O'Brien's Desk. Ona Russell

was something else again. Of course, Miller was a psychiatrist; he would need as many personal details as possible to adequately perform his job. But, for her to be the one to provide them would be stepping into dangerous waters. She would divulge anything if it meant saving Obee’s life. But what about Winifred? After she recovered from the shock of it all, how would she feel if she learned that Sarah knew more, much more perhaps, about her husband than she did?

      “If the judge wants me there, of course I’ll come,” Sarah replied.

      “And I’ll be happy to be of any service to you, just so long as you don’t ask me to . . . to . . . well, to betray any unnecessary confidences.”

      “I guarantee you that whatever I ask of you will only be in O’Brien’s best interest.” “I believe you, Doctor Miller.”

      “Well, then, how long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Sarah hesitated. Fewer streetcars went out that way this late in the evening.

      “I guess about an hour. I live on the other end of town, and the line to the hospital is indirect. I’ll have to change cars. It could take a little longer than that, but at any rate I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

      “Fine. I’ll be waiting for you. Oh, by the way,” Dr. Miller added,

      “I should warn you. O’Brien has been extremely agitated. We’ve got him mildly sedated, but his anxiety level is so high that it is overriding the effect of the medication. I’m hoping you’ll be able to calm him down, but be prepared, Sarah. He’s quite a different man from the one you’re used to.”

      You mean different from the one you’re used to, Sarah thought. Unfortunately, this is a man I no doubt will recognize all too well.

      4

       The Toledo State Hospital was located five miles from the business center of Toledo to the south. From a distance, the main two-story colonial brick building situated on five hundred and eighty-eight acres of agricultural land, appeared more like an elegant plantation mansion than an institution for the mentally ill. An additional four hundred and eighty-three surrounding acres of land, leased by the Welfare Department for crop cultivation, six small lakes, more than a thousand trees and shrubs, as well as the small patient cottages that peppered the landscape greatly contributed to that effect. But the pastoral image quickly evaporated as one approached the structure and saw the heavy steel bars fixed immovably over the windows. Especially at night. Then, the mind conjured something more akin to the slaves’ quarters that hovered on the margins of the plantation’s genteel facade.

      Walking briskly across the hospital’s dewy, immaculately manicured lawn, breathing heavily as she approached the imposing, front locked doors, Sarah again noted with greater irony than usual the discrepancy between the benign appearance and what she knew to be the reality within. She had been here many times before, mostly to counsel women such as Lulu Carey, who had come through the courts and for one reason or another were sent here for treatment. Similar to the general probate court, the women’s division handled a range of cases, from the delegation of property to criminal charges of rape, white slavery, and even murder. Technically, Sarah’s job was to oversee officially the filings of all cases involving women, but she often served as confidant and friend.

      Sarah knew the routine well. In order to gain entrance, she would have to ring the outside bell and wait for the attendant to escort her into the front office. Then she would sign her name on a guest sheet and specify the reason for her visit. Despite such familiarity, however, she hesitated. Even in the most official of circumstances, one had to prepare for the sights and sounds found behind those doors. But to know that this time it was O’Brien who awaited her there, required a bit more preparation than usual.

      On paper, the Toledo State Hospital was a model facility. A pioneer in developing more humane treatment for the insane, it had, in the late 1800s, gained a worldwide reputation for its innovative practices and attempts to make, through the so-called “Cottage Plan,” a more habitable living environment for its patients. But, conditions had greatly deteriorated since that time. Though a pioneer in the last century, in this one the hospital was the last frontier of the reform movement. Inside those walls behavior was unpredictable and every human function and frailty brutally exposed. Indeed, the rules that governed the treatment of patients in other medical facilities seem to hold little sway here, allowing for neglect, psychological cruelty, and in some instances, physical abuse. There simply weren’t enough professionals like Dr. Miller, who cared deeply enough about the patient’s welfare. Every time Sarah was there she witnessed something that convinced her all the more of the urgent need for action, beginning with the building of a new psychiatric clinic.

      Ironically, O’Brien himself proposed such a facility, although his reasoning for doing so was something Sarah had questioned. In a recent lecture to the Toledo Chamber of Commerce, O’Brien had argued for the need of “weeding out” humanity, so that the society might be bettered. “Hundreds of citizens,” he claimed, “are running at large not knowing that they themselves are mentally ill, a condition which certainly is not known to the average person.”

      Obee’s heart was surely in the right place. He genuinely wanted to provide an environment where these patients would be treated decently and also where they would not pose a threat to others. But, as she told him after the lecture, “when people think of weeds, they think of something that requires permanent removal. Weeds overtake the healthy plants, and there’s nothing that can be done to rehabilitate them. Now, I know that’s not the kind of analogy you meant to draw, is it Judge?”

      He didn’t answer her then, but Sarah believed he would eventually see her point, especially considering his own rather . . . how should she say it . . . uneven psychological history. And no doubt his current situation would convince him all the more. Yes, I’m sure he would agree with me now, Sarah thought as she rang the bell, now that he very well might be numbered among those who would have to be plucked from the garden.

       Dr. Ethan Miller rather than the attendant greeted Sarah on the other side of the entrance. Heavy-bearded, pipe-smoking, and somewhat disheveled, the Freudian-trained Miller looked the part of one who spent his days delving into the hidden recesses of the unconscious. His thickly lensed wire-rimmed glasses completed the image, suggesting the physical consequences of dedicating oneself to such deep psychological labor.

      “Hello, Sarah,” Dr. Miller said, warmly shaking her hand. “You made it here rather quickly and look none the worse for wear, I might add.”

      “Thank you,” Sarah replied, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Fortunately, all the connecting cars were on time. The speakeasies must have shut down early tonight!”

      Dr. Miller smiled. A soothing smile, despite his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “Ha, that’s good,” he said. “You didn’t need that headache this evening.”

      “No, indeed, perhaps the gods are with us after all.”

      “I sincerely hope so, my dear. They are certainly needed here.” Dr. Miller smiled again, took Sarah’s arm, and swiftly escorted her down the hall, barely permitting her to glimpse the hollow looks and indecipherable gesticulations of those they passed along the way. Ordinarily, she would stop and offer a word of encouragement to as many of these patients as she could, even to those who didn’t seemed to desire it. But tonight she was glad not to have the opportunity, for she sensed O’Brien would require all the energy and compassion she had in reserve.

      “Sarah, I’d like to take you directly to O’Brien’s room. He’s in the main building here. No need to sign in since I’m with you. I’ll let you speak with him privately first, and then we can talk, all right?”

      “All right.” Sarah huffed, trying to keep step with Dr. Miller’s quick pace. “By the way, Doctor, does the judge have his own room? I mean, I do hope we can be alone.”

      “Yes, of course. The ward