Praying for Sleep

burden of his anxiety and fear.
    Did it say something to him? Did it offer solace?
    Michael met people in his wanderings and they sometimes took to him. If he was clean and was wearing clothing recently given to him by a priest or social worker, someone might sit beside him on a park bench as he read a book. With a Penguin Classic in your hand, you were easily forgiven rumpled clothes and a short stubble of beard. Like any businessman out on a fine Sunday afternoon, Michael would cross his legs, revealing sockless ankles in brown loafers. He’d smile and nod and, avoiding the subjects of murder, rape and the Secret Service, talk only about what he saw in front of him: sparrows bathing in spring dust, trees, children playing flag football. He had conversations with men who might have been chief executives of huge corporations.
    This nomadic life finally came to an unpleasant end in January of this year when he was arrested and charged with breaking into a store in a small, affluent town fifty miles south of Ridgeton. He’d shattered the window and torn apart a female mannequin. He was examined by a court-appointed psychiatrist, who believed there were sexual overtones to the vandalism and declared him violently psychotic. Giving his name as Michael W. Booth he was involuntarily committed and sent to Cooperstown State Mental Hospital.
    There, even before an intake diagnostic interview, Michael was shuttled into the Hard Ward.
    Still in a restraint camisole he was deposited in a cold, dark room, where he remained for three hours before the door opened and a man entered. A man bigger even than Michael himself.
    “Who’re you?” Michael challenged. “Are you John Wilkes Orderly? Do you work for the government? I’ve been to Washington, D.C., the capital of this great country. Who the hell do you—”
    “Shut the fuck up.” John Orderly slammed him into the wall and then shoved him to the floor. “Don’t scream, don’t shout, don’t talk back. Just shut the fuck up and relax.”
    Michael had shut the fuck up but he hadn’t relaxed. Nobody relaxed at Cooperstown. This was a place where patients simply gave up, surrendering to their madness. Michael spent much time sitting by himself, looking out windows, jiggling his legs with nervous energy, repeatedly muttering a single song—“Old Folks at Home.” The staff psychologist who spent about seven minutes a week with Michael never pursued this compulsion but if he had he’d have found that the old Stephen Foster song contained the line “Oh, darkie, how my heart is yearning,” which to Michael referred not to a slave but to darkness, specifically night. Night brought the hope of sleep, and sleep was the only time when he was at peace in this terrible place.
    Cooperstown—where nurses would put two women patients in a room together with a single, oiled Coke bottle and watch from the door.
    Cooperstown—where John Orderly would bend Michael over the tin washbasin and press into him again and again, the pain crying up through his ass into his jaw and face, the cold metal of the orderly’s keys bouncing on the patient’s thigh and matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
    Cooperstown—where Michael slipped far, far from reality and came to believe with certainty that he was living in the time of the Civil War. In his month on the Hard Ward Michael had access to only one book. It was about reincarnation and after reading it a dozen times, he understood how he could in fact be John Wilkes Booth. He carried Booth’s soul around with him! The spirit had flown from the old wounded body and circled for a hundred years. It alighted upon the head of Michael’s mother just as the baby struggled out of her, leaving the red marks on her stomach that she had told him were his fault but not to worry about.
    Yes, within him was the soul of Mr. John Wilkes Booth, a fair actor but a damn good killer.
    One day in March of this year, John Orderly took Michael by the arm and pushed him into Suzie’s room. He slammed the door shut and aimed the video camera through the window.
    They were alone, Michael and this twenty-four-year-old patient, on whose pretty face was only one blemish—a tiny indentation of scar in the middle of her forehead. Suzie looked at Michael carefully with her sunken eyes. She was someone whose only earthly power was in knowing what was expected of her. She observed that Michael was a man and immediately hiked her skirt over bulging thighs. Down went her