The Jersey ferry thuds its flat prow into the berth. Green water twists into whirlpools. The floor stops vibrating and the motor drops to a dull hum. A deckhand swings open the gate, shooing off a parade of clomping horse-wagons, snorting motorcars, and soot belching vans before waving us pedestrians down the ramp. It took only twenty minutes for me to cross the wide Hudson River and leave Manhattan Island for the first time in my life.
Monroe Goldstein’s letter arrived three weeks after the end of our strike, two weeks after Miriam and Leo recited their vows at the Eldritch Street Synagogue, and one week after I give up on finding another apprenticeship.
It was the simplest of investigations, he wrote, right there in the records of Bellevue Hospital. Arthur Herschel Friedman was admitted November 4, 1912, in a “morbid epileptic paroxysm.” The instigating relative, the father, declared the patient to be a man of low moral character, “a vicious, degenerate pervert prone to violent outbursts. He refuses to work. He abuses his mother and is a threat to his brother and sister, a constant danger to the family. He brings us only shame.” An order of commitment was signed on the basis of the father’s testimony. Arthur Friedman was transferred to the state’s newly opened facility in Rockland County. “Any further inquiry should be directed to the authorities where your brother is being housed.”
So began my monumental correspondence with Superintendent Dr. Charles S. Little of Letchworth Village Asylum for the Feeble Minded and Epileptic. Back and forth the letters flew, explanations, rebuttals, entreaties, and legalities until I am at last granted a visit to their hallowed institution in Thiells, New York.
The conductor nips our heels, yapping that the Rockland County rail service has a schedule to maintain and the train is waiting. Before I can blink, I’m installed in the scratchy seat of a coach car, staring through a grimy window as the conductor pushes the last straggler aboard, bangs the doors, and waves to the engineer. The train-whistle answers with a deep bellow and we bounce into motion. In my pocket I carry a sheaf of letters, in my satchel the gift of Miriam’s best fruitcake, in my heart…uncertainty.
Dr. Little’s final message arrived with my permission slip.
If you hold some fantasy of reclaiming your brother to normal life, let me state in the most adamant terms, that the vast majority of epileptics are incurable, becoming demented, feeble-minded, imbecile, idiotic, or insane.
“This schmuck sounds just like the bastard judges during our strike,” Leo’s voice was harsh. “More concerned with your capitulation than your success. Do what you set out to do, Irving. Go see for yourself.”
Thiells, New York, is a red brick stationhouse and a road. The other passengers putt-putt off in waiting motorcars. I’m alone excepting the two workmen shoveling coal into a rusty van at the platform’s edge. When I ask, “Letchworth?” one of them waves, “Two miles,” without looking up.
Grey road, telegraph poles, grass, and weeds. It’s noon, so peaceful you can hear the air hum. The sun paints black lines from the telegraph wire onto the roadbed. Out in the field, some insect drums a tick-tick-tick. My boots crunch the gravel. In my whole life I’ve never walked in such emptiness.
Three-quarters of an hour later, jacket over my shoulder, shirtsleeves rolled up, I stop to wipe the sweat off my face. The coal truck rattles past me, kicking up a smoky cloud. When the dust clears I see where it is headed—a black iron arch with the words “Letchworth Asylum.” I start to run.
The grey stone building at the top of the lane says “Administration.” Its hallway smells of bleach and lye soap. Bright as it is outside, the window blinds slant the light to dim as the receptionist examines my documents. Turns out I’m not to see the exalted Superintendent Charles S. Little, but some lackey assistant, Dr. Bertram Barnsby.
Hidden behind thick glasses and a bushy goatee, he taps his pen as he reads from a thick file.
“Trust me, Mr. Friedman, your brother is best served at Letchworth. Although our primary mission is the maintenance of feebleminded children, we also retain facilities for permanently impaired adults.” My knee starts twitching in time with his pen, so I put a hand on it to hold it still. The pen stops. “On that score, the record is unequivocal. Your brother is an incorrigible epileptic. Such degenerate conditions necessitate an environment of rigorous discipline, orderly routine, and productive work.”
My fists are balled in my lap. “Arthur was a bookbinder…if we would take him…”
“You would have to petition the state Supreme Court to overturn his commitment. Frankly, I doubt they would allow it.”
“But I can see him. Your boss said I’m allowed.” I reach to my pocket to produce my documents, but he waves them away.
“Certainly, certainly. That’s not at issue.”
“So…” I’m half out of my chair.
“A question, first.” I drop back. He clears his throat. “The etiology of epilepsy is obscure, but we know there is a strong hereditary component. Whenever possible we try to obtain a complete family history. Now that you’re here…”
I twist my cap as if it were this bastard’s neck.
“Ah, I see you’re on pins and needles. Why don’t we send a caseworker to interview your family at home?” His lips turn up in a weasel smile. “That way you can go right to your visit.”
“Yes, sure, fine, anything.”
“Good.” He makes a note in the file. “Most of our inmates are working the fields in this lovely spring weather, but Arthur’s been assigned a dormitory job. An orderly will walk you over.” He offers me his fish handshake. “We’ll be in touch about the other matter.”
A brawny guy with a red face and bad teeth cools his heels on the front porch. When I come out, he flicks off his cigarette and cocks his head for me to follow. I trail him over grassy hills and around budding trees. This could be a stroll in the countryside, if it weren’t for the hulking stone buildings, one after the other after the other.
“They sort ’em into clans.” He’s a Mick, sounding right off the boat. “One for the Idiots, another for the Morons. Your fella’s in Epileptics. That’s what the docs call ’em. I call ’em Mexican Jumping Beans.” I’m thinking to bash in his head with a rock when he stops at the top of a rise. “There’s your guy.”
Sitting at the bottom of the hill. I make out a silhouette against the bright sun. The Mick makes as if to walk down with me.
“You can go,” I tell him.
“I’m supposed to stay and—”
I shove my face an inch from his nose. “You can go.”
“What the hell,” he gripes, and away he stomps.
I order my heart to stop thumping. I breathe. Go too fast, maybe I’m scary, so I make myself walk slow.
Arthur is on a bench next to a basket of pea pods. He scoops, slits with his thumb. The round green pebbles plink to the metal bowl in his lap. Scoop, slit, drop. Scoop, slit, drop. Regular as a machine.
“Artie?”
The peas stop pinging. His head comes up. Narrow face, sharp nose, cleft chin, a moon-shaped scar next to his left eye, and white welt on his neck. Sunken cheeks, deep lines etching the mouth. Pale and rail thin. But my brother, still my brother. His brows fold in concentration. I step closer.
“They told you I was coming, yes?”
Carefully, carefully, carefully like he’s handling precious gems, he places the pot on the bench. His knees unfold and he’s on his feet. Eyes wide in wonder, he throws open his arms.
We are enfolded. Crushing the rough cotton of his shirt, I bury my face into the soft folds of his neck. My cap falls to the ground as his fingers caress my hair. He smells of salt and sweat and—how can it be?—of Mama. We hold each other where we stand, rocking back and forth, five minutes, ten minutes. Our throats are too full to make words, so we share our tears.
After an eternity of embracing, we push apart. He runs his hand over my cheek. “Irving. Little Irving.”
It is the gentle voice from my dreams. Arthur’s brown eyes are holes too deep to fill. With all this longing and waiting and praying, no words are the right words but Arthur demands. Huddled together as the sun moves across the sky, I sputter out the years apart…abandoning Papa, Miriam and me, school, Mama the Ghost, apprenticeship, Leo, the strike. Shadows from nearby buildings stretch across the lawn, and still Arthur listens, alive in his hunger. I can’t stop ’til it’s sated. Then it’s my turn, but I can only ask it in a whisper.
“After we moved there was no way for you to find us, but it haunted me…Did you…did you write to us? With no answer, did you think we’d abandoned you?”
“Stop Irving, enough guilt. I never wrote.”
“But…” My silent ‘Why?’ hangs between us.
“Little Irving, such a baby.” His words are so like Miriam it takes my breath away. Bitter lines drive the sweetness from his face. “Go home to what? To my schmuck of a father…to beatings…to hate and contempt?” His voice is acid. “You think that’s better than this?”
I shake my head, unable to let this into my mind. He could’ve tried for us, but he chose not to. “There was still me and Miriam. Mama.”
“Oy, you still don’t get it.” He raises a finger to his left eye. “This is from a fit when I fell on some scissors.” His hand goes to his neck. “In the garden from my hoe.” Pulling up his pant leg to show the curdled skin of his shin. “I was carrying boiling water for tea. But,” he taps his skull, “the worst is here. Things disappear…Mama’s face, the street where we lived, even what happened yesterday. If I have a fit tonight, pouf, you are gone. Endless, inevitable, doomed. I am one of God’s cursed.” Arthur’s eyes shoot past me to the darkening trees. “I am where I am supposed to be.”
The sun is only a crescent glow over the treetops. The path becomes flooded with bands of muted children, white-aproned nurses, and mud-covered inmates returning from the fields. From the top of the rise, the Mick orderly is tramping our way.
I grab the sleeve of Arthur’s shirt. “I will never desert you again. I swear it on my life.”
His eyes crinkle with warmth and he squeezes my hand, almost knocking over his half-shucked pot of peas. “Oops. See what happens when I’m overcome. This is all of today’s...”
He doesn’t finish his thought. Instead, his hand quakes, sending the peas flying in a spray onto the grass. A second twitch, like he’s purposely scattering away his day’s labor. On the third spasm, the pot clangs to the ground. From two feet away, the orderly breaks into a run, arms extended, but as Artie pitches forward, I’m the one to catch and ease him to the ground while he continues to shudder and bump.
The Mick stands over him, shaking his head. “Like I said, jumping beans.”
I’m on my knees, cradling Artie’s head and shaking like a leaf myself, but this convulsion is already easing and his eyes flutter open. “Thanks be to Gott,” I breathe as a nurse comes trotting over. Cool as a cucumber, she drops onto one knee, her fingers to his wrist as she checks the watch pinned to her bib. She pulls a pad and pencil from her pocket. “Brief, under two minutes, but I’ll have to chart it.” She glances at the orderly. “Make certain he gets to the dormitory.” She stands, taking in the green nubs scattered around us. “No peas for dinner tonight. I warned them about him.” I cannot believe my eyes when she makes to leave so I pluck at her skirt.
She tugs away, “I beg your pardon.”
The orderly hops in. “He’s the brother, ma’am. Day visit.”
“Visiting hours are long over,” she huffs at him.
“Sorry, ma’am, I was doin’…”
She flicks her hand for him to stop and turns to me. “It’s time for you to leave, young man. Your brother is being attended to.”
From the ground Arthur’s hand claws my shirt. “Irv…Irv…ing.” His voice is a nasal hum. His fingers scratch my arm, begging for purchase. I wrap his hand in mine. He pulls himself up to sit against the bench, licking his lips. He is ghost white and his head lolls, but his eyes are riveted on me. “Go.” I lean in to hear better. “Go now…so they’ll let you come again.”
I glance up at the two guardians surrounding me. I wrap Arthur in my arms for a final hug. “I’ll be back,” I whisper.
Standing, I turn and march to the black iron gate.