By Sunday morning I was exhausted. I'd stayed up late and not slept well. My wife and I had talked too much. I'd thought too much. I was going in circles. Still nothing had been decided. I didn't know what to do. Ruth had lost her patience.

"Call your brother!" she demanded. "Tell him what's going on and ask him what to do!"

Martin was an attorney. Ten years younger than I, Martin was the most practical man I knew. Martin's god was common sense. I called him up and told him my story. I explained that Wyatt was mentally ill, a schizophrenic off his medication, off his rocker, that he'd disappeared from sight, that his present whereabouts were unknown, and that he'd threatened to murder everyone at the college and me in particular. Martin found all of this quite alarming. He asked question after question. I acknowledged that I was also very concerned about the safety of my wife Ruth and our two children. I asked for Martin's advice.

"What's this student mad about?" he asked.

"His grade," I said. "He got a C."

"What's he want?" asked Martin.

"B," I told him. Martin hesitated not one instant.

"Then give him a B!" he shouted.

"But—"

"Give him a B!" he shouted again.

"But—"

"You don't care what his grade is!" Martin interrupted once more, shouting still. "Is his stupid grade on some rinky dink community college freshman term paper class worth risking your life and the lives of your wife and children?" he demanded rhetorically.

"Well—"

"That's bullshit!" he decreed. "Change it!"

My initial reaction to Martin's suggestion was that it was out of the question, utterly preposterous. His was the very last option on my list, until now the one option I had never considered. Succumb to that kind of rank, crude intimidation and pressure? Give me a B or I'll kill you? Never! My integrity was at stake, my honor, my reputation, my self-esteem, my whole identity, the man I wanted to be, the man I tried to be, and the man I thought I was. Back down? Give up? Give in? Cut and run? Show yella? Martin's suggestion had evoked in me, just as the label of mental illness had done, a long string of epithets and stereotypes—those I'd learned for coward, the very worst kind of man. A chicken! Though my dying for Wyatt's C seemed hardly right, changing his grade to B seemed clearly wrong. Was I a man or a mouse? I imagined myself unarmed, offering my chest to the bullet, a martyr, an academic hero, man of principle, Skank, the incorruptible. But of course it was not a duel. It was not a conflict just between Wyatt and me. Wyatt's wild promises to kill everyone had made it much much more. Of that fact Martin reminded me. Despite my protests and objections, his opinion never wavered. He demanded that I change Wyatt's grade to B if only to defuse the immediate crisis. Though we talked on for another half an hour, Martin remained adamant. He would not let me conclude our conversation and hang up until I had agreed to do as he instructed. In the final analysis, nothing else I could think of made half as much sense. If nothing else, changing Wyatt's grade might give us time.

"You're right," I surrendered. "I'll do it."

"Yes!" Ruth voted.

............................................
INSANITY to be continued