The hostility to the Oz books is in itself something of a phenomenon…
It is significant that one of the most brutal attacks on the Oz books was made by the director of the Detroit Library system, a Mr. Ralph Leveling, who found the Oz books to have "a cowardly approach to life." They are also guilty of "negativism." Worst of all, "there is nothing elevating or uplifting about the Baum series." For the Librarian of Detroit, courage and affirmation meant punching the clock and then doing the dull work of a machine while never questioning the system. -Gore Vidal, in an essay, "The Oz Books"
Bill Davison had a few months to go before he got his draft notice, so he went to work in the Home. He was hired for his muscles. Bill Davison had been a linebacker on the school football team, had fairly bad grades and was generally recognized to be a nice guy. He was huge, happy and surprisingly gentle. Girls loved his gentleness. He was seventeen now and engaged to his girlfriend, Carol. He was a practicing Christian and had the bravery and confidence to be kind to his mother in public.
His father had been killed when he was six, during the Italian campaign. The experience had been terrible for him. He had needed and wanted his father, kept photographs of him in his uniform, had a map on the wall that traced with pins where his father was. The news of his death had been delivered personally by a friend of the family at the recruiting office. War had taken Bill's father away and would make of him a young man whose urges to violence were all sublimated into sports.
Bill's grades were bad-straight C's. Even so, people were surprised when he took on work at the Home. Who cared about grades? Bill was a presentable young man and could have gotten a good job behind a counter or in an office somewhere. Fat white women with too many kids ended up working at the Home, or blacks, or Mexicans. The Home was one of three state institutions for the mentally ill in all of Kansas. The citizens of Waposage were rather proud of their provision for the insane. They just didn't want to work in the place. Bill did.
He wasn't sure why. "Oh, I don't know," he would tell people. "I guess I just wanted a job helping people. The Home was nearby."
Since graduating in June, he had been working in an electrical supply store and showroom. It was run by Mr. Hardie. He was one of the many friendly older men who thought they had taken on the job of acting like a father to Bill.
"People in the Home can't always be helped," said Mr. Hardie, when Bill told him he was leaving the store.
"Well. They still need caring for," Bill replied.
"That's true, Bill, and it's a fine thought. But you still have got to think of yourself, and of Carol too. They won't be paying you much money for that job."
"Carol's got her job at the hairdresser's. And anyway, I got the Army coming up in a couple of months. It's just till then."
"From now on," said Mr. Hardie, "you got to be thinking of how you're going to set yourself up in life. You got to be thinking about what's going to happen after those two years. You find things are getting tight over the next few months, or you just want a change of scenery, you know there'll always be a job waiting for you here in the store. Need a fine young man like you."
Bill knew he was a fine young man-he had worked at it-but he wore his knowledge lightly. "Thank you, Sir," he replied.
Bill Davison started work in September 1956, in the geriatric ward. He would always remember arriving. On his first day at the Home, he was shown around by another orderly. The man's name was Tom, Tom Heritage. Tom was tall, plump, friendly, and had a very nearly invisible blond beard. He had been a truck driver until he lost his license for three years.
"First thing you do every morning is help wheel up the food from downstairs. Then, while they're eating, we change all the bedding. Some of them leak a little, so we just give them clean sheets. You make their beds for them, tidy up. During the day you help some of them around, maybe take them for a walk. If any of them get sick, you help them down to the infirmary."
"Anything else?" Bill asked, disappointed.
"What, you mean like try to cure them or something? No way, son. That's the Doctor's job."
Tom Heritage pushed against the swinging doors, and they walked into a ward of cots. The old people slept in cots to stop them from rolling out at night. Each one of them had a metal locker that doubled as a bedside table, and a chair to sit on.
"This here's what we call Heaven. It's where all the ones that don't give anyone any trouble are. The Angels."
One old man was still in bed, back turned to the door.
"Okay, Bobby," said Heritage, neatly flipping down one rank of blue cot bars. "It's time to get up. Breakfast."
The old man's face had fallen in on itself, collapsed, and he stared ahead with watery blue eyes. There was white stubble all over his chin.
"Sorry, Bobby, but we got to make your bed." Heritage gave Bill Davison a nod. Bill stared back. "Got to lift him out," explained Heritage. "You take the legs."
Heritage took the arms. Quickly, neatly, the old man was hoisted out of bed and lowered down into his wheelchair. He still stared. One foot began to jiggle up and down with nerves.
Heritage stood back and held up a greeting card from the table, The card had grown soft and worn around the edges, as if trying to grow fur. The corners were grubby. On the front there was a wide-eyed cartoon bunny.
"It says 'Get well soon,' " said Heritage, his eyes and smile just the slightest bit grim.
Heritage wheeled the old man off to his breakfast. All by himself, Bill stripped the beds. It was all so impersonal. The Angels of Heaven were bereft of possessions. Pajamas, a change of clothing, used handkerchiefs, a smell of weak and sweaty bodies. There would be nothing to move away when they died. Heritage returned with the sheets.
About eleven o'clock, they moved off toward the women's ward. From somewhere down the corridor came dim, echoing voices, murmuring or raised and querulous. They sounded like a choir that had not yet begun to sing.
"We treat the women just the same as the men, except that we come in after breakfast when we know they're all decent. Some of the old dears are a bit old-fashioned."
"Don't we do anything to help them?" Bill asked again.
Heritage gave him a thin-lipped smile and shook his head. "Nobody's going to help these people," he said. "Some of them been here for fifty years."
Some of the women sat beside their cots. One of them was making knitting motions with empty hands.
"Good morning, girls," said Heritage. None of them responded, except for one woman who looked up, very slowly, with round, haunted eyes.
Then, suddenly, someone spoke. It was a surprisingly smooth, polished voice, almost like an adolescent's.
"If you're through gabbing, you could get me up off this floor," said the voice. An outraged head reared itself up over the horizon of a crumpled cot.
It was a fine head, a noble head, something like a lion's, ringed with wild gray hair. The eyes were wild too.
Heritage closed his eyes and smiled. "Remember how I said none of them were trouble?" he said. He began to walk backward toward her, looking at Bill, talking to Bill. "Well. Meet trouble."
Bill Davison followed him, tardily. "Dotty," Heritage asked, "what are you doing on the floor?"