The Devil in Silver

Even the silent patients enjoyed themselves. Heatmiser and Yuckmouth and the Haint grinned. Laughter rippled through the group.

Sal wasn’t stupid, he understood he was being ridiculed. But he couldn’t understand why they were doing it. He was being nice! But okay, fine, Sal (Joseph) had his own worries in life. (Like a daughter, an addict, working in the back, who made a habit of lifting money from the register when left to work the shop alone; which is why the man never got a day off; which is why the man was tired; which is why he lost his patience.)

“Ahhh, you can choke on the slices,” Sal said.

Which made even the staff members laugh.

Sal stomped behind the counter to cook.

The teenage boy set down his phone and ate the rest of the slice in two bites. He gave the crust to the girl. She chomped it while getting up, and the pair left.

The girl forgot her newspaper. Didn’t even look back for it as she went. What did she care? It was am New York, a freebie handed out weekday mornings at subway stations and bus stops. If she’d returned, even just a minute later, she wouldn’t have found it anyway, it was already at another table. Still Waters flipped through the pages and now thoroughly ignored Doris Roberts. Each time a page turned, Redhead Kingpin, at the next table, faintly whimpered.

Soon enough, the slices arrived.

Sal didn’t bring them over himself like he had the soda cans. The serving duties fell to Sal’s daughter, a woman in her forties who never introduced herself. A woman who didn’t seem put off by or scared of the patients, didn’t act friendly or solicitous, either. She seemed so utterly indifferent to the patients that they immediately felt quite fond of her. This woman had served that teenage couple in exactly the same way. Equal-opportunity disinterest.

Before their meals began in earnest, Mr. Mack picked up a napkin dispenser and clanged it against the tabletop like a gavel.

“I think we should say a little prayer for Dorry,” Mr. Mack said.

There were many differences about the patients on the outside, but none more so than with Mr. Mack. If inside he was as irritable as a weasel, outside he’d found a new kind of steadiness. Not calm, but more commanding. Less weasel, more badger. Maybe this is how he’d been before he entered New Hyde. Or how he might’ve been had he never been committed. He was at his table alone. He stood up to lead.

Those who were in the practice shut their eyes and whispered the proper words from memory. Even Frank Waverly, at his own table, mouthed the phrases. Those who weren’t the praying types still clasped their hands.

“We wish you the best, Dorry,” Mr. Mack said. “You’re probably talking God’s ear off right now!”

There was a long silence, people squirmed, unsure if the caustic old man was mocking the dead.

“But unlike us,” Mr. Mack added. “The good Lord will appreciate the sound. Amen.”

“Amen,” Loochie whispered.

Pepper found himself unable to speak. He’d been so cruel to that woman with his last words. And, if he thought about it, hadn’t she helped him yet again, even in death? It was because of her suicide that he’d been brought to Dr. Anand’s office. Once in there he was finally able to call Sue’s sister. Even now, sitting in Sal’s pizza shop—the entire patient population getting out so the cops could work on Dorry’s crime scene without interruption—even that was kind of her doing, too. Maybe Dorry really had been like a mother. He’d treated her so badly but still, in her way, she’d taken care of him. How could he thank her for that? How could he ever repay it?

And in this moment, Sal came from around the counter again. The dining area had turned so quiet that he wanted to make sure they hadn’t all somehow dined and dashed. He found the patients and the staff with lowered heads.

Sal watched quietly for a little while.

“That’s good,” he finally said. “I like to see that.”

Pepper and Loochie and all the rest opened their eyes. They looked at Joseph Angeli, who was leaning forward, both hands flat on an empty table. His head dropped, and when he lifted it again, his eyes were moist. He pointed to the painting on the back wall, the Italian city. “That’s Florence,” he said quietly. “The birthplace of Dante.” He shook his head. “Dante knew the truth.”

The thunder of crashing pots came from the kitchen. It shook everyone but Joe, who was used to it. The clatter nearly drowned out his last words.

“The Devil is real,” he said.

The pizza was fine. But the setting made it scrumptious. And the staff didn’t rush the meal. Scotch Tape tried to play like he was being magnanimous. When one patient or the other asked him how much time they had left before they must return to New Hyde, Scotch Tape just waved one arm to let them know there was time. And he was giving it.

So they ate slowly, but eventually Nurse Washburn rose and walked a circuit around the tables.