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Show Motherlunge a novel 166 something was starting to go wrong with Pavia, and that certainly wasn't good. You may remember: it happened to Dorothy. Dorothy, back at home in Supernal and on a regimen of polypharmaceutical checks and balances by that time, was up again. Walter stopped by her house every day on his way to work to make sure she was taking her medication, and he gave us the report. "What can I tell you?" he said over the phone, irritated. "Let's just say she's really fucking busy." "Busy," I repeated from my seat in the front window of the townhouse. It must have been a Tuesday or Thursday because Jack was there with Xavier. "Busy doing what?" y "She's writing another book." "On Jackie Onassis?" "Do you think I ask? Anyway, her thing is all cleared up I guess." Her thing. The pause that ensued should have been awkward. Walter was talking about Dorothy's sexually transmitted disease, which they'd discovered at the mental hospital. It, at least, had responded to treatment. "Should I clap!" I asked my father. "You should shut up," my father said. |