“Hello, Robin.”
She said, “I’m working late, waiting for some lacquer to dry. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing fine. How about yourself?”
Let’s hear it for sparkling repartee.
She said, “I’m fine too.”
“Burning the midnight oil?”
“The Irish Spinners just got into town for a concert at McCabes. The airline damaged a bunch of their instruments and I’m doing the repairs.”
“Ouch,” I said, imagining my old Martin guitar in splinters. “Emergency surgery.”
“I feel like a surgeon. The poor guys were devastated and they’ve been hanging around the shop, looking over my shoulder. I finally shooed them away. So now they stay outside in the parking lot, pacing and wringing their hands like relatives waiting for a prognosis.”
“How is the prognosis?”
“Nothing a little hot glue and artful splicing shouldn’t be able to fix. How about you? What’ve you been up to?”
“Repair work also.” I told her about the sniping, my sessions with the children.
“Oh, that. Alex, those poor little kids. How are they doing?”
“Surprisingly well.”
“Not surprising. They’re in the best of hands. But wasn’t there another psychologist, talking about it on TV?”
“He’s limited himself to talk. Which is all for the best.”
“He didn’t impress me either. Too glib. Lucky for the kids they got you.”
“Actually,” I said, “the main reason they’re coping relatively well is they’ve grown up with violence, seen lots of hatred.”
“How sad… Well, I think it’s great you’re getting involved with them- using your talents.”
Silence.
“Alex, I still think about you a lot.”
“I think about you too.” As little as possible.
“I… I was wondering- do you think it’s reached a point where we could get together sometime, to talk? As friends?”
“I don’t know.”
“I realize I’m coming at you out of left field with this. It’s just that I was thinking about how rare friendship is- between men and women. Part of what we had was friendship. Best friendship. Why do we have to lose that? Why can’t that part of it be preserved?”
“Makes sense. Intellectually.”
“But not emotionally?”
“I don’t know.”
More silence.
“Alex, I won’t keep you. Just take care of yourself, okay?”
“You too,” I said. Then: “Stay in touch.”
“You mean that?”
“Sure,” I said, not knowing what I meant.
She wished the kids at Hale well, and hung up.
I stayed up and watched bad movies until sleep overtook me, sometime after midnight.
The Santa Ana winds arrived in the darkness. I awoke on the sofa and heard them shrieking through the glen, sucking the moisture out of the night. My eyes felt gritty, and my clothes were twisted around me. Not bothering to remove them, I made it to the bedroom, crawled under the covers, and collapsed.
Sunrise brought a glorious Thursday morning, skies scoured and buffed a perfect Delft blue, trees and shrubs varnished a luminous Christmas green. But the view through the French doors had the jarring, cold perfection of a computer-fabricated Old Master. I felt sluggish, drugged by dream residue. Confusing hyperactive images had embedded themselves in my subconscious like fishhooks. Too much pain to tug them loose; time to play ostrich.
I dragged myself into the shower. As I was toweling off, Milo called.
“Ran the plates on the Honda. The car is an ’83, registered to a New Frontiers Technology, Limited. Post office box in Westwood. Ring any bells?”
“New Frontiers,” I said. “No. Sounds like some kind of high-tech outfit- which would make sense if the driver was one of the locals.”
“Whatever. Meanwhile, thought you might want to know I’ve got an appointment this Saturday with Mrs. Esme Ferguson. Her residence, at two. Tea and sympathy, pinkies extended.”
“I thought Frisk was doing all the interviewing.”
“He has first dibs but he never called her. He’s just about ready to close the case. Apparently, nothing political’s come up on Burden in anyone’s files- no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. No funny phone calls that can be traced from her home to anywhere else, no job at Massengil’s or Latch’s. So they’re considering it a nut job and are ready to file it as a solve. Isn’t it nice when things go smoothly?”
Back at Hale by ten. Several dozen children were out on the yard for morning recess, running, climbing, hiding, seeking. The asphalt sparkled like granite under an unencumbered sun.
I finished my group sessions by noon, reserving the rest of the day for individual evaluations of the children I’d tagged as high-risk. After a couple more hours of evaluation, I decided five of them would be okay; the rest could use one-on-one treatment.
After spending another couple of hours doing play therapy, supportive counseling, and relaxation training, I checked in Linda’s office. Carla was going through a pile of forms. Her punk-do was wrapped in a blue bandana and she looked around twelve years old.
“Dr. Overstreet’s downtown,” she said. “At a meeting.”
“Poor Dr. Overstreet.”
Her smile seemed less carefree than usual.
“Any of Dr. Dobbs’s people been by?” I said.
“No, but someone else has.” She put her finger in her mouth and made a gag-me gesture.
“Who?”
She told me.
“Where?”
“Probably one of the classrooms- your guess is as good as mine.”
I didn’t have to guess. I heard the music as I walked down the hall. Awkward attempts at blues riffs tooted on a harmonica with warped reeds.
I pushed open the classroom door and found a dozen or so fifth-graders looking quieter than I’d ever seen them.
Gordon Latch was sitting on the desk, legs folded yogi-style, jacket off, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to his wrists. A chromatic mouth organ was in one hand; the other caressed his gray-brown mop of hair. Behind him stood Bud Ahlward, wearing a charcoal-colored sack suit, back to the chalkboard, arms across his bulky chest, expressionless.
He was the first to notice me. Then Latch turned, smiled, and said, “Dr. Delaware! Come on in and join the party.”
The teacher was sitting at the back of the room, pretending to grade papers. One of the younger ones, just out of training, quiet, with a tendency to be underassertive. She looked up at me and shrugged. The room had gone silent. The kids were staring at me.
Latch said, “Hey, guys,” put the harmonica to his lips, and blew a few bars of “Oh, Susanna.” Ahlward tapped one wing-tipped foot, concentrating. As if keeping rhythm required great effort. Latch closed his eyes and blew harder. Then he stopped, gave the kids a wide smile. A few of them squirmed.
I walked toward the desk.
Latch lowered the harmonica and said, “Bud and I thought it would be useful to drop by. Give these guys a chance to ask questions.” Half-wink, lowered voice: “Vis-à-vis our prior discussion.”
“I see.”
“Brought L.D. too,” he said, hefting the harmonica. Turning back to the kids, he gave a cheerleader flourish with the harmonica hand. “What’s L.D. stand for, guys?”
Rustling from the seats. Childish mumbles.
“Right,” said Latch. “Little Dylan.” Toot, inhale, toot. “Old L.D. here, had him since Berkeley- that’s a college up north, near San Francisco, guys. Any of you know where San Francisco is?”
Nothing.
Latch said, “They had a giant earthquake there a long time ago. Big fire too. They’ve got a great big Chinatown there and the Golden Gate Bridge. Any of you hear of the Golden Gate Bridge?”
No volunteers.
“Anyway, old L.D. here is my little trusted musical buddy. He helped me get through some long days- days with lots of homework. You know about homework, don’t you?”