Valley of the Dolls (50 page)

Neely yawned. Fine. They agreed. That was nice. Now come on, get with it. Dr. Archer pressed a button. Neely stared at the woman’s orthopedic shoes. Now why couldn’t they be nice white shoes? Why did they have to be thick, ugly oxfords? Geez, she was probably born that way—wore orthopedic booties when she was a baby. Neely laughed out loud at this thought, and Dr. Archer turned in surprise. Then a new pair of white shoes, topped by a white uniform, entered the room.

“This is Miss O’Hara,” Dr. Archer said. “Take her to Building Four.”

“Is that where the sleep cure is given?” Neely asked good-naturedly as she followed the nurse. The nurse merely smiled and led her through a series of underground corridors. At each entrance she took out a large set of keys and unlocked a door, then immediately locked it when they had passed through.

“Hey—where is this place? In New Jersey? We been walking a mile.”

“Haven Manor has twenty buildings, not including the gymnasium and occupational therapy building, and although they are all separate buildings, there is an underground passage that connects each one. We have passed from the administration building through Buildings Two and Three, and are now approaching Four.” There was a note of civic pride in her voice.

Building Four was like a private cottage. Neely spotted women of various ages watching television in a large room. They all looked perfectly normal, she thought. The nurse led her down a long hall past many tiny cubbyholes. Geez, some crappy bedrooms. Her bedroom on Fifty-second Street had been three times the size. Each room had a bed, a window, a bureau and a chair. But maybe she was going upstairs to a deluxe suite or something. Obviously this was not the sleep-cure department.

The nurse stopped at a tiny cubbyhole at the end of the hall. “This will be your room.”

Neely started to protest—but what the hell, she was going to be asleep. What did it matter if there was no view? She flopped down on the bed. “Okay, bring on the needle.”

The nurse left the room. Minutes ticked by. She looked at her watch. Where in hell were they? She called out, “Hey . . . what gives?”

Two nurses suddenly appeared. “You want something, Miss O’Hara?”

“You bet I do. I’m supposed to be put to sleep.”

The nurses exchanged a curious glance.

“I’m here for the sleep cure,” Neely repeated.

“You’re in Building Four. This is the adjustment building.”

“Adjustment for what?”

“All new patients come here for a few days while we evaluate their cases. Then they are transferred to the building that best suits them.”

Neely walked to the bureau and opened her bag. She took out a cigarette. “Call Dr. Hall. There’s been some mistake.”

One of the nurses leaped over and grabbed Neely’s matches.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she yelled.

“You are not allowed matches in here.”

“How am I supposed to light my cigarettes?”

The nurse took her bag. “You can’t smoke. There are certain hours when you are allowed to smoke—under supervision.”

Neely tried to snatch her bag back, but it was two against one. “Call Dr. Hall!” she demanded.

“These are Dr. Hall’s orders,” one nurse said. “Now come on, Miss O’Hara. At five o’clock you get two cigarettes. Let’s go out and meet the other patients.”

“What?
Me socialize at a funny farm? I’m Neely O’Hara—I pick my friends. Call Anne Welles, or Kevin Gillmore. This is ridiculous. I’m leaving!” She started for the door.

One of the nurses detained her. “She’s still wearing her watch,” the other one said. She unstrapped it, forcefully, from Neely’s wrist.

“Hey, that watch cost a thousand bucks!”

“It will be put in the safe. You’ll get it back, along with your other personal effects, when you leave.”

Neely began to panic. She had never felt this helpless kind of fear before. “Look, call Anne Welles,” she pleaded. “She’ll set things straight.”

Another half hour passed. Neely alternated between anger and fright. She wanted a cigarette. The two Seconals had worn off, and she was wide awake and terrified. She rang. A nurse appeared. The nurse was polite but evasive. Miss O’Hara could have a cigarette right now if she came into the lounge. In fact, she had better hurry. If she missed this smoking period she couldn’t smoke again until nine o’clock.

“Who the hell are you to tell me when I can smoke?” she screamed. “This is no charity ward. This place costs money—I want to be treated with respect.”

“We respect you, Miss O’Hara. But in turn, you must respect the rules of Haven Manor.”

“I don’t follow rules. I
make
the rules! I’m Neely O’Hara.”

“We know that. We all admire your work very much.”

“Then do as I say!” she demanded.

“We follow orders from Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer.”

“Well, call Dr. Hall!” She turned her back on the nurse. She felt a gnawing terror. Maybe this Dr. Hall was trying to pull a double cross. No, she was just scared, that’s all. There was just some mixup. Dr. Hall wouldn’t dare. Why, if Anne and Kevin found out there’d be hell to pay!

Ten minutes later the nurse returned. “Miss O’Hara, if you’d like to smoke before dinner, please come out. There are only ten more minutes left.”

“I won’t join those kooks!”

The nurse disappeared. Neely began to pace. Boy, she sure needed this sleep cure. She needed some dolls—her hands were shaking. Geez, lately it was getting so she needed a couple of dolls every hour just to keep calm. But the sleep cure would break the habit. Dr. Massinger thought she had just built up this tolerance. Geez, after Spain, what were twenty or thirty dolls a day? But it was lucky she’d left, or she mighta really gotten sick. Damn that Dr. Madera—he had given her that first shot of Demerol. . . . Oh, God, that was an exquisite feeling. It had removed all cares. After the first shot, she had lain in bed for six hours, feeling a silken happiness and a sense of well-being such as she had never known. She felt she could sing better than ever; reach notes that weren’t even there; remain thin without the green dolls; act better than ever.

Of course, when it wore off she felt lousy. How could she face another day, another lover, another party? But there was always Dr. Madera to fix her “bad back.” She had learned that on the movie set in Hollywood—claim a bad back. X-rays can’t pinpoint it; studio doctors can examine you and can’t dispute it. It had often brought her a few days’ release from work. It had worked with Dr. Madera, too—only Demerol was Dr. Madera’s contribution. They never gave
that
in Hollywood. And Dr. Madera had been very generous with the Demerol. Gave her three shots a day for a whole wonderful year.

After a short time she didn’t just lie in bed. She could function with the Demerol. She’d get up and go nightclubbing, and sing—she never sang better. The picture she had made in Spain—Geez, if only it had gotten an American release. She had reached a new peak in it; she had been thin and vibrant—you didn’t want to eat as long as you had Demerol—and her eyes had been like burning coals. Sure, that was because the pupils went so big and black, dilated from the Demerol. But her voice . . . clear and pure.

Then there’d been the money situation, the wire from California. Ted was going to sue for custody of the twins if she didn’t return and take care of them. As if she’d let her sons live with that whore he married! And then, to top everything, Jennifer’s suicide. She had had to leave Spain—and the Demerol. The dolls helped, but now she needed so many—at least thirty a day. Thirty Seconals . . . God, she had only had about six today, and the last had been two hours ago. Where in hell was Dr. Hall? When did this thing begin?

A nurse came to inform her that dinner was being served. Would she please come to the dining room? She would not! “I want a cigarette and some Seconals—at least six—to last until Dr. Hall starts this sleep cure.”

She flopped on the bed. Her throat was parched. Geez, a drink, anything . . . This two-by-four cage was beginning to crowd in on her. If something didn’t happen soon she’d just walk out of here. They couldn’t stop her—it wasn’t like she was in jail. She heard footsteps. She sat up. Maybe now they were going to put this show on the road. A nurse appeared, carrying a dinner tray. “Miss O’Hara, if you wish to eat in your room—”

The nurse never had a chance to finish the sentence. Neely’s patience snapped. She picked up the tray and hurled it across the room. The nurse ducked. Another one came running. Neely exploded with rage. “I don’t want to eat and I don’t want to socialize. I just want to sleep. Now get me my cigarettes—and give me the sleep cure this minute or I’m leaving. I’ve had enough!”

One nurse, who seemed more important than the others, took charge. “Miss O’Hara, there is no sleep cure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have checked with Dr. Hall. No sleep cure, no barbiturates. You are going to get well with psychiatry and therapy.”

“I’m leaving!” Neely started for the door, but she was restrained by four arms.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” she screamed. “Let me alone!” She started flailing at them with her fists.

A nurse started shouting orders. “Take her to Hawthorn!”

“I’m going home!” Neely screamed. More nurses appeared, and Neely found herself being dragged down a hall. It couldn’t be happening! She, Neely O’Hara, being dragged by four nurses. And this unearthly screaming—it was coming from
her!
But she wasn’t having a fit, she was just goddam mad at this doublecross.

She fought them all the way—through halls, while doors were locked and unlocked, into another building, down another entrance hall. Two new nurses leaped to take charge. She was dragged down another hall, to another two-by-four room—but even in her fury she noticed the difference. This one had no carpet, no drapes, no bureau. Just a bed—like in a cell! She was deposited on the bed. Her slacks were torn. Thank God she had packed another pair.

A young nurse came and sat down beside her. “Come on now, Miss O’Hara, let’s have some dinner.”

“I want to go home!” Neely shouted.

“Let’s have dinner. Come on and meet the other patients.”

“I want to sleep.” Neely began to sob. She was trapped. She had never felt so trapped in her life. She looked toward the window. No bars . . . that was something. Just a screen, and screens could be cut—but with what? She dashed out of the room, ran into a large lounge. There were patients sitting around, quietly watching television. She looked around wildly. What would cut through a screen? She looked at the bookcase. It was stacked with books, puzzles . . . a chess set! She grabbed a pawn. It had a small head . . . if she poked it hard enough, it might cut through the screen. She ran back to her room clutching the chess piece.

The nurse was sitting on the bed, calmly watching. Let her watch, Neely thought. I’m stronger—let her try and stop me. She opened the window. The nurse didn’t budge. She tried the chess piece on the screen, poking, slashing, sobbing all the while. There must be a weak spot where it could poke through and rip. There had to be . . .

“It’s a steel screen,” the nurse said calmly. “And even if you broke out, you’d be on our grounds. We have twenty-five acres here. And the main gate is locked.”

Neely dropped the pawn. She sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed. The nurse tried to calm her, but her sobs grew more violent. She thought of Anne and Kevin. They were back in New York, probably thinking she was blissfully asleep. She thought of Anne’s apartment. Why hadn’t she stayed there? You could walk around there, light a cigarette whenever you wanted, take as many dolls as you wanted, have a drink. . . . She thought of Hollywood. The Head . . . who was he dictating to now? And Ted . . . It was earlier in California, maybe only three o’clock—and it was warm and the sun was shining. Ted was probably at the pool with his wife. And
she,
the great Neely O’Hara, she was locked in a fancy fruit farm! She sobbed louder.

She must have sobbed for an hour, because when she finally looked up it was dark outside. The head nurse appeared. She had a pin on her starched uniform that stated her name was Miss Schmidt. A big bull dyke—that’s what she looked like, Neely decided.

“Miss O’Hara, unless you get hold of yourself, we’ll have to do something to calm you.”

Okay, so that was the answer. She
could
get a few dolls or a needle. She’d show them! So they never gave barbiturates here. Well, Neely O’Hara would change that. She’d break their fucking rule! She began to scream.

In no time she had some action. The husky nurse reappeared.

“Come, Miss O’Hara, this has to stop. You are upsetting the other patients.”

“Let them all go fuck themselves!” Neely shrieked. Her screaming increased in volume.

Miss Schmidt gave a quick nod to the two nurses. They took Neely’s arms and hauled her down the hall. She fought, kicked, screamed—but she was outnumbered and overpowered. She found herself in a large bathroom. Miss Schmidt and the two nurses told her to undress.

“What! And give you dykes a big thrill!” she shouted. Miss Schmidt nodded her head and the two nurses forcibly undressed Neely. Naked, screeching, she was forced into a bathtub. A huge canvas top was hooked over it, leaving just her head exposed. A pillow was placed behind her head. A nurse sat at a table nearby, poised with a notebook and pencil.

Neely continued to scream. Actually the bath felt very good. She loved baths as a rule, loved to lie in one until her skin became waterlogged. And this bath was something special—water kept coming in and going out, bubbling all around her. The sensation was relaxing. She sifted these thoughts as she continued to scream.

Miss Schmidt returned and knelt at her side. Her eyes were kind. “Miss O’Hara, why not try and relax and let the bath do its work?”

“Get me out of here!” Neely screamed.

“You will stay in this tub until you stop yelling—or until you fall asleep.”

“Hah! There’s not enough water in this whole goddam state to put me to sleep!” Neely took a breath and shrieked into Miss Schmidt’s face.

“We’ve had patients in the tub for as long as fifteen hours,” Miss Schmidt answered. She stood up. “I’ll drop by in an hour. Maybe you’ll be more relaxed by then.”