Page 126 of The Witching Hours

“Very well,” he said as he picked up our snail stroll. “Hard question. Easy answer,” he said. “This,” he waved his right hand at the store in grand fashion,” is here for you. Today and today alone. As am I. In short, it’s not about me.”

“Oh, you dog!” I said.

“I beg your pardon.” He sounded as if he might be genuinely offended.

“That isnotan answer. I’ve been gypped.”

“First, it is an answer and a good one. Second, that’s pejorative and slurs are beneath you.”

I felt my head shaking in confusion. “What are we talking about?”

“Your use of the term ‘gypped’. Racist, isn’t it?”

“What? No.” I thought about it. “Well, um, I guess I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“I see.”

“Ooh. That sounded really judgy.”

“Is that an abbreviated way of saying judgmental?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m here to oversee an experiential reckoning. Not judge.”

“Maybe. But you leaked.”

“If that means what I think it means, I believe you are projecting your own feelings onto me.”

“Pop psych?” Perhaps from habit, I looked at my watch. People in the mixed media department at the museum would be wondering about me soon. “Excuse me. I need to let work know I’m out this morning.”

I held up one finger in the universally accepted gesture of hold on a minute. My call was answered by voicemail. “Oh hi.” Sniff. “It’s Mary Marie. I left without an umbrella and got soaked.” Small cough. “I’m heading back home to get dry and stay in with some chicken soup. See you tomorrow. Hopefully.”

I was involved in the creation of a special section on theAesopica, commonly known asAesop’s Fables. I’d been instrumental in assembling a collection of related art and we were now engaged in pairing narrated stories with their artistic interpretation. Visitors to the museum would be able to stand in front of a painting or relief, push an information button and listen to that particular fable through headphones acquired at check in. Each of the stories had been read by a celebrity whose voice was recognizable. I expected the exhibit to be very popular, especially with families.

I ended the call and slipped my phone back in my pocket. When I looked up, there was no question in my mind that I read judgment on Winkleman’s face.

“What?”

“Contrary to conclusions reached by those given to assumption, I’m not a mind reader. If you have a question, I’ll need more than ‘what’?”

“You were giving me a you’ve-been-bad look.”

“I don’t have a you’ve-been-bad look.”

“You do. And that was it.”

“Again. Projection.”

“Look. I don’t think projection means what you think it means.”

“I’m comfortably certain that I’m using the term correctly.”

“Well, you’re not. And I should know, at the end of his illness, Freud had an afternoon in the store.”

I felt my face light up and reveled in the consternation Winkleman felt when he realized I’d tripped him up. “Winkleman,” I sing-songed provocatively. “Wasn’t that like just before World War II?”

“Ms. Campbell,” he said after making a visible adjustment of composure. “It’s your day. Far be it for me to want to argue with the interpretations you choose to put on psychological theories. For the sake of moving along, let’s agree you are right.”

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