"That's the song my mother was singing the other day." Martin thought of the single word—MOMMY—scrawled in red crayon in his book of fairy tales, and his mouth went dry. His hand trembled as he picked up the glass, water sloshing as he brought it to his lips and drank.

"It's our town song," the doctor said, lowering the glasses on his nose. "You don't hear it much these days, but it used to be played before town hall meetings, the fall harvest parade, military homecomings and the like. I wouldn't be surprised to learn old Mayor O'Donaghey plays it during his morning constitutional. Now it's a bit of forgotten Barrows Bay lore. Nobody cares for history these days. The memorial at the foot of King Street downtown will go next, mark my words."

He chuckled dryly, removing his glasses and closing the history book with an audible clap. "Some college kids drunk on Sociology 101 will come home for Spring Break complaining about trivializing the plight of the Manissean Indians, and tear it down in the name of progress or dismantling patriarchal power structures, whatever the damn hell that means. We did it in my day, with the marches and the sit-ins, but by God it meant something then. Perhaps society will feel the same about the current run when the two of you are in your dotage, but I suspect—and excuse my cynicism, which likely comes from experience rather than age—but I suspect we'll look back on this current wave and chuckle at the sheer naivety of it all."

"Kids, huh?" Martin said, glancing at Sheila. She looked uncomfortable, shifting on the sofa.

"Oh, I know." The doctor smiled wanly. "I've overplayed my hand. Anyhow, the point I've been stumbling toward is that the history of Barrows Bay is violent and that violence never quit. Every town has its deaths, its tragedies. But I find quite a few of them here can be traced back to those women who deliver our children." He favored Martin with a dark look. "And in recent history, the cycle may have begun afresh with you, Martin."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you suppose your mother carried you in her womb, a woman her age? She may have fooled the rest of town but she never fooled me, no sir. See, I knew your grandfather."

"My grandfather?"

The doctor nodded. He eased himself out of the armchair with a groan and tucked his book back on the shelf. "Left town shortly after you were born, as a matter of fact." He swept a long, wizened index finger across the dusty spines, searching for something among the books. "That can be proven by the deed to his old house. It also happened to be shortly after the death of his own daughter, who was pregnant at the time."

Nadine's accusation from the old man's lips. "You're saying my mother isn't my mother."

Dr. Mulligan peered back over his shoulder, the lenses of his bifocals on the tip of his nose. "Based on the facts at hand, that would be my assertion, yes."