She crossed her legs and held one knee with both hands.
Tossing out details about a man who supposedly had no role in her life.
She read my mind. “I know, I know, it sounds as if I cared enough to find all this out, but I got it from Puck. A few years ago, he was into this discover-your-roots thing. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I couldn’t care less.”
Folding her arms across her chest.
“So,” I said, “at least we know the log cabin wasn’t somewhere you’ve actually been. At least not with your father.”
“Call him Buck, please. Mr. Macho, the Great Man, whatever, anything but that.”
Touching her stomach.
Remembering the ulcer she’d had before college, I said, “Where did you live the summer after you graduated from high school?”
She hesitated for a second. “I volunteered at a Head Start center in Boston.”
“Was it difficult?”
“No. I loved teaching. This was in Roxbury, little ghetto kids who really responded. You could see the effects after one summer.”
“Did you ever consider a teaching career?”
“I tossed it around, but after all those years in school—growing up in schools—I just wasn’t ready for another classroom. I guess I might have eventually done it, but the bookkeeping thing came up and I just rolled with the flow.”
I thought of the isolation that had been her childhood. Milo had talked about tough times strengthening her—a mugging of sorts. But maybe it was nothing specific, just an accumulation of loneliness.
“That’s it,” she said. “Now do you understand my dream?”
“Not in the least.”
She looked at me and laughed. “Well, that’s straight out.”
“Better no answer than a wrong one.”
“True, true.” Laughing some more, but her hands were tense and restless and she tapped her feet.
“I guess I’m ticked off,” she said.
“About what?”
“Him in my dreams. It’s an . . . invasion. Why now?”
“Maybe you’re ready, now, to deal with your anger toward him.”
“Maybe,” she said doubtfully.
“That doesn’t feel right?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t think I’m angry at him. He’s too irrelevant to get angry at.”
Anger had stiffened her voice. I said, “The girl in the dream, how old is she?”
“Nineteen or twenty, I guess.”
“About your mother’s age when she married him.”
Her eyes widened. “So you think I’m dreaming about his violation of Mother? But Mother was blond and this girl has dark hair.”
“Dreams aren’t bound by reality.”
She thought for a while. “I suppose it could be that. Or something else symbolic—the young chicks he always chased—but I really don’t think I’d dream about his girlfriends. Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I push you for interpretations and then keep shooting them down.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “It’s your dream.”
“Yes—only I wish it wasn’t. Any idea when I’ll get rid of it?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. The more I know about you, the better answer I can give you.”
“Does that mean I have to keep talking about my past?”
“It would help, but don’t make yourself uncomfortable.”
“Do I need to talk about him?”
“Not until you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready?”
“That’s up to you.”
“But you think it would be useful.”
“He was in the dream, Lucy.”
She started to crack a knuckle and stopped herself.
“This is getting tough,” she said. “Maybe I should call the psychic buddies.”
CHAPTER
5
After she was gone, I thought about the dream.
Somnambulism. Bedwetting.
Fragmented sleep patterns were often displayed as multiple symptoms—persistent nightmares, insomnia, even narcolepsy. But the sudden onset of her symptoms implied a reaction to some kind of stress: the trial material or something the trial had evoked.
Her allusion to an incubus was interesting.
Sexual intrusion.
Daddy abducting a maiden. Grinding noises.
A Freudian would have loved it: unresolved erotic feelings toward the abandoning parent coming back to haunt her.
Feelings awakened because the trial had battered her defenses.
She was right about one thing: This father was different.
And relevant.
I drove down toward the city, taking the coast highway to Sunset and heading east to the University campus.
At the Research Library, I looked up M. Bayard Lowell in the computer index. Page after page of citations beginning in 1939—the year he’d published his landmark first novel, The Morning Cry—and encompassing his other novels, collections of poems, and art exhibitions.