July 14
It was a bad day to go out to "Warren—gray and drizzly—and that may account for the depression that grips me when I think about it.
Or perhaps I'm kidding myself and it was the idea of possibly being sent there that bothered me.
I borrowed Burt's car.
Alice wanted to come along, but I had to see it alone.
I didn't tell Fay I was going.
It was an hour-and-a-half drive out to the farmland community of Warren, Long Island, and I had no trouble finding the place: a sprawling gray estate revealed to the world only by an entrance of two concrete pillars flanking a narrow side-road and a well-polished brass plate with the name Warren State Home and Training School.
The roadside sign said 15 mph, so I drove slowly past the blocks of buildings looking for the administrative offices.
A tractor came across the meadow in my direction, and in addition to the man at the wheel there were two others hanging on the rear.
I stuck out my head and called:
"Can you tell me where Mr. Winslow's office is?"
The driver stopped the tractor and pointed to the left and ahead.
"Main Hospital.
Turn left and bear to your right."
I couldn't help noticing the staring young man riding at the rear of the tractor, hanging on to a handrail. He was unshaven, and there was the trace of an empty smile.
He had on a sailor's hat with the brim pulled down childishly to shield his eyes, although there was no sun out.
I caught his glance for a moment—his eyes wide, inquiring—but I had to look away.
When the tractor started forward again, I could see in the rear view mirror that he was looking after me, curiously.
It upset me… because he reminded me of Charlie.
I was startled to find the head psychologist so young, a tall, lean man with a tired look on his face. But his steady blue eyes suggested a strength behind the youthful expression.
He drove me around the grounds in his own car, ana pointed out the recreation hall, hospital, school, administrative offices, and the two-story brick buildings he called cottages where the patients lived.
"I didn't notice a fence around Warren," I said.
"No, only a gate at the entrance and hedges to keep out curiosity seekers."
"But how do you keep… them… from wandering off… from leaving the grounds?"
He shrugged and smiled.
"We can't, really. Some of them do wander off, but most of them return."
"Don't you go after them?"
He looked at me as if trying to guess what was behind my question.
"No.
If they get into trouble, we soon know about it from the people in town—or the police bring them back."
"And if not?"
"If we don't hear about them, or from them, we assume they've made some satisfactory adjustment on the outside. You've got to understand, Mr. Gordon, this isn't a prison.
We are required by the state to make all reasonable efforts to get our patients back, but we're not equipped to closely supervise four thousand people at all times.
The ones who manage to leave are all high-moron types—not that we're getting many of those any more.
Now we get more of the brain-damaged cases who require constant custodial care— but the high-morons can move around more freely, and after a week or so on the outside most of them come back when they find there's nothing for them out there.
The world doesn't want them and they soon know it."
We got out of the car and walked over to one of the cottages.
Inside, the walls were white tile, and the building had a disinfectant smell to it.
The first-floor lobby opened up to a recreation room filled with some seventy-five boys sitting around waiting for the lunch bell to be sounded.
"What caught my eye immediately was one of the bigger boys on a chair in the corner, cradling one of the other boys—fourteen or fifteen years old—cuddling him in his arms.
They all turned to look as we entered, and some of the bolder ones came over and stared at me.
"Don't mind them," he said, seeing my expression. "They won't hurt you."
The woman in charge of the floor, a large-boned, handsome woman, with rolled up shirt sleeves and a denim apron over her starched white skirt, came up to us.
At her belt was a ring of keys that jangled as she moved, and only when she turned did I see that the left side of her face was covered by a large, wine-colored birthmark.
"Didn't expect any company today, Ray," she said.
"You usually bring your visitors on Thursdays."
"This is Mr. Gordon, Thelma, from Beekman University.
He just wants to look around and get an idea of the work we're doing here. I knew it wouldn't make any difference with you, Thelma. Any day is all right with you."
"Yeah," she laughed strongly, "but Wednesday we turn the mattresses. It smells a lot better here on Thursday."
I noticed that she kept to my left so that the blotch on her face was hidden.