” Mrs. Sheppard, faintly. I’ve muddled all this business. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. “So I see that you have become content with your hardscrabble existence, your week-to-week survival, your Martin Chen!” “Who?” “Your limp-wristed lover!” “Um. Nothing ensued. We are not altogether strangers, are we? I feel that under the circumstances I have the right to offer you my advice, and if necessary my help. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. For I still love her mother.
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