Free A Brief Lunacy by Cynthia Thayer Page A

wall amid the spatters of God knows what. Sylvie had, in fact, won the thousand-dollar Arts and Letters Prize for her essay on ethics and the modern world, to be used at the university of her choice. And here she was in the mental hospital not “of her choice.” Why hadn’t I believed her when she told me? Would it have made a difference if I’d thrown my arms around her instead of patting her arm?
    â€œIt’s warm today,” I say. “There’s shelter by the road. A big oak tree right where the driveway meets the highway. You can stand there and wait for your friend. You’ll be fine.”
    â€œGo ahead, Jessie. Start the car and I’ll drive him up to the highway.”
    Carl towers over Jonah. He’s strong. Jonah walks toward the couch to get his jacket. Everything is fine.
    â€œI’ll only be a few minutes,” I say. “Got to let the engine warm up.” Carl sits down. I’m sure the boy is harmless but I plan on going with them up the drive.

9
C ARL
    J ONAH HAS CHANGED since last night and I wonder if he’s taking some kind of drug. I’ve seen him put something from his pocket into his mouth twice this morning. Once before Jessie came down and then again after breakfast. As crazy as Sylvie has been all these years, I’ve never been really afraid of her, but a sense of fear is gripping my gut at the moment. And I’m wondering who the “beloved” on the telephone might be. Probably not his mother, who’s supposed to be dead. A girlfriend? A wife? A wrong number? Sylvie? I think that after I drop him off I’ll call Galen at the town office to see if someone will check him out. God knows, the police have little enough to do around here.
    While Jonah walks toward the couch to gather his belongings, I check the weather from the kitchen window. The thermometer reads almost sixty degrees and the clouds are high. He’ll be fine. He seems like a smart boy. But thenSylvie is smart, too. I’ll be relieved when I get him to the highway. Then Jessie and I can get back to the business of finding our daughter.
    â€œI’ll only be a few minutes,” Jessie says on the way to start the car. “Got to let the engine warm up.”
    Jessie looks like a girl this morning, as she has since I first met her. No makeup. No jewelry. And the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. Her one long braid hangs halfway down her back the way it did when she was in college, and if it weren’t gray, well . . . I love her old. I do.
    I was at Harvard, just finishing up my medical studies. She was at Smith, preparing for her orals in history. We met in the Widener Library, where she was doing research. I followed her in through the front door although I had been on the way to lunch. I couldn’t help myself. She wore an Indian skirt almost to her bare ankles, and a thick brown braid swung across her shoulder blades. Once, she glanced back to see who was trailing behind her. I stopped, pretended to study a notice on the wall, fell in again when she turned toward the history stacks. I lost her and began scurrying past the aisles of books, skimming down each one for the flash of red from the skirt. Finally I saw her, on the floor, her books strewn around her like dry leaves. She was crying. I loved her that soon. Before I even knew her.
    â€œAlmost ready?” I turn toward Jonah. “The car needs warming up. Jessie will be a few—”
    â€œHurry up. Over here. Sit down. I tried to get you to understand.”
    Jonah holds a small revolver pointed toward my head, aroll of duct tape in his other hand. He rocks back and forth on his heels but keeps the gun steady. Is it my gun? It’s my gun. Is it loaded? I can’t remember. It’s been in the cabinet drawer two years. No. I don’t think it’s loaded. But there were some new bullets on the top shelf behind the chafing dish. We bought the gun in case we found another