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.
“Are you asking us to repent?” I ask. “To save ourselves, like the people of Nineveh? Isn’t that what Jonah does?”
“I love her,” he says. His voice is so low I barely hear his words. “Where is she?”
“Maybe she’s in the tree. Wouldn’t you like to go and find out?”
“She’s going to meet me here. She promised. I’m here to get things ready.” The hand holding the gun hangs limply at his side, the muzzle almost touching the floor. He eats one last cookie. “How far is the tree?”
“Not far. Maybe ten minutes’ walk. What do you think Sylvie would do if she saw you with the gun pointed at us? Don’t you think she’d be upset?”
The gun clatters to the floor before he can answer, and I’m on my feet, running toward him, the granite in my hand. I’ll strike him on the temple. He will fall. I will shoot him. No. Yes. Behind me Carl whispers, “Be careful, be careful.” Before I can raise my arm against him, Jonah scoops up the gun from the floor and shoves it onto my throat, pushes me back.
“Going to hit me with that rock?”
“Jonah, we’re trying to save ourselves. We’re helping you. I don’t think you’re doing the right thing.” The cold metal hums with my words, distorts my voice, pushes into my larynx. His finger is too close to see clearly. Is it on the trigger?
12
CARL
“BE CAREFUL,” I say. “Be careful.”
I’m not sure she hears me. I say it again but barely have time to finish. He shoves that goddamn gun against her neck, pushing her, pushing her. She grips the chunk of granite in her hand. She speaks with a new sense of authority, my Jess, directly to a man who has the live end of a revolver shoved against her throat. The rock clatters to the floor beside her when he tells her to drop it. She’s like a dog being reprimanded for chewing a forbidden toy, like Reba when she stole Jessie’s undies and my socks from the laundry.
Jessie doesn’t back away from the pistol. What has happened in one day? Jessie, who hates guns. Jessie, who pleaded with me not to buy it. Now she stands firm. Will Jonah shoot her? Will he shoot anyone? He’s taken a handful of those little white pills. He could do anything, I suspect.
“Come on, you two,” Jonah says, still holding the gun at her. “You’re making it hard for me. Sylvie’s waiting for me to prepare the way. This is all for her. Don’t you see?”
It’s hard to believe he is a madman, a criminal, a miscreant. What if Jess is shot? What if he pulls the trigger and she falls with a thud onto the floor beside the granite? Then my arms will rip the goddamn duct tape and squeeze his throat until the breath goes out of him. But if I can do it after she’s dead, why can’t I do it now? I struggle with my arms and legs against the tape but there’s little movement except for a quiet thump of the chair.
“Please,” Jonah says. “I don’t want to shoot anyone, but I will if I have to. Just do as I say.”
“Well,” Jessie says, “what do you say, Jonah of God?”
Jonah releases Jessie and begins pacing, waving the gun. He wipes at his chin as if there were food stuck there. I think Jessie’s strength scares the bejesus out of him. Sweat beads on his forehead, making his bangs damp. He stops pacing and turns to face her.
“I have to know you. Be important in your eyes.”
“You are important.”
“I don’t feel it. That’s why I need this. I don’t feel that you respect me.”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “We definitely do, don’t we, Carl?”
I can’t find the strength to speak. I nod slowly but no words come and it isn’t convincing enough.
“It’s Sylvie’s idea. She said to listen to my voices, that it was God speaking. He said to get you ready for us. And to cleanse Carl.”
“Cleanse from what?” I ask.
“Shut up,” Jonah says. “You’re trying to trick me, divert me from my mission. I know. I decide what to cleanse.”
He seems to have forgotten about Jessie and is focusing on me now. His arm absently lowers the gun toward me. I command my mouth to spit razors at him but nothing forms under my tongue. The hole where my tooth used to be throbs. How stupid I am. I can’t move. I can’t help my wife. I can’t even piss by myself.
“The police will find you,” I say.
Jonah considers what I said. He licks the corners of his mouth, and his eyes focus up at the ceiling as if he’s waiting for an idea.
“Look, Mr. Carl, you do what I say and I won’t hurt you. I promise. But you have to do what I say. Art. The way to intimacy is through art.”
Jonah finds his idea. But what in God’s name could he be looking for in the drawer? Paints? And paper? Charcoal pencils? He pulls a small penknife from his jacket pocket and sharpens one of the pencils. He whittles the tip, allowing the shavings to scatter on the floor. He juggles the gun and pencil in one hand and the knife in the other. How can he do that? I wait for him to put the gun down on the table, but he doesn’t. Then he loads his free arm with the art supplies, still gripping the handle of the gun tight in his hand.
“What are you doing?” Jessie asks.
“Getting to know you better,” he says. “Relax. Pretend we’re meeting for the first time. I want to see what Mr. Carl here can do with this stuff.”
“Not much with my hands tied,” I say.
“Cut that tape,” Jonah says. “Slowly so I can see everything.”
He signals with his eyes toward a pair of scissors hanging on a nail in the beam that
separates the kitchen from the living room. Jessie moves with the grace of a ballet dancer toward the scissors, and I close my eyes and pray that she doesn’t come at him with the sharp points, that she does as he asks. Jonah shadows her over to the scissors and back to my chair, hovers while she snips at the gray tape a bit at a time until it’s severed through on both sides. She leaves the tape stuck across my arms. I think she doesn’t want to yank it off and pull my hairs with it. I think she doesn’t want to hurt me. Jonah tells her to return the scissors to the nail. She watches him all the way to see if he is paying attention, to see if she might have a chance to slip something sharp into her pocket. But he watches her closely and she hooks one of the scissor holes over a nail, and the blades fall open along the wooden beam.
My hands and wrists are stiff from being taped to the chair. They seem foreign to me, as if they belong to another man, a large old man, a useless, doddering fool. When I try to make a fist, my hand seems bloated, puffy, like rising bread, good only for resting on the arm of a chair. I close my eyes and I imagine my punch, the hardest I can muster, spreading blandly across Jonah’s craggy chin, soft, flaccid, futile.
“Paint,” he says. “Draw something personal. The way to intimacy is through artistic expression. Don’t you know that, Carl? You heard that before?”
“No. I haven’t.” I look at Jonah, who is holding out a sketch pad. I almost laugh out loud. Here we are, being tortured by a madman, and I’m going to draw a seagull in the midst of it all.
“That’s what Sylvie said. ‘Get to know them. They’re family.’ So that’s what I’m doing. Getting to know you. Now, draw something.”
A Brief Lunacy Page 8
