The Madman's Tale by John Katzenbach Read Free Book Online Page B

more than a few folks here who would wish to go home and cannot. Myself presently included in that category.”
    Francis looked up at the man. He did not know precisely why, but the calm tones the man used helped to settle him. “Can you help me?” Francis blurted out, repeating himself.
    The man smiled, a mingling of insouciance and sadness. “I don’t know what I can do,” he said, “but I will do what I can.”
    “Promise?” Francis asked suddenly.
    “All right,” the man said. “I promise.”
    Francis leaned back in the chair, closing his own eyes for a second. “Thank you,” he whispered.
    The secretary interrupted the conversation with a sharply punctuated command directed to the smaller of the two black attendants. “Mister Moses. This gentleman …” she gestured toward the man in the jumpsuit, “is Mister …” then she hesitated slightly, before continuing seemingly purposefully not using his name, “… the gentleman that we spoke about earlier. The troopers will accompany him in to see the doctor, but please return promptly to escort him to his new accommodations …” this word was spoken with a slightedge of sarcasm, “… as soon as you get Mister Petrel settled over at Amherst. They are expecting him.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” the larger brother said, as if it was his turn to speak, although the woman’s comments had been directed toward the smaller of the two men. “Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll be doing.”
    The man in the jumpsuit looked down at Francis again. “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Francis Petrel,” he replied.
    The man in the jumpsuit smiled. “Petrel is a nice name. It’s a small seabird, you know, common to Cape Cod. They are the birds you see flying just above the waves on summer afternoons, dipping in and out of the spray. Beautiful animals. White wings that beat fast one second, then glide and soar effortlessly the next. They must have keen eyes to be able to spot a sand eel or a pogy in the surf. A poet’s bird, to be sure. Can you fly like that, Mister Petrel?”
    Francis shook his head.
    “Ah,” the man in the jumpsuit said. “Well, perhaps you should learn. Especially if you’re going to be locked up in this delightful place for too long.”
    “Be quiet!” one of the troopers interjected with a gruffness that made the man smile. He glanced over at the trooper and said, “Or you will do what?”
    The trooper didn’t reply to this, although his face reddened slightly and the man turned back to Francis, ignoring the command. “Francis Petrel. Francis C-bird. I like that better. You take things easy, Francis C-Bird, and I will see you again before too long. That’s a promise.”
    Francis was unable to respond, but felt a slight sense of encouragement in the man’s words. For the first time since that horrible morning had begun with so many loud voices, shouts and recriminations, he felt as if he wasn’t completely alone. It was a little like the harsh noise and constant racket that had been filling his ears all day had diminished, like a radio’s blaring volume turned down slightly. He could hear some of his voices murmuring approval in the background, which relaxed him a bit more. But he did not have time to dwell on this thought, for he was abruptly wheeled out of the office, into the corridor, and the door shut resoundingly behind him. A cold draft made him shudder and reminded him that as of that moment all that he had once known of life had been changed and all that he was to know was elusive and hidden from him. He had to bite down on his lower lip to keep the tears from returning, swallowing hard to remain quiet and let himself be diligently steered away from the reception area and deep into the core of the Western State Hospital.

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imp morning light was just sliding over the neighboring rooftops, insinuating its way into my sparse little apartment home. I stood in front of the wall and saw all the words I’d written