'When did you start performing?' She shrugged. 'My mom used to take me to the children's program at the La Jolla Playhouse,' she said. 'Both my parents were very supportive. My mom and dad never missed anything I was in.'
'Your father still in La Jolla?' I said.
'Yes,' Daryl said. 'I had an unusually wonderful childhood, before. ' she made a little rolling gesture with her right hand. 'We were a really close-knit family. We did everything together.'
'Siblings?' I said.
'No. Just Mom, and Dad, and me.'
'Where in Maine does your aunt live?'
'I don't know, a funny name. I think it's the place where that ex-president lives.'
'George Bush?'
'Yes.'
'Kennebunkport,' I said.
'That sounds right.'
Paul was watching me.
'What's your aunt's name?' I said.
'I think it's Sybil Pritchard now,' Daryl said. 'Why?'
'I thought maybe I'd talk with her,' I said.
'I'd rather you didn't.'
Paul was frowning a little.
'Okay,' I said.
'And your father's name is Gordon,' I said. 'Like yours.'
'Yes.'
Susan came in wearing a small, clean apron that said BORN TO COOK across the front.
Paul looked at the apron and smiled. 'That would be irony,' Paul said, 'right?'
'It would,' Susan said. 'Supper's ready.'
There was a very big platter of finger sandwiches and composed salad plates with asparagus, cherry tomatoes, and artichoke hearts.
'My God, Susan,' Daryl said. 'You put this all together while we were having a drink?'
Susan smiled modestly.
'What kind of sandwiches are they?' Daryl said. She seemed a little uneasy about Pearl's nose resting on the edge of the table near her.
'Oh,' Susan said, 'a lovely assortment.'
Paul looked at me and made a little sound that might have been a laugh, smothered.
'Are you laughing?' Daryl said. 'I need to know what they are. There's a lot of stuff I can't eat.'
'I'm not laughing at you,' Paul said.
Susan said, 'He's laughing at me, Daryl. I have never actually made a sandwich, I believe, in my entire life.'
'So where'd you get these.'
'I have a caterer friend who has a key,' Susan said. 'I called her on my cell phone.'
It was in fact a lovely assortment: tuna, smoked salmon, egg salad, cheese, turkey, cucumber with Boursin, and corned beef. Daryl carefully examined the contents of each one before she selected from the platter. She ate two sandwiches, both turkey, and ate the cherry tomatoes from her salad.
We talked about the play. We complimented both of them. We had no further conversations about Daryl's aunt, whom she'd rather I not talk to, nor Daryl's childhood, which had been idyllic.
12
Hawk and I were in Codman Square in a coffee shop eating grilled English muffins. A tall, thin, hard-faced black guy with a gray Afro, wearing a white dress shirt buttoned to the neck, walked in and came to our table. Several people in the coffee shop looked at him covertly.
'Hawk,' he said.
'Sawyer,' Hawk said.
The black man sat down next to Hawk.
'The blue-eyed devil is Spenser,' Hawk said. 'Sawyer McCann, the last hippie.'
We nodded at each other. Sawyer made no attempt to shake hands.
