Southern Discomfort by Tena Clark

Author:Tena Clark
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Touchstone

Chapter Twenty

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Whitfield. The name struck cold fear in the heart of every Mississippian, particularly those old enough to remember its history. Named for the small town in which it was located, about ten miles outside of Jackson, the Mississippi State Hospital had a century-old reputation as a barbaric penal colony even before it became the state’s “lunatic asylum.” Whitfield was, in short, the last stop for many of the state’s criminally insane, drug addicts, alcoholics, and the just plain “nervous,” as those who suffered some sort of mental breakdown were called. Inmates, those who survived, would come out thinner, sometimes even shorter, and all around lesser souls than they were when they went in. And those were the ones who made it out alive. Years later, when the hospital built a new service road, more than one thousand bodies were unearthed. There were gruesome stories of ice-water baths, electric shock therapy, unauthorized lobotomies, patients defecating in buckets in the corners of dark, dank isolation cells, and hollow screams that echoed through the stone hallways and staircases, day and night.

Mississippi had its share of rehab and detox centers, but they were all private, and all expensive. Daddy wanted Mama to quit drinking and stop being an embarrassment to him in Waynesboro, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to bankroll an expensive rehab. Not while there was Whitfield. Lamar Clark had waited a long time for revenge on the wife who walked out on him, and now was his chance. That man could hold a grudge.

After a weekend in Jackson billed as a shopping spree for the five Clark girls—me, my three sisters, and our mother—we were all headed back to Waynesboro. The car windows were open, letting in the spring air, which was warm and sweet. I was in the backseat between Mama and Penny, and Elizabeth was up front with Georgia, who was driving. My sisters were uncharacteristically quiet. But Mama, who at lunch had had even more to drink than she normally did, which was saying something, was in a good mood and she and I sang along to all our favorite songs on the radio, “King of the Road” being our absolute favorite. After a few songs, she decided she’d waited long enough and, with her little secret smile on her face, without warning or provocation, she began:

“Trailer for sale or rent . . .” she crooned in her smokiest voice.

I knew my cue.

“Rooms to let, fifty cents . . .” I joined in, pushing gently into her body with my shoulder.

We sang through the song, then both took a big deep breath for our finale.

“I’m a man of means by no means, KING OF THE ROOOOOOOAD!”

“Okay, okay,” Elizabeth said. “Georgia and I have heard enough.”

Mama and I giggled, and Elizabeth turned up the radio to drown out any ideas we might have on singing another round.

Even though I had my own car, Daddy strictly forbade me from leaving the town limits. Even so, I

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