Slow news day; most of the evening special was a rehash of the morning edition. I stuffed myself on swindles and subterfuge. Found my eyes blurring. Perfect.

Then I was brought abruptly back to focus by a story on page 20.

Not even a story, just filler: a couple of column-inches next to a wire-service piece on the sociological structure of South American fire ants.

But the headline caught my eye.

PSYCHOLOGIST’S DEATH

POSSIBLE SUICIDE

Maura Bannon

Staff Writer

(LOS ANGELES) Police sources said the death of a local psychologist, found this morning in her Hollywood Hills home, probably resulted from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The body of Sharon Ransom, 34, was discovered this morning in the bedroom of her Nichols Canyon home. She had apparently died sometime Sunday night.

Ransom lived alone in the Jalmia Drive house, which also doubled as an office. A native of New York City, she was educated and trained in Los Angeles, received her Ph.D. in 1981. No next of kin have been located.

Sunday night. Just hours after I’d called her.

Something cold and rank as sewer gas rose in my gut and bubbled in my throat. I forced myself to read the article again. And again.

A couple of column inches. Filler… I thought of black hair, blue eyes, a blue dress, pearls. That remarkable face, so alive, so warm.

No, you’re one person to whom I don’t have to pretend. No, I haven’t been fine, not at all.

A cry for help? The implied intimacy had angered me. Had it blocked me from seeing it for what it was?

She hadn’t looked that upset.

And why me? What had she seen in that quick glance across the shoulders of strangers that had led her to think I was the right one to turn to?

Big mistake… old Alex fixated on his own needs, soft white thighs and pillowy breasts.

No, I haven’t been fine. Not at all.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Dispensing vending-machine empathy.

I’d reeled her in, not giving half a shit. Enjoyed the feeling of power as she floated toward me, passive.

If it means that much to you, we can get together and talk… and let me fuck your ears off.

It means a lot to me.

I clawed the page free from the paper, crumpled it, and threw it across the room.

Closing my eyes, I tried to let myself cry. For her, for me, for Robin. For families that fell apart, a world falling apart. Little boys who watched their fathers die. Anyone in the world who goddam deserved it.

The tears wouldn’t come.

Wait for the beep.

Pull the trigger.

6

Later, after some of the shock wore off, I realized that I’d rescued her once before. Perhaps she’d remembered it, had constructed a time-machine fantasy of her own.

The fall of ’74. I was twenty-four, a brand-new Ph.D., caught up in the novelty of being addressed as Doctor but still as poor as a student.

I’d just returned to L.A. from the Langley Porter Institute in San Francisco to begin my fellowship at Western Pediatric Hospital. The position came with a jawbreaker of a title: National Institute of Mental Health Postdoctoral Scholar in Clinical Psychology and Human Development, jointly appointed to the hospital and its affiliated medical school. My job was to treat children, teach interns, do research, and come up with a paper or two the chief psychologist could co-author.

My pay was $500 a month, which the IRS had just declared taxable. There was barely enough left over to cover rent and utilities on a dingy Overland Avenue bachelor flat, plain-wrap food, discount clothing, thrift-shop books, and ongoing life support for a moribund Nash Rambler. Not covered was an eight-year accumulation of student loans and debts filed too long under Miscellaneous. A number of bank creditors delighted in dunning me monthly.

In order to earn extra money, I took on nighttime gigs playing guitar in dance bands, the way I’d scratched by in San Francisco. Irregular work with spotty pay and all the bar food I could get down between sets. I also let the University psych department know its illustrious graduate was available for free-lance teaching assignments.

The department ignored me until one afternoon in November when one of its secretaries had me paged at the hospital.

“Dr. Delaware, please.”

“This is Dr. Delaware.”

“Alice Delaware?”

“Alex.”

“Oh. It says here Alice. I thought you were a woman.”

“Not the last time I checked.”

“Guess not. Anyway, I know it’s short notice, but if you’re available at eight tonight, we could use you.”

“Use away.”

“Don’t you want to hear what it’s about?”

“Why not?”

“Okay, we need someone to supervise Course 305A- the clinical practicum for first- and second-year graduate students. The professor who runs it was called out of town and none of the usual substitutes are available.”

Barrel-scraping time. “Sounds fine to me.”

“Okay. You’re licensed, right?”

“Not until next year.”

“Oh. Then I’m not sure… Hold on.” A moment later: “Okay. Because you’re not licensed the pay is eight dollars an hour instead of fifteen and subject to withholding. And there’s some paperwork you’ll have to fill out first.”

“You’ve twisted my arm.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll be there.”

In theory, clinical practicum is a link between book learning and the real world, a way to introduce therapists-in-training to the practice of psychotherapy in a nurturant environment.

At my alma mater, the process started early: During their first semester clinical-psych graduate students were assigned patients- undergrads referred from the campus counseling service and poor people seeking free treatment at the University health clinic. The students diagnosed and treated under the supervision of a faculty member. Once a week they presented their progress, or lack thereof, to peers and instructors. Sometimes things stayed on an intellectual level. Sometimes they got personal.

Psych 305A was held in a windowless garret on the third floor of the Tudor mansion that housed the clinical program. The room was bare of furniture, painted a grayish blue, and carpeted in grubby gold shag. In one corner was a pair of foam-padded bats- the kind provided by marriage counselors for good clean fighting. In another were piled the remains of a disassembled polygraph.

I arrived five minutes late, “some paperwork” having turned out to be a mountain of forms. Seven or eight students were already in place. They’d removed their shoes and positioned themselves against the sloping walls, reading, chatting, smoking, catnapping. Ignoring me. The room smelled of dirty socks, tobacco, and mildew.

For the most part they were an older, seasoned-looking bunch- refugees from the sixties in serapes, faded jeans, sweat shirts, Indian jewelry. A few wore business clothes. Every one of them looked serious and burdened- straight-A students wondering if the grind was worth it.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Delaware.” I let the title roll off my tongue with delight and some guilt, feeling like an impostor. The students looked me over, less than impressed. “Alex,” I added. “Dr. Kruse can’t make it, so I’m taking over tonight.”

“Where’s Paul?” asked a woman in her late twenties. She was short with prematurely gray hair, granny glasses, a tight, disapproving mouth.

“Out of town.”

“Hollywood’s not out of town,” said a big, bearded man in plaid shirt and overalls, smoking a free-form Danish pipe.

“Are you one of his assistants?” asked the gray-haired woman. She was attractive but pinched-looking, with angry, nervous eyes; a Puritan in blue denim, she appraised me baldly, looked eager to condemn.