F. “When did you look up my mother’s records at the Joliet library, Michelle?” Lucy asked, trying not to incriminate herself by sounding confrontational. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. "I must tell you," she was saying.
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