I nodded.
She smiled. “Guess I’m waffling, right now. Okay. My background: I was born in New York City twenty-five years ago, on April 14. Lenox Hill Hospital, to be precise. I grew up in New York and Connecticut, went to fine upstanding girls’ schools, and graduated from Belding College three years ago—it’s a small women’s college just outside of Boston. I got my degree in history but couldn’t do much with that, so I took a job as a bookkeeper at Belding, keeping the accounts straight for the Faculty Club and the Student Union. Last thing I thought I’d be doing, never had a head for math. But it turned out I liked it. The orderliness. Then I spotted a job card from Bowlby and Sheldon on the campus employment bulletin board and went for an interview. They’re a national firm, had no opening except in L.A. On a whim, I applied and got it. And came West, young woman. That’s it. Not very illuminating, is it?”
“What about your family?” I said.
“My family is basically Peter, whom you met. He’s one year older than me and we’re close. His nickname’s Puck—someone gave it to him when he was a little boy because he was such an imp.”
“Is he your only sib?”
“My only full sib. There’s a half brother who lives up in San Francisco, but I have no contact with him. He had a sister who died several years ago.” Pause. “All my grandparents and uncles and aunts are deceased. My mother passed away right after I was born.”
Young, I thought, to be so surrounded by death. “What about your dad?”
She looked down quickly, as if searching for a lost contact lens. Her legs were flat on the floor, her torso twisting away from me, so that the fabric of her blouse tightened around her narrow waist.
“I was hoping we could avoid this,” she said softly. “And not because of the dream.”
Wheeling around. The intense stare Milo’d seen in the courtroom.
“If you don’t want to talk about him, you don’t have to.”
“It’s not a matter of that. Bringing him into it always changes things.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because of who he is.”
She gazed up at the ceiling and smiled.
“Your line,” she said, extending one hand theatrically.
“Who is he?”
She gave a small laugh.
“Morris Bayard Lowell.” Enunciating.
Another laugh, totally cheerless.
“Buck Lowell.”
CHAPTER
4
I’d heard of M. Bayard Lowell the way I’d heard of Hemingway and Jackson Pollock and Dylan Thomas.
When I was in high school, some of his early prose and verse were in the textbooks. I’d never thought much of his paint-splotched abstract canvases, but I knew they hung in museums.
Published in his teens, exhibited in his twenties, the postwar enfant terrible turned Grand Old Man of Letters.
But it had been years since I’d heard anything about him.
“Shocked?” said Lucy, looking grim but satisfied.
“I see what you mean about things changing. But the only relevance he has to me is his role as your father.”
She laughed. “His role? Roll in the hay is about it, Dr. Delaware. The grand moment of conception. Old Buck’s a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of guy. He cut out on Mother when I was a few weeks old and never returned.”
She smoothed her bangs and sat up straighter.
“So how come I’m dreaming about him, right?”
“It’s not that unusual. An absent parent can be a strong presence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anger, curiosity. Sometimes fantasies develop.”
“Fantasies about him? Like going to the Pulitzer ceremony on his arm? No, I don’t think so. He wasn’t around enough to be relevant.”
“But when he comes into the picture, things change.”
“Who he is changes things. It’s like being the President’s kid. Or Frank Sinatra’s. People stop perceiving you as who you are and start seeing you in relationship to him. And they get shocked—just like you did—to find out the Great Man spawned someone so crashingly ordinary.”
“I—”
“No, it’s okay,” she said, waving a hand. “I love being ordinary: my ordinary job, my ordinary car, my ordinary apartment and bills and tax returns and washing dishes and taking out the garbage. Ordinary is heaven for me, Dr. Delaware, because when I was growing up nothing was routine.”
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