At first, we visited Albert every week. The halls of the institution were brightly lit and carried sound alarmingly well. It was impossible to discern if the scream you heard was right behind you or yards ahead into the brightness. The smell of industrial disinfectant (a smell I associated with Band-Aids from my boyhood), though it permeated the atmosphere, could not quite mask the odor of human life exerting itself at its most biological level. Rachel’s newly permed hair glowed like a curly halo in the bright fluorescent light as we made our way down the corridor. Later, that night, as we performed our dutiful sex act, I would smell vestiges of the disinfectant in the curls.

Albert’s suite (Mrs. Jones, the matronly administrator, used this word- suite -six times when originally describing to us the accommodations) was nicely, if practically, furnished. No glass, no hard angles, lightbulbs secured behind metal cages, all furniture securely bolted to the floor. On one visit, before entering Albert’s room, we stood in the doorway and watched as our son interacted with Jack, his suitemate (another selection from Mrs. Jones’s argot).

“Albert, Albert, did you hear what I said to you? I said, good day, sunshine.”

Albert, sitting on his bed, uncrossed and then recrossed his legs. He rocked back and forth.

“Albert,” Jack said, “did you hear what I said? I called you sunshine!”

Albert continued to rock back and forth, but Jack was insistent. “I called you sunshine! Albert! Albert!”

Albert rocked even faster yet; he grunted and smoothed his hands over his hair. Classic signs of Albert’s growing agitation. He yelled at Jack. “Leave Albert alone! Jack, leave Albert alone!”

Jack apparently recognized the danger in Albert’s voice. He skulked past me and Rachel, muttering to anyone who might care, “Jeez, all I did was call you sunshine.”