Yeats, "Meditations in Time of Civil War" In retrospect, I suppose it was then that Maeve took over. At the time, I was too stunned to notice. She charged past me into the living room, and I heard her speak sharply to Joe. Dad said, "Lark, my dear, do you want a little whiskey?" "I'd barf." "It's an old-fashioned remedy, I know, but your hands are like ice. You need something. Perhaps a cup of hot tea." Hostage. Jay was a hostage. Every atrocity story I'd ever heard, every tale of political hostages imprisoned and tortured for years, whirled in my head. I wobbled over to the door arch and leaned against it. "I want to know what's going on." "...and I can put a name to the man, Joseph." Maeve reached for the telephone. "That's more than Mahon can do at this hour." Joe laid a large hand on the receiver. "You're mad!" "Give me the telephone. I'll keep it short." Joe's back was to me, so I couldn't see his expression, but his shoulders were stiff with disapproval. After a moment, though, he handed Maeve the phone.
