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"Nymphomania. Great. We don't have any of those." I couldn't help but laugh.

"You still don't," I said. "It's a lie."

"That's all right. This place flourishes on lies. Patients lie to each other, to themselves, and to the doctors and the doctors lie because they claim they can help you, but they can't. All they can do is keep you comfortable," he said bitterly. He lifted his rustcolored eyes toward me again. "You can tell me your real name or you can lie, if you want."

"My name's Ruby, Ruby Dumas. I know your first name is Lyle, but I forgot your last name."

"Black. Like the bottom of an empty well. Dumas," he said. "Dumas. There's someone else here with that name."

"My uncle," I said. "Jean. I was brought here supposedly to visit him."

"Oh. You're Jean's niece?"

"But I never got to see him."

"I like Jean."

"Does he talk to you? What's he like? How is he?" I hurriedly asked.

"He doesn't talk to anyone, but that doesn't mean he can't. I know he can. He's. . . just very quiet, but as gentle as a little boy and as frightened sometimes. Sometimes, he cries for what seems to be no reason, but I know something's going on in his head to make him cry. Occasionally, I catch him laughing to himself. He won't tell anyone anything, especially the doctors and nurses."

"If I can only see him. At least that would be something good," I said.

"You can. I'm sure he'll be at lunch in the little cafeteria." "I've never met him before," I said. "Will you point him out to me?"

"Not hard to do. He's the best-dressed and the best-looking guy here. Ruby, huh? Nice," he said, and then tightened his face as if he had said something terrible.

"Thank you." I paused and looked around. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. I've got to get out of here, but this place is worse than a prison-- doors that have to be buzzed open, bars on the windows, attendants everywhere . ."

"Oh, I can get you out," he said casually. "If that's what you really want."

"You can? How?"

"There's a room that has a window without bars on it, the laundry room."

"Really? But how can I get to it?"

"I'll show you . . . later. They let us go outside if we want after lunch and there's a way into the laundry room from the yard."

My heart lifted with hope.

"How do you know all this?"

"I know everything about this place," he replied. "You do? How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Since I was seven, he said. "Ten years."

"Ten years! Don't you ever want to leave?" I asked. He stared ahead for a moment. A tear escaped his right eye and slid down his cheek.

"No," he said. He turned to me with the saddest eyes. "I belong here. I told you," he continued, "I can't make a decision. I told you I'd help you, but later, when it comes time to do it, I don't know if I can." He stared ahead. "I don't know if I can."

My brightened spirits darkened again when I realized he might just be doing what he said everyone did here--lying.

A bell was rung and Mrs. Whidden announced it was time to go to lunch. I brightened again. At least now, I would see Uncle Jean. Unless of course, that was a lie, too.

21

Betrayed Again