I made up the conversation asking
Malcolm to take the lead. Deirdre would
have done that, under the circumstances.
So would Lucinda, had she had the chance. Kief would not.
I dreamed of Gaziley being a lousy
shot, intractable to training.
Considering his habit of wearing eyeliner and improvising when he
couldn’t get the real thing, it didn’t take much to deduce that he’d gone blind
in one eye, and had no depth perception.
As for the rest of the conversation, often,
when I dreamed of Lucinda, I got a whiff of apple-blossom scent. It matters, actually, though I can’t exactly
read in the waking world of a teenage boy prostituting himself to take care of
a baby daughter. I translated that into
the altar-boy taking care of younger siblings. (The waking world boy and his teenage
girlfriend—the poor young fools!—both sold themselves in desperation to buy
diapers and formula, knowing nothing about reusable cloth diapers or the
advantages of breast milk.)
dreamed, sometime or other, of Damien telling me, “I’m writing a song called
‘The Black Retreat’.”