Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [82]
“That was very good, Michael,” Joe said. “Impressive.”
“Thank you. Of course, it’s just an example of something good coming out of something bad. Had I not been incarcerated in that hospital for so many years, I never would have had the inclination or time to practice the guitar. I was inspired by Joe Pass.”
“Who?”
Michael laughed as he sat in the director’s chair. “You obviously are not a jazz lover. Joe Pass spent many years in prison because of his involvement with drugs. He had nothing to do but practice his guitar playing. When he came out of prison, he was the best jazz guitarist in the world.”
While Joe had been impressed by Michael’s playing, he found himself gripped by resentment, particularly about being given a lecture on music and some obscure jazz guitar player. He felt at once a feeling of inadequacy sitting there with this older brother, who’d spent virtually his entire adult life committed to a hospital for the criminally insane, a sick, depraved murderer who’d sexually assaulted and brutally killed a young girl, a neighbor, an innocent being. He was grappling with these thoughts when Michael asked, “More wine?”
“Sure,” Joe said, not knowing why he’d elected to prolong his discomfort.
“So, Joseph, tell me about yourself,” Michael said after delivering the second glass and again taking the director’s chair. “I know what you’ve become since we were teenagers, but not what you think and feel. What are your views, your perspective on life?”
“I hadn’t thought about such things recently,” Joe said.
“Politically?” Michael said. “Is it true that all journalists are left-leaning liberals?” He said it with a laugh.
“No, it’s not true,” Joe said.
“I hope not,” Michael said. “I’ve had all these years to think about politics and how it influences our lives.” He slowly shook his head; his face formed a serious mask. “So much of society has been destroyed by liberals who’ve turned us into soft, weak citizens, always looking for the next handout, forever wanting the government to take care of us rather than being expected to take care of ourselves.” He lowered his chin and assessed Joe’s reaction to what he’d said. “You don’t agree, Joseph.”
“It isn’t a matter of agreeing or disagreeing, Michael. It’s just that—”
“I know, I know. What is this former madman doing pontificating about how we should live our lives? Here I am, suddenly thrust upon society after forty years of dutifully taking my medications and sitting through thousands—yes, literally thousands of hours of banal group therapy, in addition to thousands of hours sitting one-on-one with my personal therapist who asked stupid, moronic questions over and over until I learned the answers he expected and regurgitated them on cue, never failing to smile or to assume a deep sense of seriousness of purpose where and when suitable to the moment.”
He’d said it in a monotone. Now, he rose in the chair to a ramrod position and spoke in a louder, more authoritative voice. “I challenge anyone to survive what I’ve survived, Joseph—to face more than fourteen thousand hours of that form of degradation—and not end up feeling somewhat superior to those who make up this sad world.”
Joe didn’t know what to say in response, so said nothing.
Michael’s tone suddenly softened, as though a switch had been activated. A wide smile crossed his tanned face, accompanied by a low, self-effacing chuckle. “What am I doing?” he said, “mouthing off to my one and