The Puzzle Ring

That Would Break His Heart

His name was Bror (Bror means “Brother” in Swedish) and the staff at Sankta Maria Mental Hospital — where I worked in the late summer, and early fall of 1968 — had told me that he had the mental age of a six-year-old.

After coming to know him, I had to agree, that this was probably not too far off the mark — but he was also one of the most perceptive and kind human beings I have ever met.

A few weeks after saving his life (for more on that, read my story called “A Brother Provoked”, here’s the link), I handed in my notice.

By now, the writing was pretty much on the proverbial wall. Suspicion was nearing certainty that I had been helping patients escape (which, indeed, I had, three by my recollection, one of them twice). There was no evidence, mind you, but recent time coincidences spelled things out a little too clearly for my liking.

No, they could not sack me based on suspicion, but they could make my life very uncomfortable. I could feel the resentment thicken the air as I entered the staff room these days. The head nurse on the ward made no secret of it, he knew. In fact, he once looked straight at me and drew breath to say just that (I am pretty sure) but fell just short of it. Still, they knew, and I knew that they knew, and they knew that I knew that they knew. This is not a recipe for harmonious relations.

So I decided to call it quits. I made an appointment with the personnel officer and gave her (the same rather nice woman who had hired me a few months back) a two weeks’ notice.

To be honest, she did not look devastated to lose me; word had obviously percolated up the hospital organization and reached her ears as well: I was a letter-out of locked-in patients. An organizer of patient escapes. Persona non grata, in other words.

Still, she was professional about it and thanked me for my time, shook my hand, and wished me the best of luck in whatever my future endeavors.

Classy.

Now that my leaving the hospital was a certainty, the one thing I wanted to make sure to do was to tell Bror that I was leaving and to give him something to remember me by.

Pondering what to give him, I finally settled on my gold puzzle ring — you know one of those that consists of six or eight interlocking strands of gold (or silver) that you must put together just so, or they will remain six or eight separate strands for pretty much ever.

Yes, that felt right. He would love that ring — in fact, I had caught him eyeing it once or twice, admiring it. Yes, definitely. Then I realized, almost to my horror, that were I to give him my ring, I would first have to teach him how to put it together should it ever fall apart.

I knew, for one, that if Bror were to have more electric shock treatments, which was pretty much a certainty, they always remove any and all rings before the shocks, and perhaps, if they were not careful, that’d fall it apart so to speak.

As a patient, perhaps he could not ever wear it, I wasn’t sure. Still, I really wanted him to have it, to remember his Prince of India by. But, there was no way around it: I would have to teach him how to put it together, for should it, for any reason, come apart with him unable to put it together again, well, I figured that would break his heart.

So, two days after giving notice, I sat him down in the day room and told him that I was leaving.

Right away? No, not today, but Friday after next, in about two weeks.

Where was I going? I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but most likely back up north, to my hometown, I told him.

Did I have parents there? Yes, my dad lived there. He had a factory there where I could work, I was pretty sure.

Did I have a wife? No, not a wife. But I was engaged to a girl named Marie who had come back from England where she had spent the summer.

England? Did they have elephants there? No, not really. In zoos, sure, but not in the streets or anything. Not like India.

“I am afraid of elephants,” he confided in me.

“I know,” I said.

“Not you though,” he informed me.

“True,” I said.

Then I told him that I wanted to give him something to remember me by when I was gone: my gold ring.

At first, I don’t think he believed his ears. Then he said, pointing at the puzzle ring on my finger, “That one?”

“Yes, this one,” I said, removing it and holding it up.

“Oh boy,” he said, light spreading across his face, like a glow from heat. “Oh, boy.”

“Let me show you something, though,” I said and explained how the ring could come apart and how I needed to teach him how to put it back together again should that happen.

And then I took the ring apart and slowly put it back together.

He watched very closely. Was hardly breathing.

Then again. And then again. Many times. And then he tried equally many times to put it back together and failed equally many times.

I showed him many more times. Slowly, slowly. He tried and failed again, many more times. I showed him again. He tried again. Failed again.

After twenty or so minutes, perhaps even half an hour, he hands me the still dismantled ring and looks right at me and says, “You should keep the ring. I can never learn how to put it together. I’m too stupid. And if I dropped it, and it broke, it would break my heart.”

That broke my heart. And for his sake, I kept the ring.

© Wolfstuff