for my eyes. When in doubt, be a goddamn clerk.'
• • •
After he left, I tried to read a psychology journal but couldn't concentrate. I watched the news, did fifty pushups, and had another go at my charts. I made it through all of them. Kids' names, vaguely remembered pathologies. No allusions to 'bad love.' No one I could see wanting to frighten me.
At ten, Robin called. 'Hi, honey.'
'Hi,' I said. 'You sound good.'
'I am good, but I miss you. Maybe I'll come home early.'
'That would be great. Just say when and I'll be at the airport.'
'Everything okay?'
'Peachy. We've got a visitor.'
I described the bulldog's arrival.
'Oh,' she said, 'he sounds adorable. Now I definitely want to come home early.'
'He snorts and drools.'
'How cute. You know, we should get a dog of our own. We're nurturant, right? And you had one when you were a kid. Don't you miss it?'
'My father had one,' I said. 'A hunting cur that didn't like children. It died when I was five and we never got another, but sure, I like dogs- how about something big and protective?'
'Long as it's also warm and furry.'
'What breeds do you like?'
'I don't know- something solid and dependable. Let me think about it and when I get back we can go shopping.'
'Sounds good, bowwow.'
'We can do other stuff, too,' she said.
'Sounds even better.'
• • •
Just before midnight, I fashioned a bed for the dog out of a couple of towels, placed it on the floor of the service porch, and turned out the light. The dog stared at it, then trotted over to the fridge.
'No way,' I said. 'Time to sleep.'
He turned his back on me and sat. I left for the bedroom. He heeled along. Feeling like Simon Legree, I closed the door on his supplicating eyes.
As soon as I got under the covers I heard scratching, then heavy breathing. Then something that sounded like an old man choking.
I jumped out of bed and opened the door. The dog raced through my feet and hurled himself up on the bed.
'Forget it,' I said and put him on the carpet.
He made the choking sound again, stared, and tried to climb up.
I returned him to the floor.
A couple more tries and he gave up, turning his back on me and staying hunkered against the dust ruffle.
It seemed a reasonable compromise.
But when I awoke in the middle of the night, thinking about pain screams and robot chants, he was right next to me, soft eyes full of pity. I left him there. A moment later, he was snoring and it helped put me back to sleep.
4
The next morning I woke up tasting the metal and bite of bad dreams. I fed the dog and called the Rodriguez house again. Still no answer, but this time a machine fed me Evelyn's tired voice over a background of Conway Twitty singing 'Slow Hand.'
I asked her to call me. She hadn't by the time I finished showering and shaving. Neither had anyone else.
Determined to get outdoors, I left the dog with a big biscuit and walked the couple of miles to the university campus. The computers at the biomed library yielded no references to 'bad love' in any medical or psychological journals, and I returned home at noon. The dog licked my hand and jumped up and down. I petted him, gave him some cheese, and received a drool-covered hand by way of thanks.
After boxing my charts, I carried them back to the closet. A single carton had remained on the shelf. Wondering if it contained files I'd missed, I pulled it down.
No patient records: it was crammed with charts and reprints of technical articles I'd set aside as references. A thick roll of papers bound with a rubber band was wedged between the folders. The word 'PROFUNDITIES' was scrawled across it, in my handwriting. I remembered myself younger, angrier, sarcastic.
Removing the band from the roll, I flattened the sheaf and inhaled a snootful of dust.
More nostalgia: a collection of articles
I leafed through it absently until a brochure near the bottom caught my eye. Strong black letters on stiff blue paper, a coffee stain on one corner.
GOOD LOVE/BAD LOVE
November 28-29, 1979Western Pediatric Medical CenterLos Angeles, California
A Conference Examining the Relevance and Application of de Boschian Theory to Social and Psychobiological Issues
and Commemorating Fifty Years of Teaching, Research, and Clinical Work by
ANDRES B. DE BOSCH, Ph.D.
Co-sponsored by WPMC and The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School, Santa Barbara, California
Katarina V. de Bosch, Ph.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Acting Director,
The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School
Alexander Delaware, Ph.D.
Assistant Professor of Pediatrics and Psychology, WPMC
Harvey M. Rosenblatt, M.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Clinical Professor of Psychiatry
New York University School of Medicine
Headshot photos of all three of us. Katarina de Bosch, thin and brooding; Rosenblatt and I, bearded and professorial.
The rest was a list of scheduled speakers- more photos- and details of registration.
'Good Love/Bad Love.' I remembered it clearly now. Wondered how I could have forgotten.
Nineteen seventy-nine had been my fourth year on staff at Western Peds, a period marked by long days and longer nights on the cancer ward and the genetic disorders unit, holding the hands of dying children and listening to families with unanswerable questions.
In March of that year, the head of psychiatry and the chief psychologist both chose to go on sabbatical. Though they weren't on speaking terms and the chief never returned, their last official cooperative venture was designating me interim chief.
Slapping my back and grinding their teeth around their pipe bits, they worked hard at making it sound like a stepping-stone to something wonderful. What it had amounted to was more administrative chores and just enough of a temporary pay raise to kick me into the next tax bracket, but I'd been too young to know any better.
Back then, Western Peds had been a prestigious place, and I learned quickly that one aspect of my new job was fielding requests from other agencies and institutions wanting to associate with the hospital. Most common were proposals for jointly sponsored conferences, to which the hospital would contribute its good name and its
