Pink Lemonade

My marriage ended — badly — thirty-seven years ago. I remember taking two suitcases with me and leaving it all behind. Looking back, I can’t say I missed it much, especially the abuse. My husband was a fierce proponent of the Backhand Baptism. Corrective measures to ensure a happy marriage, he said.

I showed my disagreement by sticking a kitchen knife in him. Eleven times.

I like to be thorough.

                                                        ______________

Doctor Rossington opened his office door, sat down heavily, and reluctantly began working. The number of inmates at St. Alban’s Psychiatric Hospital was legion, and he was the only doctor assigned to the place.

In his heart, he knew he could do little for most of the inmates. The violent ones were shunted off to the east wing, where they were given a lobotomy and heavy doses of Thorazine. The west wing denizens were maintained, not helped. He sighed, thinking of Sisyphus.

Matron Silvers walked in unannounced, adding to his consternation. She came to St. Alban’s with excellent references, but he suspected that the references were glowing so her former employers could get rid of her by fobbing her off on some other unsuspecting institution.

“Yes?” His voice was terse, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Nightly report.” She handed him a thick sheaf of papers.

He read through them quickly. “This is a lot of paper telling me nothing of note happened.”

Matron stared at him. “I like to be thorough.”

                                                        ______________

The escape plan worked a treat. I changed my name from Lady Margaret Hanover to Betty Ricks. Employment opportunities were limited, but I managed to acquire a position at St. Alban’s Psychiatric Hospital. I consider this a serendipitous event, for no one will be looking for a murderer on the cleaning staff of an institution such as this.

Working at St. Alban’s Psychiatric Hospital was a lot like being tasked with cleaning the Augean stables with a water hose. Or herding the cattle of Geryon with a unicycle. Or dealing with a hydra that has a toothache. Herculean is what I’m going for here.

I did my share of cleaning. Emptying bedpans and chamber pots was always a highlight of the day. We considered it a successful venture when no one lost their breakfast during the process. Stripping beds was also a fun-filled endeavor. The various stains and discolorations made for inventive hypotheses on what part of the body they came from.

Keeping track of the inmates was an exhilarating part of the job, one which involved aerobic exercise (chasing them down), oratory (begging them to listen), and — if needed — applying a chokehold until an orderly arrived.

None of these duties were beyond me. Truth to tell, I enjoyed a bit of a chase and the odd submission maneuver to subdue an inmate. I was noted for my deft handling of inmates — in writing!

The irony of a woman on her knees scrubbing floors being a stand-up gal hasn’t escaped me, though it has hidden itself well from my colleagues. Lovely people, my fellow scrubbers/chasers/thugs, but dumber than a box of dead frogs. I had learned to value character over cleverness, though, so I stood up for my friends.

They were being mistreated, so I had to dust off my homicidal skills and do away with someone else.

                                                      ______________

Molly looked out the kitchen windows, shaking her head.

“She’s sittin’ out there and drinkin’ her pink lemonade like she owns the place.”

“She been here long enough. Maybe she does,” Cook said, laughing at her own jest.

“You know she steals that Prohibition whiskey from Doctor’s office.” Molly came away from the window and sat down to drink her tea. Her fifteen-minute break, as usual, stretched into a thirty-minute break. Cook chose to ignore the liberty.

“Good! Maybe he’ll drink less and actually do some work.” Both women laughed.

Molly rose, returning to her job of scrubbing pots and pans, wishing she could get Betty to help her. Betty was a good sort, a little standoffish and superior at times, but willing to do the dirty work with everyone else. She felt a little guilty about her comments earlier.

“Matron doesn’t like her,” Molly turned to Cook as she spoke.

“Matron doesn’t like anybody.”

“Is she married?”

Cook laughed before speaking. “Who would marry her?”

“She drinks. Betty told me so,” Molly dried her hands, abandoning the pots and pans for the moment.

“She’s Miss Ricks to you, young lady, and don’t you forget it. Know your place.” Cook waved a spoon in Molly’s face.

“And how does Miss Ricks know this?” Cook’s curiosity overcame her sense of propriety.

“How does she know anything. She just knows.” Molly wasn’t one to question how information was obtained, as long as it was shared with her.

Cook knew this to be true. Betty was fiendishly clever and resourceful, and a little frightening. Cook often thought Betty could read her innermost thoughts.

“She steals books from the library, too.”

Cook looked up, surprised. “Matron steals books?”

“No, Betty. Miss Ricks, I mean. She gave me one and told me it was a good book. I told her I couldn’t read and she said she’d teach me.”

Cook scoffed. “Ain’t no use in learnin’ to read. Fill your head with nonsense.”

Molly disagreed but said nothing, returning to her task.

The afternoon passed slowly, both women engaged in their respective tasks. Betty Ricks was forgotten for the moment, clean pots and chicken stew replacing her.

                                                          ______________

Matron Silvers came from an upbringing that believed in the mortification of the flesh to bring out the best in a person. More specifically, through the mortification of other’s flesh. She loved to say that a flogging a day keeps the phantoms at bay.

The rules for how inmates were to be treated were clear, but often given a wink and a nod. That is to say, their rights evaporated when the mood suited. Matron Silvers, if nothing else, was diligent in following the dictates of her heart, and her heart told her to swing high and wide with her oak stick when it came to dealing with stubborn inmates.

You may be thinking that, as reprehensible as her actions were, she didn’t deserve to die because of it. I would like to say that I valued your opinion on the matter, but I don’t. She deserved a horrible, pain-filled death with the stout oak stick she used to beat inmates.

But she wouldn’t die that way. I was simply going to push her off a cliff and let Isaac Newton do the rest.

Tasks are always more pleasant when they’re shared, don’t you think?

                                                ______________

The Squire bowed to the assembled group. This was their favorite spot in summer, under a massive oak tree that provided shade from the sun.

“Fuck! Motherfucker! Fuck your mother! Fuck your father!”

“You’re in fine fettle today, Miss Fenway.” The Squire smiled, revealing several missing teeth.

“Pussy! Eat my pussy! Suck my dick!”

The Squire looked around at the various inmates seated around the picnic table.

“Matron gave her a few whacks this morning. She’s been spoutin’ all day because of it,” Myra Stonesbury said.

“And how is God today, Miss Stonesbury?”

“He tells me He’s doing fine, except that His feet hurt from stomping on all the sinners. I offered to massage them, but He declined. Suffering is good, He told me.”

“Quite right,” the Squire said, nodding in a sagacious manner.

“Cunt! Cunt! Kick you in the cunny!”

“And Miss Ricks?” He looked around for her.

“A meeting with Matron. Ah! Here she comes,” Colonel Beecher pointed at the advancing figure.

“Good afternoon all. Sorry I’m late, but Matron needed me.” Betty sat down, sipping pink lemonade from a paper cup.

“She beat on Miss Fenway. Gave Colonel Beecher a whack or two because he told her she was not in proper military dress.”

“The woman needs to be demoted, maybe court martialed. I will not have insubordination in my ranks!” Colonel stood up, saluted the group, and sat back down.

Betty pursed her lips. “I’ll have a quiet word with her tonight.”

“Will she listen?”

“Balls! Cock!”

“She will cause you no more pain, my friends.”

                                              ______________

One of my fondest memories as a child was drinking pink lemonade after a hard morning of hoydenish activities with my cousins. We could always count on my mom having the servants sit the delicious drink out by 11:30. The tart, sweet liquid was the perfect balm for the scrapes and bruises we accumulated during the morning hours. Life was seemingly a Paradise on such summer days.

Now that I’m older — much older — I prefer to sit on a bench, watching the crazies gambol like I did when younger, and sip my pink lemonade demurely. I’m a lady, after all.

They’re beautiful, the crazies. They see the world differently, and are punished for it. Mr. Dodson, for example, thinks aliens have landed and have taken over the educational system. I believe him. Having to deal with both Latin and geometric proofs is evidence that we are not in charge.

Molly, one of my cleaning peers, is of the opinion that I spike my pink lemonade with gin. Not true. I spike it with prohibition whiskey, and told her so. Jasper, an orderly, thinks I sneak out at night and eat rats. Imaginative kid, that Jasper. Maybe I’ll teach him to read and really mess up his life. Ha!

When I sip my concoction, I am myself. I am at peace, lost in a world of bright happiness, with no abusive husbands or sadistic matrons disturbing me. In my mind, I can watch kids play, parents smile indulgently at them, lovers love, musicians play, poets write, babies gurgle, nannies gossip, and squirrels stuff their faces with nuts, with nary an evil serpent in sight.

I came out of my reverie when the Squire, so called because he often ended sentences with “old chap,” decided that he need to regurgitate on my shoes.

“Sorry, old chap. Bit of a tummy this morning.” The Squire gave me a half-bow and walked away.

I had to clean my footwear. One can’t kill a matron with soiled shoes.

                                               ______________

“Where’s Matron?” Dr. Rossington stood at the nurses’ desk, waiting for an answer.

Nurse Headly, young and enthusiastic in her duties, was also intimidated by Doctor. She stood up abruptly, as if she were standing at attention in the military.

“She, er, went for her nightly walk, Doctor.”

“Blast the woman! I know she’s been filching my whiskey. And gin.”

Nurse Headly said nothing. She barely even breathed. The fact that Doctor blatantly broke the law was something that she assumed was a normal thing for doctors. The rules, she was sure, didn’t apply to such Godly men.

“When she returns, send her to my office.”

Nurse Headly, losing her power of speech for the moment, nodded. She sat back down, pleasurably anticipating a right old dustup between Doctor and Matron. The other nurses would crowd around her as she recounted what was said, and, for a brief, shining moment, she would be someone.

She stared at the paper in front of her. A Latin phrase, she thought, but wasn’t sure.

Dulce est desipere in loco.

Miss Ricks gave it to her, telling her that the secret of life was contained within the words. Nurse Headly studied the words some more before putting the paper back in her purse. She would ask her husband, who knew everything. He was a preacher, after all.

                                               ______________

Matron was a big woman. She was hefty in all possible ways, save her lips, which were thin and judgmental. They often got lost in the vast landscape of her physiognomy, hiding behind overblown cheeks and a nose that threatened to overtake the entire face.

Matron was also a drinker. She would sneak out at night, walk along the cliffs, and sip her brew from a hip flask. She would often be swaying on her way back to the hospital, tipsy from drink and not being very agile to boot. It’s a wonder she hadn’t taken a dive off the cliffs already, worse the luck.

I was here to remedy that.

I eyed the distance between us, took a deep breath, and rushed her, head up, shoulders down. I hit her with a resounding thump and she went over the edge with a grunt, then a scream.

I heard a satisfyingly sickening, squishy thud as she hit an outcrop, and a more distant but more ominous thud at the bottom. Too bad it was dark and I couldn’t see much over the edge of the cliffs. The sight of her mangled, broken, bloody body would lift my spirits.

                                                        ______________

“Good Lord!” Dennis, Nurse Headly’s husband, shook his head, more in disbelief than pity.

“Three couples saw her do it. And,” she leaned forward, “she had Matron’s stick in her room.”

“Betty Ricks? Hasn’t she been there since the Great Flood?”

“Practically. Thirty-seven years. Only, her real name isn’t Ricks. She was Lady Margaret Hanover. One of the Boston Hanovers. Killed her husband one day. The family, being rich and all, saved her from being hanged and had her committed, but changed her name. So the Hanover name wouldn’t be besmirched, you see.”

“But — but I thought she was one of those who had earned privileges.”

Nurse Headly laughed, but not pleasantly. “Yes. Privileges. She was allowed to clean bedpans and chamber pots and such. They get the trusted unfortunates to do all sorts of low, vile work.”

Preacher Headly nodded absently. “So, what will happen to her?”

Nurse Headly clicked her tongue. “East wing. Where a lobotomy and heavy doses of Thorazine are the order of the day.”

“Good Lord!”

“I liked her. She was sweet. Oh! And she gave me this.” Nurse Headly retrieved the slip of paper with the Latin writing on it, handing it to her husband. “What does that mean?”

Preacher Headly read it, and then read it again, slowly, for his Latin wasn’t as good as it used to be. He sat back and thought about verbs and tenses and how remarkably stupid the dead language made him feel.

“As far as I can make out, it means It is occasionally sweet to play the fool.”

Nurse Headly thought about this over dinner, and late into the night. When she went to work the next day, she was still mystified by the words.

                                                      ______________

Jasper stared at the drooling woman. She didn’t move, and she barely blinked. He poked her arm, but received no response. In a final attempt to elicit a response, he jumped in front of her, yelled boo, and made faces.

“She won’t do anything, Jasper.” Dr. Rossington lit his pipe and gazed at the woman who had killed Matron.

“Spooky, I call it,” Jasper said. He backed away from her. “Why is she smiling?”

Doctor Rossington shook his head. “No idea. Let’s move on, shall we? Mister Burns is next. He killed his brother at the dinner table one night, claiming that the corn told him to do it. He had the procedure done last month…” Doctor’s voice trailed off as they turned the corner.

Lady Hanover/Betty Ricks was alone, and she was left alone. Drool fell from her mouth. Nobody came to clean her up.

Two hours later, in the gloom of the evening, her eyes widened, and she whispered two words. Pink lemonade. A few seconds later, she returned to her near-lifeless, drooling state.

She lived another fifteen years, never speaking again, a smile constantly hovering on her lips.