Utopia

They said she was well. She was not well. She had run out of insurance coverage. Cathy exited the huge stone edifice, timidly placing one orthopedic Oxford in front of the other. Blustery winds pushed her small frame back against the institution’s foundation and lifted the hem of her nightgown. The nurses had fought her on that point. They didn’t think it was right for her to wear sleepwear outside, during the day. The thin cotton fabric billowed, catching air like a ship’s sail. Where would the wind take her? Grasping her favorite belonging — a slim briefcase, a salesman’s sample — she walked along the road, to the L4 bus stop. Sitting in her seat on the bus, cradling her case, she opened it to gaze at the diorama inside. Tracing her hands along the edge of the case’s swimming pool, she dreamed of lazing by its side. Her father had sold swimming pools, door-to-door. Opening the jaws of his briefcase, metal hinges sliding into place with that life-affirming snap. He would wow citizens with the tiny world within. Astroturf lined the interior, leading to the cerulean glass of a model pool. Beautiful young dolls lolled by the pool’s rim, resting on shrunken lawn chairs, bronzing in a sun of the mind’s eye. The little blonde doll looked like her mother.

“Where is mommy?”

“She isn’t feeling well. She’s resting,” her father would say.

“National Zoo. Uhh. Ma’am. I said last stop.”

“Take me home.”

Cathy had trouble staying fixed in time. She was like her mother in this regard.

“Take you home. Gimme a break. I have to follow the route. Tight schedule. No time for dilly-dallying over passengers. Why don’t you go to the zoo? Last stop, zoo.”

Her father had taken her to the zoo as a child. Diane, her mother, never had. Suffering from schizophrenia, her mother lived in the institution, writhing away in solitude. It had not always been this way. A blonde vocalist with a stunning figure, her mother had sung one famous early sixties hit. Cathy couldn’t remember the song. It was about love, or heartbreak. Weren’t they all? Her mother had made quite a sum of money, which she spent on a Holmsby California home. She had first met Harold, Cathy’s father, when he came to her door hawking swimming pools. When Harry snapped open that case, she swooned with envy. She had to have that pool — had to realize the model’s utopian promise. The success intoxicated her and left her reeling with the wonder of her first hit. Drunk on mania’s effervescence, she signed all the contracts and forms Harold gave her. She didn’t have the funds, but the second LP would be out soon. It was sure to be a success. And besides, the record company was sure to give her an advance. Her tune had made them a pile of loot — of this she was sure. She was deserving. She was owed. Unfortunately, being sure is not the same as being right.

The second album was a flop. When Harry knocked on her door the next time, Diane didn’t have the second installation’s sum. Harry couldn’t resist the pretty blonde in trouble. He had always wanted a real live one, a big version of the privileged dollies he carried with him. If Diane was unstuck in time, Harry was cut loose from scale. The bank foreclosed and Diane married Harry. She wouldn’t move in unless they were married. She was 20 years old. Nine months later, her belly bulged with pregnancy, while disease terrorized and broke her mind. The schizophrenia soured her thoughts, and her brain curdled. Do all things carry expiration dates? Once Cathy arrived in the world, Harry had Diane committed. He couldn’t care for a child and a wife. Twenty years later, Harry died and Cathy’s brain passed its expiration date, souring and curdling like her mother’s. And so, she had come to the institution.

Cathy went to the zoo. She bought roasted cashews. She tried to feed the squirrels, for it was cold and they must be hungry, but a broad woman in a navy blue uniform clucked her tongue and said: “No, don’t feed them — they’ve stop gathering their own food because you people feed ‘em.” But, if they forgot how to feed themselves, isn’t it mean to stop feeding them? Confused and upset, Cathy shuffled up the walkway to the Great Ape house, pushing tears away with her ratty sleeve. The apes looked back at her with glazed eyes. Wooden tiers climbed the stucco wall of the cage. Dead palm fronds covered the wooden planks and provided bedding for the apes. On the uppermost plank, a gorilla leaned back against the wall and urinated over the edge. On the cement floor below, a gorilla’s slack jaw hung agape to drink from the stream.

They must be on Thorazine.

“This building is closed. The zoo closes in 15. I said, 15, you have 15 minutes to proceed to the exit. C’mon folks, hustle up.”

“Where is out?” Cathy asked quietly.

“Follow the Olmstead walk to the carved tree-clock.”

Cathy had hardly seen anything. She followed the Olmstead walk, ducking into the zoo’s woods, leaving the carved tree-clock to loom on the horizon. Hiding behind the knotted trunk of an oak tree, she tucked her knees under her nightie and munched on the last of the now-cold cashews. Placing the last morsel on her tongue, she stood up quickly. Digging into the dense pile, knuckles scraping against the frozen ground, she horded the leaves in a pile to the side. Curled up on the cold ground, burrowed under the dense pile of oak leaves, she slept while her raw fingers bled unto the molding leaves.

She woke up with a start. Expecting the hospital, her mind distrusted the forest that the eyes reflected. How do you close the gap between the present and its long past? Her head throbbed and her body oozed sweat. The Thorazine had worn off. Cathy had never felt so sick, or alive. Rising from the leafy mattress, she walked to the Olmstead walk, following the inky tar wherever it led. A roar ripped through the air, rending the past further from the present. Cathy ran after the sound, chasing the painful screams to their source. In season and aching, a lioness screamed in agony. Tip-toeing to the low cement wall, Cathy peered over its edge. The cement lip dipped down to a clear blue pool of water. Her eyes followed the curve of the pond, to the opposite edge, where the cement bordered a grassy knoll. A tree rose from the turf, dipping its branches in the still water. Cathy dropped the suitcase by her side. Climbing over the cement wall, she rolled down the hill into the pool. The water froze her through, but the thrill of it all invigorated her. She wanted to swim. Skin blue and goose-pimpled, Cathy’s limbs pulled forceful strokes through the water. The big cat watched from the edge, eyes reflecting pale light into the darkness, but no one was looking. Finally, Cathy’s frail frame could not withstand the shuddering cold. She clawed the cement edge, further tearing the flesh on the soft pads of her hands. Crawling onto the soft wheat grass, Cathy rolled onto her back to watch the stars. So this is what it felt like. She didn’t see the lion, didn’t hear the soft padding of its paws. A sound so faint and careful, like a clock ticking off ‘till doomsday. Shouldn’t the final ticks of time merit noise?