I stepped away from her.
She looked amused. “Any advice for me?”
“What was his relationship with Peter like?”
“Only met the little shit once. Faggodly coward, begging for money. Here’s Buck, struggling to live, using dope only as a last resort, and the stupid little snot shoots it voluntarily into his veins. I caught him once trying to rip off some of Buck’s ampules. Told him to give them back or I’d tell Daddy. You should have seen the way his mouth dropped. He handed them over. Never came back.”
“Maybe he was being honest in his own way.”
“How?” she demanded, picking up her pace and moving out of touching range. The front porch came into view.
“Maybe being nothing but meat was too much for him to handle.”
“Why? What else is there? A house in the suburbs? Look at that.” She pointed upward, to a bird skittering among the treetops. “How long will it live? A month? A year? One day it will be flying along, and some predator will come crashing down on it, crushing its bones in its jaws, squeezing the juice out.” Her neck muscles were tense. The tuck scars were deep black lines. “But it was here. It served its time. We’re fools if we think we’re any different. Our only meaning is being.”
“So what’s wrong with cutting it short?”
She stopped. “You advocate suicide? That’s a switch for a psychologist, isn’t it?”
“I don’t advocate it. But I don’t judge either.”
“I do. A writer always does, that’s the difference. You’ve devoted your life to learning the rules. I cherish the exceptions.”
Good speech, but Lowell’s voice seeped through.
She put her hands on her hips. “Get her up here—the daughter. What else does he have left? Isn’t he entitled to it?”
“He hasn’t been much of a father.”
“He’s tried.”
“Has he?”
“In his own way.”
“Which is what?”
“Staying out of their lives so his genius wouldn’t overshadow them. Giving them money—who do you think paid for the coward’s dope after he ran through his trust fund? Then he tries to pocket those ampules, the little puke.”
“Why’s Buck so interested in seeing Lucy?”
“Because he’s her father. A girl should meet her father. If she doesn’t, it’s her loss. He’s one of a kind. There’s beauty in that, alone. Don’t you see?”
“One of a kind,” I said.
“Look,” she said, fighting to keep her voice low, “you get off on helping people, but that doesn’t mean you know everything. If you were hiking in some strange place and you came across a snake that had never been seen before—maybe it was poisonous, you had no idea—would you run from it? Or would you try to capture it and learn about it?”
“Depends on the danger.”
Her nostrils widened and pulsed. She opened and shut her hands several times. “Okay, I tried. You’ve got your script.” A few more steps, then: “He’s the only thing in her miserable little ground-chuck existence that can make her prime meat. But go on, let her continue in the same old way.”
Sound came from the radio. Low and anguished, then louder. Wordless moans. Then filthy words, a chain of them.
“Baby’s up,” she said.
Just past the stairs, she said, “You can wait here.”
Alone with the stuffed heads, I walked around the giant room, listening to loud voices from the back of the house.
When she finally pushed his chair out, he was in a dark blue silk robe over white pajamas and his hair was disheveled.
“The Jew!” he said, slapping the wheels with his hands. Trying to go faster but Nova was in control and she steered him right at me. “Der Yid!” Spittle flecked his lips and his eyes were crusted. He rubbed one, picked something out, and flung it away.
“And don’t tell me your cock hasn’t been peeled and your mother goes to Mass. You’re a dime-store Freud and that makes you a Jew. Thinking you’re better than everyone and have a right to nose into everyone’s business. Every analyst I knew felt that way; that’s why all analysts are kikes.”
I stared at a stuffed owl.