And he found out . . . (oh, Melinda . . .)
And now I’m trapped down here.
There are three of us.
Child, Simeon, and God.
And we are all three quite insane.
THE TWELFTH BED
“The Twelfth Bed” has a strange history—and one which was maddening as it was unfolding. I sat down to write a grimly realistic story about death and old people—but with an upbeat ending. When I was finished, I thought I had something that might possibly sell to a major circulation magazine. I mailed the story to Playboy. A week later, I received a two page letter from an assistant editor there. They were rejecting the story, but thought it “brilliant.” Why, then, you may well ask, were they rejecting it? Because, the editor went on to say, “it was too grim.” Next, the piece went to Esquire. I was told, when they rejected it, that it was a miserably depressing story, and it was inferred I had a warped mind (that rejection was half a page letter). The New Yorker, Atlantic, and the Saturday Evening Post (then publishing) all returned it. Not one of them sent a form rejection, but came through with letters about the story—and all of them said it was depressing and antihumane and even “so horrid as to be obscene.” Depressed, I decided to try the lower paying markets, though by now I was certain the story was an utter catastrophe. Ed Ferman, at F&SF, bought the story immediately with a note that said: “. . . yet it is so powerfully charged with Hope . . .” Hope? Could this be the same story that was “grim” and “obscene” and “miserably depressing”? Yes, of course. Because the editors of those slick magazines had taken the plot of the story and judged it only on that. They had failed to consider the lead character and his attitude at the end of the story. What our narrator says in that last paragraph is a testament to man’s ability to come back from the worst possible blows to his psyche, to come back and make a go of it again, even if he believes that, this time, the twelfth bed is the one in which he sleeps. . . .
Now in the dark and the silence with the metal nurses whirring and smiling and rolling around, now with everyone gone and everything lonely, now with Death hovering near me and now that I have to face him alone, I have decided to record the whole marvelous affair. I have crayons, pastels, and the art paper they gave each of us. Maybe they will find the art paper, like my voice echoing out of the past and whispering tales to them. Maybe.
I’ll have to hide the finished document; the supplies closet would make a fine depository, for there is already a great deal of paper in it, and this will be mistaken for unused stock. The metal nurses can’t read, but they always burn all your papers when you die. This would not be safe in my desk. That is part of what makes this place a breathing, snorting Hell—not being able to communicate with the outside world. A man should be able to reach through and see progress and pretty women and children and dogs—and oh so many things. A man should not be bottled like a specimen and shoved away in some forgotten file. Batting my fragile wings against the bottle of my imprisonment, I write.
In the beginning, there were eleven of us. The ward can hold twelve. We knew that several of our number were very close to death and that new vacancies would open up. It was nice knowing there would be new faces. There were four of us who lived through eight years or more in the place, and we valued new faces, for they were all that made life interesting (crayons, pastels, and checkers being limited in their attractiveness after a number of long, empty months).
Once a real Englishman with fine manners came into the ward. He had been to Africa twice, and he had quite a number of safari experiences to talk about. Many a good hour was passed listening to the tales of cats, lean, well-muscled cats that lurked in the brush with glistening claws and yellow teeth to slash and rip and tear at the unwary. There were stories of strange birds. There were tales of strange temples, exotic rituals, narratives about smooth, dark native women.