“Yeah,” Mitch murmured, “Nancy...” She was the neighbors’ daughter, a shy girl of impeccable manners they had known for years. Tony had been laying her every hour, on the hour, for two weeks. Everyone knew it: her father, her mother, the neighborhood Filipino gardener, the postman. The two could disappear into thin air when you were talking to them. When they corporealized a half-hour later, as Lindy said: “You know, you just know."

“She on the pill?” Mitch asked abruptly.

Tony blushed. “Come on, Dad.” He grinned modestly. “So I’ll split, OK?”

Mitch raised a hand. “Did you wax the cars? Or just wash them?”

“I thought I’d wax them tomorrow.”

By tomorrow, thought Mitch, you may have screwed yourself to death. “Today, OK?”

“Nancy—”

“Get her to help you. Do you both a world of good. Exercise all your muscles.” He swiveled back to his desk. Something bothered him. “Hey, wait.”

Tony froze. “Yeah?”

“What did you mean, ‘wax them tomorrow’? Tomorrow you’re heading back for school.”

“Look, you’re busy. Talk to you later, OK?”

There was nothing he would rather have done than to have talked to his son later, preferably in a year or two. But Tony had already dropped prelaw to major in forestry. He couldn’t let him drop forestry for fornication. To procrastinate was to risk surrender. And Lindy might waver herself if the kid stayed around the house for another week.

He arched his spine, which went quickly into some sort of spasm. Heavily, he prepared his soul for battle. The attack was lately repugnant to him. He seemed to lack l’audace, which was the reason that he was going to let Bernie plead their biggest case in court. But the best defense was an offense, and the way to protect his flanks now was to assume that the verdict was irrevocably in. “You packed?”

“Not exactly.” Tony looked at his watch. “Look, if you want me to wax the cars, I better—”

“Pack. Then wax. First things first.”

His son regarded him miserably. “Nancy—”

“Screw Nancy!” growled Mitch. He was instantly sorry. He tried to soften the impact. “After you pack. Listen, you don’t have to wax. All right?”

Still, he had made a mistake. Tony’s face showed shock. Wordlessly, he started out the door. “Tony?” Mitch called.

His son paused. “Um?” he croaked.

“It came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.” Tony closed the door, gently enough, behind him. Theatrics, true love? Tony probably didn’t know himself.

He half rose to follow him. Maybe if he let him take the big Honda to college...

He’d probably spend all his time rocketing around and flunk, if he didn’t kill himself. Mitch sat down.

The kid should for Christ’s sake realize that at twenty he was too old to be drifting like an empty beer can in the surf. And be grateful that his father cared.