“Maybe.”

Pause. “Wanna try to find out?”

“How?”

“I might be able to get hold of a copy. Old contacts from the research project.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “It would be kind of morbid- forget I mentioned it. Oops, my light just went on. Got a patient in the waiting room. Anything else on your mind?”

I wrestled with my feelings. Curiosity- no, tell it like it is, Delaware: voyeurism- locked in combat with fear of learning yet more repugnant truths.

But I said, “See if you can get hold of the movie.”

“You’re sure?”

I wasn’t, but I heard myself say yes.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll get back to you soon as I know.”

Yesterday’s conversation with Robin- my irritability, the way things had fizzled- still preyed on my mind. At four I phoned her. The last person I wanted to talk to answered.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Rosalie.”

“She’s not here.”

“When are you expecting her back?”

“She didn’t say.”

“All right. Would you please tell her-”

“I’m not telling her anything. Why don’t you just quit? She doesn’t want to be with you. Isn’t that plain to see?”

“It’ll be plain when I hear it from her, Rosalie.”

“Listen, I know you’re supposed to be smart and all that but you’re not as smart as you think. You and her think you’re all grown up, got everything figured out, don’t need to hear advice from no one. But she’s still my kid and I don’t like people pushing her around.”

“You think I push her around?”

“If the shoe fits, mister. Yesterday, after she talked to you, she was all mopey for the rest of the day, the way she used to be when she was a kid and couldn’t get her way. Thank God some friends called, so maybe she can finally have a good time. She’s a good kid, doesn’t need that kind of misery. So why don’t you just forget it.”

“I’m not about to forget anything. I love her.”

“Bullpuckey. Words.”

I gritted my teeth. “Just give her the message, Rosalie.”

“Do your own dirty work.”

Slam.

I sat there, tight with rage, feeling cut off and helpless. Grew angry at Robin for allowing herself to be protected like a child.

Then I cooled and realized Robin had no idea she was being protected, had no reason to expect her mother would protect her. The two of them had never had a close relationship. Daddy had seen to that. Now Rosalie was trying to reassert her maternal rights.

I felt sorry for Rosalie, but it only partially quelled my anger. And I still wanted to talk to Robin, to work things out. Why the hell was that turning out to be so difficult?

The phone was the wrong way to do it. We needed time alone, the right setting.

I called two airlines for flight schedules to San Luis. At both of them recorded messages put me on hold. When the doorbell rang, I hung up.

It rang again. I went to the door, looked through the peephole, and saw a familiar face: big and broad and lumpy, almost boyish except for the acne pits that blanketed the cheeks. Coarse black hair, slightly graying, cut unfashionably close around the ears and neck and left long up on top, with a Kennedyesque shock falling across a low, square brow and sideburns that reached to the bottom of fleshy earlobes. A big high-bridged nose, a pair of startling green eyes under shaggy black brows. Pallid skin now lacquered with a hot pink coat of sunburn. The nose, red and peeling. The entire ugly assemblage, scowling.

I opened the door.

“Four days early, Milo? Crave civilization?”

“Fish,” he said, ignoring the question and holding out a metal ice chest. He stared at me. “You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks. You look like strawberry yogurt yourself. Stirred from the bottom.”

He grimaced. “Itching all over. Here, take it. I have to scratch.”

He shoved the chest at me. The weight made me step backward. I carried it into the house and placed it on the kitchen counter. He followed me in and flopped down on a chair, stretching out long legs and running his hands over his face, as if washing without water.

“So,” he said, spreading his arms. “What do you think? Pretty goddamned Abercrombie and Itch, huh?”

He had on a red-and-black plaid shirt, baggy khakis, rubber-soled lace-up boots, and a khaki fisherman’s vest with about a dozen zippered compartments. Trout lures hung from one of the pockets. A fishing knife in a scabbard dangled from his belt. He’d put on some weight- had to be pushing 230- and the shirt was tight, the buttons straining.

“Stunning,” I said.

He growled and loosened the laces on the boots. “Rick,” he said. “He forced me to go shopping, insisted we had to outmacho everyone.”

“Did you succeed?”

“Oh, yeah. We were so goddamned tough it scared the shit out of the fish. Little suckers jumped right out of the river, landing in our skillets, lemon slices in their mouths.”

I laughed.

“Hey,” he said, “man still remembers how. What’s the matter, guy? Who died?”

Before I could answer, he was up and prying open the chest, removing two big trout wrapped in plastic.

“Give me a fry pan, butter, garlic, and onions- no, excuse me, this is an upscale household-shallots. Give me shallots. Got any beer?”

I got a Grolsch from the refrigerator, opened it, and gave it to him.

“Going temperate on me?” he asked, tilting his head back and drinking from the bottle.

“Not right now.” I gave him the pan and a knife and went back to rummage in the refrigerator, which was near empty. “Here’s the butter. No shallots. No garlic either, just this.”

He looked at the wilted half Bermuda onion in my hand. Took it and said, “Tsk, tsk, slipping, Dr. Suave. I’m reporting you to the Foodie Patrol.”

He took the onion, sliced it down the middle, and immediately his eyes teared. Moving away and rubbing them, he said, “Better yet, we play hunters and gatherers. Me catch, you cook.”

He sat down and worked on the beer. I lifted a trout and inspected it. It had been gutted and cleaned, expertly.

“Nice, huh?” he said. “Pays to take a surgeon along.”

“Where is Rick?”

“Getting some shut-eye while he can. He’s got a twenty-four-hour coming up at the E.R., then twenty-four off and back on again for the Saturday night shift- gunshots and malicious foolishness. After that he’s started heading over to the Free Clinic to counsel AIDS patients. What a guy, huh? All of a sudden I’m living with Schweitzer.”

He was smiling but his voice was heavy with irritation, and I wondered if he and Rick were going through another tough period. I hoped not. I had neither the energy nor the will to deal with it.

“How were the great outdoors?” I asked.

“What can I say? We did the whole Boy Scout camping bit- my daddy would have been heapum proud. Found a gorgeous place near the river, downstream from white water. Last day we were there a canoe full of executive types came coasting by: bankers, computer jockeys- you know the type. Play it so straight all year ‘round, the moment they’re away from home they freak and turn into blithering idiots? Anyway, these yahoos come barreling downstream, stinking drunk and louder than a sonic boom, spot us, lower their pants, and flash us the moon.”

He gave an evil grin. “If they’d only known who they were shoving their asses at, huh? Panic time at the GOP convention.”

I laughed and began frying the onions. Milo went to the refrigerator, got another beer, and came back looking serious.

“Nothing in here,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“I need to shop.”

“Uh-huh.” He reached under his shirt and scratched his chest. Paced the kitchen and said, “How’s the lovely Ms. Castagna?”

“Working hard.”

“Uh-huh.” He kept pacing.