball court. Exactly at center court, he stops, opens his arms wide, and starts a slow spin.
The familiar scenes flash past: the parking lot, the cafeteria windows, the blank wall, the iron-girded windows of the warden's corner office, the lawn extending to the fence, the woods beyond, and-what's this?-a wink of light from between the trees.
He wishes he could stop and study but must continue his rotations.
A huge patient named Galt dribbles the basketball toward him. "Hurry up, man."
Flint sticks to his routine. Again: the cafeteria windows, the bare wall, the warden's office, the hospital grounds ... and then, yes, he sees it distinctly: A car is coming down the road, sunlight splashing off its windshield.
"Move your ass, man!" Galt circles Flint, bouncing the ball hard and grunting obscenities. A group of men toeing the asphalt call for the game to begin.
Galt dribbles in a tight pattern, crowding so close that Flint's fingertips brush his T-shirt. The other men yap and holler. But Flint continues spinning and does not hurry.
He glimpses the car again. White, it comes winding out of the trees. Then, with his third rotation complete, he drops his arms.
The ball smacks the asphalt and the basketball game starts behind him as Flint strolls off the court. He steps onto the grass, where he always turns left. Always counterclockwise.
Now he sees the car approach the gate, but then it moves beyond his peripheral vision. He cannot stop and gawk, but continues walking around the court, looking straight ahead. When at last he makes a turn and has a clear view of the white car, his pulse quickens. He need barely move his eyes to watch it turn into the parking lot.
He calculates: an unfamiliar car, arriving at this particular hour, on this particular day ... It can only be the new barber.
This might be the perfect day for a haircut.
Keeping the smile off his face, he watches the car cruise past. The driver is a white male wearing some type of hat.
A beret? The guy must think he's some kind of artist.
Flint aches to turn his head and study the driver as the car continues in search of a place to park, but now his feet have arrived at the next corner. He must turn south. He keeps a steady pace as he walks past the cafeteria, past the long blank wall, past the warden's ironclad windows. All the while, he's straining to hear any sound from the new arrival. The car door slamming shut? A cell phone conversation as the driver crosses the parking lot?
But he hears only the trash talk of the basketball game, the ball slapping asphalt, thwacking the backboard, rattling around the rim.
He swallows his disappointment.
At the next corner, he turns east, heading toward the guard tower that overlooks the nine-foot fence and the deep woods beyond. He has no interest today in the colors of the leaves or the gathering clouds. Instead, he's weighing risk versus opportunity.
And he's wondering just how much he can trust his mother.
Has she done everything needed? It's hard to know.
Visiting hours aren't so lax in the medium-security wing that inmates can speak freely, no matter what their status. No matter how addled they might be. No matter what meds might be flooding their brains. People are always listening. So, of necessity, most of his conversations with his mother have been in code.
During their most recent visit, his mother had said, "I've been thinking about your dear, departed father."
He'd nearly choked.
"Thinking about our wedding day," she said, widening her eyes at him. "You remember the date, don't you?"
He shifted uncomfortably, wondering where this was headed.
"Don't you remember? It was April."
"Uh, no-"
"Shush. April fifth, 1968. Repeat it back to me."
Perplexed, he recited, "April fifth, 1968."
"That's exactly right. The fourth month, the fifth day. The fourth month, the fifth day."
That's when he realized she was speaking in code.
"It's hot in here," she said abruptly. "I wish they'd open a window or something. Let in some air."
He nodded to let her know he was following.
"Oh, it was such a lovely day. In the early fall, like this." His mother gestured toward the girded window.
He scowled. Hadn't she just said it was April?
But she went on describing "the perfect little church-the ideal location for an April wedding. And it was so close to our first house. We got a few things out of storage," she said with emphasis, "and moved right in."
Her meaning dawned. "So, the church and the house weren't that far distant."
"You could say that." She looked to the north. "Less than three miles apart."
His lips curled into a smile.
"Anyway, we were just starting out, your father and I. But we had enough cash for essentials. Food and water, a little gas for our motorbike." She lifted a penciled-on eyebrow, waiting for a response.
He sat forward. "Not much, but enough to get started."
"Oh, yes. Enough." She gave a sideways glance at the guard.
Flint stroked his long beard. "Tell me again, how were you dressed?" Noticing the guard, he added loudly, "I mean, for your wedding day, Momma. You know I love this story."
"I wore white, of course," she replied, with a wave of her hand. "But your father, he wore black."
"All black?"
"Completely," she said, squinting at him. "From his cap to his toes." She seemed to wait for the guard to turn away before adding, "You know, he was about your size when he died."
Flint replays this conversation as he reaches the corner and turns again toward the parking lot. He scans for the white car, quickly locates where it is parked, and studies it as he marches forward. A Honda. Compact and nondescript. Washington plates.
The sun disappears behind the clouds, and a cold wind whips Flint's hair across his face as he continues his walk. No one pays any attention. He's the repetitive inmate with post-concussive syndrome who never causes problems.
"Mentally disordered, with frontal lobe dysfunction, obsessive tendencies ... antisocial behavioral problems that render him unsuitable for incarceration in the state penitentiary," his psychiatrist had said.
Sure, let them think that.
Let them think that.
Let them think that.
Because every crazy thing he does is useful. And each day brings him closer to Plan B, closer to recapturing his favorite girl.
The daily rec yard routine? Three spins at center court allow him to take in the entire 360-degree scene within minutes of exiting the building. Three turns around the basketball court? It's a leisurely way to observe all the inmates and the staff. And three tours of the fence line? Well, one needs a daily search for weakness along the perimeter. All very innocuous, all due to his mental impairments. And none of the doctors-not even the brilliant Dr. Terrance Moody-has found a way to cure him.
During rec time he gathers information about the comings and goings of visitors and staff. He knows, for instance, that the regular barber's car is the color of Dijon mustard, not the bland mayonnaise-white of this new vehicle. Wanda-the-Warden drives a BMW, which she parks in the slot marked "Chief of Psychiatry," just beside the head cook's Cadillac. The cook's car is as black as his hair. The warden's car is the same red as the scarf she wears like a slash across her throat.
His exercise regimen has melted away the pounds he packed on after dropping out of college. He's never been so fit. And sometimes he finds useful objects. Just yesterday, he spied a plastic bag wrestling with the fence. He snatched it up and tucked it inside his underwear. Last night, he pulled it out to inspect it and found it beautiful. He secretly carries it with him now.
Flint turns west, heading directly toward the cafeteria. Sunny days can cause a glare on the glass, but most days are cloudy, like today. The individuals inside are lit up like actors on a stage.
People stream past with their trays of food, and he wonders about those who occupy the other, less secure sections of the institution. What are their afflictions? What are their routines? What happens in those realms that clink and moan just beyond the forensic unit's locked doors?
He imagines focusing a camera lens on the men in the cafeteria and spots a new face: A pudgy man in a beret. He smiles. The new barber is getting coffee.
Three times, Daryl Wayne Flint strokes his wooly beard, recalling that the last time he let a barber touch him was the day before his trial.
Copyright © 2015 by Carla Norton
