I kept a close watch on Lucy. She was staring in his direction, but not at him. Anger shot through her slender frame like an injection of starch.
“Sisterly love,” said Lowell. “Maw-Maw found us, sang her ode to virtue, and I creeped off, tail-tucked.”
He tried to shrug and managed only a shoulder tic.
“Banished to the horrors of Paris. Reprobate Kate parceled off to California. Then Mother caught herself something postnatal and fatal, and suddenly I was called back to be a father.”
He aimed his thumb at the ground and mock-frowned. “Ill-suited for the care of a mewling snot-jack and a no-tone, anally blocked normal infant, I had the wisdom to relinquish parental privilege to ForniKate. By then, she was fucking some pansy Jew journalist.”
Gleeful bellowing.
Lucy was standing on the balls of her feet. I could see moisture in her eyes. I was thinking of my dead father.
Lowell said, “Why fight it, girl? You need me.”
“Do I?”
“Given your insistence upon projecting an air of injured chastity, I’d say so. Really, dear, enough bad theater, let us slash pretense’s throat and allow it to bleed out richly into the gutter. The permanent-hymen act won’t work with me. I know about the summer you spent with your heels in the air, looking into the bile-sooted eyes of Roxbury coons. Quite disappointing, I must say. To rut is nature; to rut for money, commerce. But to rut niggers for money and let some boss nigger pocket the profits? How sheepheaded, girl. I shall assign a collie to herd you.”
Lucy’s fists opened and her knees bent. I held her by the arms, whispering, “Let’s get out.”
She shook her head violently.
“Ah, the self-esteemer plies his craft,” said Lowell. “Dispensing turds of wisdom as you try to convince her she’s okay.”
Lucy let her arms fall. She stepped away from me. Right up to the edge of the bed. Stretching her arms as wide as she could, she stared him in the face. Exposing herself.
Shock therapy? Or the death of hope?
Lowell turned to me. “She’s not okay. She’s planets from okay.” Back to Lucy: “Want to know how I learned all about your Moorish mooring? Darling Brother Petey. No interrogation necessary. Lovely, filthy truths emerge when a wretch craves his needle, toof, toof. Ah, yes, yet another betrayal, daughter. Not to worry, disillusionment builds character. Stick with me and you’ll be granite.”
“Did you kill him?” said Lucy. “Did you give him that overdose?”
That surprised Lowell, but he rebounded with a snort.
“No-o,” he said softly. “He did a fine job of that himself. My error was kindness. Giving him cash when I knew what he’d do with it. He’d come up here, in this room. Lie on the floor, rolling around, begging and vomiting—a craftsman of cowardice. And evidently you, Stupid Girl, are his apprentice.”
“Him,” said Lucy. “Me. That’s some parental report card.”
“Is that what Siggie Fraud, here, told you? That you can blame your shit-life on me? That you have some right to happiness?”
Shouting and spraying spit, his words pushing him forward.
“You’re not meant to be happy! There’s no grand plan. Your happiness doesn’t mean two buckets of sour pus!”
“Not to you, that’s for sure.”
“Not to anyone! God—whatever He is—looks down on you, sees your misery, scratches His balls, cackles, and pisses steaming buckets on your head! His condo-mate Satan stops buggering tiny animals just long enough to add to the torrent! The raison d’Être isn’t happiness, you styoopid nin. It’s being. Existence. Inherence. It doesn’t matter what happens, or doesn’t, or who else is! Fuck the consequences; you occur!”
I remembered Nova’s little speech. Someone had paid attention during class.
He glared at Lucy, breathing hard. Seized by sudden wet, rumbling coughs, he sucked in air, started to tilt back on the bed, and forced himself upright again.
“Didn’t know you were religious,” said Lucy, nearly breathless herself.
“Get to know me,” said Lowell. “You’ll learn lots of things.”
She looked at him, then sat on the bed, hard enough to make him bounce.
Pinching sheet between thumb and forefinger, she rubbed the fabric.