CZ Studio and Radio Verte presents The Wild Wind by Corey Zimmerman.
Chapter 18
The Wild Wind
At the foot of the Bronson building stood a newly installed stone pedestal, on top of which sat a sundial.
It's shadow red, 10.30 a.m.
Dr. Zola and Nurse Kate stood nearby with a group of patients shaking hands, patting backs, and talking with laughter.
What do you think of the sundial, Kate? asked Dr. Zola, as the four corners of its base read. Eight hours labor, non-imprisonment, non-restraint, and non-resistance.
Then to be snarky, the doctor added, just a gentle reminder for the commissioner.
Hostile critics of Dr. Zola's progressive approach were everywhere, watching his every move, and the slightest incident was almost always distorted to his disadvantage.
When he decided upon greater freedom for the patients, his enemies tried to impress a feeling of fear amongst the neighbors.
But they forgot that there is a public conscience, and that the conscience, once aroused, would support any measure that would bring a little more cheer into such draught lives.
Actions that would minimize the dreariness of institutionalized life.
With the community's support, Dr. Zola felt encouraged to go to great lengths.
He had removed every last bar and grating from every window across the hilltop, and kept every door unlocked night and day.
Each building, containing nearly 2,000 patients in total, had but one female nurse in charge of every ward, for even the most hostile of men.
And upon choosing a suitable ornament for the hilltop, he had decided upon the sundial, a monument which stood in the light of day, proclaiming the principles of the new era.
The doctor stood in the middle of the road with his hands clasped on his hips, observing the new monument with splendor in his eyes, when a buggy rode by, its driver shouting,
Get out the road, you old son of a bitch, before you get run over or killed.
Recognizing the back-hill's draw of his old buddy Farmer Morris, who often cut through the hospital grounds to get to his farm, Dr. Zola mimicking the Midwestern dialect, said,
Hmm, must have been somebody that knowed me.
Another buggy rode up, only this buggy's occupant, Dr. Zola, was none too pleased to see, yet had anticipated.
A fat man with a curled mustache and a suit, with stressed buttons, stepped off the buggy with the assistance of his chauffeur.
The broad but rather squat dandy carried a cane and wore a fancy hat.
Hello, Commissioner, Dr. Zola bid him politely, as he now leaned his weight with one hand upon the sundial.
Doctor, I've come to invite you to join me to participate in a rather peculiar task.
Shall you join me in my buggy, and we shall go downtown, where we can supervise the removal of the bars from the town jail?
The Commissioner said sarcastically.
Commissioner, can we take this conversation in my office, please? I think it would be more appropriate.
The patients here may, in fact, be insane, but that is exactly why we must provide them an environment of sanity.
Actually, Commissioner, if you don't mind, I'd like to invite you to meet a patient of ours, now that I think of it.
After you, Commissioner, she is a rather special woman, an inspiration, really.
At Rose's bedside, the Doctor said, Commissioner, I want to introduce you to Rose.
Rose has never received a proper diagnosis.
She was but a teenager when she was overcome by a hysterical fit of simple heartbreak, and was deemed possessed by the devil.
So they locked her in a Utica crib in the back corner of a dark and damp poorhouse for forty years.
Do you believe in the devil, Commissioner?
Rose spat tobacco on the floor, wetting the Commissioner's shoe.
The Commissioner gasped with disgust.
He pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket, silk, rather pricey.
Trying to clean his shoe, his well-fed belly was well in the way, so he resorted to kicking his shoe against the wall.
Dr. Zola kept his office tidy, the bookshelves neatly lined with books.
He had a small collection of science paraphernalia, some military photos, an occasional award hanging here and there.
It was a reasonable typical office furnished with a Victorian desk and chairs of the time.
Rather ordinary, if you managed to look past the shackles, chains, leather straps, leg irons, straight jackets, blind sleeve dresses, and a ball and chain, all displayed on the wall.
A mini-museum reflecting the dark age of psychiatry.
The Commissioner looked up at the restraints inquisitively.
That is a Utica crib, Dr. Zola said, pointing in the corner.
Quite antiquated, is it not?
Doctor, this institution contains 2,000 of the most violent, destructive, homicidal, and habitually untidy inmates of the state.
Need I remind you that you have two lifetime convicts?
A woman who choked two other women to death and a man who inflicted a fatal bite upon another.
Need I mention that one who was subsequently killed two men with a fire poker?
And you wish somehow to fantasize holding these maniacs prisoner?
With no bars on the windows?
With no locks on the doors?
Commissioner, I am perfectly aware of my patients past grievances.
And need I remind you, these grievances were not committed here, but at the poorhouse while under restraint.
This hospital was built intending to create home-like surroundings.
People suffering from insanity are sick and should be treated in the same manner as other sick people who are not prisoners and should not be kept behind bars.
And what's this I hear about you removing all the restraints from even the most violent patients, doctor?
Pointing his cane toward the wall of such devices?
Yes, it's true, Commissioner. I disallow the use of all mechanical restraints on campus.
They are human beings, not beasts, nor animals.
We will provide for our patients in a kind and caring manner.
After all, is not the human presence, the human touch, more effective than the canvas and leather strap?
Now I know you are a busy man, but would you mind if I show you one last thing before you depart?
The pair walked across the grounds, and the doctor led the Commissioner toward the new animal park that was being constructed,
wishing to show off what he had done with the bars and grates removed from the windows and doors across the hilltop.
The Commissioner held much power in the county, yet Dr. Zola poked the lion with a hot iron, and a subtle confrontation ensued between the two.
And the Commissioner stormed away for his buggy, shouting,
You goddamn loon, you belong in one of those damn cages yourself!
The Commissioner's buggy disappeared down the bluff, and the doctor leaned on the bar surrounding the deer habitat for a breath as a doe slowly approached his hand, smelling it for food.
Unlike the Commissioner's, the deer could sense that the doctor had a kind and sympathetic heart.
The doctor then made his way back to the woman's hospital, wondering if maybe he had not been diplomatic enough with the Commissioner,
yet his only genuine concern, the townspeople or the press, or God forbid, the governor, might turn on him.
But the doctor was interrupted mid-thought as he felt a tug on his pant leg. Looking down, he saw bandaged eyes looking up at him.
Dr. Zola bent down to Rose's height, who sat bent over like a toad on the floor, and whispered,
Rose, my dear, to hell with the Commissioner!
The doctor decided the best move, a pre-emmitive strike.
So on a spring day of 1906, the doctor looked quite impressive upside down through the viewfinder.
Dressed in full military uniform, spying straight as a board, chin high, proud and honorable, beside none other than his esteemed guest, Illinois State Governor Pierce.
Both were flanked by the whole of nurses, who beautifully and gracefully resembled a flock of white swans.
The stately Bronson building's limestone edifice loomed, its gracious porches lined with staff, all upside down in the viewfinder.
The sky below, and the tall grass of the lawn, about which sat hundreds of patients, above, the photographer under the hood of his camera.
All the regional newspapers had sent reporters to tour the state hospital that day, at the doctor's invitation, of course, with its growing reputation.
And the doctor spent the day giving an extensive tour of the hilltop.
Their first stop, a woman's cottage, where they observed and took note of the female patients and their living conditions.
At the far right of the cottage, in a decent sized day room, a few of the patients sat cradling babies.
This ignited quite a curiosity amongst the reporters, and Dr. Zola began to take questions.
Babies in a nut house? Babies in an asylum? Innocent babies in a madhouse?
Yes, at the asylum we allow any woman who arrives pregnant to care for her child from their birth until the age of four, and then they are put up for adoption.
The insane are allowed to care for their own children? Yes, a child needs its mother, especially at such a tender age.
A reporter then noticed a laborer filling holes in the wall with plaster, and a young blonde that followed behind, scratching the wet plaster with her nails.
Which prompted him to ask the laborer, she's scratching the plaster out before it's dry, you don't mind having to keep refilling the holes over and over?
Job security, the laborer responded with a chuckle.
Another reporter kneeled down by an old lady in a rocking chair, and looked up at the doctor, commenting, she reminds me of my grandmother.
The doctor leaned down with a whisper, asking, did your grandmother happen to slaughter her children with a butcher knife?
The reporter stood up spooked and backed away from the little old lady, tripping over a table leg and falling into the wall. More work for the laborer. Job security.
Are the rumors true, doctor, that you have banned the administration of medication to even the most volatile patients?
The doctor responded, it is a source of utmost satisfaction to see and converse with patients to whom narcotics and hypnotics once seemed indispensable, who are now comparatively rational beings, two years after the administration of the last dose.
Next, Dr. Zola gave them a tour of the men's cottage, and then to the open-air tuberculosis colony, and then to the woman's hospital, where they were to visit a unique patient.
By now, not a soul knew what to expect, yet thought they had seen it all, though this particular patient had become a boom for the Hilltop's public relations.
The woman before them sat on her bed. She was old. She wore a bandage wrapped around her eyes. She was in constant motion, grabbing at the air and mumbling.
She seemed to be permanently shaped like a toad, as previously mentioned, yet accurate, description of Rose.
Dr. Zola walked up to her bedside, and despite a total lack of sight, Rose felt his presence and grasped at his arm immediately.
Hello, Rose, gently removing the bandage from her head, exposing deep, empty eye sockets.
The reporters gasped and took a step back. This is Rose, the doctor said, holding her hands gently.
As you see, Rose is blind. She dug her own eyes out with her fingers. More gasping.
And then Dr. Zola told the tale of old scratch.
And not a soul walked away from Rose's bed that day, without a sense of justification behind the purpose of the hospital and that of Dr. Zola's progressive mission.
Rose's story could have softened even the hardest of hearts, and after the reporters had left the room, Governor Pierce approached Rose's side.
And despite her blindness, she grasped his hand intuitively. He dropped his head, eyes shut tight, he shed a tear, and said a prayer.
The doctor guided everyone to the completed animal park.
First they strolled past the large corral for deer, composed of a natural deep ravine and a densely wooded acre or two.
Furnishing a natural home where over a dozen live, always on guard, taking notice of their company of man.
The animal park is home to thirteen deer, the doctor said, twelve of which have been born and raised here.
Everyone was then escorted past wolves roaming amongst concrete dens and caves made to resemble natural rock habitats to a separate enclosure, where red foxes stood amongst natural watering holes.
Here we have several red foxes, coyotes, and wolves as well.
And spinning his index finger in a circle, we have twenty raccoons, two hundred squirrels, rabbits, and soon we will have a roost for pheasants, doves, eagles, and owls.
Lastly, the doctor took delight in showing off the bears den, where two black bear cubs rolled and frolicked around like pups.
I would like to introduce you to our most popular residents here at the hilltop, Blackie and Smokey, donated to us by the state of Washington.
Just at the base of a hill, a bathtub had been fixed up in a setting of stones to resemble a mountain spring.
Two relatively competent patients stood in the cage with the bears, luring them into the bath.
As a reporter with a thin mustache, wearing tiny round glasses, asked,
Is it true that you use the bars from the windows for the animals' cages?
And that the rabbits now live in the so-called crazy cribs?
That is correct, said Dr. Zillow.
This is the only institution for the insane in the world, where bolts and locks and bars are not used more known by the patients, but are instead used to cage wild animals.
It is true that every bar, chain, and lock in the construction of these cages and pens of the zoo at one time unfortunately served caged human beings.
And how do you feel, the reporter asked, about the commissioner's recent outcry about public safety?
Have you received a lot of criticism from your peers?
On the contrary, I have actually been greatly encouraged by visiting friends and relatives of the patients,
for the apparent calming and healing effect our innovations have achieved on their loved ones.
And everyone was surprised and delighted, as the bear splashed into the artificial spring,
and the photographer took a photo of the lot flanking blacky and smoky.
Lunch was served in the rose garden, along with fresh farmed meats, cheeses, vegetables, and fruits.
Large crocks full of stew, dishes of casseroles, and an array of exquisite desserts and wine, all prepared and served by patients.
Everyone seemed quite impressed and satisfied, as all were free to consume to their hearts delight, of which they did.
Dr. Zillow then walked everyone over before the sundial, where he gave a speech that went as follows.
I would like to begin by asking you to note the dog that bounds at you when you enter the yard,
and cries about you as you walk up the path.
And then note the tethered dog that tears at its chain, threatening to tear you to pieces.
It's the same with men, being sane or otherwise.
It was a perfectly blue-skied summer day in 1906.
The flowers in full bloom, butterflies and bumblebees wandering about in the colorful array of blossoms.
Rose sat on a blanket in the grass in the garden amongst the other patients, the warm sun upon her cheek.
Bookbinder laid in the grass beside her, having grown quite fond of Rose over the past years.
Rather protective even, guarding her against jokesters who tapped her on the left shoulder and then the right, leaving her quite frustrated.
He plucked a single baby blue tulip and held it under her nose, and noticing its scent, she inhaled deeply with a wide, toothless grin.
Book then gently opened one of Rose's clenched hands and placed the tulip upon her palm, and she quickly shoved it in her mouth,
which caused everyone to laugh hysterically.
Even Bookbinder made an odd sound, taking everyone aback, as it was the first time they had ever heard a micken noise.
Indeed, it was a day to remember.
That night, Rose was tucked away and tight as usual, so that when she squirmed about in her sleep, she would not fall to the floor,
and the curious noises she would continually make soon turned to a light snore.
At shift change the following morning, Rose did not awake, and after 68 miraculous years, Rose had died peacefully in her sleep.
She left this tarnished world in a bed with clean white sheets next to a window from which one could hear a nest of chirping baby birds.
The doctor was sitting at his desk when Nurse Kate knocked on his door, and when she entered, all she could offer was a long stare with a wetted eye,
as he could hear the unspoken words of her broken heart.
He sent word to the governor of Rose's passing, knowing he would appreciate it, although most certainly be deeply saddened by the news.
The doctor then decided it would be best to tell Bookbinder for fear of how he might respond to such grim gossip.
At once, Book walked to the barn and grabbed a shovel, and with sleeves rolled up, his black cloth cap hanging on a branch of the graveyard elm,
he dug at the black mid-American earth, and in doing so, took it upon himself to dig Rose's grave.
He rejected all assistance, and with all his might, his brow dripping with sweat, lungs heaving for air, throwing one shovelful after another over his shoulder,
he put all his heart into digging those six feet for Rose.
And as the sun rose upon the empty grave the following morning, and upon a day that would prove to be one of fate, one that would change the course of history,
it was Rose's lifetime of darkness that the sun had risen upon.
It would be the legacy of Rose that would shift the consciousness of the state for the pertinent need for rights and funding for the insane,
and wouldn't time secure for every insane patient in the state the right to be transferred from the poorhouse to a proper hospital where their care would be met with humane standards, long overdue.
Because of Rose and her will to live, a light had been shining into a dark corner, exposing an unfortunate truth.
And for the first time in the history of man, a truth one can no longer deny nor ignore, a dark part of human history would be laid to rest,
at least for a time.
The nurse on duty, rushing around, getting all the patients suited up, noticed bookbinder covered in dirt and said,
Get filthy, the funeral starts at noon, come along now, get washed up.
All the nurses who had cared for Rose in her life were now at the site of her grave where her last honors were paid, as she was dearly loved by them all.
Amongst the hundreds in attendance, sadly, only one family member was at the procession, a distant cousin, and the doctor quietly asked Nurse Kate,
Tell me, where are all the other relatives of this saint?
They undoubtedly lived useful lives, but he knew none would make such an impression upon the public thought of the day nor the future as this magnificent woman who was alone in her class.
And it was not likely that her duplicate would be found in the United States or in the greater world abroad, for Rose was an extraordinary soul, indeed not cursed but a blessed soul.
As the coffin was lowered into its grave, Book removed his cap and used his left sleeve and then his right to wipe away his many tears.
He then gave out an unexpected wail, his emotion so contagious there were now many moist eyes at the grave site.
Bookbinder then walked over to the magnificent elm tree that stood at the center of the lot.
And he leaned against it and gave into sobs that convulsed his entire frame, heard by the entire assembly.
And Dr. Zola could see in Book's tears the revival of some great crisis through which he had passed, some mighty sorrow he had experienced, and which in itself might have been the cause of the dethronement of his reason.
When the service ended, the standard burial core began filling the hole, and the sole relative of Rose present approached the doctor saying,
I want to thank you for the wonderful service. I am quite comforted by the fact that the patients here care for one another so dearly.
The doctor grabbed her warmly by the hand and replied,
I want to thank you for coming. Rose was an exceptional woman. She will be deeply missed by us all.
And then he continued, they built this place of asylum so that no other human would suffer as she, and she taught us to love and feel such compassion.
May Rose now find peace and warmth in God's hands.
The doctor then looked over at Book, hunched over beneath the tree, and felt something deep within his own soul.
And it was at this moment he had a realization.
Bookbinder should bear witness to every funeral on the hilltop from here forth.
Despite his worries as to how the funeral should affect Book's recovery,
he decided that this poor friendless mortal could possibly find relief for his great sorrow in tears, as it was better that he do so than suppress them.
At midnight, with the moonlight shining down upon Rose's grave, upon the fresh mound of soil,
which would settle over time at the base of her stone, number 354, a shaky hand left a pure white rose.