FANNIE THE FAINTER

Cory Zimmerman

The young woman walking into the fine hotel, was so outwardly depressed when she requested a room, she had to dry the tears from the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. And the receptionist, a kind man in appearance, asked, “You alright Miss?”

She answered, “My poor, poor, Cecil—” before breaking down into unrelenting sobs. As the other patrons looked on in concern, the receptionist quickly called on the bellhop to take her to her room. Once settled in, she laid back on the bed and rang the bell for assistance, and when the bellhop returned, the lady pointed to an empty bottle on the bed stand labeled:

2 Ounces of Laudanum

The bellhop ran out of the room in a panic, and soon a doctor rushed to her bedside, where he found her unconscious, and a suicide note on the bedstand that read:

Life is meaningless.

The doctor quickly administered emetics and nursed her to full recovery. And the bellhop was sent to summon a pastor, and as he consoled her, she told him how her husband had died and left her with nothing, and she could no longer bear the pain nor the hunger of a widow’s poverty. The pastor spoke with her about the virtues of life and of the spiritual consequence of suicide, and as word spread through the hotel, concerned guests and kind strangers raised a rather robust purse for the lady. In addition, upon request of the hotel manager, the bellhop delivered her a large platter of food, a sirloin cooked medium rare, a French salad made of potatoes, carrots, peas, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, sour cream, mayonnaise, apple cider vinegar, and salt and pepper, with a piece of white cake for dessert, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper. The lady slept well through the night with her belly full and departed early the following day, leaving behind a hefty tip for the young bellhop but passed right by the receptionist without a word. She continued on along her way across Iowa, raising $25 in Waterloo, $40 in Iowa City, then departing for Davenport with a free ticket on the railroad to commit suicide at some other place.

It would be useless to give her real name and, for that matter, next to impossible. She was known to the police of twenty cities under two dozen aliases, but out of all the maze of names, only that of “Fannie” has survived. However, allow me to respectfully refer to her as the cleverest swindler and confidence woman to ever grace the midwestern plains. Yes, it was right to say the lady within the tight, form-fitting dress, slit far up the right thigh, wrapped tight around a stunning petite figure, was a thief—a thief’s thief—an adventuress of misdeeds, a pickpocket, a shoplifter, and con-artist as mentioned. And there was no doubt Fannie was sexful, a flapper before her time, a flimsy, revealing, heavy smoking, heavy drinking-mad dame, tramping down long dusty roads from town to town, with the affliction of dancing like a bird—flapping her arms gracefully all along the way. Fannie was a lady, but not so much so she’d hesitate to pull up her dress and piss on a bunch of yellow wildflowers on the side of the road when she felt the call, nor to plop down in the dirt under any oak tree offering shade in the vast prairie stretching from where she had come, to where she might be heading, toward the next glistening object that might catch her eye—a raven’s spirit.

Fannie’s jet-black eyes glistened as she opened her suitcase and sorted through an array of disguises, under which laid buried a particular assortment of treasure, pocket watches to be exact. Fannie pulled out a silver hand mirror, embellished with a fine tactility of status well beyond her birthright, and grabbing it with her petite hand, she claimed it as her own, and in its reflection, she reapplied her dark lipstick. She wore a dumpy bucket of a hat, covering her head of short silky black hair, and leaned back against the tree, shut her long heavy eyelashes, and rested for a spell, but not before clicking the toes of her fine shoes together for luck.

Fannie’s Tiny footprints lead to that old oak tree all the way from Kansas. Back to a pa, who once called her Peewee, a railroad worker, a musician who died on the tracks drunk on sour mash. After the accident, Peewee’s momma had taken on her own taste for rye, and by the time Peewee grew to her full height of four foot ten and not an inch more, her momma was in the throes of an alcohol-induced nervous breakdown, wholly incapable of caring for little Peewee on her own. So, when Peewee was age twelve, her ma was taken away to the poorhouse, and Peewee was shipped off to live with her grandmomma in Southern Missouri. It was there, between the rolling forest ravines and majestic hilltops, beside a bubbling stream, within a ramshackle shack, consisting of nothing more than a smoky kitchen and a room with a rope bed just wide enough for two, Peewee had begun to dream of being a dancer or an actress on a stage. She spent the afternoons with a broom, spinning her petite frame round and round like a butterfly as she swept the plank floor. All the while, her grandmomma worried no matter how many iron skillets she might tie to Peewee’s feet or burnt biscuits she might shove down her throat, her granddaughter might someday spin away amid the first dust devil to come along.

In fact, in a matter of only two years, that day would come. The day Peewee caught a local merchant’s eye. His name was Cecil—two decades her senior. He was a large but gentle man, and Cecil owned a furriery, and he lavished Peewee from the onset with an otter fur coat that hung down to her feet. And he treated her to the finest dining Southern Missouri had to offer, and she took right to it, as fried coon skins never quite suited Peewee’s taste. She devoured the fare with an appetite Cecil admired, as he sat back with his glass of rye in jubilation, eager in his eye to get Peewee out of her grandma’s rope bed and into his own. So, Cecil didn’t beat around the bush asking for young Peewee’s hand in marriage, of which she obliged with a bird dance that knocked Cecil’s socks off. She was fourteen, and in no time at all, Peewee fell into the housewife’s role and cooked up a storm with all the large pantry had to offer, though she was always burning the biscuits, mind you—filling the two-story Victorian with a thick plume of smoke. Cecil thought to hire kitchen help, so Peewee could sit back and enjoy the good life. But, Peewee not only did she love to cook, but she loved to sweep, and she would grab that broom from the old maid’s closet and swoop and spin, throwing dust every-which-way, leaving Cecil wheezing and sneezing, and any old maid Cecil tried hiring shrieking in the corner without a clue of what to do. Cecil loved watching Peewee dance, and two bottles in he often joined her, causing any old maid to flop down on the front porch in a state of bewilderment.

Old Cecil would laugh at Peewee’s jokes until he choked. Oh, how he adored her so, and she, him, but in time, a grey fog rolled in as it tended to do in those parts. And with the economy, Cecil fell on hard times, and had to let any old maids go. Peewee went back to burning biscuits, and got awfully good at it, until the pantry ran dry, for naught, but a few bottles of rye whiskeys. You see, Cecil loved his rye as much as did his young bride, but as he tipped those last few bottles back and kept on providing Peewee such a life he could not afford, his wallet grew thin. Where there is smoke, there are flames, they say, and when the furriery mysteriously burnt to the ground one night, Cecil was left with nothing but debt and ash.

One night before bed, Peewee took a long bath, savoring the last drop of lavender oil, as Cecil finished off his last drop of rye on the porch, clicking open and shut the pocket watch his pa had left him. Cecil then made his way down to the cellar, where he pulled a bottle labeled: 2 Ounces of Laudanum, from the pocket of his fur coat. He held it to his lips—flung back his head—removed his coat—laid it upon the floor and curled up upon it—wrapping his arms around his knees, falling gently asleep until he laid motionless in the unforgiving grip of death. Peewee went straight to bed after her bath, and overnight, Cecil turned grey and cold, and his lips blue. It was late October, and the leaves were the most beautiful shade of orange when Peewee walked away from the mound of cold, damp earth, cursing Cecil, “Damn you Cecil, I can’t believe you drank the poison! All I needed was you, idiot, I swear, not them shiny things!” as she looked down at Cecil’s daddy’s pocket watch in her hand, glistening in the autumn sun.

Fannie’s growling belly awoke her, and she pulled an apple out of her pocket she’d plucked from a stranger’s tree as quickly as a bullfrog grasps a dragonfly with its tongue. But her taste for fine food and dislike for sleeping outdoors, rose to her feet, twirling with divine madness, yet an ever-watchful eye over the shoulder, as the Black Maria was never far behind—the dust devil she had become. Fannie was good at her tradecraft, but things always seemed to have a way of catching up. Having been arrested hundreds of times, Fannie had come up with countless devising ways of slipping out of the claws of justice. Therefore, an ordinary jail cell could not hold her. Being such an expert at picking locks and lifting jailers’ keys, they were almost superstitiously afraid of Fannie, and when every other resource failed her, she would fall back on the oldest trick in the book, she would simply faint.

So, Fannie flew on, one step ahead of the law, soaring under the broad, blue horizon like the raven she was. Dancing across the windswept prairie, after the next shiny thing, forever chased by the jay hawk of justice. The breeze on the nap of her neck, a kiss from whatever truth might exist, whatever elusive justice she thought to seek—or rather, sought her—misdeeds as countless as the personas she donned, flapping her wings, spinning along in shiny black shoes down that long, long dusty road.

“You didn’t have to leave me to this life of womanly wiles, weaseling my way through the gates by catching any eye I can, Cecil, yet you did, you surely did you son of a bitch—” she cursed the stars above her, “now here I am, alone in the night, waiting to be eating by wolves. But it ain’t no matter to you, is it Cecil?”

Fannie tossed and shattered a bottle on the tracks and gave a howl to the moon in that sweet time of late July when the crickets chirped, and those curisd, stars sparkled.

“What you doin’, ma’am, out here all alone?” a deep voice startled her from the dark, as she jogged her head around to see a large silhouette approaching her in the distance.

“Howl, howl, howlin’ at the moon!” Answered Fannie without fright, blade in her hand, swinging her suitcase around wildly.

From down the track, “This nowhere for a gal like you, certainly not in the dead a’ night,” said the man coming into view.

“So, who is you?” she asked. “Is you a good man, a hog jus’ beggin’ to be split wide open on such a beautiful night?”

“I’m a good man, ma’am, put that blade away now,” he said.

“They all say that, until they don’t. Until they—expecting something ‘er another,” she said, “you expect something, mister?”

“No, I’m not ma’am. Name’s John, I work these here tracks, and no ma’am, I ain’t expect’n nothin’.”

“I see the glance of a curious sort of bird through the bars of a cage,” she said. “A vivid, restless, resolute captive—were it but free, it would soar cloud high. Ms. Jayne Eyre,” said Fannie.

“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Eyre,” he said.

“But I suppose you can call me the bright, the famous, Ms. Fannie,” she said, one finger on her bottom lip exposing her bottom teeth, as she closed her knife. “Watch, mister, I can balance on the track twelve steps,” she said, falling on the third, as the strange man lunged forth to catch her in his arms. And in the moonlight, he finally, got a close-up look at her rare beauty to match the mystery of the night. “The magic of sexful madness—” she said, as his eyes widened, and she pulled away from his gentle grip.

“Ain’t you the jammiest bit of jam,” he said.

“You’re quite the cake eater yourself,” she said in return, howled again at the moon, her echo swallowed by the surrounding forest. And then a long silence overcame her. Sorrow, as her lowered gaze took aim at the dim wick-burning headlamp slowly approaching, tracks rattling underfoot, saying, “In the light is where I belong. You might not know it, but I coulda been the bathing beauty of my time, not just a mixed nut! A star!”

“I hate to say it, ma’am, but, what’s behind that there light gonna crack you open like a nut, flatten you like a flapjack, you don’t get out the way mighty quick!”

Fannie stumbled over to him and grabbed him by the strap of his overalls, gazed deep into his wide eyes, and asked, “you got a flapjack, mister? I like me some flapjacks!” Fannie then let go and hopped back on the track with perfect balance, and took twelve perfect steps toward the light, looked down at her toes in her shiny black shoes, at the shards of glass from drunkards-past, glistening in the moonlight, tiptoeing one fine shoe before the next. “Say, mister John,” asked Fannie, “you know where a woman can get her shoes shined ‘round here?”

“Why yes, ma’am, I sure might,” he said, “now, why don’t you come on down here—”

“You might? You think you got what I need?” asked Fannie, tiptoeing forth on the iron rail.

“Depends on what you need,” he said, “but ma’am, you better move out the way sooner than later, ma’am!”

“Thought you weren’t expectin’ mister—anyhow, I need to see a man about a dog,” she said just as she placed the back of her palm upon her forehead and let out a dramatic sigh, tossing her suitcase to the side, as her petite body fell limp for the tracks. And as the rumbling grew closer, the man ran over and picked Fannie up by her tiny waist, his eyes fixated upon the soft flesh of her pale face—blue as the moon—as the locomotive rumbled by and by—a mysterious, yet sexful madness, indeed, in some sweet time in late July.

Now, it may have been the crowing rooster or the deep gravelly snore which awoke Fannie, but nonetheless of the cause of the uprooting of her disheveled hair from the dingy yellowed goose-down pillow, was the fact that she possessed one thing, and one thing only on her groggy mind. Fannie stood in the nude and overextended her arms far above her head in a feigned stretch, with a keen eye on the shine from the nightstand across the bed. She then carefully leaned over the snoring man who gasped for air, breasts in his face, breaths of stale rye in her own. Fannie then seized the pocket watch skillfully, grabbed her dress and suitcase from the floor, and tiptoed her tiny feet, fine shoes in hand, right for the front door. As its hinges squeaked like a trapped mouse, Fannie opened it swiftly and stepped out onto the porch like a cat, mouse in her jaws. She then sprinted for the road, tripping over herself as she slid one shoe on before the other, mid-stride. As a man passing by on horseback, neck twisted to an unnatural angle, watched the scattered dame flopping about the middle of the road, dress over her head, nude form the chest down in the chill morning breeze.

“Let’s see here, a three once silver case,” the old pawnbroker said, inspecting the watch through a monocle, before holding it up to his ear, “sure is ticking alright, this Chief, I’d say, 1877—”

Fannie cleared her throat, chin resting on her palm, elbow on the counter, as she asked in a full yawn, “So, how much...?”

“Well, a spank’n new Chief goes fer ‘round thirteen dollars, I’ll give ya three,” and Fannie held out her tiny palm, unimpressed. “Where ya come across this old fella anyhow?” the old pawnbroker asked, peering at Fannie through his monocle, only then noticing the black lipstick smeared across her face. As Fannie stared up at him with a silent lack of enthusiasm, “Well, okay, let’s see here, ” he said as he pulled a wooden box out from under the counter, placing the bills in her hand, “one, two, three, and there you go, ma’am.” And Fannie turned and walked away, and the old pawnbroker left jaw dropped, as he watched her hips swing from side to side. “Well, all be good gracious—” he said, monocle falling from his eye.

The sign outside the saloon read:

A hard-boiled egg with every drink!

A connoisseur of saloons, Fannie entered.

Fannie took a good taste for saloons offering savory meatballs, French Gruyere cheese, hickory-cured ham, and other dainties on narrow, twenty-foot-long tables covered with spotless white linen and topped with plates of delicacies to please the most discerning tastes, where drinks cost two bits. Fannie lamented the time she ate wild boar’s steak, boned wild turkey, patties of quail, aged bear’s paws in burgundy sauce, ragout de coon, and squirrel pie at a saloon in Chicago—the meat in an advanced stage of decomposition, went down just right with the right amount of hot sauce and pepper. If the barkeep was German, Fannie never missed a feast of bratwurst and frankfurters. In the Italian saloons, calzone, and pepperoni. But her absolute favorite dish was a simple roast beef, with au jus sauce. However, despite her taste for fine food, Fannie usually sustained herself with free lunches of cold cuts, yellow cheese, beans, and stalks of celery that were provided by the plainer saloons, where the drinks cost only fifteen cents. Salted food, pretzels, rye bread, smoked herring, peanuts, potato chips, and dill pickles kind of places where the word “lunch” should not be taken literally; where lunch imperceptibly blended from free breakfast into free dinner; where the salted goods waited patiently on their fly-speckled plates morning, noon, and night. Other saloons offered free creamy pies to the older customers, but more often than not, a saloon provided free food to all. Fannie kept an eye out for the finer joints that had franks on Monday, roast beef on Saturday, baked fish on Friday, and so on. And in theory: a couple of shot glasses or steins to produce an appetite, salty goodies, in turn, producing a mighty thirst—the chain-reaction process of drinking and nibbling, nibbling, and drinking, that could go on for hours; during which customers spent stacks of greenbacks on booze.

However, the free lunch often posed many problems for a bartender, as the institution rested on the honor system. Supposing no creature walking on two legs would be so low as to approach the free lunch table without first consuming and paying for at least two drinks. Yet, there were many human skunks as they were known, and Fannie walked right in, grabbed a plate and filled it with sausages until the barkeep cleared his throat rather loudly. Fannie then shut her long lashes, took a deep breath, and spilling the links back onto the platter, saying, “Fine, bring me your finest bottle of rye,” as she sat down at an open table, kicking her fine shoes up on the opposing chair, catching her floppy hat on one toe.

As Fannie ordered duck breasts with apricot chutney off the menu, “That’ll be two dollars fifty cents,” said the barkeep with a waxed handlebar, and a deep, cigar-smoke-encrusted chimney of a throat, who no doubt, doubted the skunk possessed such wealth to pay for such a rich meal. But without hesitation, Fannie slapped three bills down on the table, and the barkeep stared down at her with disdain as he knew her kind. He looked down at her fine shoes on the chair and cleared his throat again, and Fannie stared back up at him with a false grin—lipstick perfect, unitl the barkeep grabbed the bills and walked away with perfect posture.

“Cob in your ass,” Fannie muttered, before asking the man at the table beside him, “Got a match?” And the man looked over his shoulder with a kind of bewilderment that followed her like her own shadow.

Two dozen fingers of rye later, the sun had set on the saloon full of patrons who found themselves stunned by Fannie’s knees twisting in and out in a confounding bit. The heels of her fine shoes swung sharply outward with each step, each eye glued to the sexful exposure of her fine legs and flapping arms. While one particular man sat so far back in his chair he nearly fell over, just as a pair of pinstripe overalls found the liquid courage to grab Fannie by the waist and pull her in tight to an upright piano adventure. The jingle made its way out the saloon doors, its liveliness bouncing down the otherwise dead streets, prowled mostly by stray cats and stumbling drunkards by that hour, in the otherwise puritan village of Kewanee, Illinois.

“Johnny Hog-leg!” said Fannie with an honest grin as he pressed into her pubic bone, behind the saloon, as he grabbed her by the back of the neck, pushing her face into the brick. The wounds on her back were still fresh, but she did not resist—tanking it like a mare, though she could still hear the snap of that horsewhip—wrists still raw from the coarse rope. As his rough hands groped her hips and tits, his awful breath reminded her of that old sadistic farmer. And with that first thrust—the shooting pain—it was all the same, time and time again. Fannie tried her damndest to enjoy herself, to ignore the familiar grunt, to shake off the haunts, but all she saw was flames. His pathetic fucking not only nauseated her, but it also insulted her, and with a final grunt, he as he finished and stumbled backward, trying to walk and pull up his pinstripe overalls at the same time, she slid down the wall in utter disappointment. As he coughed up something grotesque and disappeared inside for more drink, Fannie threw her hands over her eyes, until a black cat appeared out of the night, rubbing against her leg with a meow. “Why Hello there,” she said, “what’s your name gorgeous?” she asked, with a sniffle, petting the shiny coat of his arched back—pleasure—purring in delight. “Well, aren’t you a beauty!”

Making her way out of the alley, Fannie stopped just short of the street, pulled out the pocket watch she had slipped out of the lame fuck’s pinstripe overalls, and held it up to glisten in the moonlight, but it was dull and rusty. “Cheap bastard!” she said, hair, dress a disheveled mess, and it began to rain just as a man walking by in a nice suit, sideburns long but kept, a proper man, sober, most likely wealthy; good posture. And she ran for him, like a cat for a tree, begging pitifully, “Please, sir—” as the man stopped and turned back in surprise, concerned to see a woman in such a wretched condition, a woman who fainted at his feet.

Fannie was right in her judgment to assume the man was wealthy. He was a church-going folk, just as was his wife. And upon seeing Fannie’s condition as she laid sawing logs, the Christian lady held her cross as she snooped through Fannie’s belongings for any sign of identity. And what did she find? A stash of pocket watches. And what did she do? Call on the law. The sheriff, who just so happened to recognize Fannie where she lay, told Fannie to save it, as she tried her darndest to sweet talk him. He paid her schemes no mind, and before she knew it, the bars slammed shut before her. Fannie told him the deputy again, and again, that she did not feel well, and when she fainted to the cell floor, but the deputy, as instructed, walked away, saying, “Not gonna work this time, Fannie.”

Fannie had been on the lam from warrants in twelve Illinois counties, not to mention Missouri, Iowa, Kentucky, Wisconsin, Tennessee, and there were even rumors of her all the way down in Texas, which would explain Kansas and Oklahoma. The warrants mainly were for theft, but unfortunately for Fannie, one was for arson.

And that takes us back to a story of an old sadistic farmer. The wounds on Fannies back, fresh where he left them as he told Fannie she was “nothin’ more than a mantrap,” as he whipped her, as she fell to her knees, as her wrists rubbed raw on rope, her arms tied around the post in his barn, while his wife slept just yards off by a cross on the wall. He took that sharp-tongued whip, and did the lords work, so he called it. And after Fannie squirmed herself free late in the night, she let the hogs loose, and stood back under the stars and watched the flames lick the sky as the barn burnt to the ground.

Fannie now found herself before the court of law, and that old sadistic farmer pointed directly at her, saying, “That’s the devil right there! We done lost everything, ‘cause of her,” as Fannie turned back to see the farmer's wife burst into tears. Fannie rolled her eyes, and the jury announced unanimously, “Guilty!”

It would be an opportune time to mention, that throughout history the female criminal has been cast as a double deviant.

One: because she violated the law.

Two: perhaps more importantly, because she violated the moral parameters of womanhood.

And having been judged as beyond conversion or reform, once behind the walls of the penitentiary, Fannie knew there was no escape. The penitentiary was dirty, crowded, and each woman was isolated in a cell with only a pot to piss in—locked up for twenty-three hours a day. If one wanted a blanket, one had to steal. And there was no exercise to speak of, no games or crafts—a puritan vision of hell, pure and simple. The perimeter of the cell house was lined with barred cells, the dayroom in the middle. As the guard with the master key made his way around the circumference of the cellhouse, he released each woman for one hour of socializing—the bare minimum of what a woman was thought to need. So, the women congregated in small clusters about the floor doing what women were thought to do best, conversing. “Is that a baby crying?” asked Fannie, as an attractive young lady named Caroline jumped to her feet and ran off in tears, “I’m sorry, did I say something to upset her?”

“She's just jealous, that's all,” said Esther, a skinny pale gal, no older than twenty-five—the exact type of girl that makes you wonder what she must have done to end up in a place like this.

“Jealous...?” asked Fannie.

“The baby,” said Irene, a slightly overweight woman in her mid-forties.

“Guard Lewis, that’s the baby's daddy—Florence is the momma,” said Ester, red hair, freckles.

“The guard brings his baby to work?” asked Fannie, confused.

“No one spose’ to know it's his baby,” said Esther.

“He sneaks his baby to work?” asked Fannie.

“It lives here, at least ‘til they find it a proper home,” said Irene.

“Lives where?” asked Fannie.

“With Florence,” said Esther.

“In her cell?” Asked Fannie.

“Yep,” said Esther.

Fannie was speechless.

“Caroline is upset because she dumb ‘nough to think he only doin’ it with her,” said Ester.

“Who?” asked Fannie.

“Guard Lewis,” said Ester, squirming on both hands.

“I sure hope you got family, or some cash stashed away in that pretty little thing of yours, ‘cause I know he gonna like you honey,” said Irene, sat squat on her round bottom, chin in her palms, bored. Irene had been there for a long time, and said, “No money, no family, no food, as you can see, I got family,” she said, grabbing the layer of fat around her belly.

“So, we are supposed to starve to death?” Fannie asked. Starving to death was Fannie’s biggest fear in life, knowing outright, she’d rather be burnt alive—telling Cecil all about it in the night.

“Nope, you’re supposed to let Guard Lewis have his way with ya,” said Esther, bouncing on her hands.

“Honey,” Irene addressed Esther, “what do ya know ‘bout anything any-which-way, anyhow?” as Esther looked down and grew quiet. “Money, family or sex, honey, that’s the way it be. What’s your name, anyhow?” Irene asked Fannie. And as Fannie told her, Irene’s eyes lit up, and she asked, “The Fannie?”

“Well, I suppose I am,” said Fannie, “that’s my name.”

“Good lord, the cleverest swindler and confidence woman to ever grace the midwestern plains? Sitting right here before me. I can’t believe it,” said Irene. “Hey girls, it’s Fannie! Fainting Fannie!” she yelled across the room, flapping her arms like a bird, as all the women turned and looked and then whispered amongst themselves.

“Sex for food...?” Fannie said, “that’s what got me in here—and to think the warden told me to take advantage of this opportunity to find God.”

Come dinner time, Fannie was back in her cell when Guard Lewis came along with a plate of bread, meat, cheese, and potatoes.

“Hi there, darlin’,” he said, as Fannie looked up at him from the floor, “so what’s yer name, purty lil thing?” But Fannie remained silent. “A virgin, huh?” he asked. “What’s a matta’, cat got ya tongue? Yer a precious lil thing ain’t ya? Well, precious, ya really ought to watch those tail-feathers—a mean cat’s a roamin’ this house.” Fannie looked at the food as it steamed up toward his godawful face. “Well, here ya go, precious, dinners on me,” he said as Fannie lunged for the plate, just as he yanked it away. “Ott-ott-ott—first one, and only one, understand?”

Late that night, Fannie was arguing with Cecil when she heard a cell door close and then saw Guard Lewis walk past with a tight grip on Caroline’s arm.

And the next day Fannie asked Irene, “Where is Caroline?”

“No, telling,” she answered.

“I saw Guard Lewis take her away last night,” said Fannie.

“She is probably still sleeping then,” said Irene.

“They say Guard Lewis has got quite the stamina,” said Esther.

“You've never—” Fannie began to ask the two.

“Nope,” Irene answered abruptly, “I told you, I’m fat. He likes the skinny ones—skinny like you. Besides, I got caught bringing myself off one night a few years back, and a guard named James, he ain’t ‘round no more, took me to the doc—doc is a real stickler with a knife—by the book kinda guy you know, The Big Book. Anyhow, Doc said, I was either hysterical or an abomination, or both. He told me he’d take care of it, make sure I got into the big house when it was time,” she said pointing up. “So, he fixed me.”

“He what?” asked Fannie.

Esther made a swiping movement before her crotch.

“No...?” asked Fannie.

“Yep,” said Irene, “no more ring ‘round the rosy for me.”

“What the hell is wrong with these bible thumpers? And why does Caroline—how could she have feelings for such a—such a creep?” asked Fannie

“Daddy issues,” said Esther with wide eyes, bouncing on her hands.

“One to speak,” said Irene.

The following day Guard Lewis arrived at Fannies cell with another plate of food, asking, “Hey, there precious, making yourself at home?” As Fannie stared at him with disdain. “Eat yet?” he asked, “'course not. Now, I’m sure the ladies done told ya how things work ‘round here—so, whattcha got for me today? Cause I gotta a nice warm sausage for ya!” The pale sausage sat on the plate next to a boiled potato. He then placed the tray on the floor, unlocked the door and walked in, taking a look around at the sparse room, saying, “Don’t look like ya got much to offer, darling,” he said with a grin, “Now, stand up, and face the wall.” Fannie stood and stared him down. “Now! I said, face the wall!” he ordered, and Fannie turned toward the wall. “Hands on the wall, you know the drill!” And Fannie put her hands on the wall. “Now let's see what ya got tucked away,” he said, as he placed his hands on her hips, working his way down her thighs, back up toward her pelvis, up her belly to her chest, where he stopped and fondled her breasts, as Fannie clenched her teeth, and stared angrily at the wall as she had many times but remained still and silent—she had known worse than this. “I see ya ain’t got much. So, how ya plan on gettin’ anything to eat 'round here?” he asked. “You think ya gonna get a free ride, darling? You may be a hot little numba’, but somethin’ gotta give! Well, I think I can help you out. Come on wit’ me, and we'll fix ya up a plate, what ya say?”

“No,” said Fannie.

“No?” he asked, squeezing her breasts painfully hard, before dropping his hands to his side, saying in a higher pitch, “You ain’t allowed to say no—not in my house. In my house, ya got one word, and that word is ‘yes, sir’.”

“That's two words,” said Fannie as she turned to face him, and he backhanded her across the face, knocking her to the ground.

Guard Lewis then walked out of her cell and slammed the door shut, saying, “Oh, you gonna eat, or I’m gonna eat you, hear me? Yousa’ learn to be a good girl, you’ll see, when you get hunrgy enough,” and he walks on, taking a chomp off the sausage.

“Oh my, look at that shiner,” said Irene.

“That son of a bitch is gonna get his,” said Fannie.

“Calm down, honey—Esther, go get Fannie a blanket,” and Esther scurried away, and soon returned and wrapped a blanket around Fannie. “Hell, I shoulda gave ya a blanket once I learned who ya was, slipped my mind. I can’t tell ya what a hero you are to me, hell, to all of us. Heard ‘bout ya for years. Now I can say I knew ya!” Irene paused before saying, “Fannie, just watch yourself—he a dangerous man,” and Esther nodded in agreement. “Honey,” continued Irene, “you’re looking awfully skinny. Esther, go fetch Fannie some bread.”

“Thank you, Irene,” said Fannie. “I can handle Guard Lewis. I’ve dealt with men like him all my life.”

For five days, Guard Lewis skipped Fannie's cell at dinner time, but Irene kept her fed in the meantime, sneaking her bread and cheese. Yet, each night Fannie talked to Cecil in distress, “What am I gonna do? I need to think—no, I can’t do that, Cecil—what do you know—you know squat about how I survive? Look at you! You think I’ve been living high on the hog, Cecil? I’ve been scraping by ever since you decided to get comfy in the Goddamn ground, Goddamn you! Anyhow—I’ll figure it out, I always do,” and Fannie watched once more as Caroline was led away by the arm. Caroline glanced over into Fannie's eyes, and Fannie saw pain, yet a strange, twisted delight, as she grinned.

“I saw him take Caroline again last night,” said Fannie.

“Gonna have to get used to it,” said Irene.

“They’re in love,” said Ester.

“He does not love her,” snapped Fannie.

“Honey, you gonna save all the girls?” asked Irene, “you take care of yourself now!”

“That bastard!” shouted Fannie, and then the three sat in silence for a moment, until Fannie asked, “How does a person get out of here?”

“You mean ‘break out’?” asked Esther.

“Yeah,” said Fannie, “Has anyone ever broke out of here?”

“To break out, you gotta go mad, cuss and scream and lose your mind, cut yourself if you can,” said Irene, “attack someone, a guard, but not out of anger or you’ll just get in more trouble, you gotta go mad, you gotta break things, hell, break your own arm, you gotta break your mind to break out!”

“Yep,” said Esther, “only way outta here is the madhouse.”

“And you saw it done?” asked Fannie.

“Nope,” said Irene, asking, “you ever see anyone break their own arm?”

“You could always cut off a finger,” said Esther.

“Do you know where a gal can get a knife?” asked Fannie.

When Guard Lewis came around that evening, Fannie had to act weak, as though she had not eaten in days. “Hey, precious, hungry yet? I know I sure is,” he said, unlocking the door, “come on now, let's go get us a plate, what ya say?” And Fannie stood up and went with him, and he took her to a storage room. Looking around, he said, “Oops, I guess this ain’t the kitchen, must have made a wrong turn,” and he grabbed her hand and placed it on his crotch. “There ya go, ya found dinner, yousa’ havin’ sausage” he said, “now, go on—eat!” Fannie squeezed with all her might. “Fucking bitch,” he yelled, slamming her into the wall, then kicking her in the face knocking her out cold. All the other women watched in silence from behind bars as Guard Lewis dragged Fannie back to her cell by the arm and tossed her in, slamming the door shut and walking away pigeontoed.

The following day, as Fannie sat with Irene and Esther—Esther cleaning the gash above Fannie’s eye—another woman walked up and sat a piece of bread before Fannie, and then another followed. Fannie was then given a chunk of cheese, soup, and meat, by woman after woman, who sat food at her feet. And Irene, said, “Oh, one more thing—” and put her hand in her crotch and pulled something out wrapped in cloth and placed it in Fannie’s hand. “Put it away,” she said as Fannie looked down at her palm—it was a knife, she could feel the hard blade.

“How did you—” she had begun to ask.

“Told ya, I’m fat,” said Irene, “nobody looks down there!”

Fannie ate well that night, then as she laid on the ground looking up at the bleak ceiling, cockroaches scurrying about the walls, she said, “Cecil, I have an idea.”

When Guard Lewis passed by Fannie’s cell the next day, she called him over, and “What the hell ya want?” he asked.

“Please, sir, I'm starving. I’ll do anything you ask, please, just take me,” she begged, and by the time Guard Lewis stumbled from the storage room—his pants at his knees—screaming in agony—Fannie had already walked out into the middle of the cell house and placed a metal dinner plate upon the middle of the floor for all to see—a bloody sausage. She then commenced to run about the room with her tongue out, blood oozing from her mouth, the same blood oozing from Guard Lewis’s crotch. And she tore her clothes to shreds and climbed the bars of the cells, growling like a rabid beast, bloody knife clinched in her teeth.

Guard Lewis wailed in pain, “You crazy bitch!” before collapsing to his knees as all the women clung to the bars with jaws dropped. It took two guards to pull Fannie down from the bars, and one good club to the back of the head to get the knife from her grip, but it took a baker’s dozen to drag her out of the cell house by the legs as she dug her nails into the floor until they bled. She wanted more, she was hungry, and in the ensuing chaos, no one noticed Fannie slide Guard Lewis’s keys across the floor into Irene’s cell. And once Fannie was removed, and guard Lewis was carried away as he bled out, Irene’s jaw dropped, mumbling below her breath “Fannie broke out!” and she unlocked her own cell door, and then the next, and the next, all the while screaming, “Fannie broke out!”

Fannie had initiated the first female prison riot in modern history, as Irene began to clap and chant Fannie’s name as they all recited along and tossed the place to all mighty hell, flapping arms—double deviants. The roar sent chills down the guards pines, birds in a cage, souls set free, long after Fannie turned and bowed, and as the curtain closed, the warden never saw women stand taller nor prouder.

Deemed insane, Fannie would be met at the asylum’s depot by the most homosexually inclined male attendant the controversial Doctor Zolla could possibly summon amongst his staff at the Hilltop. Being unshackling, the moment Fannie arrived in his care, perked her interest. Though, gentle as the sole attendant grabbed her arm, Fannie tore it away, saying, “Okay, okay, lay off, buster,” as she laid eyes on a tall man standing with his wife and kids waiting to board the next train north to city of Grandview. Fannie curled her dark hair around one finger, flirting, “Why, hey there, handsome,” making the man smile. His wife, disgusted, slapped his arm, as their daughter gazed up at Fannie in awe. “Better keep an eye on that one. He’s a looker!” said Fannie.

“Let’s go, Fannie, quit messing around,” said the attendant.

“Yeah, yeah, boss. Anyone ever tell ya what a stiff you are?” asked Fannie.

“Honey, she’s just a loon,” said the man, as his wife crossed her arms.

“Fannie, I am aware that you have intentionally feigned insanity to escape the penitentiary,” said Doctor Zolla, “I know you’re a clever gal, and you have your wits about you, possibly too many. But I do believe over the years, your antics—your illusions—have become delusions of their own. They’ve possibly affected your reasoning in such a manner that you may have lost touch with fundamental reality.”

“So, I’ve been told, Doc,” said Fannie.

“Let me be clear, Fannie. I do not believe you are insane. You’re just a little too clever for your own good—possibly an inflated sense of self grandeur, yet motivated by low self-esteem, underlined, and most likely a product of past traumas—”

“Doc, you’ve known me for a whole four maybe five minutes—"

“Fannie, I know you better than you think. But I must ask, do you prefer the penitentiary?”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see Doc,” said Fannie.

“Fannie, you just got out of prison, can you please explain to me why you are flirting with returning?”

“Are you threatening me, doc?”

“Of course not. I am simply pointing out your self-sabotage—”

“Maybe you want me to flirt with you?” asked Fannie.

“It really is a pity you have found yourself here, but at least here you will be safe,” said the doctor. "I know what happened to you, and I believe—well, what you did was your right, and I want to assure you that, you will never be assaulted here—"

“So, you think I broke out because I’m a coward?” asked Fannie.

“I think you found a way out because that’s what you do. It’s tradecraft for you, Fannie. As far as being a coward, no, I believe you are very courageous, and I believe you have stood up to the world, and you’ve had some great feats, but it’s taken its toll. Right or wrong, life has consequences, and unfortunately, you now find yourself with two choices. You can allow me to help you heal, or you can live your life behind bars or worse. However, a third option, well, it is no longer an option, and that’s escaping.” Fannie rolled her eyes and turned away. “I have been the head of this institution for seven years, and in that time, our policies have gained recognition the world over—”

“Way to toot your own horn, there, Doc.”

The doctor cleared his throat and continued, “...recognition for our liberality toward our patients, particularly our leniency toward women patients, who roam about the grounds freely.”

Feigning a lack of interested, though keely intune with the word “freely,” Fannie looked over the antiquated torture devices mounted on the office wall. She ran her fingers down a leather strap, asking, “Like a bit of summer cabbage, do ya, Doc?”

“Fannie, the act of tossing patients into snake pits or tying them up like animals, subjecting them to severe flogging was once considered the best treatment for the insane—”

“Coming on awfully strong there, ain’t ya, doc—maybe you can buy a gal dinner first?” with a bat of her lashes.

Clearing his throat once more, the doctor asked, “Why do you believe the authorities approved of such horrendous treatment of the sick?”

“I don’t know, Doc—easy prey? Once you get a girl locked up, with no one looking out for her, I suppose you can have her any which way you want,” she said.

“I’ll tell you why, Fannie. It was because the authorities relied upon the old story of precedent, the stagnation of clinging to tradition, and the closing of the mind to the new—”

“What a burning shame,” said Fannie.

“Fannie, may I ask, if you resort to your old ways, seeing I know what’s on your mind—where shall you attempt to escape to if there is nowhere in fact, to escape to? What fence shall you climb if there is no fence? What key shall you lift, if there is, indeed, no locked door?”

Despite the doctors attempts to reason with Fannie, as she left his office that day, Fannie walked right out the front door, with no one stopping her. And, as she crossed the lawn, there was indeed no obstacle, no fence, no guards, no bars, only a rose garden, a large green lawn, trees on the horizon, and the blue sky above. Fannie decided to make her way to her grandma’s cabin back in Missouri, but as she started off briskly down the lane, she noticed a nurse watching over her like a hawk from a balcony above. Yet, instead of stopping her, the nurse simply observed. This annoyed Fannie, so she simply walked onto the lawn and plopped down on her rear end. She laid back, sunshine upon her face, squinting her eyes, and grasped onto the grass for dear life, asking, “Cecil, what do you think would happen if I let go? You think I’d fall off the face of the earth and plummet through the clouds into space? Would I be free then?”

Fannie wore a wide grin on her face as she dropped the suitcase down on her bed that first night at the Hilltop. Digging through her bag of tricks, she pulled from its bottom a man’s suit. An expert at embroidery, Fannie had long tailored it to fit her petite figure. She then removed a can of shoe polish and brandished herself a beard in the reflection of her silver hand mirror. Tucking her hair under a boy’s cloth cap, she rose her chin high and pulled her shoulders back. Fannie then charged into the sitting room, where a nurse and a few female patients shrieked with terror at the sight of a strange man in the woman’s ward at such a late hour. And the nurse in charge stood and shouted, “You’re not allowed here, leave at once!”

So, the strange man left at once. And quickly and effortlessly, Fannie escaped into the night, scrambling down a deep ravine to a muddy wagon trail that she hoped might led to town.

“Yes, the roast beef they served for dinner was delicious,” she argued with Cecil along the way, “No, I don’t wanna go back to the penitentiary. I know what I’m doing, Cecil, don’t scorn me!” she shouted, before ducking into the bushes at the sight of a passing coach. “Please, Cecil, can we talk about this later?”

Upon reaching Grandview, Fannie’s fine shoes were caked in mud. She tried kicking it off on the curb, but they needed a good shine. So, she entered the first shoe-shining parlor she came across. The shoeshine was a middle-aged man with a mouth hidden behind a thick silver mustache, who peered down wide-eyed, with utter surprise, from behind a tiny pair of round spectacles, at the tiny woman’s shoe placed upon his bench—but not as astounded as he would be when Fannie walked right out without paying a red cent. Given the amount of mud the shoeshine removed from Fannie’s shoes, he was none too pleased, hollering after Fannie, “Excuse me, sir, but wouldn’t you be kind enough to pay me the dime I have earned?”

“I apologize, sir,” she said, half turning back, “But, I’ve forgotten my coin purse at home. I shall pay you with interest in two days,” before trotting off in her shiny shoes.

“Damn’d thief!” the shoeshine scorned the bizarre man, waving down the first police officer to come along. And unfortunately for Fannie, that very officer had already been instructed to be on the lookout for an escaped female patient in a man’s suit, and now he found himself on the lookout for a man in woman’s shoes—a bizarre night indeed.

Fannie made her way downtown, in a casual stride, cigarette between her teeth, and with two dollars she had swindled off a drunken man she left sorrowfully behind, she bought herself a bottle of rye—sour mash and cracked the label. Fannie checked herself into three separate hotels along the waterfront under the aliases Bertha, Dorothy, and Birdie. Fannie smoked and drank the night away, all the while arguing with Cecil over precisely what she planned to do next. And the following morning, Fannie, indeed, resorted to her typical antics, going out on the town, into one store after the next, stealing any shiny object she could get her tiny, sly hands upon. And after a few hours, her hotel rooms began to fill up. At Barringer’s Department Store an employee behind the jewelry counter was so busy with a display of earrings, Fannie was able to pocket a collection of watches and split before anyone even new she had arrived. After ten thousand hours of practice, Fannie had become quite the artist, and they rarely saw her coming anyhow, and almost never saw her leave. On her way out, she passed a newspaper boy on the corner who shouted, “Extra, extra—Fainting Fannie Flew the Coup, Skips the Tra-La-Lu!”

Upon hearing her own name bellowed out in the street, Fannie felt a sense of vanity, even pride, as she reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the shiny watches, saying, “Hey boy,” as he looked eye-level back at the uncharacteristically short man, “let me see your hand,” she said.

And as the boy looked down, shocked to see a golden watch in his palm—two, maybe three year’s earnings, “WOW!” he exclaimed, “thanks a lot, mister!”

“Ma’am!” Fannie corrected him, “Tell ya what, I’ll trade ya for a paper,” she said, taking the whole stack from under his arm, but the boy hardly noticed, as Fannie made her way down Water Street reading aloud, “‘A woman known to fame and the police, sheriffs, and wardens to half the cities of the country, simply as ‘Fannie,’ made her escape from the asylum last night and up to two o’clock, this morning had not been found. Fannie was in Joliet penitentiary when her malady seized her and was brought to the Grandview State Hospital. There she and her good looks further complicated matters for Doctor Anthony Zolla, and she evidently made up her mind to fly on elsewhere. She played a pretty trick in getting away. Just where she will turn up next is a matter that only time can tell.’” Absorbed in the article, Fannie turned the corner onto Bridge Street and ran smack-dab into the very officer on the lookout for a woman dressed as a man and a man in a woman’s shoes, dropping the stack of newspapers at his own shoes, and as she gathered the papers, she noticed how absurdly shiny they were. “Pardon me, officer,” she said, attempting to keep her face concealed under the cap’s brim, as she briskly walked on.

But the officer came running behind, shouting, “Excuse me, sir,” grabbing Fannie by the arm, knowing she was caught red-handed, and she gave no fight. “Sir, your paper,” he said, handing her one she had overlooked.

“Thank you, officer,” she said, and the officer was taken aback by the man’s beautiful dark eyes, and as he looked the petite man up and down, it was then, that he noticed the women’s shoes on his feet.

Behind bars once more, Fannie began contemplating her next move at once. So, she did what she’d always done, she fainted. However, the officers, again, were already warned of her antics, and she realized her oldest trick in the book might need be retired as she heard the officers’ laughing, and she was back in her cottage by midnight. “Cecil. Oh, how I hope some poor maid discovers my trove of treasures and keeps them all for herself.”

“Shh!” groaned the woman in the next bed over.

“Yes, Cecil, the roast beef is good!” said Fannie, the cottage shushing her in unison.

If there was a crack big enough for a draft to come through, it was over the hills and far away for Fannie, and that night, she woke an old senile woman, telling her she was in the wrong bed, she’d cause Dr. Zolla to question his ideals, as the hairs fell from his head by the handful. The woman was confused, but in hindsight, she was always confused. And Fannie rose the woman from her bed and walked her on, saying, “I’m sorry to wake you, but your bed is just over here, come along now,” and Fannie tucked her up in her own, pulling up the blankets tight.

While the attendants were scouring the Hilltop searching for the old woman whose bed was found empty, Fannie snuck out an open window and vanished into the woods. It was around midnight when the general alarm was sounded, and soon scores of nurses in their white aprons stumbled about the thicket with candles and lanterns, searching for her. But Fannie had made her way to the wagon road, where she caught a ride in a coach to Iowa. The kindly gentleman made no pass upon her, and she was grateful for that, and he even offered her two dollars, to which she obliged. “They ain’t gonna catch me this time, Cecil,” she said hoofing it roadside, “I’m gonna head west and start a new life,” she said, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get there, but I’ll figure it out, I always do. Hell, Cecil, give me a teaspoon of credit—I think I deserve such, seeing how far I’ve made it without you!” Fannie was indeed determined, but unfortunately for her, the hardships of sleeping outdoors, tramping for mile after mile, had gotten to Fannie, and she gave in to her thirst for a few fingers of rye. Those two dollars made their way to a saloon at the nearest town, where she played her devilish tricks upon a few drunken men in the street—their loud laughter catching the ear of the sheriff who just so happened to be strolling by. He recognized Fannie at once. “Fannie that you?” he asked. “Just what in tarnation you doin’ in my town?” But as determined as Fannie was to begin anew, she surrendered to the Sherriff just as she had her old habits. “I’m awfully glad you’re doing well Fannie,” he said, driving the Black Maria toward the town jail. And When Fannie arrived back at the Hilltop, Doctor Zolla said not a word, but rubbed his eyes, having meet his match. “Shut up Cecil, I don’t wanna hear it. To hell with you,” she cursed, “Go eat worms,” as the cottage shushing her in unison.

By fall, Fannie began to show the unmistakable signs of tuberculosis. She lost weight and coughed through the night. Doctor Zolla was incredibly paranoid, suspecting Fannie was up to her antics, and he instructed the nurses to keep watch to ensure she was not eating soap and feigning illness. However, Fannie’s symptoms seemed genuine. She couldn’t eat, and when she did, she vomited. She was feverish, and the microscope showed the presence of a large number of tubercle bacilli. It would have been impossible for Fannie to manipulate the lab results, so the doctor decided to send her to the tent-ward for tuberculosis patients. Fannie was gracious as the colony provided her an excellent opportunity to demonstrate her culinary talent. The colony ate well from the day of her transfer, often dining outside under the elms in the fresh autumn air. “More tea?” Fannie asked a woman who trembled so severely the cup had to be refilled every few moments. “Shush Cecil,” Fannie mumbled under her breath.

“Fannie, these roast beef sandwiches are delicious! What is your secret?” asked Nurse Helen.

“Au jus,” Fannie replied.

“Awe, what?”

“Ah-ha!” Fannie replied, and everyone laughed.

Now, it was no surprise such a radical change in her diet and environment brought about a rapid change in her physical condition. Fannie gained weight, and most of her symptoms were gone by early fall. As Fannie’s health continued to improve, vigilance relaxed, and, instead of being a closely guarded patient, Fannie became not only a valuable aid in the kitchen but in the care of the sick as well. “Hello, hello, can you please send someone? One of the patients is missing,” Nurse Helen pleaded into the telephone late one night, “I just did the headcount, and I saw her bed is empty. She was just there last time I checked. Fannie is her name—yes, Fannie! I don’t know what happened, she was here one second, and then she was gone the next.”

Most of the Hilltop staff lived on campus, and although nurses were generally expected not to marry, the oldest staff member on the Hilltop, whom everyone called Grandma Nurse, a round jolly, loving, yet, no-nonsense kind of woman in her mid-to-late-sixties, had been married for nearly half a century to a lazy man—a man who sat at home doing this or that, mostly nothing at all. Nurse Grandma fed and cared for him for reasons one could not easily comprehend. Many were utterly surprised she had never plunged a knife into his heart as he chewed on a pork chop—a selfish man. He forgot her birthday so often that Grandma Nurse made her way down to Barringer’s Department store and bought herself a present, a lovely handbag. Each morning Grandma Nurse made the journey from her tiny home in Grandview ten miles south by train to the Hilltop. She found solace in the journey—the morning hues reflecting off the river’s surface—the batting of the mighty wings of the geese spooked by the train's whistle—it warmed her heart. Grandma Nurse forgot all about pork chops making the arduous climb up the creaking planks, where halfway to the top, she would plop down on her rear-end and rest a spell on a bench providing the most splendid views of the dear old river below. She loved the vista as much as the oversized handbag that sat upon her lap, the finest possession she owned. One Autumn morning a young blonde lady appeared out of nowhere and sat down beside her. Grandma Nurse looked the blonde over, as the young lady checked her lipstick in a silver hand mirror, Grandma Nurse coveting its intricate embellishment. “Good morning,” said the lady.

“Good morning,” said Grandma Nurse.

“It is a beautiful morning,”

“Yes, it is,” said Grandma Nurse.

“What a splendid view,” said the young lady.

“Yes, it is quite lovely. You look very familiar, dear. Are you here to visit a patient?” asked Grandma Nurse.

“No, I am actually here for a job.”

“Oh, and what is your name?” asked Grandma Nurse.

“Amy, my name is Amy.”

“And what’s your age, Amy?” asked the stern Chief Nurse, Nurse Byrd, as she filled out the employment form, a permanent frown where once a pair of lips sat.

“Twenty-four—” said Amy with a smile, bright red lips, as Nurse Byrd looked her up and down with a hmm.

“And where are you from?”

“Southern Illinois.”

“Certifications paper, please?”

“Yes, they are right here,” said Amy,” digging through her handbag, “here you go,” she said, handing them over.

“Marion State Hospital—well, we do things a bit differently here—at some point, I will sit you down and discuss our policies, but first, I’ll assign you night watch shift in Ward C, we will see how you do, and then go from there,” said Nurse Byrd.

That evening Amy arrived for her shift on time, and all went well. After her shift, she returned to her room, a routine she followed day after day, rarely venturing out and never leaving the premises. Amy formed no friendships, seldom interacted with the other nurses, and only remained in the dining hall long enough to eat a quick meal, after which Amy returned to her room. Amy’s reclusive lifestyle bothered no one, most assuming she was but a shy girl, and many failed to even notice her at all.

Two weeks had passed without word of Fannie, and Doctor Zolla began to desperately hope perhaps, after all, Fannie was passing as an ordinary member of society undisturbed. But by now, Fannie’s antics had become a bad influence on the other patients. While most who had begun running off were perfectly harmless, but a good many wives did not feel safe with the patients wandering about their farms, with their husbands far off in the fields. “Hello, what are you doing here?” Mr. Manns asked the strange man he found in his barn early one morning.

Attired in a coat and undershirt only, no pants but a pair of shoes, the patient said, “I have a dozen chickens here, dressed and ready for market, and I’m wait’n for it to quit raining so I can take‘em to town.” He then asked, “Where’s that white horse that belongs here?”

“Why, it’s in the pasture,” said Mr. Manns confused.

“Well, I want him!” said the Patient.

“It’s an awfully chilly morning. You’d better come to the house and get a cup of coffee before starting to town,” said Mr. Manns. And once in the house, Mr. Manns was able to call the asylum and notify them of patient that had arrived at his farm. Nurse Kate soon arrived with a few other attendants, and the curious farmer offered them a cup of coffee.

She explained to Mr. Manns, “His name is Sal. Sal, you used to be a farmer himself before moving to the Hilltop—isn’t that right?” Nurse Kate instructed the attendants to stay inside and enjoy their coffee, then she walked outside with Mr. Manns to investigate what Sal had done in the barn, and the farmer was so surprised by his presence and so eager to calm him, he hadn’t noticed one of his horses fully harnessed and a dozen of his best chickens had their heads wrung off and scattered around the barn floor, chickens all piled together. It was supposed Sal wrung their heads off, all the while, nude from the waist down.

The following day, a patient named Clarence, whose legs had been amputated after having them frozen during an escape attempt from a poorhouse up north, was found missing. The night went by, and all day the next. On the third day around noon, a telephone message came in, saying that the legless man was in the cornfield at the Walter’s farm, four miles west of the Hospital. The caller further stated the man was trying to set fire to the corn stocks and that he was afraid to go near him. Nurse Kate went to Walter's Farm in a buggy immediately. The road was very rough, and the trip was a very hard one, and Clarence was gone when she finally arrived, and the farmer did not know what had become of him. By the time Nurse Kate returned to the Hilltop, Clarence was back in his cottage. Clarence could evidently get over the ground with his stubs a good deal better than many with legs.

The press had begun to have a hay day with the patient’s escapades, and Doctor Zolla dropped the paper to his desk and rubbed his eyes until they were beet-red. Then there was a knock on his office door. “Yes, Nurse Kate, what is it?” he asked.

“Doctor, I have some bad news,” were the last words he wanted to hear. “Raymond’s body was discovered at the bottom of the bluff in a stream bed in a thicket of willow beside the tracks.” Days earlier, a patient named Raymond had entered a man’s house, stripped himself naked, took the man’s pipe, commenced smoking, and when asked what he was doing, answered, “Get out the way, I’m the boss of this here place.” The medical examiner determined that Raymond died from a significant head injury, most likely after being hit by a train. His case notes read:

The cerebellum was found to be softened. There was also softening of the gray substance of the cerebrum, especially on the left hemisphere, at its central lobe, on the external & superior surface.

“Thank you, Kate,” said the doctor.

“Oh, and Grandma Nurse would like to have a word with you,” said Nurse Kate.

“Thank you, please send her in.”

The following day Doctor Zolla summoned the newly hired Nurse Amy to his office.

“How are you, Amy?” asked the doctor.

“Very pleasant,” said Amy.

“And how are you adjusting to the Hilltop?”

“I rather enjoy my duties, doctor.”

The doctor took a moment and then pulled a letter from an envelope, “I wanted to bring a matter to your attention, Amy. I have received a letter from your mother, and she seems awfully desperate to hear from you. She said that you left your home on the first day of the month to work at our institution, and you have not written a line since. Do you not believe you are acting a bit neglectful in your duties as a daughter?” he asked frankly.

“Doctor—” Amy began to rebut, but determined to squash the petty ordeal at once, he interrupted her, insisting she write the letter immediately. He opened his desk drawer, removed a piece of paper and a pen, and set them on the desk in front of Amy. He then grabbed a chair from the corner of his office.

“Go on,” he said, and Amy sat, and hesitantly picked up the pen and scratched off a quick note:

Am doing well, Amy.

The doctor folded it and placed the letter into a stamped envelope, which he addressed, saying, “Now, please, if you will place it in the mailbox.” And Amy took the envelope and followed the doctor to the box on the wall just outside his office. Amy looked up at the doctor as Nurse Kate watched out of the corner of her eye. The doctor nodded his head, and Amy dropped the envelope into the box. “Thank you, that will be all,” he said.

Several days later, the doctor once again summoned Amy to his office. As she entered, he did not hesitate to read off a telegram from her mother, “‘Letter from my daughter was not written or signed by her. Am afraid she is ill and that the news is being withheld from me. Am coming at once. My daughter writes her name, ‘Amie,’ and the fact that the message was signed ‘Amy’ confirms my suspicion.’” The doctor continued, “Your mother has informed me that she will come on the first available train. I am sure you are aware it must be an arduous trip for her. I am sure she will arrive fatigued and overcome with nerves,” said the doctor. “I feel awful she must travel all this way, but I understood her worries, and I hope upon seeing you, her fears may subside.”

When Amy’s mother arrived two days later, the doctor asked Nurse Kate to bring Amy back to his office. Waiting in the office, Amy’s mother’s face was as pale, ghostly white as her hair, and she wore a pair of tiny round glasses, round like her waistline—a long life in the dirt-poor south was evident by the drabness of her attire. When there was a slight knock on the office door, the doctor stepped outside, saying he wished not to intrude upon their reunion, and as he left, Amy walked in. She stood silently in the corner, as her mother held an old worn-out purse before her breast. After looking Amy up and down in utter confusion, “Where is my daughter?” she asked, but Amy remained silent, keeping her eyes to the floor. “Look at me!” she demanded, and Amy looked up. The mother stood and opened the office door and hollered, “I wanna see my daughter right now! Where is she? What has happened to her?” And the doctor rushed into the office and shut the door behind him, asking what was going on.

“What’s going on, is this is not my daughter,” said Amy’s mother.

The doctor looked at Amy who stood with her head down in the corner and he raised his arm toward her, saying, “But, this is your Amy right here.”

“That ain’t my Amy,” she said. “I ain’t never laid eyes on this girl a day in my life. I certainly hadn’t raised her—I should know it!” as she was growing into a panic, and she let out a shriek, causing Nurse Kate to also rush into the office. “That’s not my daughter!” she cried, “My daughter has green eyes, not the black eyes of the devil. I will hold you all equally responsible and invoke the widow’s curse upon your heads!”

The doctor then decided to turn to Amy for a solution. Amy who stood at the far end of the room, eyes still to the floor, well dressed in her nurse’s uniform, rather stiff and nervous, nervously shifted as the doctor began to question her why she refused to comfort her hysterical mother when suddenly Amy let out a maniacal shriek, followed by a burst of hysterical laughter, before falling to the floor in a faint. And as she laid convulsing on the floor, her nurse’s cap came off, and a blonde wig came with it. The doctor then bent down and whispered in her ear, “Hello, Fannie.”

And Fannie opened her eyes and whimpered, “Oh, doctor—”

“Come out of that fit now,” said Doctor Zolla.

“I just wanted to keep this up a week longer, ‘til payday. I was gonna buy a ticket west and never bother you again,” said Fannie, sitting up on her hind end, hands clasped.

“Fannie, I would like to introduce you to Grandma Nurse,” he said, gesturing toward the “mother” who removed her own round glasses and wig disguise.

“I believe we’ve met,” said Grandma Nurse, as she walked out mumbling, “get me out these filthy rags!”

“Damn it to hell,” said Fannie, as a great battle of mind against mind ensued.

“Fannie, tomorrow we will surrender you to the penitentiary,” the doctor threatened, “you were only committed here pending your recovery, and having failed to recover, the law must take its course. Perhaps while reflecting in the solitary confinement, you will understand how your lack of proper reasoning has sabotaged your wellbeing—”

“Don’t send me back to the penitentiary!” begged Fannie, “I will die—If you send me back, you condemn me to starve to death or worse!”

Unbeknownst to Fannie, she had just put herself in checkmate.

“Promise me, Fannie,” demanded the doctor, “no more antics!” as Fannie moaned though in excruciating pain, slamming her fist into her thigh for some time before falling over and rolling about on the floor. Then on her back, she stared motionless up at the ceiling—feigning death.

“I hear you’re rather fond of roast beef?” asked the doctor, and Fannie shut her eyes, took a deep sigh, “Yes, it is quite good, Doc, you got me—but do I still get paid?”

As much as Doctor Zolla admired Fannie’s stoic nature, she had taken quite a toll on his patience. Nonetheless, she was returned to her cottage and was given yet another chance. Fannie lost none of her popularity—on the contrary—seeing how the nurses were prone to admiring their more charming patients. This most recent performance had quickly made Fannie a celebrity. And in time Fannie came to terms with life on the Hilltop, particularly after being outsmarted by the doctor, who she grew to admire—kindred spirit of sorts, she believed. With this change of heart, along with Cecil’s nudging, the cleverest swindler to ever grace the Midwest, decided to sit back and enjoy the roast beef, finally calling the Hilltop home.