wristwatch as if she's planted a time bomb somewhere?'
The lady in question blushed slightly.
'And why is Mister Watkins’s mouth at a no-doubt temporary loss for words when his mind is spilling them out by the hundreds?'
Whew. That was a lot of questions to start off a lecture. But she was supposed to be teaching psychology, wasn't she? The field had no answers, only more and crazier questions. And that was just the middle ground. When you branched out into clairvoyance and precognition and telepathic signals that said shu-shaaa -
Lone Eyebrow recovered his wits. 'Because I'm the way I am, that's all.”
'You are the way you are. But what makes you that way?'
'Good drugs,' somebody yelled, and the class laughed again.
Tamara laughed with them. The morning’s Gloomies were gone, maybe swept off on the magic carpet of dreams, maybe flushed down some subconscious toilet, or maybe just stuck in a mental desk drawer under the pages of her unwritten worries.
Or maybe just hanging around Windshake waiting for her return.
She glanced at the front row and noticed a male student ogling her figure. If she couldn’t keep their minds interested, at least she still managed to keep a few males awake. Robert didn't even seem to notice she was female anymore. Robert barely seemed to remember he had a wife.
She turned her attention back to the lecture and kept the discussion rolling. It was a good session, lots of class participation and fun besides. Not really anything she could test them on, but maybe it would get them thinking, and that was half the battle.
She was gathering her notes after class when a redheaded woman approached the lectern. Tamara flashed a smile, and the woman smiled back, clutching her books to her chest.
'Dr. Leon, I just wanted to say how much I'm enjoying your class,' she said
'Well, thank you,' Tamara said, cramming her papers into her scuffed portfolio. She wondered if this was a brown-noser or the real deal, someone who took learning beyond the classroom.
'I'm thinking of going into psychology, and I wondered if you could recommend some outside reading.'
Tamara looked into the woman's clear blue eyes. She saw no hidden motives in them. She considered herself a good judge of character. That was one of the few fringe benefits of her profession.
“More psych books?” Tamara said. 'That way lies madness.”
'Didn’t you say madness is a matter of opinion?' the woman asked, uncowed.
Now I'm turning into a cynic. This woman reminded her of herself a decade ago. Inquisitive and ambitious. Both handy qualities for a psychologist. She was pretty, though, which might be an academic liability.
Tamara said, 'I tell you what, Ms. — '
'Blevins. Sarah Blevins.'
'That name sounds familiar.'
'My daddy's the preacher up at the Windshake Baptist church.'
'And a preacher's daughter wants to be a psychologist?'
'I have to be something.'
Tamara smiled. Psychology was just another belief system, and so was the Baptist faith. Neither was better nor worse, just different. And more truth was found in asking questions than in swallowing the company line, in either case.
'Tell you what,' Tamara said. 'I'll make a list of good books that you should be able to find in the university library. If you can't, maybe we can work it out so you can borrow some of mine.'
Sarah's freckled cheeks dimpled as she showed her straight teeth. 'Thank you, ma’am.'
'Ms. Blevins, you can thank me by actually reading them and maybe someday writing better ones.'
Sarah nodded seriously. 'See you on Monday,' she said brightly, then went out the door, her coppery hair swinging from side to side.
Tamara stopped by the office she shared with two other associates. She wedged herself into her cubbyhole and worked on her research project. When she looked up, hours later, she noticed through the tiny window that the sun was sinking low in the sky. She hurried out to her car and drove home, dreading the Gloomies that might be drawing ever closer to the windows of her soul. And the secret lights of Bear Claw that might pierce the darkness of her troubled heart.
Of course they weren’t real, but she was afraid she might see them again anyway.
Virginia Speerhorn looked across her cluttered desk at Chief Crosley. What a fat stereotype, a Buford Pusser Keystone Kop lardass. Just look at him, sitting there munching on a doughnut while the buttons are already straining to pop off his shirt. He's ten pounds of manure in a five-pound bag.
And that pathetic comb-over, it looks like a half-dozen greasy threads stretched across a red billiard ball. He may as well have a sign on his head that reads, 'I'm just a heart attack waiting to happen, but I still think I'm a love machine.' Doesn't he believe in bringing dignity to public office?
Still, he was an adequate law enforcement agent, and that was all she needed. Crime wasn't a problem in Windshake, and had never been a campaign issue. And a more ambitious person might have proved dangerous.
Virginia cleared her throat. Crosley's eyelids rolled sleepily open.
'What security measures are you taking for Blossomfest, Chief?'
Crosley parted his lips, allowing Virginia a glimpse of saliva-packed bread and raspberry filling. Then he swallowed, his knob of an Adam's apple pogoing dryly.
'Got five men-er, five officers — assigned for weekend duty, meaning two will be drawing overtime.'
Virginia pursed her lips. 'And you?'
Crosley became intensely interested in a flap of frayed rayon on the arm of his chair. 'I'll be there, too.'
'And not billing the city for overtime?'
Crosley looked up. Virginia noticed with pleasure that he cringed from the heat of what she thought of as her 'withering glare.'
'Now, Mayor, that was years ago. You still don't hold that against me, do you?'
'Chief, I'm not surprised when some of the sanitation workers fudge on their time sheets, putting down an extra half hour when they only worked a quarter. But I do expect my more visible officials to follow the letter of the law. Especially those who are commissioned to uphold it.'
Crosley slouched even deeper into his seat. 'I made good on that.'
'I have a budget to maintain, Chief, and in my budget, every dollar has a place and must be answered for. You have a decent salary and your standard of living is above the city average. You get a measure of respect from your peers, and from me. I should think that would be satisfaction enough for anyone.'
'Yes, ma'am,' said Crosley, duly defeated.
Virginia leaned back in her splintery oak swivel chair, its old springs creaking like a vault door. She had rescued this chair from the dumpster behind city hall and exiled her predecessor's leather chair to storage. This uncomfortable, battered relic was perfect for the image she wanted to cultivate.
She looked out the window at the busy street. Nearly twice as much traffic now as when she had first taken up her post behind this desk twelve years ago. And this little town-no, city, it was a city in her mind, no matter what the charter said-had bloomed under her careful tending. Tax revenue was up, the budget surplus was expanding, and her margin of victory in each successive election had grown accordingly.
She turned back to Crosley. 'I want a good time for the whole family this weekend, just like the Chamber of Commerce ads have promised. That means no open consumption of alcohol, no littering, all vendors following the traffic and fire lane restrictions, and-my god, I better check something.'
She stabbed her speakerphone. 'Martha?'
'Ma'am?' came a tinny voice from the speaker.
'The live music for Blossomfest, do you know what the Chamber has scheduled?'
Virginia heard a shuffling of papers.
'Mayor, it looks like a solo acoustic guitarist at ten, then a student string quartet from Westridge after that. The headline act is that country singer, Sammy Ray Hawkins.'
Virginia smiled in relief, her facial muscles twitching from the unaccustomed workout. 'Thank you, Martha,'
