Free Crying Child by Barbara Michaels Page A

Ran didn’t come off so well. He had a cup of coffee beside him on the table, but he hadn’t drunk much of it, and the after-dinner brandy he was gulping down was his third. Sprawled in his chair, balancing the fat balloon glass between his fingers, he was the image of the idle rich man; the dark smudges under his eyes might have been mistaken for marks of dissipation rather than worry and lack of sleep.

    The silence lengthened. I had decided that for once I would try to keep my mouth shut. It wasn’t easy; there were so many things I wanted to ask. Finally Ran cleared his throat.
    “Have a good day?” he asked politely.
    “Lousy,” Will said briefly. “I’m going home and hit the sack. I just stopped by to pick up that book you promised me.”
    “Is that why you stopped by?” I asked.
    “Apparently I need a polite social excuse,” Will said. He looked directly at Ran. “You were supposed to call me.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ran mumbled. “I’ve been busy.”
    “Too busy to report your wife’s condition to her doctor? Or am I her doctor? I get the feeling that I’m not exactly the most popular medical man in town around here.”
    “If you’re blaming me—” I began hotly.
    “Drop it, Jo.” Ran got up and went to the bar. He reached for the brandy bottle. “Anybody join me?”
    I shook my head.
    “No, thanks,” Will said. “You don’t need it either, Ran.”
    “Now you drop it.” Ran turned holding his glass. His face relaxed a little as he met his friend’s steady eyes. “Sorry, Will. You know I have every confidence in you. I’m just not very efficient these days. What did you want to know?”

    For a minute I thought Will was going to get up and walk out. Something stopped him—compassion, friendship, professional ethics—maybe just plain curiosity. I don’t know.
    “Primarily whether those sleeping tablets I prescribed are doing any good. Is she sleeping?”
    Ran looked at me.
    “Not—not too well,” he said reluctantly.
    “Did she wake again last night?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re sure she took the pills?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    Will glanced at me. He saw my look of bewilderment, but naturally he misinterpreted its meaning.
    “This is the behavior pattern I find so confusing,” he explained. “She’s fairly normal during the day; the lethargy and withdrawal are not uncommon, I could understand that. What really throws me are these midnight escapades of hers. Do you know, Jo, that she keeps trying to run away, to get out of the house? Ran assures me that there is no sensible reason—no trouble between them—that could account for it. Even if he’s overly optimistic about that, the pattern itself doesn’t make sense. Why should she only do this at night? I tell you, Mary is hiding something and it’s not the typical defense mechanism of a neurotic.”
    The description agreed, damningly, with myown observations. But that wasn’t what kept me dumb; it was Ran’s silence. Why hadn’t he told his old buddy and medical adviser about Mary’s delusion? It was the key that unlocked the whole pattern of her behavior, the explanation that made her trouble explicable—and also much more dangerous than Will could possibly realize.
    Again Will misinterpreted my silence. I was beginning to feel sorry for him, and the feeling increased as he went on talking—to me, not to Ran, as if he really cared what I thought about him.
    “Jo, when I shot my big mouth off yesterday, you were right to get mad at me. I was expressing hostility toward Mary because I hated to admit my own inadequacy. Back in med school I knew I’d never make a psychiatrist, though the subject interested me enormously. I’m too—unimaginative, maybe; too ready to dismiss neurosis as weakness. At least I know my inability, and it’s high time you faced it too.” He turned to Ran. “I’m out of my depth, Ran. And Mary is no better. You’ve got to find someone else.”
    Ran drew a long breath.
    “God, I’m