Sage. Wendy Anne
a sufficient amount of caffeine coursing through my veins, so I search for the largest thermos coffee cup I can find and fill it with syrupy black coffee. As soon as I step outside, I can feel my pores contract and shrink, causing my face to stiffen. It’s early, and the heat hasn’t reached its ten-degree peak yet. The weather report suggests that it feels like five below when one considers the windchill factor. I feel cold-blooded, with just enough garments and body mass to prevent me from actually freezing to death.
I hope Bruce and Cheyanne are dressed warmly; they left long before I got up to shower and get ready. I hardly heard them today, just the opening and shutting of doors, and the engine of Bruce’s car working to warm itself. There is evidence of them being here and having a productive morning; the countertops are full of hot chocolate mess, the sink is full of breakfast dishes, and the smell of Bruce’s cologne is permeating the air.
I wish I could have spent a little time with them this morning, but it is probably best I didn’t, considering the sad excuse for sleep I got last night.
When I arrive at my office, a variety of Valentine’s gifts are stacked on my desk and ready to greet me. The early scares this month must have had an impact on my employees; they seem a little more giving this particular Valentine’s Day. There is quite the spread of candy and stuffed animals this year. I nearly feel guilty for arriving empty-handed, but I gave them a decent Christmas bonus. Despite the dreary skies and bitter chill, everyone seems to wear a positive attitude that I appreciate much more than the chocolates and stuffed animals. I step out of my office to thank everyone for the gifts and commend them for a great month while singling each employee, telling them how they’ve contributed and how that contribution adds to the team effort of our success. There are thirty faculty members here today, which covers everyone except for the cleaning lady, though she’s a private contractor and not a full-time employee. “So does this mean we get the day off? I want to slip into some pajamas and watch a good chick flick,” Rose asks while giggling in a soft, teasing voice. All eyes dart to her and then to me, but no laughter is directed at her sense of humor for good measure. Between her squeaky voice and her lack of comedic timing, her jokes rarely go over well. Poor Rose. This time I’ll give her a break and honor her efforts. “Actually…yes.” Now all the eyes in the room are trained on me. “You guys have nothing to do but sit around all day. Go spend some time with your special someone, or on your couch with a good chick flick.” Why not let them go home and do things with their loves.
“Really. Go on and get out before I find something for you to do.” The floor empties soon after, with heartfelt smiles and plenty of thank-yous.
I’m so relieved once the office is empty because I am not sure how many rations I’ve stored in the cheerful place of my mind to contribute to the office. I rummage through the candy and pick out a few of my favorite morsels to much on and enhance the flavor of my now cold black coffee. Watching the screensaver dance across the monitor of the office computer, my mind veers back to the thoughts I’d put back regarding last night, and making my skin crawl. Images of Fran and the demons come back to me at once, and the sound of my neighbor’s stress-induced voice takes me over. My throat, once wet with coffee, becomes tight with anxiety thinking about last night’s dream turned nightmare. Cocking my head, I narrow my eyes on the purse under my desk. I pull out Fran’s crumpled business card and fumble with it in my hand. A chill rolls down my neck, ending at the base of my spine in a painful shrill as I sit staring at the card in silent contemplation. I feel compelled to call, worried that somehow my dream echoed into reality. Once I confirm she’s okay, and I am relieved of the images from my nightmare, an inquiry about Marcus would make an interesting conversation. After several rings, her wiry voice greets me from an answering machine. I am reluctant to leave a message; I’m not sure exactly what to say or how to identify myself. So rather than leaving a message, I call a few more times with hopes that she’ll answer to silence my annoying persistence. My mind is flittering from one place to another as each unanswered ring stabs at my stomach. I want to reassure myself that it was just a dream, but when I can’t reach her on the phone, memories of her mangled face and my body pressed tightly against her bloody corpse plays over in my mind. I try to rebel against the stupidity of blaming a dream for Fran’s not answering, trying to rationalize by considering the countless amounts of reasons that make a hell of a lot more sense, but it’s futile.
I suppose that I shouldn’t do it, but locating Fran and meeting her in person may be the only way to feel at peace right now. At least then I’ll know if she’s okay, and there’s a high probability that she’s fine. When we do meet, we can have the craziest conversation I’ve ever had with a virtual stranger. If I don’t look for her, I’ll wonder about her, the dream, and her curious words. God knows I will end up having an exhausted mind and body because I’ll starve to death with worry and curiosity. I make out the address on her card again, only this time I examine it with more purpose, and realize it’s only a few blocks from where I grew up, which isn’t on the friendliness side of town. What an old woman would be doing on that side of town, I wonder, as my mind ventures farther into that neighborhood. She’d have to be tough or crazy to manage in those parts, especially at her age. I believe everyone’s crazy; it’s just a matter of what brand, though tough is a bit different. The TV might personify tough as carrying a gun, leading a gang, or having a street name, but that is a common misconception. Death comes in the shape of violence, all versions of poison, accidents, or illness; and one has to be tough and smart to survive those things. So it helps not to get involved with the wrong people, mind your own business (unless it’s to protect the innocent), stay honest, stay sober, and keep it real. Tough is about survival, inner strength, and overcoming the darkness in the craziest of places. People in those “barbaric neighborhoods” sometimes have a better grip on life than an elitist who, turning their nose up, does the proper thing instead of the right thing. Take away a rich man’s money and overpriced education, and they would have a much harder time surviving the ghetto than an urban city kid.
A senior woman like Fran wouldn’t have lived in a neighborhood like that for very long if she didn’t have common sense; only extremely rich people who live in safe neighborhoods thrive without commonsense and lead a long life in a crazy place like Worcester, Massachusetts. Every time I visit, I feel the crazy and the sad Native American story, and some believe they can feel the curse bestowed upon them by the native’s pain.
I think the heart of the Commonwealth has an extraordinarily dark side to it, and for so many reasons. Moreover, Worcester has more angry people per square mile compared to any American city I’ve visited in this country, and I have been to many.
Before the city grew into its European connection, there was a Native American tribe that thrived off of the land called the Nipmuck. The Nipmuck are descendants of the Algonquian peoples, and their tribe was first encountered in 1630.
Once the white man arrived, pathogens such as smallpox were introduced as well as poisons we have made legal today such as alcohol. Settlers ruined a good portion of their healthy existence. Next, religious takeovers and European laws oppressed them. As they were weeded out, many of the Nipmuck joined Metacomet’s revolt in 1675. This was unsuccessful and resulted terribly for them. Many of the Nipmuck who survived alcoholism, smallpox, and this rebellion were either executed or sold.
Worcester was built on these very same grounds, and the curse does not end there!
Worcester also had a decent population full of accused insane people. Insane asylums in that area were a lucrative business that created uneasy energy in my opinion.
Once known as the Worcester Lunatic Asylum and the Bloomingdale Asylum, the hospital dates back to the 1830s. On January 12, 1833, the Worcester Insane Asylum opened. It was the first of its kind in the state. Admissions to the Worcester County Asylum between the years 1854 and 1900 were screened to identify children aged sixteen and under. An item sheet was used to record details of the admission.
Roughly two hundred children were admitted, and there was an inexcusable death rate.
In 1901, a satellite facility that became the Grafton State Hospital was opened in nearby Grafton, Massachusetts, to allow nonviolent patients to engage in “therapeutic work” in a rural environment. Overcrowding soon became a problem, and Merrick Bemis, the superintendent