“Well, actually I think we’d better track down Lucy—”
But he’s got going on his theory of the nature of man. It has something to do with science and sexuality, how the highest achievements of man, Mozart’s music, Einstein’s theory, derive from sexual energy, and so on. “Didn’t old Dr. Freud say it?” he says triumphantly, stopping me and swinging around to face me.
“Well, not exactly—”
There are times when you can’t listen to someone utter another sentence. This is one of them. Even shrinks run out of patience. Where is Lucy? I find myself looking attentive, either by frowning down at the pea gravel and presenting an ear or by maintaining a lively understanding eye contact meanwhile shifting around a bit so I can catch sight of Lucy, who, I calculate, should appear just beyond Van Dorn’s ear.
Van Dorn is saying something about Don Giovanni, not the opera but the old Don himself being, in his opinion, a member of this company of sexual geniuses. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Actually—” I catch sight of Lucy behind the boxwood. She’s converging on the alley from the service drive. I do not at first see the children but then, just above the hedge, two heads bob. She’s in a hurry. She doesn’t see me.
Van Dorn is talking but I’m not listening. I’m watching Lucy. There is something odd — She is perhaps two hundred yards away and could easily see us but she doesn’t look. Her eyes are straight ahead. She walks with a curious stiff rapid gait.
“One thing,” I interrupt Van Dorn.
“Yes?”
“You didn’t know that Ellen had gotten a dose of heavy sodium?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Van Dorn looks at me level-eyed. “If I had known it, would I have been so curious about her amazing talent for computing probabilities in bridge?”
“Well — no.” He’s right.
Van Dorn has seen Lucy. Her cheek is hard and high. I think she’s seen us.
Van Dorn grabs me and pulls me playfully close — in men’s style of talking at the approach of women and before they come within earshot. “Just suppose, Tom, we could combine the high sexuality of the Don and Einstein without the frivolity of the Don or the repressed Jewish sexuality of Einstein — who needs heavy sodium?”
“Right,” I say. “Where’s Claude Bon?”
Van Dorn turns. We watch the three approach. Lucy, Tommy and Margaret, the children moseying along rapt, regardless, normal; Lucy stone-faced and stiff, headed straight for the truck without looking at us though we’re fifty feet away.
“Oh. I forgot to tell you. Claude’s varsity now and they’re playing Baton Rouge High, the state champs, and I kid you not, B.R. is in for the surprise of the year.”
We meet Lucy at the truck. Van Dorn opens the door for her.
“Howdy, Miss Lucy.”
She doesn’t answer, but Van Dorn calls to me over the cab of the truck. “You can pick up Claude later tonight. Or I’ll send him over. Let me know, folks.”
I catch sight of Lucy’s face as she stoops to get in. It is welted, almost ugly. A rope of muscle twists her black eyebrows. Her cheek is pulled back, freckles dark plum against pale skin. She says only, “Get in,” to Tommy and Margaret, pushing them ahead of her, then backs up to let them in the middle, then gets in and slams the door. She’s driving.
We leave. She looks straight ahead, face set. The pickup is old and big. There is room for the four of us on the broad front seat. In the rearview mirror I catch sight of Van Dorn. He has resumed his head-ducking, hands-in-pockets sauntering.
12. WE DRIVE DOWN the River Road in silence. The Ranger four-door pickup passes, but the driver and passenger don’t seem to notice us.
“Well,” I say at last.
Lucy is still looking straight ahead. “Where are we going?” she says.
“To Popeyes to get my car.”
“Could we get some drumsticks?” asks Margaret.
“I want a Happy Meal,” says Tommy. “You get a baby transformer in it.”
“Okay. Well, Lucy?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“I think you’d better tell me now.”
“Why?”
“I think we might be having company soon.” I am watching the Ranger pickup.
“Yes, but—”
“There is not much time,”
“How do you mean?”
“Did you see that pickup that just passed?”
“Sure. They were locals, a couple of good old boys, complete with gun rack.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“How do you know?”
“Good old Louisiana boys don’t wear business suits like the driver or bib overalls like the passenger. And they wouldn’t be caught dead with an under-and-over in the gun rack.”
“An under-and-over?”
“That was a new.410 shotgun with a.22 on top. It’s a prop.”
“You must have seen them before.”
“I have. Locals might have a 12-gauge or a.30-.30 deer rifle, but not that.”
“I see.” She’s gripping the wheel, frowning, knuckles white.
“I think you’d better tell me now.”
“I can’t in present company.” Lucy is relaxing a bit, but her face is still heavy and she has not looked at me.
“I want a Coke-cola too,” says Tommy.
“They don’t have Cokes at Popeyes, but you can get a diet Sprite,” says Margaret.
“I don’t want a diet Sprite,” says Tommy.
“You’re going to have to tell me. Tell me medically,” I say. “Did you examine some kids?”
“Yes.”
“How about this pair?”
“No, but I think they’re all right.”
“The others?”
“Yes, the others.”
“Lucy, how many children did you examine?” She wants me to ask questions. She seems to be having trouble concentrating.
“Ah, about six. Yes, six.” Again she falls silent.
“You shouldn’t drink regular Sprite because it has sugar,” says Margaret.
“Lucy, tell me about the examinations,” I say patiently. “Tell me medically. Now. Do you hear me? Now.”
“It was easy, since I had to do fecal smears for salmonella.”
“I understand.”
Silence.
“Well,” I say.
She is gripping the wheel tightly, sighting the road, chin up, like a novice driver. Her voice is not steady.
“Well, it was in a sort of rec room that had a bathroom. I examined them in the bathroom. There was a Mrs. Cheney there, and a spooky couple named Brunette came in later. And somebody they called Coach, an oafish type with a whistle who looked as though he’d gone to summer camp for ten years and finally made counselor.”
“The children, Lucy?”
“Yes, the children. I examined six children.”
“A perineal examination, Lucy?”
“Yes, because I was taking smears for salmonella.”
“I understand. Your findings?”
“Yes. Two girls, perhaps ten and twelve. One with recent hymeneal rupture, the other with marital introitus. You understand?”
“Yes. Any histories?”
“No time for histories.”
“The boys?”
“Two had anal lesions. One, a recent laceration; the other, a fissure of some duration.”
“I see.”
“History?”
“No histories there either, but—”
“Yes?” Lucy’s voice is more focused. She is using her doctoring to catch hold.
“There were two behavioral items.” She has found her medical voice.
“Yes?”
“One of the girls made an oral advance to me.”
“Oral to oral?”
“No.”
“I see.”
“It was as if she thought it was expected of her — in the bathroom, that is.”
“I understand. And the other item?”
“One of the boys gave an unmistakable pelvic response to my digital examination, from the knee-chest position. It was quite startling. Do you understand?”