"Nope. Can't," said Jonathan, and turned around to face him.
"You're jaundiced, Jonathan. You may have something wrong with your liver. And you've got something very nasty down your gullet. You should be in the hospital. Now. I can give you today, Jonathan, but by evening, I want you in the hospital."
"Sure, Ira," said Jonathan.
There was a steakhouse next door to the Best Western, next door being about a fifth of a mile away. They walked across dirt to a breeze-block bungalow. The floor was made of tiles designed to look like blocks of wood. The Formica tables looked like wood. The food looked like wood. The hash browns looked like sawdust, the egg like putty. Breaded mushrooms steamed in tin basins like wooden knobs. Caterers had finally found a way to bottom-line breakfast.
Jonathan stared at the buffet, looking ill.
"You could try some bacon," said Bill. It looked purple and soggy. Jonathan very firmly shook his head, no.
"Jonathan, you've got to take something. How about some coffee? Tea?" Jonathan just kept shaking his head.
Bill's heart sank. The physical symptoms were bad enough, but it was the presenting behavior that was really worrying him. "Okay, let's sit down. Do you think you could swallow some soup?"
Jonathan's eyes moved sideways, terrorized by the prospect of food. He nodded yes. Bill took him by the arm and led him to a table.
A waitress came up to their table. "Coffee?" she asked. She had brown circles under her eyes and slightly hunched shoulders, but she seemed cheerful.
Bill said yes, and she poured coffee, not from the spout, but from the side, over the edge of the black-rimmed glass container.
"Did you catch my awesome backhand?" she asked.
Jonathan was staring up at the lights overhead. They were imitation oil lamps, with pink roses printed on them. Bill could see the dots.
"Are those old?" Jonathan asked the waitress.
"I don't know, we just got them in last week." The waitress giggled. "I'll come back for your order in just a sec." She waddled up to the next table and gave a gladsome cry. "Hi, Horace, how are you?"
An officer of the law in a brown uniform placed his cowboy hat on the table. "Well how you doing, boss lady?" he boomed.
"How was Ira?" Jonathan asked.
At last, a sensible question. Bill almost sighed with relief.
"He's hysterical," said Bill. "He blames himself, he's full of worry. He thinks you can't cope on your own. I told him how you'd used the credit cards to buy a ticket and rent a car and said it didn't sound exactly helpless to me. I-um-told him it would probably be better if he didn't come along."
"He told me to go away."
"He may not have meant that."
"I don't want to go back."
"Okay. But do you think you could write him a card or something?"
Without looking at him, without saying anything, Jonathan took the newspaper out from under his arm and gave it to Bill. It was a local newspaper, and the edge was ringed around and around with Jonathan's handwriting. It was a letter to Ira.
The waitress was back with them, breathing good cheer, perfume and sweat. "Right, gentlemen, what will it be?"
"Do you cook any breakfast fresh?" Bill asked.
They found the car. Jonathan had the keys, and they had a plastic tab that said the license number, model, color.
They drove it to the Registry Office. Jonathan's knees jiggled with nerves, and he hummed to himself. In the office, Sally greeted them.
"Sally, Sally," he said, bobbing up and down. "I found the school!"
"Great!" she said. "Which one is it?"
"Sunflower School?" he asked.
"We'll find it for you. Who's your good-looking friend?"
"This is Bill," said Jonathan, rather proudly. "He's my psychiatrist."
Sally shook hands properly. "You think he could be my psychiatrist, too?"
"Sure," said Jonathan in a faraway voice. "But you have to be sick like me."
Her smile faltered for a second. "Right," she said. "Let's check out that school."
In the safe room, the big book was taken out, and Sally's metallic pink fingernails raced across the pages. "We need its number," she said. "Here we are. Sunflower School, number forty-three. It's Zeandale Township but where exactly…" Scowling slightly, she went to another book. "Uh. Okay. I'll show you where that is."
She led them out of the main records room to the map on the wall and pointed. "That's it, there, Zeandale Township, smack dab where Sectors 23, 24, 25, and 26 all meet." She stood back and with a hooked finger delicately rubbed the tip of her nose.
Both Bill and Jonathan crowded around the map. Beside the main road was a tiny square with a number. It was near the Kaw, not far from the main road.
"So we've got about eight big pages to look through. What were those names again?"
"Branscomb or Gael," said Bill.
"That's right, or another name if there was a marriage."
Another huge book thumped down on the sloping desk, and Sector 25, Township 10, Range 8, was found, northwest and southwest.
"Pillsbury, Lewis, Long and… Monroe Scranton," she murmured.
"Monroe Scranton?" said Jonathan, leaping forward, slightly frog-like. "He was hung for stealing Ed Pillsbury's horses!"
Sally looked up. "Really? How do you know that?"
"I read it last night."
"Well I'll trade you. This guy Lewis here was jailed for theft. And this guy Long lost the property because he didn't pay his taxes. So this was kind of the bad corner of Zeandale. But…" she scanned the page. "No Branscomb or Gael."
She turned the page. "Look at this. This is why we have so much trouble. You got L. H. Pillsbury deeding this quarter to Minerva Wiley in April '82, and then it goes in reverse in the same month-well, she mortgages to him. But then in September '82, you got George Pillsbury giving it to L. H. Pillsbury by relation-but it just doesn't show how George got it. Then in '83 the District Court is giving it to Minerva. Oh, I get it! They've divided the quarters into halves. And I bet that court deed is a divorce."
Jonathan was making a rapid hissing noise through his nostrils.
"Jonathan," asked Bill, "are the tips of your fingers buzzing?"