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vast intellect and sagacity, consulted and revered.
    â€œEdward,” said Tull with a frisson of relief. “There’s something Idon’t get. If a labyrinth doesn’t have dead ends, how can someone get lost?”
    â€œYou can’t. It’s impossible. The myth’s a metaphor—we don’t
want
to get out. We’re hardwired for failure. It’s in our genes. Even flies want to fail.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œPut a hundred flies in a jar and leave the lid on awhile. Take it off and only a few escape.”
    â€œWhat does that prove?”
    â€œPsychologists say the flies suffer from ‘premature cognitive commitment’: meaning, the commitment that they’re still trapped.”
    â€œThat is
so brilliant
,” said Lucy as she maneuvered the buggy into a harbor of manicured bush. “See? Fits perfect. Though I’m not sure it’ll turn.”
    â€œBack up, Lucy!” said Tull with proprietary zeal. “You’ll ruin the hedge.”
    Like the Tin Man, Edward swiveled on the bench to watch while she threw the buggy in reverse. “What’s a $400,000 hedge?” He shrugged, nonchalant.
    She cleared it, then turned back to her brother. “Tell him about Joyce.” Then to Tull: “Our mother has a pet project.”
    â€œAnimal CAT scans?” asked Tull, pleased to elicit a smile from the invalid.
    â€œMother Joyce has been searching for a calling,” said Edward. “The middle-aged need their passions, you know.”
    â€œWe were
hoping
,” said Lucy, eyes atwinkle, “that it would be in the form of a personal trainer.”
    â€œOr pool man.”
    â€œThat would have been the
best
.”
    â€œAt first, we thought she’d adopt a disease, but that’s tricky.
My
particular anomaly’s too shamelessly grotesque to build a telethon around. Too obscure.
Unphotogenic
.” Lucy chortled, then nudged a tire against Pullman’s back; he twitched an ear. “Then Mother read an item in the
Times
about a baby in a dumpster. A drive-by: someone tossed it in and the thing died. People don’t leave kids on doorsteps anymore
—
they’d have to park the car, God forbid. Park and toss and you’re ahead of the game. And what does Mother do when she reads about said odiouscrime? Remember, this is no ordinary woman! This is a filthy rich woman with too much time on her hands! She goes to the morgue to claim it, that’s what. But they won’t just
give
it to her, they make her
wait
thirty days. I, for one, find it comforting to know the finders-keepers rule has such broad and universal application. Voilà! a month later, there she sits, morgue-ready, far away from the Hills of Holmby. Comes the Man—from her emotionally charged description, we read between the lines and deduce the deputy to be a burly cretin with, no offense to you, Tull, sweaty, orangish body hair. From the distant end of the hall, Frankensheriff walks toward her.
Clump clump clump
. And what does Frankensheriff do? Hands Joyce a Hefty bag dripping with the baby’s remains!”
    â€œEdward, that is
gross
.”
    â€œYou’re serious,” said Tull, happily playing straight man.
    â€œAnd Mother vows—this being the first in a series—Mother vows the next time she comes, she’ll do things a little differently. Two weeks later, she makes good. Hands the sheriff one of those humongous Hermès scarves from a few seasons back with an African theme, because the next little dead baby’s
black
. Oh, Mother Joyce thinks of everything! Frankensheriff appears in said distant hall—
clump clump clump—weeping
as he approaches,
sobbing
as he hands it off! He’s caught the spirit! Touched by an angel! Frankensheriff stands converted!”
    â€œBut what does she
want
?” asked the incredulous Tull. “What’s she going to
do
with them?”
    â€œShe