A Brief Lunacy (10 page)

“But we do have all day,” I say.

Jonah hits me. Not hard. But it's the first time anyone's hit me since I was a child. Just flips the back of his hand on my head. It hurts and the tears come, although I will myself to hold them back.

“Stop it,” Carl says. “It's not too late to just walk out that door. We won't tell anyone about this.”

“Carl, I have to do this. God is watching me.”

“God? You think God wants you to hurt people?”

“If I have to, Carl. If I have to. Now. Get to it. Finish what you started, little lady.”

“Oh, God,” Carl says. “Lord in heaven.”

“You praying, Carl? That's good. That'll help. And you. You want another bop on the head?”

“No. I'll do it. But please, step away.”

He doesn't, but with both hands I fiddle with the button on Carl's pants until it slides through the hole. Carl shifts in the chair to make it easier to pull the zipper down. He nods when I hesitate at the next step. First I pick up the empty water pitcher, balance it on his thighs. Only then do I spread the opening in his boxer shorts. He is large. Not sex large. Just large, which makes it difficult to bring it out. He opens his legs for me to place the pitcher there, in the space in front of him. I lay his flesh on the smooth glass and hover my palm over it to keep Jonah from seeing.

Carl's hand tries to reach as if to help me. “It's all right, Carl,” I say. “Just relax.”

“Please, turn away,” he says to me. And we wait.

I stare at the floor next to his chair. Jonah makes no attempt to move, continues to gaze at the water pitcher. Carl begins. The liquid flows into the pitcher, warming the glass. Carl sobs once, heaving his shoulders forward. He continues. The pitcher is half full. There'll be no escape in the bathroom. The bathroom. Yes. I can smash the pitcher on the sink. Or the toilet. Jonah will come to see what happened. I'll hit him with the glass. Cut him. Then take the gun.

When Carl is finished, I tuck him back into his boxers
before I remove the pitcher to the floor. I buckle the belt just enough to keep the pants from falling when he gets up. The rest I leave unfastened.

“Not circumcised, eh, Carl? Now why doesn't that surprise me? Did I expect a circumcised dick? You're a Frenchman, or are you a German? Why should you be cut? You're not a Jew, are you? You're not one of God's chosen. Why then, Carl? Why, then, the fish?”

T
HE ATMOSPHERE IN OUR
small house congeals around us. Sounds and movements feel slow, loud, sloggy. Carl sinks into the chair as if he were part of the upholstery and has ceased to be Carl. Of course Carl must be part Jewish. Why else the tattoo? His family wasn't religious. That's why he isn't circumcised. His father was French. And they never went to synagogue. It didn't matter to the Nazis. It wasn't about the religion, anyway. It was about the blood.

Should I answer Jonah's questions? Carl never talked about his past, and no wonder. It was a terrible time in the history of the world. Why talk about it? I tried once or twice to ask questions myself but I felt I was prying into something very private. It was our only secret. I told Carl almost everything about myself. Even things that I never told another soul. And he told me everything except for the part about the war. Just that one time when he had too much
wine and he told about running away and his family's getting shot behind him. That's all. And the violin. He doesn't talk about that at all.

Sylvie once asked questions about his back and his tattoo, and Carl took her on his lap and said that some very bad men did reprehensible acts to other human beings in the name of medicine and that things like that don't happen in this day and age and in this country. But sometimes I wonder where the United States was when this was all going on. I know we fought in the war, but did we do enough? I've heard stories of boatloads of Jews being turned away and sent back to certain death. Did that happen?

Carl always wears a long-sleeved shirt, so the issue doesn't come up often. But I suppose it always hovers, back there, somewhere. I think Sylvie told her brothers and said to leave that subject alone. And now this boy, Jonah, with a gun in his hand, asks impossible questions that are none of his business. How dare he.

The pitcher is heavier than I expect and I cradle it in both hands to avoid sloshing urine onto the floor. At each step I expect Jonah to stop me, tell me to leave the pitcher on the table or on the floor, but there's no sound from behind me. The downstairs bathroom is small because we rarely use it, although it does have a shower. One of those freestanding, ready-made ones with a cloth curtain. When we have grandchildren it will be handy to rinse off salt and sand and beach debris.

I push the door mostly closed so that he can't see me from the room and I pee as noisily as I can. He won't dare
try to come in here while I am doing something as personal as that. I know the sound of the flush won't obliterate the sound of smashing glass, but perhaps it'll muddy it up. This has to be done right. I may have only one chance.

I straighten myself up and poise the pitcher over the toilet, pour, and rinse it out in the sink. Then I push the handle down until the rush of water begins. Now. I bring the glass pitcher down hard on the edge of the white porcelain sink, and pieces fly in every direction until I am left holding the glass handle studded with jagged shards. I don't hear any steps stamping toward the bathroom. Perhaps he didn't hear the breaking glass. I move the weapon around to my back. I hear the thwack first. Then Carl's groan. The door slams into the table when I kick it open. He's hit Carl. Jonah has belted Carl with the gun. Carl's head hangs into his lap but I see the blood dripping onto his pants.

“Carl?”

“Shut up. That was one stupid move.”

“I've broken the pitcher. It just fell.”

Jonah begins to dance toward me, kind of a little skipping dance, the dance of a child. He sings in a small, high voice, a singsongy falsetto. “You're not going to hurt me, you're not going to—”

“I'll clean it up,” I say.

“What's hiding behind your back?”

“Please leave us alone,” Carl says.

“What, Carl? I can't hear you. You're whispering. How do you expect God to know what's going on if you don't speak up?”

Carl turns his face toward us until I see where the blood is coming from. His front tooth is missing. It's in his lap, gleaming white surrounded by drips of blood.

“Carl? Do you have something to say? Come on. Out with it. Cat got your tongue?”

I take a tentative step forward. Jonah's only three paces away, at most. Behind my back I grip the cool glass tight.

“Carl thinks you should leave us alone,” I say. “Do you think God would like what you are doing? What kind of a God do you know?”

“My God is my business. Now. What're you hiding there?”

“Hiding?” I transfer the pitcher from one hand to the other behind me and show him my empty hands, just like a child doing a simple magic trick for her first audience. Why doesn't he see the flash of broken glass, notice my ludicrous sleight of hand?

“Look, lady, mother of Sylvie, you try anything funny, and his wrinkly old dick's coming off. You get that?”

“Yes. I've got it.” I lean against the wall near the kitchen, attempt to conceal my glass weapon. He seems to have forgotten about the pitcher's breaking in the bathroom. He saunters over to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, waving the gun all the while. I think he takes several of the small white pills from his pocket and swallows them with the water.

“Time for a little entertainment,” he says. He swipes the arm of his shirt across his wet mouth. “I never finished the story of Sylvie.”

Jonah presses the on button for the VCR and settles into the soft chair beside Carl. The only sign of nervousness is his constantly jiggling leg. Sylvie's dressed in organdy and patent leather. She's ten or eleven. Darling. The horrible canned music pounds out “Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head” while Sylvie practices her steps for her tap-dance recital, completely out of sync with the “raindrops.” What if I ask him to lower the sound? He might get angry and I'll lose my chance. I take another step toward him and he doesn't notice. I could throw the broken pitcher at him. But what if it misses? I'll take one more step.

The telephone rings. He watches me to see if I'll answer it. If I do, he'll see my weapon. I wait for it to ring again before I move toward it.

“Oh, no. I'll answer that,” he says. He flicks off the video just as Sylvie takes her curtsy. Her red bow is crooked. Funny. I never noticed that before.

“Hello?” he says. “Sylvie?” Does he think she is calling? Is she calling? “Oh, sorry. They've stepped out. May I take a message?”

He's preoccupied. Now I could hit him with the pitcher. One step toward him. And another. He's listening to the caller. I swing my arm around, my weapon sparkling in the sunlight, swiping the air just inches from Jonah's shoulder. He sees it, ducks, aims the gun at Carl.

“Oh, I see. Well, I know they're very concerned about their daughter. I'd be glad to give them a message.” He waves the gun around, leveling the trajectory directly into Carl's mouth, which is hanging open and drooling blood
onto his arm. “I'm a close family friend, you know. I know all about the problem with Sylvie.” Jonah listens for a moment longer, then drops the receiver into the cradle without another word.

“Did they say anything? Is there any news?”

“You fucking bitch,” he says. “I ought to kill you.”

“You can't kill me, Jonah. I'm Sylvie's mother. She'd never forgive you.”

“But I can kill Mr. Carl, here. He's a fake and a liar.”

“No, Jonah. Sylvie wouldn't like that, either.”

“You're trying to control me. Why are you doing that? Where is she? You're her mother. Don't you know where she is?”

“No. I don't.”

“We wait, then. You and me and Mr. Carl.”

“What do you want from us?”

“Give me that. Pass it slow. No funny stuff or I shoot the balls off the old man.”

I almost saved us. Almost saving is like being a little pregnant or coming in second. As he takes the handle of the pitcher from me, our hands brush against each other. He's touched her with those hands. I know it. He's touched my Sylvie in intimate ways. There has to be some good in there.

“Jonah, you know Sylvie, don't you? You know our daughter. You didn't have your gear stolen.”

“You know where she is,” he says, “don't you?”

“Maybe in the tree,” I say. “In the pine. Did she tell you about the pine?”

“Yes. She did. The pine tree.”

“Yes. You should go and see if she's there. We'll wait right here for you.”

“You think I'm crazy, don't you? I want to tell you about why I'm here. You. Go over by Carl. That's right. Sit down next to him.”

I lift Carl's tooth from his thigh and tuck it into a wad of tissue from my pocket. I leave it on the side table because I always save teeth that come out. The tooth fairy comes and I tuck the teeth away in my top bureau drawer. I still have all the children's teeth in a tin box next to my socks.

Then I pat the blood spatters dry. His fingers curl upward as if they belong to someone dead, and they lie still like sausages when I wipe the blood from them. He thanks me.

“She promised she'd meet me here. She gave me directions. Are you both comfortable?”

“No,” I say. “Not comfortable.”

“She loves me,” he says.

“Yes, I'm sure she does.”

“Want to know why I left?”

“Tell me,” I say.

Carl says nothing. Our arms touch lightly, enough for me to feel his distress. I press my arm onto his.

“Look,” Jonah says, “I don't have to tell you anything. This is between me and God. Have you got a cookie? Something to munch on?”

“In the cupboard,” I say. “Second door.”

For a moment he turns his back on us but I no longer have my weapon and I'm not sure I can find the strength to
hit him with the rock from my pocket. It isn't very large and my hands aren't as strong as they used to be.

“Carl? Are you in pain?”

“Not much,” he says. “Jess. I'm sorry. I lied to you.”

“Don't worry about that now,” I say. “What did you lie about?”

“About my family. About the camp. There are reasons.”

“You two having a chat?” Jonah asks. He passes me the box of gingersnaps after he scoops out a handful. I shake my head. I don't want a cookie. “Now then, where were we?”

“You were telling me why you left. Why you came here.”

He sits down in the chair, legs spread out in front of him, cookies in his lap. He holds the pistol pointed at us. When I motion with my hand to please lower it, he does.

“I have a very intimate relationship with God,” he says. “There are only a few of us, you know.”

He bites off half a cookie before he continues. In a strange way, I feel as if we're sitting around chatting and snacking but we are the guests and he is the host. He appears relaxed, offers me another cookie, and looks disappointed when I refuse. Carl doesn't respond at all.

“Only a hundred of us, to be exact,” Jonah says. “He speaks to me just like a person would. He says, ‘Jonah, today you will pray for one hour,' or ‘Go to Sylvie's parents and prepare them.'”

“Prepare us for what?” Carl asks. I'm startled when he speaks. His words are mushy because of the missing tooth and the pain I know he has in his face.

“Well, now. Can't you tell what I'm preparing you for?”
Jonah rubs his chin. The sound is raspy because he hasn't shaved in several days. He wipes the corners of his mouth. I don't think he has any idea what he's supposed to prepare us for.