Deceit

FORTY-FOUR

Benjamin’s shelf was still filled with stuff.

Old books, mostly-primers, textbooks, comics, the kind of things that parents usually lock away in an attic chest for safekeeping. Only there weren’t any chests in a VA hospital, certainly no attics, and no parents to lovingly store the mementos of childhood.

“He was black,” I said. “Benjamin was black.”

“Black as me,” Rainey said. “What you interested in him for?”

“He flew the coop too, didn’t he? Dennis wasn’t the only one who knew the way out.”

Rainey nodded.

“I think he took something of Dennis’s with him,” I said.

“Okay.”

“How long was Benjy here? In this hospital?”

Rainey smiled. “Shit, who knows? He was a lifer, man.”

“A lifer, sure. But Benjy wasn’t a vet, was he?”

“It’s a vet hospital, ain’t it?”

“Yes. But maybe it wasn’t always a vet hospital?”

“Can’t help you. Before my time. Just knew the poor fool was here forever.”

“Was he a fool?”

“Shit, he was here, wasn’t he? Of course he was a fool.”

“You ever talk to him, Rainey?”

“About what?”

“About anything? The weather. The World Series. The price of gas?”

“Hey, I told you. You don’t want to know the people in here. They come here, they got no minds. They’re as nuts as Dennis. Benjy talked to himself.”

“Was he on drugs? Like Dennis?”

“Every color in the rainbow, man.”

“Right. Maybe that’s why he talked to himself.”

Rainey shrugged.

“I don’t think Benjy was a poor fool,” I said. “I think he was a poor something, though. When did he break out of here?”

“I don’t know-a while ago. Before Dennis.”

“Sure, before Dennis. Were they friends, Dennis and Benjy? Did they hang out together?”

Rainey shook his head. “Told you, Benjy was a lifer. Lifers stick to themselves. Dennis was fresh off the streets.”

“Do you let patients keep their wallets, Rainey?”

“Sometimes. We let them keep a little money-you know, for snacks and things. Some of them have pictures in their wallets-you know, of their wives or kids. So why not?”

“They ever get their hands on more than a little money?”

“Well, they’re not supposed to.”

“Yeah, but do they?”

“Sure. I guess. People visit. They get sent stuff. They play poker-supposed to be for matchsticks, but you know?”

“Yeah, I know. So maybe now and then, those wallets have more than just snack change and pictures.”

“Okay, sure.”

“Did Dennis ever play poker?”

“I guess. Why?”

“Benjy ended up with Dennis’s wallet. I was wondering if it had a lot of money in it. Poor fool that he was, he knew enough to know he’d need some cash to get from here to there.”

“Where’s there?”

“California. To see his mom.”

“Oh yeah? How you know that?”

“Right after he saw her, he got into an accident.”

“A car accident?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“What kind of accident?”

“A fatal one.”

“Yeah? Too bad.”

We were whispering, but I could see one or two heads rising from beneath white sheets like ghosts.

“Where would Benjamin’s medical file be?”

“Down in Records, I guess.”

“Where’s that?”

“On four. He broke outta here just to see his mom, huh?”

“Well… he hadn’t seen her in fifty years.”

“Huh? Why’s that?”

“He didn’t know she was alive.”

“For fifty years? How’s something like that happen?”

“Easy. They told him she was dead.”

“Well, why didn’t she come see him?”

“Because they told her he was dead.”

“Who’s they?”

“Is there a TV here in the ward, Rainey?”

“Uh-huh. They like watching the soaps-and those three motorcycle rednecks on Discovery.”

“What else do they like?”

“Golf. All that whispering soothes ’em.”

“What about the morning show on NBC? They ever watch that?”

“Sometimes, sure.”

I began collecting the dusty books from Benjy’s old shelf.

“Don’t worry; I’ll return them,” I said, even though it looked like Rainey didn’t really care.

“Hey,” Rainey said, “if he thought his mom was dead, how’d he know she wasn’t?”

“Somebody told him.”

Belinda was our homegrown celebrity, Mr. Birdwell said. You know that weatherguy on NBC-Willard, what’s his name, Scott-who wishes happy birthday to 100-year-olds around the country? He put Belinda’s picture on a few weeks ago.

“He got to see her before he died, huh?” Rainey said, letting just a hint of tenderness seep into his voice.

“Yes. Before she died, too.”

“That’s nice.”

I sat down on Benjamin Washington’s cot. I tried to imagine that particular morning. Starting the day on OJ, Zyprexa, Haldol, and Seroquel, the breakfast of champions, then shuffling off in a half stupor to the TV room for a little Katie Couric and friends. And then that roly-poly weatherman with the bad toupee comes on and says: Let’s wish a big happy birthday to Belinda Washington from Littleton, California-she’ll be 100 years old. Happy birthday, Belinda.

Mwah.

“You know he was castrated?” I whispered to Rainey.

“Uh-huh, sure. I seen him in the shower.”

“You know why?”

Rainey shrugged. “Thought it was a war wound. Lots of people missing lots of stuff in here-not just their minds.”

“Benjamin Washington was a civilian.”

“Benjamin who?”

“Washington.”

“Nuh-uh. Briscoe. His name was Benjamin Lee Briscoe.”

“You sure?”

“Nah-I’m making it up. Course I’m sure. Maybe you talking about the wrong guy, huh?”

Okay, something was wrong. But I wasn’t talking about the wrong guy. I wasn’t. Yet something seemed oddly familiar about that name.

Briscoe.

I leafed through Benjamin’s childhood primer. A journey through the alphabet. At some point, someone had tried to teach him something. He’d scrawled his first name across the cover: Benjamin: age 9.

“How’d he get out of here, Rainey? You said he was all doped up.”

“Nah-I said he talked to himself. You said it’s the meds.”

“I bet he would’ve stopped taking them. Pretended to swallow them maybe, but spit them out instead. He would’ve wanted a clear head.”

“If you say so. That what Dennis did?”

“No.”

I WOKE DENNIS UP.

His eyes were dreamy-looking, peaceful, as if he’d been somewhere where he still had his tongue and could read license plates and road signs to his heart’s content.

“Dennis,” I said. “Just listen and nod your head, okay? Either yes or no, okay, Dennis?”

He nodded yes.

“You made a trade. That’s how your wallet ended up with someone else.”

He stared at me.

“His name was Benjamin. He was going to break out of here-he was going to run. Remember?”

No response.

“Maybe that gave you the same idea. Benjamin didn’t want his meds anymore-he didn’t need them. But you did-you needed them. You had a little money in your wallet; you had some ID in there too, maybe. Benjamin needed both. He was a ghost. He had no identity-none. And he was finally going out into the world.”

Dennis stared at me.

“You traded him your wallet for his meds. Every color in the rainbow. That’s how a black man who burned up in a car in California ended up with your wallet in his pocket.”

Dennis blinked.

“I know you can’t remember stuff. I know it’s all a fucking haze. Try to remember this. Just try. Yes or no?”

He nodded.

Yes.