Free Jericho by George Fetherling

voice a clear indication of what she believes to be his long-term bed-appeal. Or if it didn’t start out that way, such seems to be the way it is heading. I can only hope that her interest recedes. Beyond telling her what I think and know, giving her the benefit of my understanding of such things, I cannot exactly tell her what to do. I cannot actually say: “If you have to have a straight man, almost any other one would be better than him.” Nor can I actually say, as my mother used to say to me, “Now you listen to me, young lady.” That would send a message that I am competing for her against him. As she is fragile and he is insane, such a signal might be reacted to in ways not foreseeable by me. Look at it this way: I have an investment in her, not of money but of desire, and I have to protect my investment. What else amI to do? I ask myself this query but cannot come up with a worthwhile response, not even at 3:21 in the morning, which is what I observe it to be.
    Talking to myself, not intruded on by other people’s sounds, has long been my most productive means of inner-conflict resolution. That plus, in recent years, my notebook of clinical observations, mostly in the field, which I hope one day will be transformed into something of even greater substance. I should get up right now and do what I do best. I could fill pages with the psychology of this dilemma with which I have been burdened. How do I make her transcend “nice” and respond to me in the affectional dimension I seek (or that in any case I certainly would not reject if offered)? For one thing, I must keep her from being damaged by this warped and careless non-thinker. How can I prevent this if I am not present on-site? This is the dilemma that was forced on me when she invited me to have a coffee with the two of them.
    My first big mistake was accepting the invitation, the second was not speaking up when it was obvious that the slow-witted malcontent was being allowed to choose the restaurant. He preferred places frequented by other characters like himself, where he had protective coloration. That’s how we ended up in a decrepit diner, as I guess you would term it, with a few dirty chrome stools upholstered in red vinyl and a couple of Formica-topped booths, of which we occupied one. There was a sign that said C USTOMERS ONLY WASHROOM . The owner or manager, in any case the presiding authority figure, was a white-haired man with Chinese-Canadian ethnicity. He was reading to himself.
    The psychopath began this way: “My preparations for thegreat transition are officially underway.” He was clean, but he looked as though he hadn’t shaved his face that morning and I noticed tiny grey hairs growing on his ears.
    I stayed calm. That’s the best way to treat these people. “I’m not sure I understand the meaning of that,” I said in such a tone that neither provoked nor reassured him unreasonably.
    “I’m blowing this dump.” At first I thought he meant he was leaving the restaurant. False hope. “Leaving this burg, getting out of town while the gettin is good, blowing the Org as they say in Scientology, retiring to my country residence.”
    “He has this place up north,” Beth said.
    “Where?” I asked him.
    He answered looking at her, not me. “At an undisclosed location. You’ll find out when you see it through the windshield.” He sounded like he was going to make one of those disgusting little throat noises that I became familiar with later on.
    “You’re going with him?” I was incredulous that she was running off with this loon. (Forgive my layperson’s language, but that’s what he is.)
    Beth answered with her eyebrows and a bit-lip smile.
    “What about finding your father?”
    “I’ve decided I have to put that on hold until I figure out how to go about it in a way that makes more sense. Getting away for a while might help. We both need time to think, so we’re going together.”
    I’m not sure I believed in such a