Dakota Dream (13 page)

I ended up trying to pull Nicky off him. Mrs. Grice was suddenly in the room, yelling at the top of her lungs, and Marty was breaking up the fight.

Mrs. Grice chased everyone else out of the room except the three of us, and then she made us sit down far apart from each other. Marty tried to set the planter back into a standing position, but it was too busted up. There was potting soil all over the place, even on the furniture.

I was the only one with no physical damage. About all I needed to do to recover was catch my breath and rub my sore hand. All of Nicky's hair was in his face. His mouth was full of blood, and it looked like he had at least one tooth missing. His lips were already swelled up.

Slive had blood coming out of his eyebrow on one side, and his other eye was a big red welt.

We all kept our faces down while Mrs. Grice read us the riot act for a long time. I don't think anyone was paying attention, I know I wasn't. When she finished her speech, she looked at me and said: “Floyd, you get on the X.”

I didn't even have to think about it. I looked straight at her and said, “I'm not getting on the X.”

“What did you say to me?”

“I said I'm not getting on the X.”

I guess Mrs. Grice had never been spoken to like that before. You could have heard a pin drop. Her loose lips were just hanging there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Slive blow his nose and get a handful of blood. There was blood dripping from Nicky's mouth onto the floor.

Mrs. Grice was practically sputtering. She said, “Are you defying me?”

“I guess I am.”

“You think you're innocent in this situation?”

“I didn't say that. I just said I'm not getting on the X.”

Then Marty said, “Better do as she says, Floyd.”

I looked right at him. “If anybody ever wants me on that X, they're going to have to tie me down. That's the only way I'll be there.” Then I looked at Mrs. Grice again. I said to her, “By the way, that's a tone of voice.”

I just couldn't resist saying it. The funny part was, I was thinking more about my story than I was about the fight.

There must have been a look on my face to go with the tone in my voice, because Marty went into private whispering with Mrs. Grice. It was Marty doing most of the talking; Mrs. Grice was still more or less speechless.

The decision they reached was for me to go to my room and stay there while Marty took Nicky and Slive for medical attention.

The next morning, when I had my breakfast and went to school with no one saying a word, I thought the whole thing might blow over. But when I got home in the afternoon, that psychologist, Mrs. Lacey, and Mr. Wagner were sitting in the lounge with Mrs. Grice. Mr. Wagner is the head of the agency.

They said they wanted to talk to me. I knew it was about to hit the fan big-time.

Mr. Wagner laid a Ziploc bag of brown shredded stuff on the coffee table. It was my willow bark. “Maybe you could start by telling us what this is,” he said.

I couldn't believe it. “That was in my dresser drawer,” I said. “You got in my stuff.”

“The way things have been developing, we thought some searching was justified,” said Mr. Wagner. “We don't like to do it any more often than we have to. Yours was not the only room searched, I might add.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

“Let's return to the question. Can you tell us what's in this bag?”

“It's willow bark,” I said. “I got it from the park.”

Mrs. Lacey was making notes. The next thing I knew, Mr. Wagner was setting my ceremonial pipe next to the Ziploc bag. “And this?”

I told him it was my Dakota ceremonial pipe. This was really funking me out. When people go through your stuff, it makes you feel like you've been betrayed.

Mrs. Lacey said, “The pipe is a ceremonial Indian pipe, and the substance is willow bark?”

“That's what I said. This is comical, because you think you've found some hash or grass.”

“We don't know what we've found,” said Mrs. Lacey, “but we soon will.”

Mr. Wagner said, “We'll have it tested. I'd like to believe it's just willow bark you picked up in the park, but that does sound a little farfetched, doesn't it?”

“Not to me. Not if you hold Indian ways in high esteem the way I do.”

“Do you smoke the bark in this pipe?” asked Mrs. Lacey.

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“The Plains Indians, especially the Dakota, smoke willow bark in their ceremonials on special occasions. It's very solemn; it's like a ritual. It doesn't make you high or anything. Getting high is not the point.”

Mrs. Grice was just sitting there staring at me, not saying a word, but with a self-satisfied look on her face.

I guess Mr. Wagner was getting a little impatient. He said, “In any case, we'll have it tested and then we'll know. In the meantime, Floyd, we'd like you to pack a few things. We're going to have you spend a little time at The Elms for testing and evaluation.”

“You're telling me what?”

“It may turn out that we can do all the evaluation we need over the weekend, in which case you would be back home by the first of the week.”

“The Elms is the looney bin,” I said. “You think I'm insane or something.”

“That's not exactly the point,” said Mrs. Lacey. “But much of your behavior has been inappropriate, and we think some thorough testing would be advisable.”

“I've got willow bark in my room so I get put in the looney bin?”

Mrs. Grice said, “That's the tone of voice he uses.”

Mr. Wagner put up his hand, the way an orchestra conductor does. He was polished and slick, he was like oil. He said, “It isn't just the substance, Floyd, it's a pattern of inappropriate behavior. Yesterday, you were fighting and you were defiant with Mrs. Grice. Apparently you've been defiant at school as well.”

Mrs. Lacey said, “You've only lived at Gates House for two months and yet you've been on probation twice.”

This was nuts. I had this hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Helpless. I could have said something else, but what's the point with the deck stacked?

Mrs. Lacey said, “Maybe it will help if you try not to think of this as punishment.”

“Right,” I said.

She went on, “Psychological evaluation is meant to help us learn things about ourselves so we can make better decisions.”

“That's a good point,” said Mr. Wagner. “Try to think of this as a learning experience. What we really want to do is help you, Floyd.”

I felt like I'd had the wind knocked out of me. “Right,” I said again.

The next thing I knew I was in the van with my small suitcase between me and Marty, who was doing the driving. Everything seemed to be going so fast, it was making me numb.

I turned to Marty. “You think this is right?”

“They're not locking you up, Floyd. It's just temporary, for evaluation.”

“But what I said was, do you think this is right?”

“It's not my job to make these kinds of decisions.”

Perfect
, I thought.

The Elms is the psycho wing of the county hospital. Marty was sitting with me in a small, bare room until a lady named Mrs. Greene came in. She had a clipboard and some folders. She introduced herself and told us she was a psychiatric social worker.

The first thing she asked me was my name, and I said, “Charly Black Crow.”

She looked at me, and so did Marty. He had the look on his face of someone trying to be patient. “Don't start, Floyd. This doesn't have to be difficult.”

“Whatever,” I said.

She asked me again, and I told her Floyd Rayfield. She wanted me to spell it, so I did that, too. After that, Marty left.

Mrs. Greene had a whole slew of questions, but it didn't take her long to get around to drugs. She wanted to know what the substance was they had found in my room. I repeated all the same stuff I had told Mr. Wagner and Mrs Lacey.

She said, “You collect willow bark, from a park, and you smoke it in an Indian pipe, but only on solemn occasions.”

“Right.”

“And what would constitute such a solemn occasion?”

“For one example, a Dakota smokes it if he's about to begin a vision seek. For another example, they smoke it when they make important decisions.”

She looked up from the clipboard. “We'll wait for lab results on the substance.”

“The lab results will tell you the same thing I'm saying.”

She looked down at the clipboard again. Her questions must have come from a checklist, the way she asked them so fast. “Floyd, do you ever use any drugs?”

“No.”

“Do you ever use any alcohol?”

“No.”

“Have you used any drugs or alcohol within the past month?”

“No drugs and no alcohol.”

“What do you think about drugs? I'm talking about the kind that are often used by teenagers.”

“If you use drugs, you don't see things clearly. The Dakota never use drugs.” Unfortunately a lot of them are alcoholics, but why should I mention that to her?

She changed the subject. “Have you received any blow to the head within the past month?”

“No.”

“Be sure before you answer. Have you had a fall that might have caused you to bump your head?”

“No.”

“Have you been in good health for the past month?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel now?”

What was I supposed to say to that? “Physically, I feel fine. Mentally, I can't believe I'm even here.”

Mrs. Greene looked at me, but she didn't say anything.

I said to her, “Are you keeping me in this place? Do you think I'm insane?”

“Mrs. Lacey thinks it would be a good idea to keep you here for a little while, for evaluation. I agree with her. We'd like to do some tests while you're here. We aren't judging you.”

“How long is a little while?”

“Probably only for a few days,” said Mrs. Greene.

Then she took me up to the second floor, to my room. In some ways it looked like a hospital room, but in others it seemed like a motel. The twin beds weren't the hospital type. There was no TV, but there was a desk. One wall was made up of built-in closets, called bolsters. Mrs. Greene told me there was a roommate, named Gary, but he was gone at the moment.

“Gone where?” I said.

“I think he's in group therapy,” she said. “We have programming most of the day, and some programming in the evenings as well.”

Then she told me I would be assigned a nurse; the nurse would be coming soon to unlock the bolster so I could put my things away.

If I thought it was hard talking to Nicky or Kinderhook, I realized how mistaken I'd been when I met my hospital roommate, the guy named Gary.

When he came into the room, he started peering inside the lamp shades. He unscrewed the light bulbs and inspected them like a jeweler looking at a ring.

“These rooms are usually bugged,” he said.

He looked like he was a couple years older than me, maybe seventeen or eighteen. He sat down on the other bed. He was tall and thin, with a real short haircut that looked like a chop job, like he'd cut it himself or had a friend do it.

I had the feeling if I tried to have a conversation with him, it would end up going nowhere, but I asked him why the rooms were bugged.

“The hospital staff bugs the rooms so they can get information on you. They use it against you later on. If they can hear the things you say in private, then they've got something on you they can use.”

Not that I believed what he was saying, but I had the feeling he couldn't handle it if you disagreed with him. “Why do they snoop on the things you say?” I asked.

“Because of the quota they have to maintain. There has to be a certain number of crazy people.”

I said, “I think maybe your imagination is running a little wild.”

“Look,” he said. “Do anything you want, but don't call me paranoid.”

“I'm not calling you anything. Why are you telling me all this?”

“I'm trying to give you the benefit of my expertise. The staff here has a quota to maintain. Not enough crazy people, and they're out of a job. Think about it. It's like the state cops. If they don't get a certain number of speeders, they're gonna be out of a job. It's the same principle here. They'll trap you any way they can. Take my advice and don't cooperate.”

He was getting on my nerves. “Let me tell you something,” I said. “I don't have anything to hide. There's nothing wrong with my mind. I'm not afraid of their questions and I'm not afraid of my answers. And don't take everything so personal.”

He stood up with this real injured look on his face. “I probably shouldn't even be talking to you, you're probably a plant or a spy. All I'm trying to do here is give you some good advice, but if you don't want it, it's no skin off mine.” He went into the bathroom.

He was a trip. I was on edge from trying to talk to him. After lights out, I waited until he was asleep. Then I took a blanket and a pillow down to the lounge and went to sleep stretched out in a recliner.

I decided I would ask Mrs. Greene to get me another roommate. Then I decided to tell Mrs. Greene I didn't belong here, and I wanted out. I couldn't help but wonder where Barb was; she hadn't contacted me. Maybe she was whipped—maybe she was finally getting the point that the system is something you just can't beat.

It was a thought that funked me out. It was a long time before I finally went to sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I spent most of my first full day at The Elms getting tested. Several of the tests were physical, such as certain neurological tests and some blood tests.

But most of the tests were mental. A lot of them were the ordinary stuff you might expect; you just looked at pictures of inkblots and told what you saw, and drew some pictures, and answered a lot of questions. I kept answering questions about my willow bark and my ceremonial. But each time I answered, someone would start asking me about drugs. They kept asking me about drugs and blows to my head; in a place like this, you get interviewed by so many people that you keep answering the same questions over and over.