Melancholy Baby

“Yes, since junior high, probably. But then it was different. I didn’t live with her. I didn’t have to be there when she got crazy, or worry about all her druggie friends stealing my stuff.”

“She ever steal from you?”

Polly sighed. “There were things that disappeared,” she said.

“Did you ever bring it up to her?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She told me if I didn’t trust her, she didn’t want me there, and I should get out.”

“And that’s when you moved?” I said.

“Maxine’s roommate moved in with her boyfriend, and so I went over there with Maxine. I felt bad leaving her. But she was so... sometimes she would have sex in the other bed... in the same room.”

“Ick,” I said.

“It’s not goodie-goodie to not like that,” Polly said.

“No,” I said. “It’s human.”

17

“So when she reached seventh grade... which would be, what, twelve, thirteen... Everything went to hell.” Dr. Silverman nodded.

“And I can’t find out if something happened.”

“You think something happened?”

“Everyone says she changed.”

“Perhaps puberty happened,” Dr. Silverman said.

“I thought of that,” I said. “But I went through puberty without becoming a drugged-out, promiscuous whack job. Didn’t you?”

“Maybe she had more compelling reasons to become a whack job,” Dr. Silverman said. “Or more thoroughly a whack job.”

“So she might have had problems which didn’t become evident until her chemistry changed.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Silverman said.

“So, if puberty is a process of sexual maturation,” I said, “are the problems associated with it sexual?”

“Often,” Dr. Silverman said.

“Boy,” I said. “It is hard to get a straight answer from you.”

“Getting answers from me is not our goal here,” Dr. Silverman said.

“Oh, shit,” I said.

Dr. Silverman raised her eyebrows and tilted her head a little.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I mean, I know that it’s about me, not about you. You’re just so goddamned shrinky.”

“I am, after all, a shrink.”

“I know, I know. There’s just this know-it-all, goddamned, I’m-the-grownup-you’re-the-child quality to it all.”

Dr. Silverman leaned back in her chair. She was wearing a dark pinstripe suit today. Her nails gleamed with clear polish. She wore makeup. Which was good. I was uneasy about women who didn’t wear makeup. But it was very understated makeup. Nothing flamboyant — don’t want to jar the patient. With her hands clasped in her lap, she rubbed the tips of her thumbs together gently. I had already learned that that meant she had encountered something interesting.

“What?” I said.

“Do you really think I treat you like a child?” she said.

“Oh, hell, I don’t know. I was just mad.”

“At what?”

I stared at her. She seemed almost eager as she leaned forward in her chair, though I was pretty certain she wasn’t. Without any real sign that I could pick up, she seemed to be cheering me on. She was like a herd dog: a lean here, an eyebrow there. Rub the thumbs. And all of a sudden, there it was. I was where I’m sure she wanted me to be.

“It’s so corny I’m embarrassed,” I said.

Eyebrow. Head tilt.

“I’m mad at my mother,” I said.

Dr. Silverman smiled. For her, that was like jumping in the air and clicking her heels.

“Let’s talk about that a little,” she said.

“Does this mean you’re not going to solve the Sarah Markham case for me?” I said.

She smiled. “I’m afraid it does,” she said.

18

I had coffee and a cinnamon bun with George Markham in a Starbucks on Main Street in Andover.

“Have you been able to persuade my daughter to stop this madness?” George said.

“I’ve not tried,” I said.

“Well, you should,” George said. “You’re too good-looking to waste your time chasing phantoms.”

How charming.

“Tell me about your radio career,” I said.

He smiled modestly and shrugged.

“It was nothing much,” he said. “I just got some lucky breaks along the way.”

“Tell me about it. I’m fascinated with radio,” I said.

“I was on Armed Forces Radio in ’Nam,” he said, “and managed, when I got out, to segue right into a job in New York. WNEW. I worked with William B. Williams there, if you know who he is.”

“A legend,” I said.

“In Chicago, I got to work with Milt Rosenberg at WGN.”

“Wow,” I said. “Mostly announcing?”

He nodded.

“And a lot of producing,” he said. “I did some on-air fill-in for the hosts when they were on vacation or out with a cold or something. Later I went on to do network. Not as glamorous maybe as it once was in, you know, the heyday. But it paid good, and there was much less local programming politics, you know?”

“Oh,” I said, “I can imagine. Do you miss radio?”

“No,” he said, “not really. It was fun. But I’m happy now, managing my affairs, spending time with my wife. That was then. This is now.”

“I was in Quad Cities last week,” I said.

George looked at me blankly.

“They remember you fondly out there,” I said.

“Quad Cities?”

“Yep. Talked with Millie at WMOL. Quad City Sound.”

“Millie?”

“Yep. Said you were very handy with the women.”

“I’ve never been to Quad Cities in my life.”

“You were there in the early eighties. Same time Lolly Drake was starting out.”

“Lolly Drake?” he said. “The syndicated talk-show broad?”