Lost Girls

from shore and trying to find it among the rocks, the only thing shining up through all the silt. And the swimming contests --last one from the raft to the beach did all the dinner dishes. Oh, Lord! They'd make me tell them so many stories I didn't have any more to tell.''

Tripp shakes his head as though it were connected to the rest of him by a loose, insufficient spring.

''It's a hell of a lake, all right,'' I say. ''Quite lovely.''

''They were lovely,'' he exclaims, the neck straightening with a liquid click. ''And curious. Curious kittens. Told them so many things that by the end I didn't know what was true. Or what they'd made up themselves. It got so that the things they said may as well have come out of my own mouth.''

And then he actually does open his mouth, a brief choirboy oval that may have been an illustration of his point or an expression of surprise.

''Water that never got warm,'' he continues when his lips are brought together again. ''And dark enough that you couldn't see your own feet below you with your eyes wide open. Make you wonder what was down there. Told them what I thought, but didn't they have their own ideas!''

Tripp laughs formally in the way of a politician attempting warmth in an election interview.

''All this makes me wonder about something, Thom.''

''Hmm?''

''The Literary Club. What went on during those meetings?''

''Read books,'' he says abruptly, pushing back from the table and placing both hands on his stomach, jaw thrown about in a cud-chewing circle. ''Then we'd talk about them. That was the idea. I think at first some of the other teachers didn't think it would work, that young people today don't read books. And they were right. They mostly don't. Never had any more of them who wanted to come other than Ashley and Krystal. And a boy--''

''Laird.''

''--for a time, but he quit, which makes perfect sense seeing as boys read books even less than girls.''

''So that's it? Things were the same even after Laird-- after the boy was gone?''

''For a time, yes.''

He wipes his hands down the front of his prison overalls as though trying to remove something sticky from the palms or swipe away a layer of crumbs under his chin. Takes his time and I watch him. There's something in this motion--deliberate, self-conscious, a little ashamed--that makes him appear at once much older and younger than he is. He could be a child worried about getting in trouble for making a mess at the dinner table. An ancient bachelor noticing a mysterious crust on his hands and wondering what it could be, how long it had been there, or if anyone had noticed. But when he speaks again it's with a measured calm, his face raised to me, both youth and age gone from his face once more.

''One of the things I tried to teach my students is that narrative--what happens to us, the things we do to others --that the whole thing is organic. Of course it was a waste of breath most of the time. But those girls, they understood right away.''

''What do you mean by organic, exactly?''

''Always changing yet always connected,'' he says, throws his hands a few inches into the air and spreads his fingers wide. ''Always alive.''

''So once you'd taught that lesson to the girls, what else did you do?''

''Let them grow.''

''Let who grow?''

''The stories.''

Tripp pulls himself close to the table, composes his face into a mask of teacherly consideration. The face he would have once used in making submissions to a school administrative board.

''We shifted the mandate, I suppose you could say. From a reading group to something more creative. After that there really were no more lessons to teach.''

''Is that why it became so private? I spoke to your field hockey friend, Miss Betts. She told me of your practice of lowering a blind down over your classroom windows during meetings.''

''Environment is important.''

For the first time during any contact I've had with Tripp I stand up, pace the perimeter of the room. It feels like I may be getting somewhere.

''Did you keep a copy of the materials--of the fictional works the three of you wrote?''

''We didn't really work with texts. Too confining, and it took too long. The pen can never keep up with the mind.'' He raises his eyebrows. ''Did someone famous say that or did I just make it up?''

''I'd put my money on you, Thom.''

Position myself a few feet behind him, my shoes sandy clicks on the tiled floor.

''Tell me one of the stories the girls made up.''

''There was only one. Or many all joined together.''

''So give me a little sample.''

'' 'Fair is foul, and foul is fair.' ''

''That's nice, but it's not entirely original.''

Tripp doesn't try to turn his head to face me. The result is a slight echo in the small room, a fraction of doubling and delay.

''Your principal at the school, Mrs. Warren. I spoke to her too. We were both curious about your budget for the club.''

''You've been a busy bee.''

''Why would you need money for costumes, Thom?''

''Not me,'' he says, holds out his arms and draws them back with his words. ''For Krystal and Ashley.''

''So it was a play?''

''A story. I've told you that.''

''And how did it end?''

''You'd have to ask them.''

''But I can't.''

''So you say.''

The back of his head still as a mannequin's. The skin of his neck a waxy grid of wrinkles, the hair glued into each of the pores.

''Sounds like you all became very close,'' I say.

''As much as any family can be close. Which is how much, Mr. Crane? I have no doubt you've done your research into these things. How close can a father be to a daughter in a time--in a world where everything changes so easily?''

''They weren't your daughters.''

''No, they weren't. They weren't indeed.'' He makes a sound that could be either a sob or a scoffing laugh. ''It is a comfort when your lawyer has all the facts straight.''

''But he doesn't. Not yet. Which leads me to my next question.'' I take in a tight breath. ''There's a book I found at the library here in town. A history--''

Tripp suddenly spins around in his chair and faces me, a fluid turn involving the upper half of his body that cuts my voice off in my throat.

''You hear her, too, don't you?''

''I'm sorry?''

''You heard me. Just as well as you can hear her.''

''Who, Thom?''

''The Lady. She speaks to you, too, doesn't she?''

''No, she doesn't. And I thought we discussed this matter earlier. An insanity plea is something we can consider, if you'd like, but at this juncture I feel our position is relatively secure. So there's no need for these displays-- these desperate measures, okay? Just save it in case we need it for later.''

What I thought might have been progress now collapsing into the black of Tripp's eyes. He's gone again and