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scene by the Charles is replayed. Then it’s on to the mayor’s budget and the weather.
     I turn off the TV as the phone rings.
    “Hi, Mom.”
    My daughter usually calls at nighttime. Something must be up. “Everything okay, dear?”
    “Fine. I’m calling from the studio.”
    Doubtless up to her elbows in paint or clay, with her dark eyes intent. Her figure, like Jo’s, is built for efficiency. Molly’s
     metabolism burns up every calorie, fortunate young woman, while I fight hips and bustline to stay a size 8.
    “How are you, Mom?”
    “Fine, dear.” She sounds preoccupied.
    “Mom—your fur coat. Is your offer still good? Is it available?”
    “The minks?”
    “I only want one.”
    My heart skips a beat. I’ve held on to both furs in case Molly ever returns to civilization. At least the nose ring is gone.
     As for the tattoo, well, lasers can do wonders. “Molly, I kept both coats for you. But what about animal rights, dear?” The
     vivid memory surges of Molly’s activist episode in front of Neiman’s with the spray paint and the Russian sable. That was
     high school. I wrote the check, and Marty dealt with the lawyers. “What about PETA?”
    “Mom, those minks of yours died a very long time ago. They’re historical.”
    Not exactly my wording.
    “Can I have one?”
    “Summer’s coming. Why not wait till fall?”
    “Now’s the time, Mom.”
    I get it. She plans a restyling for the next season and is reluctant to admit she wants a more youthful look. “Molly, furriers
     are expensive.”
    “Won’t cost me a thing.”
    Meaning her artist friends will snip and slice. Quelle horreur! “It’s not for amateurs, Mol. Remember Marge Hooper’s beaver
     jacket resculpted on the cheap?”
    “The one that looked like crop circles. The coolest.”
    “She never wore it again.”
    “Wish I had it.”
    “Molly dear, is it sculpting you have in mind?”
    “Not exactly.”
    A promise is a promise. Don’t ask, don’t tell. “Shall I drive the coat down, or will you come up to Boston?”
    She’ll take the train up from Providence and have dinner. “Molly, one more thing, a hair question.” My daughter, the veteran
     of blue dyes and spikes, should be an expert. “About dreadlocks—why do the Rastafarians grow them?”
    “To symbolize roots, to symbolize resistance. Why?”
    “Are their leaders called Doc?”
    “Not that I know. What’s up?”
    “I’m doing research. They smoke marijuana for religious reasons, right? Bob Marley and all that.”
    “All that.”
    “Do they preach? Is missionary work required, like Jehovah’s Witnesses? Or public preaching?”
    “It’s based on Bible verses about hair and herbs. And the Lion of Judah. You could ask Marfah. Remember him?”
    A scowling boy who hung around our Utica house and ate everything in sight. “Where is he?”
    “In law school.”
    “That boy got into law school?” Imagine, a lawyer with dreadlocks.
    “At Northeastern. In Boston near you, in fact. You could look him up.”
    “Maybe I will.”
    “Gotta check the kiln, Mom. See you in a few days. Bye.”
    I go to the Web and Google Rastafarian and read, “Early Rasta mystical experience emphasized the immediate presence of JAH
     within the ‘dread’ (God-fearer)…Through union with JAH, the dread becomes who he truly is but never was.”
    Mystical paradoxes were never my strong suit. I hit another Web site, this one illustrated with lions and a map of Jamaica.
     “Rastafarians say scriptures prophesied the Emperor of Ethiopia as the one with feet unto burning brass… and hair of whose
     head is like wool, the symbol of the Lion of Judah.” There are biblical quotations from Genesis, Exodus, and Proverbs, all
     about the eating of herbs, none mentioning marijuana. Their colors are green, gold, and red. The red robe—was it Big Doc’s
     vestment?
    There’s nothing at all, however, about preaching or music, no Old Testament verses on poisons. I go to other Web sites, but