A Brief Lunacy (17 page)

My feet pull in the cold from the slate floor. Charlie said to put down linoleum tile because the slate would be too cold and glass would break if it fell. Today is the first time I've noticed the cold. When I lay down the cleaver and
gather my sneakers from the living room, Jonah watches me. He is quiet. He touches his chest now and then, wipes the corners of his mouth, jiggles his leg, sips wine, but says nothing when I sit in the kitchen chair and put on my sneakers. When I bend to tie the laces, I smell him and wonder if I can eat a meal with his scent on me.

If I can reach the car, I'll call someone. Charlie's office. Someone is always there. Or 911. They're always shouting in the movies to call 911.

I don't think I can use the cleaver. And I'm not sure about the granite rock. But I'm smart. Does that count for anything? Jonah. Why does he call himself Jonah? Because he's finally doing what God wants him to do. He's been vomited from the belly of the fish and now he's obedient. He knows his Bible. Is he religious? And what of his dead mother? Why is she dead?

I fuss with the salad greens, slice an onion, grate some fresh parmesan, chop half a red pepper from the bottom drawer of the fridge. Time. Time to think.

The wine bottle is half full or half empty. The men are quiet, waiting for their dinner. I pour more wine into Jonah's glass and he thanks me but touches the gun, which is now in his lap. I don't offer Carl any more. He still has some left. I sit down with them and sip cold water from my wineglass while we wait for the potatoes.

“Do you like chicken?” I ask.

“Sometimes. My mother made roast chicken with lemon.”

“How old were you? When she died?”

“Four.”

“And you remember the chicken?”

“No. My father made it on my mother's birthday every year. He said I liked it when I was little. He said it's good to remember the dead.”

“You were only four? You said you killed her.”

“I was four. I told you. In the well.”

“Could I see the copy? Of the article? You said you keep it in your wallet.”

“Oh, no. I know your tricks. No one sees it. No one.”

Carl dabs at his wound with his handkerchief, pours more peroxide onto it. Jonah sips at his wine. I refill his glass.

“What happened in the well?”

“Do you think she found a motel? She should be calling. Where is she? It's your fault. It's your fault she's dead.”

“Sylvie dead?” I say.

“My mother. I killed her, you know.”

“Oh. How?”

“I fell into the well.”

“How did that kill her?”

“Didn't you read about it? Everyone read it in the papers. It was in all the papers.”

“I don't remember. Tell me.”

“It was at some friend's place. I wandered off. I remember it. Through the woods on an old path. Chipmunks and rabbits everywhere and I wanted to catch one. I walked for a long time. There was an old rusted truck with words on the side and a tree growing right up through the floor. I got in. Pretended to drive it. Vrrrooommmm.”

“What happened in the well?”

“There was a circle of stones. Leaves piled up against the wall. I climbed up and sat on the edge. I remember kicking my feet at the inside and little rocks flaking off and dropping into the water.

“I looked down, but it was dark and I couldn't see anything. I was scared. I threw some bigger stones and listened to them hit bottom. Some plunked in water. Plunk. Some hit other stones. There's a difference in the sound, you know. Splosh. Ping. I know the difference. Did you ever throw stones into a well?”

“No. I don't think so.”

“It was a big hole. Really big. Big enough for me to lie down right across without my feet or head touching. But of course I didn't lie down across it. Do you think I'm that stupid? Do you think I'm crazy? My dad will lock me up if I'm crazy.” Jonah scratches his head, runs his fingers through his bangs.

“Do you think you are?”

“Maybe. But I'm not going back to that Douglas place. Sylvie isn't, either. We're going to get married. Are you happy about that?”

“Should I be?”

“I'm a good person. I'm good to Sylvie. It's just that God tells me things. Would you disobey God if he told you to do something important?”

“If I thought it would harm people, yes, I would.”

“Well, you're the crazy one, then, aren't you?”

“I don't know,” I say. “Perhaps I am.”

“I can work. I went to college. My father says I can't even have children because I'm crazy. He says he won't have any grandchildren. No one to continue his line. That's why I love Sylvie. Children. We're going to have a baby. That's why God set this up.”

“Sylvie's pregnant?”

“That's not for me to tell you. She loves me. She knows I can work and take care of her. I'll be a good father.”

“Jonah, you're dangerous. You have hurt us.”

He pulls the gun from his lap. “I know you now. Both of you. It's over.”

“What's over?”

“God's command. I've done it. I know you both now.”

“Will you give me the gun?”

“No. Not until Sylvie comes.”

“But we're out of gas. How can we pick her up?”

“She'll get here. She'll come herself. I know her. She loves me. She's much older than I am, you know.”

“Your mother loved you. Did you harm her? What happened?” I'm getting used to having the gun pointed at me. He aims at my stomach.

He tops off his wineglass and places the bottle on the floor. He raises his glass and whispers to me as if we were friends. “When someone loves you, you have to be careful you don't hurt them.”

“How did you hurt her?”

“It was September. Don't you think that was smart of a four-year-old to know that?”

“Yes. Very.”

“You stupid bitch.” He spits when he talks, wipes his mouth with the back of the hand holding the wineglass. Wine spills down the front of his shirt. “It was in the paper. I have copies. I was scared. There was a crow screaming. I saw it up in the tree. It was looking at me. Every time I threw a stone, the crow screamed. Then I threw a stone at the crow.” He laughs. “Got it.”

When I shift in my chair, the key chain pushes against me. Can he see it? Then I remember. It unlocks the car. We never use it because we never lock the car. But the gizmo locks and unlocks the doors. The lights flash. And the horn sounds. The horn.

“I didn't mean to,” Jonah says.

“Mean to what?” I ask.

“Hit the crow. I'm sorry I did that. That was mean.” He lowers the gun and drinks more wine. “Do you like my story? Everyone has stories.”

“Yes, Jonah,” I say.

“I leaned over really far to see where the stones were going. One minute I was sitting on the rim. The next minute I was crumpled on a wet rock. I could see the sky, a circle of deep blue, wisps of clouds passing by. Isn't that poetic? I write poetry, you know. My lip was bleeding. I was only four.”

“How did you get out?”

“I yelled for a long time. It sounded funny down there, like my voice couldn't get out and just bounced around and around the stones. The newspapers said it was only an hour that I was down there alone. What the fuck did they know? They weren't down in the well. They weren't sitting in the
wet. I have the article, you know. Right here in my wallet. Tells all about it.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“I heard her calling, ‘Ralphie, Ralphie,' and I didn't answer. I wasn't supposed to be down in that well. I was bad.”

I turn on the overhead light with the wall switch. Carl usually does that. The windows are dark. Has it been a whole day?

“She called and called and finally I answered, ‘Mommy? Mommy? I'm sorry.' I saw her face at the top of the well. She was angry. ‘What are you doing down there? How did you get there?' She yelled and yelled. Do you think she loved me?”

“She was worried,” I say. “Mothers do that.”

“She said, ‘Come up here this instant.'”

“Jess,” Carl says.

“Wait, Carl,” I say. “Then what happened?”

“She was beautiful. Hair like Sylvie. Dark. Thick. She leaned over the stone wall, stretching her fingers out for me. But she kept yelling, ‘Grab my hand.' I can hear her in my head. I couldn't reach. I tried. I stretched as far as I could.” Jonah's glass hangs from his hand, dribbles onto the floor. “Mom?”

“She fell right at my feet. Plop. I was only four. Her head twisted at an odd angle. I kissed her when she asked me to. She couldn't get up. I kept telling her to stand up, get us out of the well. That's a mother's job, isn't it? Well, isn't it? Answer me.”

“Yes, Jonah. But mothers can't always fix everything.”

“It got dark. I heard dogs barking. ‘Yell, Ralphie, tell them where we are.'”

“My mother sang ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.' I could hardly hear her. Her body didn't move at all. In the morning there was no sun. It began to rain. I remember the rain and the songs. The rain made it look like my mother had great tears dripping down her face, but she never cried. She didn't yell anymore. Can you imagine that? Not once. No more yelling. Can you imagine that, Big Guy?”

“Carl,” I say, “answer Jonah. He asked you a question.”

“Oh, yes. She loved you,” Carl says.

Jonah notices his empty glass and pours more wine into it. He weeps calmly but still holds the gun. I need to keep him drinking and talking.

“She asked me to kiss her all the time. I did. The last thing she said was, ‘One more little kiss for Mommy.' I remember that. ‘One more little kiss.' The next morning her mouth was wide open and her eyes stared up at the sun and she was hard. Her skin was hard. And she didn't ask for kisses. She loved me, didn't she? Could I kiss you? Just like I kissed my mother?”

All I see is the toddler in the cold well with a dead mother. He has kind eyes. How could he shoot someone? “Yes,” I say.

Carl makes a noise of protest but I signal him into silence. I know what I'm doing. Jonah touches his dry lips to my cheek, brushes them toward my forehead, and is gone, back to his position in the chair. “I love you, my mommy,” he says, not to me but to his own mother, who is dead.

“Who found you?”

“It was three days. That's what the paper said. I have a copy of it in my wallet, you know. I remember how cold and stiff she became. I tried to close her mouth but her jaw wouldn't move. The rain stopped. I was hungry and pooped my pants. I wasn't supposed to do that. It was very bad. Did you ever do that?”

“Yes. I suppose I did.”

“I stepped on her head to try to get out. I grabbed onto the stones, trying to pull myself up. My fingers scraped and I bled all over myself. The newspaper said I was very strong and brave. My father didn't think so.”

“It wasn't your fault. You were just a child.”

“I heard barking again. I love dogs, don't you?”

“Yes. We had a dog.”

“There were three dogs. Blueticks. Funny. I remember that. Wasn't I smart? A man said, ‘Are you Ralph?' and I didn't know who I was. A whole group of people looking for me. The newspaper said I didn't speak. They had to get big ropes to pull her up. I didn't see my father for a long time. Until way after the funeral. He finally came to get me at my grandmother's and couldn't even look at me. I don't remember that. He is still alive. He still hates me. He says I killed her. Did I?”

“Of course you didn't kill her. You know that. It wasn't your fault.”

“Yes. It was. You know it was.”

“Did you really fall into a well?”

“Is the chicken ready?”

“I'm going to fix it,” I say.

J
ONAH GULPS THE LAST
of the wine while I move toward the kitchen counter to work on the chicken. I hear the slurp, hear him place the empty wineglass on the floor beside the empty bottle, hear the slight moan he makes, hear him stretch his legs out in front of him. The window overlooking the sea is black now. The gulls are quiet and the night creatures haven't begun their nocturnal chatter. The refrigerator motor ceases its drony hum. I hear the breath of both men, one deeper than the other, one faster than the other. I don't know which is which. Once, I hear Carl clear his throat. Jonah picks up the empty wine bottle and places it back down on the floor.

The quiet makes it hard for me to contemplate, as if he will hear my thoughts in the hushed house. The refrigerator begins again when I open it to get the chicken breasts. There are only two. The crinkle of the plastic wrapping rattles
my thoughts. Do I have any thoughts? My feet are freezing. I wish I had on some wool socks. That's a thought, isn't it?

The boy—I don't even know what to call him now—is weakening. It's the wine and the exhaustion and the pills. I check to make sure I don't have another bottle of wine, but the shelf is empty. What about cognac? I swing open the cupboard door where odd things like cognac and kirsch and peppermint schnapps are kept. A quarter of a bottle. Enough, perhaps. I don't ask before I pour a half glass into a dusty brandy snifter and bring it out to him. He smiles up at me when I pass him the cognac, but his hand is still on the gun.

How will the night be? I have no more videos. He's seen them all. Will he let us go upstairs to bed? Then I will crawl out the window and drop down to the rosebushes underneath. There's no moon or stars out there. I usually pull the linen curtains shut on dark evenings but it seems silly tonight, so I leave them open. Carl always lights a small fire in the woodstove to take the chill off, but he's taped to a chair. I chop some shallots to fry up with the mushrooms.

How long have the potatoes been in the oven? I've lost track of time. Hours, I think. But no. Not long enough for them to bake. Should I start the mushrooms? I open the oven. I can't remember if I poked them with a fork before they went in. I always poke potatoes before I bake them. I stab a fork into the potatoes, one by one. They're done. The last potato explodes onto my hand; clumps of hot potato spatter my arm, burst onto the floor of the oven.