82 Desire

to him, Baroness.” And she leaned over to whisper to the cop.
    Next the reporter came over. Ray was nearly beside himself.
    “Baroness? I’m Jane Storey. Fine reading! Lovely reading. Is it really true about your name?”
    “Oh, Lord, did Chaucer have this problem? Did people come up and say, ‘Is the Wife of Bath a real person? And if she is, could you get me a date with her?’ “
    “No, really. I’m a reporter and—”
    “You’re a reporter? Why didn’t you say so? Are you doing a story on me?”
    “Actually—uh—that isn’t why I’m here, but—”
    “You’re a fan! Is that why you’re here?”
    “I think we need to talk.”
    Jane Storey glanced at the cop and then disappeared with The Baroness.
    The man with Langdon, probably Steve Steinman, spoke for the first time. “That name thing didn’t ring true for me. I’m sorry, but nobody would name their kid Urethra. Even as metaphor—”
    The teenage boy interrupted. “It is true! I know a kid whose dad did his internship at Charity and he tells stories about that.”
    “What kind of stories?”
    “Revolting stories. Disgusting stories. About how black women used to come in and they’d have so many children they couldn’t think of any new names and so they’d ask the interns. Just like in the poem. And then the interns would always say something like Urethra or Gonorrhea.” He pronounced it Go-nore-ia. “Or Phyllis and Syphilis for twins.”
    “Good God!”
    But Langdon laughed. “I’ll bet everybody in New Orleans has heard at least some version of the story. I’ve always wondered if it was urban myth or not. It’s hard to believe people could be that mean, but they always tell it with pride in their meanness. Like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world.”
    The girl looked down at her lap. “Kind of makes you ashamed to be white.”
    Darryl Boucree tousled her hair. “Take it easy, kid. White’s okay.”
    Steve Steinman gestured at an empty chair. “Why don’t you two sit down? What are you doing here, anyway?”
    The man spoke quietly, but Ray could just make out the words: “Lou-Lou got some kind of threat; I’m not sure what it was but when I called her about the speaking thing, she was practically crying. So I offered to bring her.” He glanced briefly at the psychologist, who was deep in conversation with Langdon, and then back at Steinman. “You think the dude in dreads is her boyfriend?”
    “Cindy Lou’s?”
    “No, man. The Baroness’s.”
    Steinman laughed. “Now don’t you be getting above your station.”
    “Would a Baroness date a common man?”
    “You can’t date her, man. I forbid it.”
    “Why?”
    “ ‘Cause you’d lose your dignity, that’s why. Say you got lucky and that magic moment came along. Are you gonna holler, ‘Urethra, Urethra!’?”
    The shrink turned toward them and spoke with disdain: “Are you two ever going to grow up?”
    Ray didn’t know what to make of it. He hadn’t known they were all friends. He wondered if that would help or hurt him.
    The reporter came back with The Baroness. Jane was frowning. “Skip, can I talk to you?”
    Darryl Boucree bowed again to the poet. “Your Excellency. May I have an audience?”
    “Speak, serf.”
    “Would you do me the honor of talking to my high-school English class?”
    “Are you kidding? Me, a role model?”
    Boucree wiped the smile off his face. “Yeah. Yeah, you really are. You don’t know how much they need one.”
    “My story’s true, you know.”
    “About your name? I am truly, truly sorry if it is.”
    “Don’t be. One day I’m gonna get that Pill Man.”

Seven
    WHAT A SELF-PROMOTER. But there’s something about her. I don’t know—maybe it’s a story and maybe it’s not . Jane would have given anything to discuss The Baroness with Walter. At the very least he would have had something wry to say about her, and it would probably have been wise as well.
    Jane found herself smiling and shaking her head when she thought about the poet—the way you do with a naughty but charming child. The Baroness had gone and done what everyone would like to do—she’d re-created herself.
    Maybe I’m envious , Jane thought. The thing about being a reporter is, it’s not living, it’s just watching. And sometimes you can’t tell what you’re seeing .
    She’d been excited when Talba took her aside, but all she got was a pitch to do a story on her. She was starting to get the feeling she was being