The Devil in Silver

The two women, young and old, were wrestling on the floor. The patients had formed a circle around them like this was a school yard fight. Dorry was on top. Loochie struggled. Her blue knit cap had already been snatched off. Everyone could see the girl’s patchy scalp. Except it looked even worse now. More hair had been pulled out. The kid almost looked like a Hare Krishna, completely bald except for a little topknot. That last handful of hair was in Dorry’s clutches. And Dorry seemed determined to have it out, too.

“Get off me!” Loochie cried. She sounded scared. Pepper couldn’t blame her. The howls they’d heard had come from the kid.

“Get her off me!” Loochie begged. She grabbed at the last of her hair. There were small dots of blood on her scalp, where other strands had recently been yanked out.

The two orderlies cut through the crowd, but were clearly confused. They would’ve assumed they were coming to save Dorry from Loochie, but obviously that wasn’t the case. Even though the orderlies both saw what everyone else just saw—Dorry laying the smack-down on Loochie—they still grabbed Loochie. It was like their minds had delivered a verdict long before their eyes could judge the evidence. They pulled the girl’s hands away from her head, a man holding each of her wrists.

“What the fuck?!” Loochie yelled as the orderlies worked to restrain her. Even the other patients agreed.

“That’s not right!” shouted the Redhead Kingpin.

Wally Gambino raised one hand high and whipped his extended fingers to make a snapping sound. “That shit is cold, yo! Y’all are foul.”

Mr. Mack’s face had a pillow crease from where he’d been sleeping just moments before. He had his sport coat on, but had only managed to get one arm through its sleeve. He pointed at Dorry and Loochie. “I am so tired of these two. Throw ’em both in lockup! It’s folks like them who make life hard in here for the rest of us. They’re enemies of the state! That’s how I see it.”

Mr. Mack slapped to his right, reaching for Frank Waverly’s elbow. But Frank Waverly stepped away and Mr. Mack swatted the air. Mr. Mack looked up at his friend, but Frank Waverly didn’t return his gaze, and Mr. Mack sneered, “Well fuck you, too, then.”

In a moment the orderlies would realize their mistake. They’d grabbed the wrong woman. They were about to be given unambiguous proof.

Dorry leapt at Loochie, whose arms were still being held. She was defenseless. Dorry got hold of that last little knot of Loochie’s hair and she wrenched it so hard Pepper swore he heard the stuff tear out of Loochie’s head. It sounded like a siren wailing. Or maybe that was just the kid.

Loochie’s body bucked forward so hard that Dorry knocked backward. The old woman stumbled and bumped against a wall. The orderlies let go of Loochie and she scrambled away to the opposite wall. The kid’s scream cut off immediately and she just sat there, holding her now totally bald head. Loochie’s mouth hung open, a terrible gasp in her throat. And a moment later she did cry. It was horrible and high-pitched, like a newborn’s night cries. And every person in the hall who’d ever raised a child felt the same stab of horror and sympathy and overwhelming anxiety, and suddenly they were nearly crying, too.

The Haint slipped through the crowd. In her wrinkled purple pantsuit she got down beside Loochie and put her arms around the girl’s head. Pepper thought Loochie would pull away, but she didn’t. She rested her head against the older woman’s shoulder. Loochie wept.

The two orderlies finally hemmed Dorry up. Each grabbed an arm and lifted the old woman who hardly seemed to notice them. Dorry hadn’t been softened by Loochie’s cries. She growled at Loochie even now.

“You say it one more time. One more! And I’ll bite off your fucking tongue.”

Loochie gulped and gasped. She kept one hand on top of her tender head. She watched Dorry for a moment. She pulled her head away from the Haint’s shoulder. Despite the pain, there remained another quality to Loochie Gardner, probably the most essential. That kid was stubborn. She sniffed and swallowed, clearing her throat.

“Say it,” Dorry said, grinning with loathing. “Say it. Say it and see.”

Loochie pulled away from the Haint. She sat straight. Met Dorry’s gaze. Then, as calmly as she could, Loochie spoke the phrase she’d been repeating for six weeks now; while Pepper was off falling in love, Loochie had been tormenting Dorry with this chant—in the lounge, in the hall, when passing Dorry’s room—anywhere and everywhere for a month and a half.

“He’s my son,” Loochie chanted. “He’s my son!”

Dorry strained forward and the orderlies holding her buckled. They gasped as they tried to keep the old woman back. They feared Dorry, just a little bit, right then.

Dorry didn’t have any rage left. The orderlies held her arms up but the rest of her crumpled. “I told you I was sorry,” Dorry moaned. “I said it and I said it.”