His room was across my grandmother’s. He paced back and forth reciting indecipherable mumble jumble. Matted hair, long sleeves, barefooted. Madness, I say, sheer madness. His eyes remained fixed on the floor he paced, retracing his steps. Occasionally he’d look up offering a vacant stare then he’d resume his march. Grandma suggested I ignore him, but his movements distracted me from the matter at hand; her failing health.
Once I heard him repeat Helene, Helene, Helene. Another time he took off his shirt. I saw a block of numbers tattooed on his forearm. His mania was starting to make sense.