“You cheated her,” Lewis said, and his voice began to rise. “You cheated her.”

“Out of what? Hours of loneliness? I just saved your life, asshole!”

“She should have turned to me when my dad died.” Now Lewis was snarling, and there was something in his face that made Manfred feel a flicker of fear. The man was down on the floor, and he was a mess, and his facial expressions were all over the place—fear, anger, some tears, a boatload of frustration. He was ridiculous. But he was frightening, too.

“But she didn’t?” Manfred made his voice gentler. It took a huge effort.

“No, she became more and more ‘Lewis, you need to stand on your own two feet,’ and ‘Lewis, you need to get another job.’”

“But you didn’t feel that was right?” From years of talking to upset people, Manfred made himself sound as sympathetic and understanding as a good therapist. But it was a huge effort.

“Of course not! She needed someone on the spot, someone to keep the—the predators away from her. People like you and that whore Bertha.”

“Bertha? The maid?”

“Yes, Bertha, the maid.” Lewis tried to do a cruel imitation of Manfred, but he just succeeded in sounding more foolish.

“I thought Bertha seemed . . .” What had he thought? He hadn’t really looked at Bertha with any interest. She was the maid.

“Seemed what? Grabby? Possessive? Fertile?” He spat out the last word.

“She didn’t seem anything,” Manfred said slowly. “She seemed like the background.”

“Right! Right!” Confirmed in his judgment, Lewis crowed in triumph. “Always there. Always at Daddy’s right hand. Waiting. Whispering. Always with John skulking around.”

“John?” That was all Manfred could think of to say.

“Yes, John.” Lewis sneered. “Couldn’t name him Juan, I guess. Wanted to be American.”

“She’s not American?”

“Bertha? Oh, I guess, technically she is.”

Manfred sighed. “So why are you upset that Bertha’s son, John, came into the house?”

“Because she wanted my dad to love him. Because she wanted my dad to love him more than he loved me. And after my dad died, she started to work on my mother. But not telling my mom the big thing! No, waiting for the lawyers on that!”

Manfred had followed Lewis’s narrative until that moment. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“John is Dad’s son!”

“Are you kidding?” Manfred’s amazement was genuine and complete.

Never ask a madman if he’s kidding. For the next five minutes Manfred had to listen to an account of the affair between Bertha and Morton Goldthorpe. And the worst part was, Manfred couldn’t tell if this was fact or fiction, because Lewis believed it absolutely. He thought that Bertha’s son, John, was the product of that long-ago liaison.