Vexation Lullaby Read Online Free

backstage.”
    â€œMaybe we should start with why you wanted to see a doctor.”
    â€œWhat do people usually say?”
    Peter took a deep breath. “They usually tell me what’s been bothering them.”
    â€œLast week,” Cross began, “I met a friend in Quebec City. He used to deal antique books but he’s in power now, transmission lines, turbine generators. We’ve been going to this Italian place since forever. As soon as I walk inside it’s 1978—this Romanian heartbreaker I used to know is sitting at the bar chewing on her thumb. Next to her is Bobby Swain, my first manager. Bobby’s heart killed him in Toronto fifteen years ago.”
    â€œYou were hallucinating.”
    â€œLast I heard the girl had a bunch of Romanian babies with a French duke. I ducked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I finished, I found my old friend at a table popping some pill that allows him to eat dairy.”
    â€œDid you speak with a doctor?”
    â€œYou’re a doctor.”
    â€œHave there been other incidents?”
    Cross slumped into a chair beside the card table. “I spent half my life trying to give people the slip, and now I’m scared some vital part of me will split without leaving a forwarding address.”
    Peter didn’t like standing while his patient sat, but neither did he want to sit down across the table from Cross. Instead, he got down on a knee, like a quarterback or as if he were about to ask for Cross’s hand. “Have you considered speaking with a mental health professional? A psychiatrist or a psychologist?”
    â€œI see Ari Mendelsohn, on the Upper East Side. He lets me do phone sessions while I’m on the road. When we started I paid him less than my dog walker, but I made the mistake of mentioning that to him. Now he charges me the same as White and Case bills for lead counsel.”
    â€œAnd he knows about this episode?”
    â€œAri keeps all my secrets.” Cross got up and walked to the bed. From beneath the black hat he retrieved a small manila envelope. “This is for you.”
    Peter set his stethoscope down and extracted a single 3-by-5-inch photo from the envelope. The picture’s subject, half-veiled beneath the branches of a willow tree, a squat sports car with round headlights and an open grille—Peter thought the car resembled a kid sucking on a bar of soap.
    â€œYou recognize it?”
    â€œIs that a Fiat or something?”
    â€œThat’s a Sunbeam Tiger. They bolted a small-block Chevy to a British frame with drum brakes and bad wiring. Your mother drove that car through snowstorms. She was fearless.”
    Fearless. That was Judith in a nutshell.
    â€œI should have sent you tickets,” Cross said.
    â€œTickets?”
    â€œFor tonight’s show. I take it you weren’t there.”
    The room phone rang again, an expensive, dulcimer sound.
    â€œDo you want to get that?”
    â€œI’m not obliged to be convenient.” Cross settled into a chair and rebuttoned his shirt.
    Peter got the feeling he wasn’t there to deliver medicine; at best, he could advocate for it.
    There was a knock as the door cracked open. Cyril said, “Bluto wants you to know the plane cleared Teterboro. We should leave for the airport in thirty.” With his message delivered, the large man retreated.
    Peter said, “I’d imagine losing track of time is an occupational hazard.”
    â€œDid your mother tell you how we met?”
    Was it possible Judith hadn’t realized that her friend Jimmy happened to be one of the most famous recording artists on the planet? “Tell me.”
    â€œI went out to pick up the newspaper and found her sitting on my porch with a sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders.”
    â€œJudith?”
    â€œI asked if she needed to use the phone. She said she didn’t have anyone to call, so I brought her some