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was the clinic?” Henry asked, trying not to be too obvious about it.
    “Trouble, a lot of trouble. Old Missus Chuiso got out of the day room and into the pharmacy and started taking everything she could get her hands on. They had to pump her stomach, and there were a lot of upset people on the locked ward. The violent ones needed extra medication.” She sighed. “Half of them aren’t really crazy, they’re senile, or they have brain damage, like Brian Bachman, who went over the handlebars of his motorcycle into a tree. He has seizures, bad ones, and he can’t stand up straight.” She had another drink, this one longer and deeper than the previous one. Henry knew it had been bad—she always mentioned Brian Bachman when it was bad. “I told Doctor Salazar that we ought to separate the crazy ones from the senile and damaged ones, but he says we don’t have the budget for it. Itwould be better if we did something to make the place better for them.”
    “But it’s county, Mom, and you say that’s like charity.” He scowled, thinking that it was stupid to argue with her when she was like this, but unable to stop. “The Thomas J. Doer Memorial Clinic is for people who can’t afford—”
    “I know, I know,” said his mother, refilling her vodka glass. “But it’s not doing any good, and in some cases, like poor Missus Chuiso, we’re probably making things worse. Not that there is anything we can do for her.” She sighed as she drank again. “It’s so disheartening to try to deal with her. You should have seen her—well, maybe you shouldn’t—they had to put her in restraints because she kept fighting them, even though they were trying to save her. She’s miserable, and she’s all alone. She needs someone with her all the time, but we don’t have enough personnel to do that.”
    “You do a great job, Mom; the best anyone could,” Henry told her as he took the buttermilk ranch dressing and held it out to her. “Do you want to toss it?”
    “No; you do it.” She tossed the tomato wedges into the torn lettuce and went to wash her hands. “The Hamburger Helper is almost ready.”
    “Great,” Henry said, though the thought of something so dead left him feeling queasy. He needed something with life in it.
    “Just put it on the table. We can toss it before we serve it.” She was beginning to sound a little mellower, but not so much that Henry could refuse dinner with impunity. “I’ll find a bowl for the string beans.”
    “Okay.” He took the salad into the small dining room—it was really more of an alcove off the living room—and put it on the small round table. He thought it was disgusting, and his feeling showed.
    “Why are you making such a face?” his sister asked as she came in from her room. She was extravagantly made up, with two bright colors of eyeshadow above her black-lined eyes. Her cheeks, although they had no need of augmentation, glowed with blusher and her lips were painted a brilliant crimson.
    “Because you look like a clown,” he answered, knowing it would silence her.
    “Ha ha ha,” she said sarcastically. “I suppose you know what makes a girl look good?”
    “I know what doesn’t,” Henry said pointedly. He started back toward the kitchen, not wanting to have another fight with his sister.
    “How’s Mom?” his sister asked, suddenly subdued.
    “Upset. Don’t make it worse, okay? She’ll just drink more if you do.” He has kept his voice down, but he had the uneasy feeling that he had been overheard.
    “So you think I’m going to cause trouble?” she challenged.
    “I hope not.” As he went back into the kitchen, he saw his mother top off her glass with more vodka. “Aw, Mom.”
    “I won’t have any more after this glass,” she said, sounding resentful, which Henry knew meant she was getting drunk.
    “Do you have to?”
    “You bet I do,” she answered him sullenly. “If you knew what I go through.”
    Henry had heard all her complaints