fiddlesticks!” Mave snapped. She slapped her hands palms down on the rosewood table and leaned forward, scowling through her glasses at Nan. “Maybe I’m not old enough to have met Phoebe Mitchell, but my mother talked about meeting her so often it was as if I had too. And that’s enough, I think, for this old woman.”
I wondered how much Mave cared about her claim to have met Phoebe in the flesh. She was obviously in love with Phoebe in spirit. Just how angry had she been when Slade exposed her cherished memory as fiction?
Mave leaned back again, her face softening.
“‘The Fancy is indeed no other than a mode of memory emancipated from the order of time and space,’“ she recited softly. “S. T. Coleridge wrote that. Mighty fine words and a mighty fine meaning in my opinion.”
“Bravo,” Joyce cheered quietly.
“Right on!” Travis boomed, raising a clenched fist into the air.
“Oh, I know exactly what Coleridge meant!” Donna added her unconditional support. “It’s like reality has all these incredibly different continuums, you know. Who’s to say which one is real? I feel like I know the Yogananda too, like he’s my friend, but he died in 1952 before I was born. I’ve got his picture on the wall so my kids will feel like they know him too. It’s a real gift from the universe!”
“Thank you, dear,” Mave said, a rueful smile on her wrinkled face.
I was still absorbing the news that Donna apparently had children. It was a frightening probability. I wondered how often she had dropped them as babies.
“Listen, Mave,” Nan said from beside me. “I didn’t mean to rain on your parade about Phoebe. I don’t care whether you met her in real time or not. I just remembered what Slade had said—”
“Aw, that’s okay.” Mave cut her off with the wave of a hand. “A tad of reality won’t hurt me every once in a while.” She picked up her fork again. “So who else wants to tell Kate what they’re writing?”
“I suppose I could,” Russell said, his low, soothing tone a pleasant counterpoint to Mave’s rasp. “I write what’s called true crime, documentary accounts of real-life crimes and criminals. Right now, I’m chronicling the events leading up to the alleged murder of six young women by Dobie Jay Johnson, also known as John Johnson. He played drums for The Dithyrambs. Hopefully, he’ll go to trial next month on schedule. And hopefully, at least for me, he’ll be found guilty.”
Russell kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly on me as he spoke. His tinted glasses made it hard to see the expression in his eyes, if there was any expression. I felt like ducking under the table to avoid his scrutiny. But I only squirmed a little in my chair instead, not wanting to embarrass Carrie or myself.
“Dobie’s pled not guilty, but he’s still been willing to speak to me.” Russell’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile. “Much as his attorneys disapprove. Dobie likes to talk about music and criminal psychology mostly. He keeps it abstract. And he refuses to talk about the murders he’s accused of. Or about his childhood, which is classic. His unmarried mother shuffled him off to various unloving relatives, most of whom abused him. He grew up a loner with poor grades in school, though he was above average intelligence. Dobie’s a quiet man, especially for a rock ‘n’ roll drummer.”
Russell paused for a moment, then went on. “The other guys in the band still say they can’t believe he killed the women, even though they’re going to testify against him. One of them actually saw him disposing of a body.”
Goose bumps formed on my arms. Russell stopped speaking, but he was still staring at me. He was a quiet man, too. I wondered what his childhood had been like.
“That’s about it,” he finished up after a few more heartbeats. He shifted his gaze to the space above my head.
“Very interesting,” I told him. My mouth felt too dry to say more.
I looked down and saw food
I wondered how much Mave cared about her claim to have met Phoebe in the flesh. She was obviously in love with Phoebe in spirit. Just how angry had she been when Slade exposed her cherished memory as fiction?
Mave leaned back again, her face softening.
“‘The Fancy is indeed no other than a mode of memory emancipated from the order of time and space,’“ she recited softly. “S. T. Coleridge wrote that. Mighty fine words and a mighty fine meaning in my opinion.”
“Bravo,” Joyce cheered quietly.
“Right on!” Travis boomed, raising a clenched fist into the air.
“Oh, I know exactly what Coleridge meant!” Donna added her unconditional support. “It’s like reality has all these incredibly different continuums, you know. Who’s to say which one is real? I feel like I know the Yogananda too, like he’s my friend, but he died in 1952 before I was born. I’ve got his picture on the wall so my kids will feel like they know him too. It’s a real gift from the universe!”
“Thank you, dear,” Mave said, a rueful smile on her wrinkled face.
I was still absorbing the news that Donna apparently had children. It was a frightening probability. I wondered how often she had dropped them as babies.
“Listen, Mave,” Nan said from beside me. “I didn’t mean to rain on your parade about Phoebe. I don’t care whether you met her in real time or not. I just remembered what Slade had said—”
“Aw, that’s okay.” Mave cut her off with the wave of a hand. “A tad of reality won’t hurt me every once in a while.” She picked up her fork again. “So who else wants to tell Kate what they’re writing?”
“I suppose I could,” Russell said, his low, soothing tone a pleasant counterpoint to Mave’s rasp. “I write what’s called true crime, documentary accounts of real-life crimes and criminals. Right now, I’m chronicling the events leading up to the alleged murder of six young women by Dobie Jay Johnson, also known as John Johnson. He played drums for The Dithyrambs. Hopefully, he’ll go to trial next month on schedule. And hopefully, at least for me, he’ll be found guilty.”
Russell kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly on me as he spoke. His tinted glasses made it hard to see the expression in his eyes, if there was any expression. I felt like ducking under the table to avoid his scrutiny. But I only squirmed a little in my chair instead, not wanting to embarrass Carrie or myself.
“Dobie’s pled not guilty, but he’s still been willing to speak to me.” Russell’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile. “Much as his attorneys disapprove. Dobie likes to talk about music and criminal psychology mostly. He keeps it abstract. And he refuses to talk about the murders he’s accused of. Or about his childhood, which is classic. His unmarried mother shuffled him off to various unloving relatives, most of whom abused him. He grew up a loner with poor grades in school, though he was above average intelligence. Dobie’s a quiet man, especially for a rock ‘n’ roll drummer.”
Russell paused for a moment, then went on. “The other guys in the band still say they can’t believe he killed the women, even though they’re going to testify against him. One of them actually saw him disposing of a body.”
Goose bumps formed on my arms. Russell stopped speaking, but he was still staring at me. He was a quiet man, too. I wondered what his childhood had been like.
“That’s about it,” he finished up after a few more heartbeats. He shifted his gaze to the space above my head.
“Very interesting,” I told him. My mouth felt too dry to say more.
I looked down and saw food
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