PI On A Hot Tin Roof

showed it to anyone else without breaking into a sweat. So don’t think you’ve cornered the market on that one, kiddo.”
    “Don’t call me kiddo.” But she reached for the folder.
    “Is ‘kid’ okay?”
    “Kid’s fine. Tougher.”
    “Read, kid.”
    “Huh? You want me to
read
it to you?”
    “You’ve heard the term ‘poetry reading’?”
    “But that’s, like, a performance. This is just you and me.”
    Talba was stern. “Read.”
    But to her surprise, her little ploy to boost the kid’s ego backfired. Lucy’s shoulders started to shake. She closed her eyes, presumably to hide tears. She shook her head violently.
    Not knowing what else to do—the girl definitely wasn’t a hugger—Talba put her hand on Lucy’s shoulder, giving some contact, but not infantilizing (she hoped). “Steady, kid. Steady. Okay, you’ve got stage fright.” It wasn’t that, but she was trying to distract the girl from her grief. “Happens to the best of us. You go in the bathroom and throw up while I read your poem.”
And cry your little eyes out, baby. In private, so it won’t hurt your dignity.
    The poem was called “The Crow”:
    The Crow
    A crow flew into my house
    And spread its terrible wings
    And shook its hideous tail
    And spoke in its terrible voice
    And insulted me.
    That other bird said “Nevermore,”
    But this one said “Neveragain.”
    Neveragain will you know a mother’s gentle hand
    Or a father’s soothing words
    Neveragain will the sun be gold and warm
    Or the weather be inviting
    Neveragain will you be a child.
    Or be whole.
    Or be the person you were.
    Your wing is broken
    And you cannot fly.
    Neveragain will you spread your wings like mine
    But henceforth you will
be
me.
    And the crow grew as large as the room itself
    And folded me in its wing
    And I lay there in the dark
    And I leaned into its harsh feathers
    And all was dark
    And all was black—
    And the crow was wrong.
    When I lie in its fearsome embrace,
    Against its pulsing ribs,
    A captive in a feathered womb,
    Encased in darkness,
    In impenetrable stillness,
    I am me.
    Talba was frankly appalled. Better, she thought, that Lucy had written it than dreamed it, but she had rarely read so terrifying a document of hopelessness. Her only positive thought was that thank God the girl was in therapy. She hardly knew what to say when Lucy came back, her eyes slightly pink, her ice cubes melting in her glass.
    But Lucy wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “Well?” she said. “Did you read it?”
    “Sure I read it. Nice homage to Poe. Good use of imagery. Only thing is, I had to call up a shrink to keep from slitting my wrists.”
    Lucy smiled. Happily, almost. “Really? It got you?”
    “Yeah. It picked me up in its beak and chewed me up.”
    “Hey, that’s
good.
Can I put it in?”
    “It’s yours, kid. What does your therapist say about
this
, baby?”
    “Think I’d show it to that asshole? He’s not exactly literate, you know. Just some hack they hired to hold my hand.”
    “Well. Good thing you’ve got somebody to do that. Hey, Raisa misses you. Could you stand to babysit some time?”
    “Babysit?” She seemed to be thinking it over. “Yeah, sure, I could babysit. But I’m writing a film and I thought maybe she could star in it.”
    “Really? I’ll bet she’d be thrilled.” This could only be good. As long as Lucy was writing, she couldn’t be contemplating self-immolation.
    “So, the poem, you know, it’s about depression.”
    “I gathered,” Talba said, trying to keep the irony out of her voice.
    “You know, I just have to live with it for awhile. I have to give in to it and let it, like, embrace me, and then I might come out the other side.”
    “‘Hello darkness, my old friend,’” Talba said.
    “Ooh, that’s good. Can I have that too?”
    “It’s not mine. It’s a line from an old song.”
    “Too bad. It would have really made me sound smart.”
    She was okay. Or at least she was going to be. “Keep writing, kid,” Talba said. “It’s doing you a world of good.”
    She looked up as footsteps approached. Adele entered, in black pants and T-shirt. At least she didn’t look like she was going to church. “Well, if it isn’t our favorite P.I.”
    “Hello, Adele. How are you?”
    “Getting along.” Adele stood, pointedly declining to sit, and Talba wondered if this was some kind of hint.
    “Hey, listen,” Lucy said. “I’ve got this really cute tape of Raisa at the Bacchus party.