Silent

By Elaine MacLachlan

"Silent" is a gripping novel that details the dire consequences faced by a small-town Ontario woman in the 1950's and 1960's whose need to conform to the religious/social expectations of her community lead to a marriage of exploitation and abuse. Throughout the book, the protagonist strives to survive this terror and her feelings of solitude and shame. She attempts to hide the hideous truth of her life from others. Finally, she feels forced to make a life-shattering decision, a decision for which she pays with the rest of her life.

In 1964, after a life shattering event, Polly Dewart is committed to Blackburn Psychiatric Hospital. Now, sixty-four years old, she has been living at Blackburn for thirty years disconnected from everyone and everything she knew from her past life in small town Ontario. Polly does not speak yet she connects to other patients around her by surreptitiously observing them and learning their stories.

One day, a figure from her former life arrives at the hospital and helps her connect to her past by providing the opportunity of giving voice to Polly's own story.

As her story unfolds, we learn that Polly was a naïve, hopeful small-town girl in the 1950's who never expected any man to look at her, let alone pick her for his bride. She is thrilled when a brooding, enigmatic man takes an interest in her and asks her to marry him much to the shock and dismay and of her conservative, Protestant family. Polly, wanting only to be loved, marries him anyway and finds herself in an abusive relationship. She endures the marriage for years, hiding her shame and suffering from others. After the birth of her daughter, she determines that she can no longer live with the abuse and thus makes an explosive decision, changing her life and her family's life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667805405

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© Elaine MacLachlan.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

COPY RIGHT # 1183844 – 2021-07-06

ISBN: 978-1-66780-540-5

Table of Contents

EPIGRAPH

PART I

CHAPTER 1 – 1994

CHAPTER 2 – Early Years

CHAPTER 3 - Growing Pains

CHAPTER 4 - Life at Blackburn

CHAPTER 5 – Annabella’s Journey

CHAPTER 6 – A Friend of a Sort

CHAPTER 7 – Robert Dewart

CHAPTER 8 – Janitor Joe

PART II

CHAPTER 9 – Marriage

CHAPTER 10 – Saying Goodbye

CHAPTER 11 – Ma Dewart

CHAPTER 12 – Arnie Dewart

CHAPTER 13 –Jack Buchanan

CHAPTER 14 – Nurse Candy

PART III

CHAPTER 15 – Nat Payne

CHAPTER 16 - Sophie

CHAPTER 17 – Psychic

CHAPTER 18 – Nat Meets Sophie

PART IV

CHAPTER 19 – Beginning of the End

CHAPTER 20 – All Hell Breaks Loose

CHAPTER 21 - Arrest

CHAPTER 22 – Gathering Evidence

CHAPTER 23 – Nat’s Plan

CHAPTER 24 - Trial

CHAPTER 25 – Inside the Courtroom

CHAPTER 26 – Webster Takes the Stand

CHAPTER 27 - Planning

CHAPTER 28– Beryl Tanniker

CHAPTER 29 – Gertrude MacGillicuddy

CHAPTER 30 – Dell Cotton

CHAPTER 31 – Edith Campbell

CHAPTER 32 – Summation

CHAPTER 33 - Verdict

PART V

CHAPTER 34 – Nat and Sophie

CHAPTER 35 – Full Circle

CHAPTER 36 - Waiting

EPIGRAPH

The woman I needed to call my mother was silenced before I was born

Adrienne Rich

The past is not dead. In fact, it’s not even past

William Faulkner

PART I

CHAPTER 1 – 1994

Brrrring, brrrring, brrrring. The irksome clang of the morning bell peels along the hallway and in through my bedroom door bouncing from floor to wall to ceiling and back again before exiting and reverberating down the corridor to the next hapless patient. My head begins to throb. It’s time to make my way to the dining room for breakfast. Mornings are hard. Rarely does one appear that I don’t pray it’ll be my last. Never does one pass that I’m not stung by the memory of her. Time hasn’t managed to dull that ache even after all these years. It’s only grown stronger.

Come on, get moving, Nurse Quigley barks as she strolls past my door pushing a cartload of medications, small paper cups and syringes. She peers inside my room and meets my eye. Get going, she scowls, You don’t have all day.

Fuck off, I think but don’t say. Instead, I heave myself up off the bed and head out the door. Today will be a day just like yesterday and the day before that.

Jeezez, I curse to myself, holding tight to the rail on the wall. I don’t move as fast as I used to. My back aches and my legs are wobbly. This is what happens with idleness and age.

I keep my head lowered and follow the well-worn path to the dining room, the familiar scents of Lysol and mold rising up from the carpet. I stifle the urge to gag.

Christ. I curse again when a sharp pang shoots down my leg and am surprised by my own sacrilege. When had the cursing started? I wondered. Probably when I’d ended up here, at Blackburn Psychiatric Hospital, an institution for crazy people.

Bloody hell, I whisper when the pain in my right knee shoots down to my ankle, Goddammit.

I am reminded that the old Polly would never have whispered such profanities. The old Polly would never have thought such things. Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other. It’s a good thing he’s not here, I think. I’d be easy prey now.

Two nurses scurry by me, impatient and irritable. Get moving, Polly Dewart, one of them snaps and hurries past. The other stops and turns to me. She puts a teeny paper cup to my lips. Here, take this, she says and plops two pink pills into my mouth. She follows with another teeny cup of water. Drink that, she orders, parting my lips and pouring the liquid inside. I cough. Her fingers taste salty and smell like bacon. I don’t want to take the pills, but I do. I’m not one to complain. Besides, there’s no point in arguing. Not if you know what’s good for you. The pills dull my thinking and make me sleepy. Get going, she says and bustles off ahead of me. I wish I had the strength to kick her fat ass.

Behind my right shoulder, I can hear Franklin Goodhart approaching. "Outta my way mute," he bellows as he propels past me, far too close. I have to step aside to avoid being thrust into the wall.

Franklin has a gimp leg. A childhood mishap from a fall down the cellar stairs hobbled his right foot, leaving it twisted slightly sideways. He walks with a permanent limp. Dumb bitch, he murmurs without looking up but just loud enough for me to hear. I know who he’s talking to. I’m not deaf. Tufts of his thin white hair rise up from the top of his scalp and I wonder when he last ran a comb through it, although he doesn’t have much to make a fuss over. I hear the sound of one noisy slipper as it flaps against his good heel. He has scrunched up his too large striped pajama bottoms into a ball at the waist to keep them from falling down. Franklin likes to be the first one to the dining room for breakfast.

Franklin has lived here almost as long as I have. And that’s a very long time. He was sent here after he strangled his mother near to death one night and then ran buck-naked out into the street. As the story is told, Franklin and his mother, Marnie, had argued that night which, apparently, wasn’t unusual. They hated each other but, because they were kin, they stayed living together. Besides, Franklin could never have made it on his own. He hadn’t finished high school and he’d never held a job except for a couple of weeks at the grocery store stocking shelves. They fired him when he dropped a case of Coke bottles onto the floor and broke all but two. After Franklin’s father died, Marnie had a tough time making ends meet. She needed Franklin’s pittance of a disability check. Every little bit helped.

They sat down at the table together at six o’clock because Marnie had always insisted on eating dinner on the dot of six. That night, she’d served canned corn, scalloped potatoes and fried chicken. But Franklin and Marnie couldn’t help scrapping whenever they were in the same room together. So, not long after they started eating, the carping began.

Marnie started it. Close your trap while you’re eatin’, she snarled, They can hear ya’ next door.

Piss off, Franklin growled, Close your own trap, and he chewed louder.

Bloody fool, Marnie said and poured herself a cup of tea. Franklin glared.

Any more chicken? he asked finally.

That’s all there is, Marnie said.

I’m still hungry, Franklin narrowed his eyes. You’re savin’ it for yourself aren’t ya?

No, I ain’t, said Marnie, growing more irritated, The pan’s empty. Look for yourself. She pointed towards the stove, That’s all’s left.

You shoulda made more, Franklin taunted.

I couldn’t make more ‘cause I got no more, Marnie scowled. "Maybe if you’d pay for groceries once in a while." She reached for his empty plate as she rose from the table.

What d’ya’ mean? You get my whole cheque, Franklin snapped.

Pfft, Marnie’s lips fluttered, A lot that is.

That’s when Franklin grabbed her arm, You bitch, he said, and squeezed.

For a moment they stood glaring at one another. Neither wanted to be the first to look away. Finally, Marnie pulled her arm from his grip and walked towards the sink.

Watch your mouth, Frankie. I’ve told ya’ that before.

Well, I ain’t gonna watch my mouth, Marnie, Franklin challenged, And, what’re you gonna do about it?

I’ve had just about enough of your guff, Marnie said, removing more plates from the table, If your father was here, he’d smack that mouth of yours.

He’d likely smack yours, said Franklin.

Shut it, Franklin, before I give ya’ what for.

Franklin stood up from the table and moved towards her.

Cut it out, Marnie said and held the frying pan up over her head.

Oh, Franklin taunted, So you’re gonna kill me too, are ya? he shouted.

Jesus H. You little bastard, Marnie shouted, her eyes widening, You’re the one killed Pa.

Fuckin’ liar, Franklin shouted back, He fell down the stairs. I was goin’ for you.

You pushed him, said Marnie, I saw ya’ do it.

He got between us, Franklin shouted louder.

Right, said Marnie.

Bitch, Franklin spat, He fell back. He lost his balance.

Franklin stepped so close he could smell his mother’s corn and fried chicken dinner.

Get away from me, Marnie scowled and that’s when Franklin grabbed the frying pan and threw it to the floor. Then, he reached for her throat. Marnie was not a large woman, but she was wily. She stood about as high as Franklin’s shoulder. He wrapped his hands around her throat and felt her neck bones between his fingers. They could easily snap if he squeezed hard enough.

You gonna kill me too? Marnie managed. The voice inside Franklin’s head was screaming, Kill the bitch, and he squeezed harder.

Marnie’s eyes bulged and they looked as if they might pop. Franklin kept on squeezing and shoved her against the wall. She grabbed at his arms, trying to pull them off but Franklin was too strong. He heard a gurgling sound and felt a sharp pain where she kicked him in the shin. He let go.

Marnie slumped to the floor like a rag doll. She didn’t move. Franklin took a step back. Was she dead? He hadn’t meant to kill her. But she’d pushed him again, always blaming him for things that weren’t his fault. He nudged her with his foot. Still, she didn’t budge. He grew frightened and ran into the bathroom. He couldn’t think what to do so he took a shower. Afterwards, he crept back into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around his waist, hoping to find his mother sitting up in her chair. She wasn’t. She was still lying on the floor where he’d left her, not moving. Franklin panicked. His heart was pounding. He needed to get away. He dropped the towel and ran, buck naked, out into the street.

By then, Marnie was starting to rouse from her slumped position on the floor. Her body ached and she felt dizzy, but she sat up. She crawled into the living room and picked up the phone. It took her awhile to get her words across because her vocal chords had been choked and the words kept getting caught in her throat. My son, she managed to say, He tried to kill me. The cops raced over, and after a brief search, they found Franklin hiding in the bushes next door. He hadn’t run very far. They had him face down on the lawn in no time.

Terence Hayes, the Goodhart’s next door neighbor, arrived first. He’d heard the raucous outside. Get down. Don’t move, the police were shouting at Franklin. Rotating red lights from the tops of the cruisers spun across the faces of the homes nearby. Terence saw a naked man pinned face down on his lawn with the knees of two officers pressed to his back. He couldn’t tell right away who it was until he heard Franklin’s muffled shouts.

Let me go, you bastards.

Settle down, one of the officers shouted back, Keep still. The officer looked around at the crowd gathering nearby.

Anybody know this guy? he asked.

That’s Franklin Goodhart, Terence said, He lives over there. Terence pointed to the house next door.

Franklin was squirming and cursing. Leave me alone, you pricks. Get the hell off me. More neighbours poured out of their homes and stood gaping at the scene in the street. They gathered around the cops and naked Franklin, trying to get as good a look as they could without getting too close. Get back, the cops shouted, Get back.

An ambulance pulled up and two paramedics hopped out. In there, one of the officers nodded to the Goodhart family home and the two medics hurried inside. A few minutes later, they wheeled Marnie out on a stretcher. She was shaking her fists at Franklin who was still being held down by the police. She tried cursing but her throat was sore and all she could manage was a croaky, Goddam you, Franklin.

That little bastard tried to kill me, she rasped to one of the paramedics, That bastard.

Quieten down ma’am.

The paramedics slid the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and slammed the doors shut, then squealed off down the street to the local hospital.

When the neighbours learned that Franklin Goodhart had choked his poor mother near to death, twisting her neck so hard she’d lost consciousness, they were duly horrified.

Anybody know this guy? an officer asked. He had a notebook and pen out and he was writing things down. Terence Hayes stepped forward.

I’ve known Franklin for years, he said, He always was a weird kid. But anyone could see that the person lying face flat on the grass was not a kid. He was well over 30 years old, maybe even 40. But it was hard to tell with his face flat to the ground.

Where’s the rest of the family? the officer looked around the crowd.

There’s only his ma, said Terence, That was her they just took out in the ambulance. Terrence was holding himself a little taller now because it was clear that he was the neighbourhood spokesperson.

Franklin’s pa died a few years back, fell down the cellar stairs, he said, Broke his neck. Folks turned to look at one another, now wondering if that was the truth of it.

No one else lives in the house?

That’s right, said Terence, It was just the two o’ them after Cliff passed away.

The crowd grew silent and only the grunts and curses from Franklin who was still lying face first could be heard.

Good thing it’s the middle of summer, an older man said finally, If it was winter, his parts would likely be frozen off by now, frost bit for sure. Then, he chuckled. There were a few more tentative chuckles from the crowd as the drama of the situation settled in and everyone enjoyed a little icy humour to lighten the mood.

Folks continued to stand and gawk from a safe distance. The cops had Franklin pinned and trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. An officer brought a blanket from the boot of his vehicle and, once they got him standing, they wrapped it around Franklin’s body and shoved him into the back of the cruiser.

I didn’t do nothing, Franklin shouted, It was her. She’s the one that started it.

Just get in the car, said the officer who held the top of Franklin’s head as he helped him inside.

Later, in the interrogation room at the station, Franklin sat with his head on the table and mumbled to himself. Every once in a while, he’d look up and around the room and stare up at the ceiling. Then he’d shift about in his chair and whisper under his breath.

Who’re you talkin’ to? one of the officers asked, What’d you say?

Franklin glared.

Later, when the docs were finally able to pry the story from Franklin, he told them that the voices inside his head had told him strangle to his Ma.

It weren’t my doin’, he said, They made me do it. They’re always tellin’ me to do stuff.

Not long afterwards, the authorities sent Franklin to Blackburn Psychiatric Hospital. He couldn’t stand trial, they said. Not fit. Apparently, the voices inside his head wouldn’t stop talking. They followed him everywhere. The docs said the voices needed quelling so they loaded him up with all sorts of drugs so he wouldn’t be able to hear the voices telling him to kill someone.

Franklin was ordered to live out the rest of his life at Blackburn and given a handful of pills every morning and every night. The pills seemed to have helped some with the voices, but they didn’t help his disposition any. At least, he wasn’t trying to strangle anyone.

Franklin’s near-murdered mother visited once. It was a few months after he was first admitted. I was sitting on the couch when she walked through the front door, neck fully exposed, and right into the lounge where he was sitting on a chair across from me. She sat down in a chair beside him and spoke quietly. I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She kept her voice low so that only Franklin could hear. He didn’t say anything and stared down at the floor. He sat like that, with his head held down, until she was gone. No one knew what she’d said, and he never told anyone. But she never came back.

After Marnie left, Franklin got up and kicked over a chair. He was just about to kick over a table when the white coats came running. I managed to skooch off of the couch and run out of the lounge just as they grabbed him. I stood and watched it all from the relative safety of a nearby hallway where some of the other patients had also gathered to watch the show. I’d seen the white coats hovering nearby when Marnie sat down. Grab him, Bern, one of them said, Hold his feet.

They grabbed Franklin from behind and shoved him to the floor. One of the goons sat on his back while the other two white coats grabbed his arms and legs. He squirmed and squealed, trying to lose himself from their grip, Leave me alone, ya’ bastards.

Goddam it, Franklin, settle down, the goon on his back shouted. That’s the second time Franklin Goodhart has been trussed up like a turkey, I thought. But it wouldn’t be the last.

Finally, they stuck a needle into the fleshy part of his upper thigh. That quieted him down pretty quick and he went limp. They dragged him off to his room, his head flopping forward onto his chest, eyelids fluttering. I overheard the staff talking about Franklin’s mom. She’d left a letter on the table saying Franklin wasn’t her son anymore. She wanted nothing more to do with him and she wouldn’t be back.

Later that day, I walked down the hall past Franklin’s room, his bony pitiful figure, lying flat out on the bed, arms and legs strapped to the side bars. I could hear him mumbling to himself. When I stepped inside his room, he stopped. He turned his head to the side, facing me, and I saw the rage in his beady eyes. I stepped forward. Fuck off, Franklin slurred, Dumb mute. I’d expected that. Franklin was never one for niceties. I took another step forward. Leave me alone. Get out, he managed. Our eyes met and I drew closer. He tried to shift his arm in the strap, but it wouldn’t move. He was likely hoping to take a swipe at me. Fuck you want? he said, narrowing his lids.

I reached inside the pocket of my shift and brought out a blueberry muffin that I had filched earlier that afternoon at snack time. He looked down at my hand. Fuck’s that? he slurred. I drew closer and unwrapped the treat. Reaching over, I held it up to his lips. He pulled his head forward and took a bite. Then another. He ate the whole thing. His eyes never left my face. I’d overheard one of the patients tell another that sometimes a ‘disobedient’ patient was left lying like that for hours, no food and no drink, to teach them a lesson. When Franklin had eaten the whole muffin, he dropped his head back down on the pillow. I turned and walked towards the door. Fuckin’ mute, he said as I exited the room. That didn’t bother me. I’d seen that kind of anger before, anger that covers over every other feeling you don’t want to have, fear, sadness, disappointment, even excitement and gratitude. For some people, anger is all they’ve got.

Franklin regularly got out of hand in the first few months after he was admitted. Once, he kicked over the snack table and sent hot coffee and all the cookies flying. The other patients got pissed off about that one. That’s it, said one of the snotty nurses, See what you did, Franklin. Now, no one gets any cookies.

He yelled at the snotty nurse, threatening to ‘cut her up’. Small pieces, I think he said. We were all silently cheering him on that one. Of course, the big boys came over and put him down again and dragged him off to his room, head lolling. You’d think he’d learn.

And so, it was that after the fourth or fifth incident, Franklin figured out what he could and couldn’t get away with. He was still nasty and belligerent with the other patients, but he stopped bothering the staff. He stopped knocking things over and he stopped threatening the nurses. So, he stopped being hauled off to his room by the male goons.

I suppose there are worse places than Blackburn Psychiatric Hospital to live out your life. I’m thankful that I wasn’t locked away in a jail cell, allowed out only for an hour or so a day and all but forgotten by the outside world, likely enduring regular assaults from the guards who would probably beat me with impunity. Once you’re out of sight, you’re out of mind.

I am