The Love Potion Murders In The Museum Of Man Part 9

"Right. He's looking at ground cover, root invasion, fungal growths. Competent guy."

He got up to go, his coffee scarcely touched. An altogether decent man, I thought, considering how much of his life is spent dealing with the dark side of human existence.

So here I am, with the cursor blinking at me, as though my words had a heartbeat. The tape and keys to the Twitch.e.l.l Room are in the drawer. My responsibility to the museum and to the Chard family is to go downstairs, put the tape in the VCR, and watch the d.a.m.n thing. But courage takes energy, and right now I am utterly drained. I scarcely have the wherewithal to go home. It seems that everywhere I turn death has come or death awaits and I suffer the awful realization that in life the only escape from death is death itself.

17.

My quandary regarding the Corny Chard tape is worse than ever. I came in this afternoon with the express purpose of taking the tape to the Twitch.e.l.l Room, putting it in the VCR, turning it on, and watching it. Which, indeed, is what I did. To a point.

But not without stalling for a while, I have to admit. I joined the public for a stroll through the Diorama of Paleolithic Life in Neanderthal Hall, the s.p.a.ce on the ground floor that undercuts the galleries in the atrium above. What a superb job young Edwards, our Director of Exhibits, and Thad Pilty have done. Many of the sensitive issues were sorted out finally. The individual Neanderthals look racially h.o.m.ogeneous; women are shown in positions of respect and authority; the children are all engaged in environmentally sound forms of play; all the hides and furs are clearly labeled as synthetic. (There is a courtship ritual of sorts that to me looks like some kind of lowlife making a pa.s.s at a woman in a bar, but all can't be perfect.) How simple things must have been back then. Food, clothing, mating, and shelter. Although, I'm sure, back in some cave or other, on some ledge near where the rock face was being used as a canvas, someone had started a collection of discarded, nicely carved spearheads and bear claw jewelry, just for display. And someone had to curate it.

But to the matter at hand. I cannot be too hard on myself. I finally left the public area, let myself into the Twitch.e.l.l Room, found the right niche for the tape, inserted it, turned it on, and watched.

As expected, the first few minutes of the tape were scarcely exceptional: shots of a dense jungle trail and smallish natives naked except for thongs around their waists and under their b.u.t.tocks carrying what appeared to be blowguns and bows with great long arrows. The camera bobs a bit even in clear stretches, throwing out of sync the rhythmic walking movements of the all but naked haunches of the natives up ahead. It is clear that for much of the time they are climbing a fairly steep incline.

They stop finally at a small clearing where, through a break in the dense canopy, the camera scans over a great, green, riverine forest. Corny's voice comes over from the side in a breathlessness reminiscent of that Englishman who narrates nature programs. "Down below to the left you can see where they have clear-cut several hundred hectares, destroying habitat for both man and nature."

The picture jostles, goes blank. Then we see Corny standing on a log, slouch hat pulled over his balding, cropped pate, face blistered by the sun, stance defiant, every inch the fearless anthropologist of yore. "A lot of the tribespeople are noticeably hostile to outsiders now. I had difficulty recruiting what porters and guides I have with me here. As you can see ahead, even getting into Yomama territory is difficult. There are no permanent trails, and we will now have to cut our way with machetes through dense vegetation that rea.s.serts itself very quickly.

"Ahead of us, in a hidden upland valley, is the sacred village of the Yomamas, where no outsiders have been before, not even Ferdie, who's been everywhere around these parts. Melvin Bricklesby made it as far as our base camp in 1957 but turned back when his porters wouldn't go any farther. His account of Osunki Osunki, the anthropophagic ritual of the Yomamas, is, as he freely admits, based largely on hearsay. And now our escorts, from one of the small tribes along the tributary, refuse to go any farther. They've been getting more and more nervous. They've been making jokes, pointing at one another, rubbing their stomachs and laughing.

"Ferdie yesterday made contact with a member of the tribe, and he tells me that the headman has agreed to let me witness and videotape Osunki Osunki in exchange, believe it or not, for the video camera taking this footage. An important Yomama I met down at the base camp thought it sheer magic that we could capture the living world in this box. Well, I'm not about to say no to a deal like that. So, at the risk of pomposity, let me say I am setting forth to record the conscience of my fellow humans, to refute once and for all the cannibalism deniers, that legion of the misguided who think the human species too good for the natural behavior of which it is capable. in exchange, believe it or not, for the video camera taking this footage. An important Yomama I met down at the base camp thought it sheer magic that we could capture the living world in this box. Well, I'm not about to say no to a deal like that. So, at the risk of pomposity, let me say I am setting forth to record the conscience of my fellow humans, to refute once and for all the cannibalism deniers, that legion of the misguided who think the human species too good for the natural behavior of which it is capable.

"Whew. We've been climbing along this trail now for several hours and we've only now come to the rough part. I've have never been in an area so remote in all my life."

For a while there is no voice-over, only the sound of birds in the canopy, Corny's heavy breathing, and the slash of machetes as they cut their way through the dense understory of the jungle. The screen goes blank. When it comes back on it's obviously some time later, though nothing seems to have changed. They are still moving slowly upward, the men ahead hacking away at the vegetation.

The screen goes blank again. But when the picture returns, it shows them in a large, nearly paradisical setting, a green clearing s.p.a.ced with conical gra.s.s huts with steep, heavily wooded hills all around.

Corny, his voice with a distinct edge of excitement, his breathing strained, is saying, "We have arrived at Yama-beri, the sacred village of the Yomamas. As you can see, it is not exceptional from the other villages we have seen in this region. What's different are these elaborately carved spit poles called issingi issingi, yes, right Ferdie, that's what the Yomamas call them." The camera closes in on two forked poles embedded in the ground, the tips of which had been worked into k.n.o.b shapes suggestively phallic. The camera shows several of these s.p.a.ced around a large cleared s.p.a.ce at one end of the village. There, lots of natives mill around, virtually naked from what I could see. "This is the issingi," issingi," Corny continues, directing the camera at a gallows-like affair with two stout logs buried in the ground and a crossbar lashed to the top of it with rope woven from the inner bark of trees. Corny continues, directing the camera at a gallows-like affair with two stout logs buried in the ground and a crossbar lashed to the top of it with rope woven from the inner bark of trees.

A drumroll of sorts sounds from a hollow log beaten with sticks. The camera swings around to catch an imposing older man in loincloth and monkey skins, his face elaborately painted, as he approaches. Accompanying him are three nearly naked women, one quite heavy, and a fierce-looking younger man who shakes a gourd.

Off camera, in a near whisper, Corny can be heard saying, "Here comes the chief and his three wives. The young man is his first son by his first wife."

The chief stops and, after an elaborate bow, makes a long speech as his son shakes the rattle all around Corny's person. There is a sudden commotion on the screen. When the picture comes back on, Corny is being held and his limbs bound by several muscular-looking natives to the four corners of the gallows-like affair he mentioned earlier. He is looking into the camera, somewhat breathless, and saying, "Keep the tape rolling, Ferdie. I don't know what they're going to do, but let's not miss any of it."

Corny shows, surprisingly, little obvious fear, more a kind of breathless exhilaration. He says, wincing as they strip off his clothes and bind him with what look like pieces of gra.s.s rope, "If being killed and eaten by a lion could be called the ultimate wildlife experience, I suppose that being killed and eaten by cannibals is an anthropologist's ultimate contribution to research. It appears that I am no longer merely the observer, but have become the observed. Keep the camera steady, Ferdie."

The screen went blank for a moment. I fervently hoped it was the end of it. Then Corny appears again. One native is holding a slender hollow tube, perhaps five feet long, up to one of his nostrils, while another blows something through from the other end. Corny retches, but bends his head down for another dose of whatever it is they're blowing up his nose. Finally, still retching but smiling, Corny is again talking into the camera, sounding even more like that hard-breathing Englishman.

"That was tremendous, probably one of a cla.s.s of hallucinogens used in these parts to induce trances. I should shortly be seeing visions. I am, of course, terrified. But I am also exalted. I only regret that I am not able to take notes, except verbally. My fervent hope is that whatever happens, that researchers will study this and do papers on it. I am scared but I am also excited. Both emotions, no doubt, will affect my objectivity as I am reduced in anthropological terms to ultimate subjectivity. Ferdie, pan to the right for a moment."

The camera pans to the right, and Corny can be heard in a voice-over. "There are the sacred cooking spits on which specific parts of the victim are slow-cooked, according to Bricklesby's account. He relates that the body parts are consumed according to rank. The chief, seated over to the left, close on him, Ferdie, will get my heart. My genitals will go to his oldest son by his first wife. I'm quoting what I remember of Bricklesby's report. I may get to witness the event depending on what they start on first. If Bricklesby has it right. My liver will go to the portly woman to the right of the chief. His first wife. The brain, strangely enough, is considered refuse and discarded. Perhaps it's an example of primitive dietary laws. Oh, my G.o.d, here comes the chief and all his retinue. Ferdie, make sure you get this all down."

Ferdie pans back, showing a group of the natives coming over to kneel in front of Corny. They make placatory, almost devotional sounds. A figure in mask and loincloth shakes ashes over Corny's head. "This is the purification ceremony. Those are the ashes, Bricklesby tells us, of the last celebrant as they call the victim. Notice that there is no animosity here. They consider it a great honor. I am about to become a part of the tribe. The Yomama word for 'initiation' is very close to the one used for this ceremony. Ferdie! Ferdie! It's about to start..."

A figure in an elaborate headdress dances to the pounding log drum and appears in front of Corny, who is spread naked like the universal human figure by Leonardo. "Ferdie, keep the camera on the shaman in the c.o.c.kade of red macaw feathers. Oh, G.o.d, I think he's doing the cleansing dance right now."

The camera keeps to the man in the brilliant headdress and painted, near-naked torso dancing around and bending over an object on the ground. As Corny again comes into view a harsh, familiar sound is heard off camera. Corny gasps. "Oh, G.o.d. That's a chain saw. Bricklesby said nothing about that. It's not in the tradition. Oh, G.o.d. Or am I hallucinating?"

Poor Corny is not hallucinating. The shaman figure comes into view holding what looks like an old chain saw. It's sputtering and emitting great clouds of blue smoke as the figure approaches Corny.

At which point I pressed the OFF OFF b.u.t.ton. I simply could not watch any more of it. b.u.t.ton. I simply could not watch any more of it.

Am I a coward? Perhaps. But as ambivalent as I may feel about Corny sometimes, he is still a member of the museum community. He is still one of us. And I dread, absolutely dread, having to watch him being sacrificed on the altar of anthropological research. More than that, I dread having to go to Jocelyn and explain to her what has happened to her husband.

18.

No, I have not yet viewed the rest of the Corny Chard tape. I have dreamed about it. I obsess about it during my waking hours. The very drawer in which I have placed the tape seems haunted. Several times now I have taken it in hand, gone down to the Twitch.e.l.l Room, and, at the last minute, pavid and pale, lost my nerve.

Of course I have my excuses. I have been spending a good deal of time at home with Elsbeth. She has finally agreed to have an oxygen apparatus available to use when she has trouble breathing. I think she did it to relieve the anxiety Diantha and I experience when she starts gasping for breath like a fish out of water.

Perhaps, at some unconscious level, I have conflated what awaits me on the tape and what awaits Elsbeth. Both are unimaginable and yet as real as the ground and the sky. I wonder if we find death a mockery because life, after all, is all we've got.

To more mundane matters. I have received at long last the curriculum vitae of Ms. Celeste Tangent. Indeed, I have received two copies, one from a young man in Human Resources with a note apologizing for the delay, and one from Lieutenant Tracy. The woman appears to have had, if I do say so, a rather checkered career to have ended up as a laboratory a.s.sistant in a genetics lab.

Born twenty-seven years ago in Norman, Oklahoma, Ms. Tangent claims a degree in business administration from a correspondence school a.s.sociated with Oral Roberts University. She next lists herself as an a.s.sistant supervisor at the Caucasian Escort Service, Brooklyn, New York. In that capacity, she "recruited, trained, and directed young women in the etiquette of an upmarket escorting service patronized by a distinguished and discreet clientele."

After several years of plying this trade, she accounts for a gap of some seven months to conduct research into the leisure patterns of successful entrepreneurs in vacation spots in Mexico, Rio, and the Caribbean. Upon returning to New York, she a.s.sumed the position of maitre d at the Crazy Russian. This is an establishment in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn that she describes as a pricey, after-hours bistro for a discerning clientele interested in seeing a side of New York few tourists know about.

She lists another hiatus devoted to research in exotic realms, including, of all places, Nepal, where she studied spirituality. And for the past six months she has been working as a laboratory a.s.sistant for the Ponce Inst.i.tute, "helping the best scientists in the world make really great discoveries."

I put in a call to the lieutenant. He wasn't available, but he called back a few minutes later.

"Ms. Tangent's CV," he said as a greeting.

"Thanks for sending it along. Tell me, Richard, do we have any background on the organizations she's been a.s.sociated with?"

"Not a whole lot. My sources in New York say there's a good chance that both the escort service and the restaurant were mob-connected. But it will take them some time digging to find out exactly what mob because both of those establishments are out of business now."

We discussed the obvious incongruence of Ms. Tangent's current employment given her background. "But if she's a plant," I said, not entirely comfortable with the jargon, "it implies there is something going on in the lab that's of interest to organized crime."

The lieutenant smiled. "Elementary, dear Watson."

"Too elementary, perhaps," I conceded. "But how would 'the mob' know enough for them to want to infiltrate the lab? The research really is quite sophisticated, and the bureaucracy formidable. I mean it all seems a bit far-fetched."

"You're right, Norman, to a point. But people talk. They get a few drinks on board. They brag. They exaggerate. Someone down the line or up the line hears about it. Criminals are businessmen, they're opportunistic. They do some checking. The scam gets rolling. I've decided to make Ms. Tangent the object of some light surveillance. Find out where she hangs out and who she hangs out with, that sort of thing."

I said I thought that was a good idea and then brought the lieutenant up to date on the Sigmund Library incident. I told him that after waiting several days and finally deciding that the proper channels were clogged - as usual - I called Ms. Sp.r.o.nger and Mr. Jones directly. It seems both have retained lawyers. They said they would get back to me. "One wonders, Lieutenant," I said, "what the world did before lawyers insinuated themselves into every aspect of our lives."

The lieutenant said to give him a call if lawyers continued to get in the way. "I have to admit I was somewhat dubious at first. But I think what happened there is strange enough to warrant closer investigation."

We chatted awhile longer and ended agreeing that, while we had nothing definite to go on, there were some promising leads opening up.

I may be mistaken, but I think I detect strains in the Diantha-Sixy arrangement. It was noticeable on Friday when she brought him by to show him the museum. I was in the midst of evaluating and commenting on the quarterly reports of the curatorial staff when they appeared in the doorway, seemingly disoriented by a wholly new milieu. I was delighted, of course, to see Diantha. She is so demonstrative, coming around the desk to give me one of those full-length hugs I find so unnerving, especially when they come with a big kiss on the lips.

Mr. Shakur, as usual, didn't just shake my hand, but went through a whole routine after a "gimme five, bro." Then, instead of sitting down like an ordinary person, he paced around like a caged cat with a bald head and earrings, jabbering away in that argot of his. "Too f*cking, spanking real, man. I mean real like ozone, out there, man, orbit. I didn't know they had places like this, man. I mean cool with a capital K. That African gear downstairs is right over the edge, man. I mean off the freaking planet Earth. What you say, Di, we do a shoot here, like with all of our faces morphing in and out of those, like masks and s.h.i.t, and I do my black honky cut?"

"He's saying, Dad, that he would like to do a music video in the museum." Diantha spoke with an apologetic edge to her voice, as though embarra.s.sed, as though, perhaps for the first time, seeing her paramour through my eyes.

I smiled indulgently. "Getting permission would be a problem, I'm afraid."

The Rapper King turned a chair around and sat in it facing the desk, his chin propped on top of the back. "But you the top dog, Mr. Dude. I mean you bark and the others, man, they s.h.i.t. You know what I'm saying?"

"It doesn't quite work that way, Sixy. The curators have a very large say about what goes on in their collections, and I know what they'll say." My response didn't seem to faze him in the least.

"I'm mellow with that, man." He shook his gleaming skull. "This crib is totally killer, man. I mean cool with double K K's."

It went on like this for a while longer until they finally took their leave. Diantha gave me another one of those kisses that stay on the lips. I'm not going to bring it up with her, of course, but I do think it would be for the best if she and Mr. Shakur were to part company. She deserves so much better. But I confess I would feel a proprietary sense regardless of whom she a.s.sociated with.

At the same time, Mr. Shakur's effect on me borders on disorientation. I felt I had been in touch with a different kind of consciousness, not necessarily lower, but off to the side, like off the edge, man. If I'm not careful, I'll end up speaking like him.

Mr. Shakur's productions came up later that afternoon when I went over to the Pavilion to drop in on a party for Marge Littlefield, who is retiring as comptroller of the MOM. She's taking early retirement, because, she told me, she and Bill don't need the income and she has grandchildren to enjoy.

Anyway, in the course of this little affair, held in what used to be the "rec room" for Damon Drex's literary chimps, I ended up talking about Anglo-Saxon poetry with Maria Cowe's a.s.sistant, a comely young woman with nervous eyes from Human Resources. She said she had just read a translation of Beowulf Beowulf by the Irish poet...whose name escapes me now (a senior moment, Izzy would say). I remarked that I thought there were similarities between rap music, so called, and the rhythmic scheme in Anglo-Saxon poetry. As a demonstration, I proceeded to quote to her some of the lyrics Sixpak had shown me. by the Irish poet...whose name escapes me now (a senior moment, Izzy would say). I remarked that I thought there were similarities between rap music, so called, and the rhythmic scheme in Anglo-Saxon poetry. As a demonstration, I proceeded to quote to her some of the lyrics Sixpak had shown me.

I was amazed to see this young woman blush quite red, stammer something, and on the flimsiest of pretexts turn from me and pretend to listen to people in another conversation. But then, I've come to accept that manners among young people and a lot of others aren't what they used to be.

19.

It's been one of those days. I sit here in my perch at home like some old gangly bird full of hankerings more suitable to a man half my years. My unseemly yearnings stem in part from the "enhanced" video I received from Worried this morning showing the three people having s.e.x in an office at the Genetics Lab. Worried e-mailed me last night, telling me I would find the tape in a bag labeled TOXIC TOXIC next to the recycling area on the second floor. I was to remove the tape and replace it with an envelope containing $350, which I did, no questions asked. next to the recycling area on the second floor. I was to remove the tape and replace it with an envelope containing $350, which I did, no questions asked.

I played the tape alone in the audiovisual room. You can imagine my surprise when I was able to identify the gentleman being f.e.l.l.a.t.ed as none other than Professor Ossmann. What I found interesting was the manner in which he contorts his face as though in pain or from pleasure bordering on pain as he holds on to the back of the woman's bobbing head. She had, as far as I could tell - it is a black-and-white print - thick blond hair done in a braid that fell to one side of her neck. The woman is, I'm willing to bet now, Celeste Tangent.

The gentleman behind her is tall, more slender than thin, with dark hair and very white b.u.t.tocks, which twink, as b.u.t.tocks are wont to do, with his thrusting motions. I have a distinct feeling the unknown man is Dr. Penrood, but I can't be sure as I have not been privileged to see him in that situation before. His face does appear in profile, but only for an instant. When their various culminations are reached, to judge from their motions, parts are disengaged and they move off into shadow and darkness.

I immediately supervised the making of a copy - keeping the screen blank throughout - and sent the original to Lieutenant Tracy by special courier. In an accompanying note I identified Ossmann, but I also wondered aloud, so to speak, about how useful, at this point in the investigation, the information really was. Had Ossmann and the other two been working on some kind of love potion and decided to give it a try? Had he tried again with Dr. Woodley and gotten the dose wrong? Or was the effect of a lethal dose known and for some reason used against Ossmann and Woodley? If so, why experiment on Bert and Betti?

Speaking of whom, the spotlight of unseemly publicity has once again been turned on the Museum of Man. Amanda Feeney-Morin wrote a front-page story in yesterday's Bugle Bugle disclosing details from the autopsies of Bert and Betti. She revealed that the biochemical a.n.a.lysis turned up compounds identical to those found in Ossmann and Woodley. Ms. Feeney quoted an unidentified source within the SPD to the effect that the compounds const.i.tute "a blockbuster aphrodisiac." It sounds like my friend Sergeant Lemure is at it again. disclosing details from the autopsies of Bert and Betti. She revealed that the biochemical a.n.a.lysis turned up compounds identical to those found in Ossmann and Woodley. Ms. Feeney quoted an unidentified source within the SPD to the effect that the compounds const.i.tute "a blockbuster aphrodisiac." It sounds like my friend Sergeant Lemure is at it again.

Then Ms. Feeney got to the real point of her story. "Norman de Ratour, Director of the museum, did not return calls." Of course the woman called me. She calls every day to ask me if I beat my wife or molest donkeys. So of course I don't return her calls. But that's not the kind of thing I can include in the press releases I put out stating that no research on aphrodisiacs is taking place in the Genetics Lab. It would get twisted around until it sounded like an evasion.

Which reminds me, I have yet to look at the rest of Corny's tape. Why me? Why me? I complain to the air. Why not send it to Murdleston or Brauer? Because Murdleston's too foggy and Brauer, who has his own geek show in progress, can't be trusted. I complain to the air. Why not send it to Murdleston or Brauer? Because Murdleston's too foggy and Brauer, who has his own geek show in progress, can't be trusted.

But none of the above, I must confess, is what has me dithered like a teenager. Sixpak Shakur has moved out, lock, stock, and amplifiers, and while a measure of peace reigns here at home I find myself beset again with the worst kind of temptation.

More accurately, the King of the Redneck Rappers was thrown out by Diantha, for whom I feel heartfelt sympathy, genuine love, and a low, cunning, opportunistic l.u.s.t. Even when I try to be high-minded, when I lift my head and straighten my shoulders and think, yes, indeed, the breakup will be the best thing for her in the long run, I find myself in the equation. I find my imagination flaring, conflating with images from the video so that I am behind her, in front of her, on top of her...Which is shameful beyond words because the dear girl is, for the nonce, very upset.

Diantha, in fact, was close to hysterics when I came in around seven thirty this evening. She met me at the door, her eyes fetchingly pink from weeping. She fell into my arms, sobbing again.

"Elsbeth?" I asked in alarm, fearing and expecting the worst.

"No, no, no," she moaned. "It's Sixy. He's gone. Sixy's gone."

"You poor girl," I said, taking her in my arms, my relief at the man's departure mixing with my commiseration for her all-too-evident distress.

"But I still have you, don't I, Norman," she sniffled and gave me a big wet kiss on the lips, which I can still feel imprinted, like a stain I want to keep.

I decorously disentangled myself. "Gone," I said, trying to dissemble the sense of giddy release that kept arriving like pleasant shocks as I hung up my topcoat in the hall closet. "Diantha," I said firmly, putting my arm around her shoulder. "Tell me what happened. But first, how is your mother doing?"

Diantha nodded, my indirect rebuke and its implied perspective calming her. "Mom's okay. She's still sleeping. Do you want a drink?"

"A martini would do the trick." I rootled around the drinks cabinet and made myself a strong one. Diantha poured herself a gla.s.s of white wine. For a strange moment it seemed we were an old established couple going through the routine of homecoming.

"So tell me what happened," I urged her as gently as I could.

She sat demurely on the couch, one shapely knee pertly crossed over the other, and took a sip of her wine. "I threw him out. I told him to get out before I called the police."

She began to grow tense again. I went over and sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulders. "It will be all right," I said.

She put her face into my chest and snuffled. "I came in from shopping around four and found him s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g that little s.l.u.t Candy Dolores from next door. Right in my own bed. In our own bed."

"Oh, dear."

"They didn't even stop when I came into the room and started screaming at them. And her little sister, Shirleen, the one with the braces, she was standing there watching them. She was probably in line."

"I'm not surprised, frankly," I said, saying, I'm sure, the wrong thing. "It's happened before, hasn't it?"

She snuggled closer, and I felt the fullness of her breast nudging into my ribs. Oh, to find out what a loathsome, crawling monster one is! To find out that pity can be as much allied with l.u.s.t as with contempt! Or is it just natural? To want to transform those sobs and sighs of hurt into moans of pleasure? Or is it all a matter of self-sophistry? Because right then I wanted nothing more than to take her in my arms, kiss her tear-wetted lips, and roger her silly, as the English say. And, indeed, she did pull even closer, her hips against mine, and kiss me full on the lips. How in that moment I kept my hands to myself I simply cannot explain.

But resist I did. Diantha suffered another outbreak. "I mean, Dad, they were both buck naked and f*cking like fiends. And no apology. He just got off the bed, steaming from that little s.l.u.t, and telling me to 'chill out, baby, chill out. I was just helping the chick find her groove.'"

I stayed with her, sensing that her tears and the flood of angry words gave her some release, a kind of purgation. I don't remember what I said, nothing, really, just comforting noises disguised as words.

Until finally she calmed, wiped her eyes, beamed at me with a most endearing smile, very much like her mother's, and said, "Go wake up Mom. I'm going to make us all one fabulous dinner."

So that, despite everything, a new spirit descended on the house. I certainly felt liberated. And Elsbeth, poor dear, waking from her drugged sleep, caught something of the mood. I helped her to the bathroom. I helped her wash. It is painful to see how Elsbeth is wasting away. But what spirit. What courage! I helped her into what she calls her "frolic" clothes, a smart turtleneck jersey and a wraparound skirt. We chatted. Yes, she had heard the commotion. "Frankly, I'm glad he's gone. The poor boy had begun to believe in his own wigger fantasies, as Di says."

"Wigger?" I asked.