A Cure for Madness by Jodi McIsaac

was kind of crazy there. But I got him in the end. We’re at Mom and Dad’s now.”
    “Sorry I missed you this morning.”
    “No worries. Where’d you go?”
    “To the paper office. Gave them the obituary notice.”
    “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I was supposed to do that last night.”
    “Don’t you worry about it. You’re doing enough. Do you need anything? Do you guys want to come over?”
    “No, we just ordered pizza, and Wes wants to hang out here for a bit. We might go check out his new apartment later; I’ll let you know if you we do. Thanks, though.”
    “Okay. Well, in case I don’t see you, the wake is set for tomorrow morning at ten at Bishop’s. You okay with that?”
    “Yeah. Whatever works.”
    “Okay. Call me if you need me.”
    “I will. I gotta go.”
    I hung up and headed back into the kitchen, where Wes was sitting almost meditatively at the table. “What do you want to do now?” I asked.
    “Dunno. Play chess?”
    “You play chess?”
    “Yeah, I learned in the hospital. You play?”
    “Not well. But I think Mom and Dad had a board around here somewhere . . .”
    I went into what had once been the dining room but was now the pile-everything room. Our old piano was still there. Neither of our parents played, which made me wonder why they’d kept it. There were two tall cabinets where my mom had stowed photo albums and games and all the dishes she’d inherited from my grandmother. They were too “fussy” to use, she’d said, so she’d kept them tucked them away.
    I found the chessboard hidden underneath Sorry! and Monopoly. We set it up on the kitchen table.
    Strategy had never been my forte. Wes was creaming me when I was rescued by the doorbell.
    “Pizza’s here,” I said, jumping to my feet.
    We ate slowly, talking little. Once we were finished, he sat back in his chair and burped loudly. “I wrote some songs. Wanna hear ’em?”
    “Sure.”
    He ran downstairs and returned with our father’s old guitar. I opened my mouth, then forced it shut. Dad had loved this guitar. But he didn’t need it anymore, so what did it matter if Wes played it?
    He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket and smoothed it out on the table. The lyrics were written with heavy black pen in his angular scrawl.
    “I only know power chords,” he said. I moved my chair back a few inches.
    “Ready?” He grinned.
    “Ready,” I said, smiling at his enthusiasm.
    Then he began. I wouldn’t call it singing, exactly. More like screaming—or rasping. Still, I could make out the words.
    Jesus! Jesus is the way!
    Bow down to him, all you sinners!
    Leave your sins behind! He will forgive you!
    Don’t delay! Accept his spirit today!
    You must turn to him! Or else burn, burn, buuuuuuuuuurn!
    He ended by jumping off his chair onto the floor, still beating at the guitar as he rolled onto his back and kicked his legs in the air. Then he dropped the guitar and grinned up at me, panting.
    “Pretty good, eh?”
    I struggled to find words that were not outright lies. “Um. Wow. It was a really dynamic performance.”
    “I know! I was thinking of calling up my old bandmates to see if they want to get together again.”
    I had a feeling that Wes’s old bandmates were probably married with children and careers by now. “Do you want to see what’s on TV?”
    “Yeah. But first I want to talk to you about something,” he said, suddenly serious.
    “About what?”
    “Is there any hot chocolate?”
    “That’s what you want to talk to me about?”
    “No. I just . . . it will be easier with hot chocolate.”
    I opened the pantry and found a container of instant hot chocolate, the kind with the little marshmallows in it. I put the kettle on and sat back down at the table. “What’s up?”
    “Let’s wait until it’s ready.”
    “You’re not going to throw it at me, are you?”
    Wes smirked. “No.”
    I cleaned up the chessboard and the dishes we’d used for the pizza. Then I rescued the