“I understand.”
Lucy looks at me for the first time. “Tom, they were lined up. They wanted to be examined. I could have examined twenty.”
“I see.”
“Tom, do you know what they reminded me of?”
“No.”
“Do you remember that scene in the Alexandria Quartet where the child prostitutes were all reaching for him, clinging?”
“Yes.”
We are silent. The road runs through a loess cut, twilit, worn deep as the Natchez Trace.
I look down at Margaret and Tommy. They are picking at each other and seem fine, Margaret her prim prissy self, Tommy pesky normal.
“Lucy, do you have any idea who was — culpable?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Brunette, who just happened to come in, seemed very agitated. They left, and then Coach What’s-his-name came in—”
“Coach Matthews,” says Margaret.
“Right,” says Lucy. “I think the Brunettes called Coach Matthews to come over. He too seemed nervous.”
“How do you like Belle Ame?” I ask the children.
“It’s all right,” says Tommy. “I like the horses but not treat-a-treat.”
“Why don’t you like treat-a-treat?”
“They play too hard.”
“Who?”
“Coach. And I don’t like sardines.”
“What’s wrong with sardines?”
“They play it wrong.”
“How do they play it wrong?”
“When you’re it and then somebody finds you in the attic, they’re not supposed to close off the place with a trunk.”
“Who closed off the place?”
“Mrs. Brunette.”
“Did they do that to you?”
“No, I wasn’t it. But Claude told me.”
“What did you do?”
“I told Uncle Van.”
“Uncle Van? What did Uncle Van say?”
“He said it was okay, that was the rule.”
“Was Claude it?”
“Once, but he wouldn’t play anymore.”
“I see.”
“What’s treat-a-treat?” asks Lucy.
“You know,” says Margaret. “First you go treat-a-treat on your knee, then gallop-a-trot, then hobbledehoy. It’s all right for little kids, but later on it’s dumb.”
Lucy looks at me.
I explain. “You hold a kid on your knee and say, This is the way the ladies ride, treat-a-treat, starting off easy.”
“I see,” says Lucy.
Margaret cranes up to whisper something to me. She whispers the way children whisper, cupping my ear with her hand and not gauging her breath correctly. “They play it wrong. When you come to hobbledehoy you’re not supposed to take off your panties, are you? That’s dumb.”
“Yes, it is. Did you do that?”
“No way, José!”
“Who wanted to play treat-a-treat that way?”
“Coach, Mr. Brunette, Mrs. Cheney.”
“I see.” After a moment I ask her, “Meg, where did you get your water when you wanted a drink?”
“Oh, Belle Ame has a deep well, Tom,” says Lucy, quite herself now.
“I know that, but I was still wondering.”
“You just get it out of the faucets, except in the rec room,” says Margaret, losing interest.
“Where do you get it in the rec room?”
“They have a big upside-down bottle we have to drink from.”
“Why do you have to drink from that bottle?”
“It’s not from the bottle. The bottle is upside down and there is a little faucet.”
“I understand, but why do you have to drink that water?”
“To get our Olympic vitamins.”
“Sure,” says Margaret, little Miss Smart. “The concentrated vitamins are up on the second floor with a little tube coming down. I’ve seen them change the bottles and put in a little from the tube.”
“I see.” I feel Lucy’s eyes on my face.
We’re at Popeyes. I back in under the live oak next to my Caprice.
Lucy and I look at each other. “Well?” says Lucy.
“Let’s do this,” I tell her. “Would you take the kids in and feed them. They’re hungry. Meanwhile, may I use your cellular phone right here? I want to call Chandra to come pick up Tommy and Margaret.”
“Yay!” says Margaret.
“Sure,” says Lucy briskly. “Then we’ve got to get back to Pantherburn, remember?”
“Yes.”
“I think you better get Claude as soon as you can,” says Lucy.
“I will.”
“I mean it. It is serious, I think.”
“I will.”
13. AFTER MAKING THE phone call, I wait in my car for Chandra. I can see a stretch of highway. It is getting on to early dusk. Lucy and the children take a long time in Popeyes. There are some tiny yellow birds high in the live oak. The last of the sunlight catches them. They blaze like fireflies in the dark rooms of the oak.
Lucy comes out at the same time Chandra drives up in her WOW-TV car. Tommy and Margaret are glad to see Chandra and like the idea of getting in a TV car.
Chandra relays my medical calls, briskly, efficiently. I thank her and tell her I will call her later. She looks at me round-eyed and alert. There’s something going on, isn’t there, she seems to say, head cocked, but I’ll go along with it.
I can count on her.
Lucy is waiting for me in the Caprice. I get in front at the wheel.
Lucy looks at her watch. “Let’s get over to Pantherburn right away. I’ll leave the truck.”
“Why?”
“I want a word with you on the way.”
“Maybe you’d better take the truck. I’ll be there later.”
She sits up and turns around to face me. “What do you mean, later?”
“I have a call to make. Then I’ll come over.”
“A call! What do you mean a call?”
“It’s a medical emergency. There is something wrong with Father Smith. His friend Milton Guidry has been calling me all day. Chandra took the message. He thinks Father Smith is dying. I have no choice.”
“For God’s sake. I mean, my stars, what can you — Look, Tom, I–I’m afraid. Don’t go. Look, wouldn’t it be better for Father Smith if we called an ambulance and got him to the emergency room?”
“I’ll be going along.” The shaft of sunlight turns off in the oak like a light in a room. “This won’t take long. I’ll call you in an hour.”
Lucy peers at me. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sleepy?”
“No.”
“Don’t you know they can’t afford to have you on the loose?”
“Who? Oh yes. Don’t worry.”
Silence. There’s a clatter of pots from Popeyes. Lucy sinks back, hands shoved into the pockets of her lab coat, into the already sunken Chevy seat. It would be difficult for anyone to see us, or even the car, from the highway.
“What about Belle Ame?” she asks presently.
“What about it?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You’re the public-health officer. What are you going to do about it?”
“I somehow have the feeling it’s up to you.”
“First, I’m going to get Claude. Tonight.”
“I can send Vergil for him,” says Lucy quickly. “There’s no immediate worry.”
“Why is that?”
“I learned from Margaret — what a dear! — that he really did go to Baton Rouge for a soccer game. She saw him leave on the bus. He’s okay. We can go get him later tonight.”
I don’t reply.
Again she’s up and turned around and looking back at me. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting strange.”
“Is that all you have to say?”
She’s nodding. “Yeah. What are we going to do about Belle Ame?”
“You saw the children.”