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Show Anting Alone Page 299 sense of professional identity was crumbling. Polly almost shouted into his ear now. "Do you own a small tape recorder, Dr. Edwine?" "Sony micro-cassette recorder. Bought, but not paid for. Some surpassingly indiscreet shit on that tape. We could really bag us a Jewkilling Nazi cannibalistic motherfucker with that tape, you and me, sis." "Professor. Have you ever heard of my community's chaplain? Father Wagstaff Bopp? Locally famous lecturer on social issues?" "Father Whoozit. Parasite upon the cosmic insecurities of old ladies." Polly paused, waited for the indignation to rise up at his specification of old ladies' cosmic insecurities. Why not old men's? Old people's? Why not just people's? But the indignation did not come. Even ageism and sexism seemed excusable when emanating from under that scabbed-over sanitary pad. The blood had sucked sideways by capillary action along his basketball shoestrings, and was tipping his earlobes a greyish crimson now. He deserved a little indulgence. "Father Wagstaff Bopp," she repeated. "Bopp? What kind of name is Bopp? Does this parasite have a secret bastard daughter named Bea who loves Thelonius Monk like I do and so should we all?" His face lit up, as it had done not long ago in the convent infirmary when they'd discussed the street-names of Sisters Babo, Ido and Castrensia. He liked to play name games, like any good English professor. Polly explained the name, holding her laughter for just the right moment. "Boppo is his original name. He's Italian. He anglicized it to Bopp to sound more normal." The professor remained lucid long enough to laugh at this. "Parasxte |
