A Brief Lunacy (9 page)

“But I know you. I know you, Carl. Yes sirree, I know you well. I know who you really are.”

“Know me? How? Who are you? I think I know who you are. You have to leave.”

“Oh, no, I don't.”

Once when Charlie was a small boy, he looked like this boy, defiant, scared, a lock of hair flopping on his forehead.

“Oh, yes, I am,” he'd said when I told him he couldn't go ice fishing with the older boys without an adult. When he pulled his snow pants up and shoved his feet into his boots,
I made no attempt to stop him. I tied his hat under his chin while he put on his mittens.

“Will you make me a sandwich?” he had asked.

“Sure, Son. Peanut butter?”

“Dad, do you like fish? I'll bring you one home.”

“Charlie, I've told you that you can't go ice fishing alone. You aren't allowed. It's too dangerous. But of course you know that, don't you?”

“Just pretend, Dad,” he said. “Not real ice fishing. Just pretend. In the backyard. I'll bring you and Mom a pretend fish.”

It terrified me to think he could fall through the ice into frigid water without me there to save him. I still remember the sense of relief I felt that day when I knew he wouldn't go without permission.

I think this boy could shoot me. Even worse, I think he could shoot my Jess. Perhaps, like my Charlie, he'll change his mind. He'll put the gun down and leave.

It's been a very long time since a gun has been pointed at me. I never thought it would happen again, certainly not in America, land of the free. Back then, guns sounded day and night, indiscriminate shots at anything that moved. Once, a new guard practiced by shooting at my feet while I danced. He wanted me to waltz around the courtyard while he tried to aim as close as possible without hitting me. I was naked and the cold stiffened my joints until I could barely lift my feet from the frozen mud. My family stood in silent columns with the others. I watched my mother try to look
beyond me so she couldn't see my feeble attempts at dance and view my exposed sex. But she saw. I know she saw. When the guard grazed my small toe with one of his bullets, he tossed me a violin and made me play while my uncle danced. My uncle's genitals were shot off. We weren't allowed to help him, of course. He froze during the night and I was conscripted into the camp orchestra to take his place. That violin saved my life.

But all that is in the past, left in Europe. Now I live in the United States, where people don't shoot other people and make them do things that have no dignity.

“Tape him. Hurry up.”

When Jessie hesitates, Jonah holds his arm out straight toward her, the barrel of the revolver close to her heart. She pulls the duct tape off the roll and stretches it over the arm of my sweatshirt.

“No. Pull the shirt up. I want to see the fish. Pull it up. Stick the tape to his skin. Leave the fish showing. There you go. That's right.” He doesn't notice that I lift up my arm to keep the tape loose. “I was reborn in the belly of a fish, you know. Given another chance, you might say. That makes us relatives, doesn't it?”

W
HAT IF
J
ONAH
shoots me in the heart? How will it feel, I wonder, to have a bullet pierce my chest, crack a rib, blow a hole in my left ventricle? Will I really feel anything or will it be over too soon for any awareness? While I'm wrapping the tape around Carl's bare arm, Jonah will have to shoot me through my back. Perhaps it won't hurt quite as much if I don't see it coming.

If I wrap the tape an inch at a time, press it down onto Carl's flesh, I can prolong my time with him. What does this Jonah want, anyway? Is he just crazy and did he fall upon our house by mistake? That couldn't be. The smell of the duct tape adhesive makes me woozy. If I keel over, will he shoot me? I think Carl is raising his arm to keep the tape loose. He's going to escape. I know it. We're going to get out of this.

And what about Jonah? He says we're relatives because
of the fish. Is that just crazy talk or do we have some connection? Does he know our daughter? Yes. That's who he is. It must be.

The only sounds in the house are the quiet humming of the refrigerator and the car engine and the jerk of the duct tape each time I tug on it. I don't know what he's doing behind me but I sense the muzzle of the revolver pointed through my spine. Carl isn't looking at me. He watches his own shoes. I press lightly on the tape so that it catches only the hairs on his arms, little by little across his wrists. When I kiss the top of his head, he shudders. Fear? Embarrassment? I don't know. Both, perhaps. I run my index finger down his sad cheek to the corner of his mouth. His tongue touches the tip. I allow my finger to enter his mouth, just to the joint. He closes his lips around it. I whisper love words to him and he nods just enough for me to feel his head move. There is no sound from behind me.

The first time he took my finger into his mouth, sucked gently as a sleeping baby would, we made love in a cemetery near my school. We huddled in the shadows behind a large stone while we undressed. That was the first time I felt the scars on his back.

“Don't,” he said when I slid my hand along his back. Squares of hard raised flesh. “Don't. It's from the war.”

When I'm finished with the tape, I turn away from Carl. Jonah still sits in the chair, watching us, weeping to himself now. The gun points toward the floor. It has begun to rain, and fog obscures my rock through the window.

“He loves you,” Jonah says.

“Yes,” I say.

“Someone loves me, too.”

“Yes, Jonah. I'm sure they do.”

He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt. The gun stays pointed down.

“Jess,” Carl says. I can barely hear him. “The gun.”

I walk toward Jonah. He looks weak, frail, frightened. “Everything will be all right.” I open my arms toward him because he is like a child. Like my child. “Let me take the gun from you. It is bad.”

“Sit down,” he says. “On the couch.” He gestures with the gun again and I back up until I feel the cushions at the backs of my legs. I lower myself until I perch on the edge.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“I want love, too,” he says.

“But you said someone loves you.”

“Yes. They're coming here.”

“Coming here? But what do you want from us? We don't even know you.”

“Get out,” Carl says. “Leave us alone.”

“Oh, my, Carl. Don't be so angry. If you're angry with me, you're angry with God.”

“Do you want something to eat, Jonah?” I ask.

“Lunch. Is it time for lunch?”

“I'll make something.”

“Bring it in here. If you do anything bad, I'll shoot Mr. Carl here.”

On the way to the kitchen, I pass within a foot of Jonah. I am frightened, but something makes me want to touch his
shoulder. How could I feel that way? And why the hell did we ever get the damn gun? I consider grabbing it from him as I pass, but at the last moment he shifts in the chair and aims at Carl.

I make Swiss cheese sandwiches with mustard, cut them in triangles, scatter them on a platter. Jonah places another video into the machine and turns it on with the remote. It's
Planet of the Apes.
When can I act? My mind scurries for ideas. Carl is no help. When Jonah's back is to me, I consider throwing a knife at him, but I envision it bouncing off his shoulder and clattering to the floor. And then he will be angry and he'll hurt someone. Perhaps Carl will make a commotion and I can throw a rock from the windowsill. I slip one into my pocket, a jagged chunk of granite the size of an egg. I found it on the shore and brought it home because it was pink with streaks of red and black through it. I thought it was pretty.

Jonah jerks the video out of the machine and shoves in another. I rustle through the refrigerator, searching for time to think. If I threw the pound of butter at him, it might knock him off balance enough for me to hit him with the rock. And then I picture him as a child and wonder if I have the guts to hurt him. Could I crack his skull with my rock? And would he really shoot us? I find some celery in the vegetable crisper, take it out, cut it into small sticks, strew them over the cheese sandwiches. How about tea? It would be hot. Scalding. I run water into the kettle.

“No tea,” he says. “No coffee. Nothing hot.”

I fill three water glasses from the pitcher. Glass. That's
it. Broken glass at his throat. But I won't be able to cut him. The blood.

He throws the video from the machine against the wall and digs around on the shelf for another. He motions for me to place the lunch tray on the small side table near the couch.

“Give him some,” he says.

I've never fed Carl before. He fed me once. A spoonful of fish chowder. After I had Sylvie. But this is a first. He chews at the end of the cheese sandwich until it's half gone. Crumbs drop onto his lap. I take a bite from his end. That's all we eat. Carl says he isn't hungry. I'm hungry but I say I'm not.

Jonah eats all the rest. When he finishes, he reaches for another video. He's been through the beginnings of most movies on the shelf. The last one is our family. Years of home movies and photos recorded onto a two-hour video. Charlie gave it to us for Christmas the year he got married, and we watch it on each of the children's birthdays. Most of it is Sylvie because she was the first born, and the first child always has more pictures taken. The music was added by the video people. I hate it. It sounds like elevator music and we always turn the sound off when we watch it. But Jonah has the sound on. Not loud. But audible.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Carl says.

Jonah clicks a button on the remote and the screen turns blue. Clicks another one and the blue flickers and dies. The horrid music stops. “Does Mr. Carl need a bath? Is he getting ready?” He turns toward Carl with the gun, waits for an answer to the ridiculous question.

Carl slumps with his ankles and arms taped to the heavy chair, like a man living out his final moment in Old Sparky, waiting for the jolt to end everything. But he's thinking. As soon as he's free, we'll act. Carl's going to save us.

“Well, Carl? A nice warm bath?”

“I need to urinate,” Carl says.

“Oh, well then, let's find something for you to piss into.”

“I'll come right back. Please. I need to go into the bathroom.”

“The missus will find you something. Get him a bottle or a jar or a bucket. The water pitcher. Get it.”

“Let Jessie cut the tape. I'll just be a minute. I promise I'll come back.”

“No one can escape from God.”

“That's right. See? I can't escape.”

“No, you can't. I'm not going to let you. You're not ready yet, Carl. No. Not ready. You haven't changed your life. You still need help.”

“Jessie,” Carl says, “get the scissors from the hook. Cut the tape.”

“My mission is more important than your pathetic life. Don't move, missus.”

“I'll stay here with you,” I say. “That way Carl won't try to escape. You see?”

“Shut up. Both of you.” He stands, digs into his pocket for another of those pills he's taking. “You. Get something for him to piss in.”

I find I'm getting used to having a gun pointed at me. I've had nightmares about that kind of thing but now I look right at it and follow the track the bullet might take if he
fires. Into the front door. Past the floor lamp. Through the center of the television screen. Into my brain.

“Go on. I don't want to shoot anyone, but if God says, ‘Do it,' then I do it. Get the thing.”

When he waves the gun at Carl, I'm not used to it anymore. Funny. I can stand it pointed at me but not at Carl. “Yes. I'll get it.”

All the way over to the counter I imagine Carl's humiliation. First I feed him. Then I hold a container for him to pee into. Carl's a private person. He doesn't even pee in front of the boys. He always shuts the door when they're home. Says he has a shy bladder. But I'll pee in front of anyone. That's one of our differences.

The pitcher is plenty big enough. I empty the lunch water into the sink and consider smashing the thing on the edge of the counter. Then I'd have a smooth handle with a jagged glass weapon attached. But he might shoot Carl. I touch the rock in my pocket. Perhaps that's the thing to use.

“Could you turn away?” I ask Jonah.

“What's the matter? Modest?”

“Yes,” Carl says.

“I'm responsible for you two. Now. Do it. Unzip him.”

Again my back is in the trajectory of the barrel of the gun, but I hear Jonah walking toward us while I lower the pitcher to the floor. Does Carl undo his belt when he urinates? I can't honestly remember. I fumble with the zipper of his fly. I think Carl cries inside of himself, because I can feel his belly trembling.

The boy stands beside me as if he is going to help. Perhaps it would be better if Carl just let it go. Wet into the chair. I look at him. His eyes are away from me, toward the front door. I want to catch his attention because of the glass pitcher. There isn't anything nearby to smash it on. The chair is wood; the floor is wood as well. Not hard enough to break the glass. Jonah shuffles beside me, sniffs, clears his throat. If I reached out I could touch his leg. He's too close. I can sense his breath, the warmth of it, the taste of Swiss cheese and mustard. My fingers can't seem to maneuver the zipper. I slide the end of his belt through the first part of the buckle, pull it back, and release it from the metal pin. Carl sighs as I open the belt, glad of the release.

“Hurry up.”

Jonah walks around behind me to the other side. Carl turns his head away toward the kitchen, toward the bullet hole in the window.

“I don't have to go anymore,” Carl says.

“Shut up, Carl. You don't know what you want. Pull his thing out. Hurry up. We don't have all day.”