I hung up and walked back to the seating area where Doc and Maurice were looking wide-eyed at Twyla. “Fleas!” she screamed. “Oh, my God! Fleas!” The hysterics went on for five more minutes until we boarded our flight. “Bullet, this is terrible,” Twyla sobbed. “I hate fleas. And the whole friggin’ house is infatuated with them things.” I sighed. “Infested.” “That too,” she went on crying. “They’re in my clothes, my shoes, and my makeup. God—they’re in everything!” I gritted my teeth. What I wanted to do was to untie the truth and let it fill the Continental terminal. “It’s temporary, Twyla. By next week, you’ll be back in Florida.” “That’s true,” Doc chimed in. “And while you’re in New Brunswick, we can take very good care of you.” There was a subliminal message weaving its way through the professor’s comment, and I didn’t like it. “Thanks for being such a friend, Doc,” Twyla said. She ran her hand up and down the professor’s forearm the same way I used to tickle my poodle’s belly to make its back legs twitch.
