tend to view medication as a magic bullet and prescribe without carefully weighing costeffectiveness. Our research has shown that the treatment of choice in debilitating anxiety disorders is clearly a combination of behavior and carefully monitored medication."

"Unfortunately," her husband added, "the typical psychologist is ignorant about drugs and, even if knowledgeable, unable to prescribe them.

And the typical psychiatrist has little or no training in behavior therapy."

Leo Gabney claims this has led to bickering between the professions and inadequate treatment for many patients with incapacitating conditions such as agoraphobia-a morbid fear of open spaces.

"Agoraphobics need treatment that is multimodal as well as creative.

We don't limit ourselves to the office. Go into the home, the workplace, wherever reality beckons."

More red circles, around agoraphobia and the home.

The rest consisted of pseudonymous case histories, which I skimmed.

"Finished."

Melissa put down the paperweight. "Have you heard of them?"

"I've heard of Leo Gabney. He's very well known has done a lot of very important research."

I held out the clipping. She took it and put it back in her bag.

"When I saw this," she said, "it just sounded right for Mother.

I'd been looking for something we'd started talking, Mother and I.

About how she should do something about... her problem. Actually, we talked for years. I started bringing it up when I was fifteen old enough to realize how much it was affecting her. I mean, I always knew she was... different. But when you grow up with someone and the way they are is the only way you know, you get used to them."

"True," Isaid.

"But as I got older, started to read more psychology and understand more about people, I began to realize how hard it must be for her that she was realty sufftring. And if I loved her, my obligation was to help her. So I started talking to her about it. At first she wouldn't talk back, tried to change the subject. Then she insisted she was okay I should just take care of myselfo But I just kept at it, in small doses. Like after I'd done something good gotten a really good grade or brought home an academic award I'd bring it up. Letting her know I deserved to be taken seriously. Finally, she started to really talk.

About how hard it was for her, how bad she felt not being a normal mother how she'd always wanted to be like all the other mothers but that every time she tried to leave, the anxiety just got to her. More than just psychologically. Physical attacks. Not being able to breathe. Feeling as if she were going to die. How it trapped her, made her feel helpless and useless and guilty for not taking care of me."

She gripped her knees again, rocked, stared at the paperweight, then back at me. "I told her that was ridiculous. She'd been a terrific mother. She cried and said she knew she hadn't but that I'd turned out wonderful anyway. Despite her, not because of her. It hurt me to hear that and I started to cry, too. We held each other. She kept telling me over and over how sorry she was, and how glad she was that I was so much better than she was. That I would have a good life, get out and see things she'd never seen, do things she'd never done."

She stopped, sucked in breath.

I said, "It must have been so hard for you. Hearing that. Seeing her pain."

"Yes," she said, letting loose a rush of tears.

I reached over, pulled a tissue out of the box. Handed it to her and waited until she composed herself.

"I told her," she said, sniffling, "that I wasn't better than she was, in any way whatsoever. That I was out in the world because I'd gotten help. From you. Because she'd cared enough about me to get me help."

I thought of a child's voice on a crisis line tape. Scented brushoff letters, calls unanswered. that I cared about her and wanted her to get help. She said she knew she needed it but that she was beyond treatment, doubted anyone could help her. Then she started crying harder and said doctors scared her she knew that was stupid and babyish, but her fear was overpowering.

That she never even talked to you on the phone. That I really had gotten better despite her. Because I was strong and she was weak. I told her strength isn't something you just have. It's something you learn. That she was strong, too, in her own way. Living through everything she'd been through and still ending up a beautiful, kind person because she is, Dr. Delaware! Even though she never got out and did the things other mothers did, I never cared. Because she was better than the other mothers. Nicer, kinder." I nodded and waited.

She said, "She feels so guilty, but realty she was wonderful.

Patient. Never grumpy. She never raised her voice. When I was little and couldn't sleep before you cured me she'd hold me and kiss me and tell me over and over that I was wonderful and beautiful, the best little girl in the world, and that the future was my golden apple.

Even if I kept her up all night. Even if I wet the bed and soaked her sheets, she'd just hold me. In the wet sheets. And tell me she loved me, that everything would be okay. That's the kind of person she is and I wanted to help her to give some of that kindness back."

She buried her face in the tissue. It turned into a sodden lump and I gave her another.

After a while she dried her eyes and looked up. "Finally, after months of talking, after we'd both cried ourselves dry, I got her to agree that if I found the right doctor, she'd try. A doctor who would come to the house. But I didn't do anything for a while because I had no idea where to find a doctor like that. I made a few calls, but the ones who phoned me back said they didn't do house calls. I got the feeling they weren't taking me seriously, because of my age. I even thought of calling you."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I guess I was embarrassed. Pretty foolish, huh?"

"Not at all."

"Anyway, then I read the article. It sounded perfect. I called their clinic and spoke to her the wife. She said yes, they could help, but that I couldn't arrange treatment for someone else. The patients themselves had to call to set it up. That they insisted upon that, only accepted patients who were motivated. She made it sound like applying to college as if they got tons of applications but only took a few.

So I talked to Mother, told her I'd found someone, gave her the number and told her to call. She got realty scared started to have one of her attacks."

"What's that like?"

"She turns pale and grabs her chest and begins breathing really hard and fast. Gasping, as if she can't get any breath in. Sometimes she faints."

"Pretty scary.

"I guess," she said. "For someone seeing it for the first time. But like I said, I'd grown up with it, so I knew she wasn't in any danger.

That probably sounds cruel but that's the way it is."

I said, "No, it doesn't. You understood what was happening.

Could put it in context.

"Yes. Exactly. So I just waited until the attack was over they usually don't last more than a few minutes and then she gets really tired and goes to sleep for a couple of hours. But I wouldn't let her sleep this time. I held her and kissed her and started talking to her, very quietly and calmly. About how the attacks were terrible, how I knew she felt terrible, but didn't she want to try to get rid of them?

Not tofrel like that anymore? She starred crying. And saying yes, she did want that. Yes, she would try, she promised, but not right now, she was too weak. So I let her off the hook, and nothing happened for weeks. Finally, my patience ran out. I went up to her room, dialed the number in front of her, asked for Dr. Ursula, and handed her the phone. And stood over he I Like this."

Rising, she folded both arms over her chest and put on a stern look.

"I guess I caught her off guard, because she took the phone, began talking to Dr. Ursula. Doing a lot of listening and nodding, mostly, but at the end of it she'd made an appointment."

She let her arms drop and sat back down.

"Anyway, that's how it happened, and it seems to be helping her."

"How long's she been in treatment?"

"About a year it'll be a year this month."

"Does she see both Gabneys?"

"At first they both came to the house. With a black bag and all sorts of equipment-I guess they were giving her a physical. Then only Dr. Ursula came, and all she brought was a notebook and a pen.

She and Mother spent hours together up in Mother's room every day, even weekends. For weeks. Then finally they came downstairs, walked around the house. Talking. Like friends."

Punctuating friends with just a hint of frown.

"What they talked about I couldn't tell you, because she Dr. Ursula-was always careful to keep Mother away from everyone the staff, me. Not by actually coming out and saying it she just has a way of looking at you that lets you know you're not supposed to be there."

Another frown.

"Finally, after about a month, they went outside. To the grounds.

Strolling. Did that for a long time months with no progress that I could see. Mother had always been able to do that by herself. Without treatment. That phase seemed to be going on forever and no one was telling me anything about what was going on.

I began to wonder if they if she knew what she was doing. If I'd done the right thing by bringing her into our home. The one time I tried to ask about it was pretty unpleasant."

She stopped, wrung her hands.

I said, "What happened?"

"I caught up with Dr. Ursula at the end of a session, just as she was getting into her car, and asked her how Mother was doing. She just smiled and told me everything was going welt. Clearly letting me know it was none of my business. Then she asked me if anything was troubling me but not as if she cared. Not the way you'd say it. I felt she was putting me down analyzing me. It was creepy. I couldn't wait to get away from her!"

She'd raised her voice, was nearly shouting. Realized it and blushed and covered her mouth.

I gave a reassuring smile.

"But then afterward," she said, "I could understand it. I guess.

The need for confidentiality. I started to think back and remembered how it had been with my therapy. I was always asking you all those questions about other kids just to see if you'd break the secret.

Testing you. And then I felt very good, very comforted, when you didn't give in." She smiled. "That was terrible, wasn't it? Testing you like that."

"A hundred percent normal," I said.

She laughed. "Well, you passed the test, Dr. Delaware." The blush deepened. She turned away. "You helped me a lot."

"I'm glad, Melissa. Thanks for saying so.

"Must be a pleasant job," she said, "being a therapist. Getting to tell people they're okay all the time. Not having to cause pain, like other doctors."

"Sometimes it does get painful, but overall you're right. It is a great job."

"Then how come you don't do it anymo- I'm sorry. That's none of my business.

"That's okay," I said. "No topic's off limits here, as long as you can tolerate not always getting an answer.

She laughed. "There you go, doing it again. Telling me I'm okay."

"You are okay."

She touched a finger to the paperweight, then retracted it.

"Thank you. For everything you did for me. Not only did you get rid of my fears, you also showed me people can change they can win.

It's hard to see that sometimes, when you're stuck in the middle of something. I've thought of studying psychology myself. Maybe becoming a therapist.

"You'd make a good one."

"Do you really think so?" she said, facing me and brightening.

"Yes, I do. You're smart. You care about people. And you're patient from what you've told me about getting your mother help, you have tremendous patience."

"Well," she said, "I love her. I don't know if I'd be patient with someone else."

"It would probably be easier, Melissa."

"Yes, I guess that's true. "Cause to tell the truth, I didn't feel patient while it was happening all her resistance and stalling.

There were times I even wanted to scream at her, tell her to just get up and change. But I couldn't. She's my mother. She's always been wonderful to me."

I said, "But now, after going to all the trouble of getting her into treatment, you have to watch her and Dr. Ursula stroll the grounds for months. With nothing happening. That really tries your patience."

"It did! I was really starting to get skeptical. Then all of a sudden, things started to happen. Dr. Ursula got her outside the front gate. Just a few steps, down to the curb, and she had an attack when she got there. But it was the first time she'd been outside the walls since... the first time I'd ever seen her do it. And Dr. Ursula didn't pull her back in because of the attack. She gave her some kind of medicine-in an inhaler, like they use for asthma and made her stay out there until she'd calmed down. Then they did it again the next day, and again, and she kept having attacks it was really hard to watch. But finally Mother was able to stand at the curb and be okay.

After that, they started walking around the block. Arm in arm.

Finally, a couple of months ago, Dr. Ursula got her to drive. In her favorite car it's this little Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn, a "54, but in perfect condition. Coachbuilt-custom-made. My father had it built to his specifications when he was in England. One of the first to have power steering. And tinted windows. Then he gave it to her. She's always loved it. Sometimes she sat in it after it had been washed, with the engine off But she never drove it. She must have said something to Dr. Ursula about its being her favorite, because the next thing I knew, the two of them were tooling around in it. Down the drive and right out the gates. She's at the point where she can drive with someone else in the car. She drives to the clinic with Dr. Ursula or someone else with her it's not far, over in Pasadena. Maybe that wouldn't sound too impressive. But when you think of where she was a year ago, it's pretty fantastic, don't you think?"

"I do. How often does she go to the clinic?"

"Twice a week. Monday and Thursday, for group therapy. With other women who have the same problem."

She sat back, dry-eyed, smiting. "I'm so proud of her, Dr. Delaware.

I don't want to mess it up."

"By going to Harvard?"

"By doing anything that would mess it up. I mean, I think of Mother as being on a scale one of those balance scales. Fear on one side, happiness on the other. Right now it's tipping toward happiness, but I can't help thinking that any little thing could knock it the other way."

"You see your mom as pretty fragile."

"She is fragile! Everything she's been through has made her fragile."

"Have you talked to Dr. Ursula about the impact of your going away?"

"No," she said, suddenly grim. "No, I haven't."

"I get the feeling," I said, "that even though Dr. Ursula has helped your mother a lot, she's still not your favorite person."

"That's true. She's a very she's cold."

"Is there anything else about her that bothers you?"

"Just what I said. About her analyzing me I don't think she likes me."

"Why's that?"

She shook her head. One of her earrings caught the light and flashed.

"It's just the... vibrations she gives off. I know that sounds Imprecise but she just makes me feel uncomfortable. The way she was able to tell me to butt out without having to say it. So how can I approach her about something personal? All she'd do is put me down I feel she wants to shut me out."

"Have you tried to talk to your mother about this?"

"I talked to her about therapy a couple of times. She said Dr. Ursula was taking her through steps and she was climbing them slowly. That she was grateful to me for getting her into treatment but that now she had to be a big girl and do things for herself. I didn't argue, didn't want to do anything that would... ruin it."

Wringing. Flipping her hair.

I said, "Melissa, are you feeling a little left out? By the treatment?"

"No, it's not that at all. Sure, I'd like to know more especially because of my interest in psychology. But that's not what's important to me. If that's what it takes to work I all that secrecy then I'm happy. Even if this is as far as it goes, it's still major progress."

"Do you have doubts it will go further?"

"I don't know," she said. "On a day-to-day basis it seems to go so slowly." She smiled. "You see, Dr. Delaware, I'm not patient at all."

"So even though your mother's come a long way, you're not convinced she's gone far enough for you to be able to leave her."

"Exactly."

"And you feel frustrated not knowing more about her prognosis because of the way Dr. Ursula treats you."

"Very frustrated."

"What about Dr. Leo Gabney? Would you be more comfortable talking to him?"

"No," she said. "I don't know him at all. Like I said, he only showed up at the beginning, a real scientist type-walking very fast, writing things down, ordering his wife around. He's the boss in that relationship."

Following that insight with a smile.

I said, "Even though your mother says she wants you to go to Harvard, you're not sure she can handle it. And you feel you can't talk to anyone to find out if she can."

She shook her head and gave a weak smile. "A quandary, I guess.

Pretty dumb, huh?"

"Not at all."

"There you go again," she said. "Telling me I'm okay."

Both of us smiled.

I said, "Who else is around to take care of your mother?"

"There's the staff. And Don, I guess that's her husband."

Dropping that nugget into the bucket, then draping it with a look of innocence.

But I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice. "When did she get married?"

"Just a few months ago."

The hands began kneading.

"A few months," I repeated.

She squirmed and said, "Six."

Silence.

I said, "Want to tell me about it?"

She looked as if she didn't. But she said, "His name is Don Ramp. He used to be an actor never a big one, just a bit player.

Cowboys and soldiers, that kind of thing. He owns a restaurant now.

In Pasadena, not San Lab, because in San Lab you're not allowed to sell liquor and he serves all kinds of beers and ales. That's his specialty. Imported beers. And meat. Prime rib. Tankard and Blade, it's called. Armor and swords all over the place. Like in old England.

Kind of silly, actually, but for San Labrador it's exotic."

"How'd he and your mother meet?"

"You mean because she never leaves the house?"

"Yes."

The hands kneaded faster. "That was my I introduced them. I was at the Tankard with some friends, a school thing for some seniors.

Don was there, greeting people, and when he found out who I was, he sat down and told me he'd known Mother Years ago. Back in her days at the studio. The two of them had been on contract at the same time.

He started asking these questions about how she was doing. Talking on and on about what a wonderful person she'd been, so beautiful and talented. Telling me I was beautiful, too." She snorted.

"You don't think you're beautiful?"

"Let's be real, Dr. Delaware! Anyway, he seemed so nice and he was the first person I'd met who'd actually known Mother before, back in her Hollywood days. I mean, people in San Labrador don't usually come from an entertainment background. At least they don't admit it. One time another actor a real star, Brett Raymond wanted to move in, buy an old house and tear it down to build a new one, and there was all this talk about his money being dirty money because the movies were a Jewish business and Jewish money was dirty money, and Brett Raymond himself was really Jewish and tried to hide it-which I don't even know if it's true or not. Anyway, they the zoning board made his life so miserable with hearings and restrictions and whatever that he changed his mind and moved to Beverly Hills. And people said good, that's where he belonged. So you can see how I wouldn't meet too many movie people, and when Don started talking about the old days, I thought it was great. It was like finding a link to the past."

I said, "It's a bit of a leap from that to marriage."

She gave a sour smile. "I invited him over as a surprise for Mother.

This was before she was getting treatment. I was looking for anything to get her going. Get her to socialize. And when he arrived he had three dozen red roses and a big bottle of Taittinger's.

I should have known then he had... plans. I mean, roses and champagne. One thing ted to another. He started coming over more often. In the afternoon, before the Tankard opened. Bringing her steaks and more flowers and whatever. It became a regular thing I just kind of got used to it. Then six months ago, just around the time she started to be able to leave the grounds, they announced they were getting married. Just like that. Brought in a judge and did it, at the house."

"So he was seeing her when you were trying to persuade her to get treatment.

"Yes."

"How'd he relate to that? And to treatment?"

"I don't know," she said. "I never asked him."

"But he didn't fight it."

"No. Don's not a fighter."

"What is he?"

"A charmer. Everyone likes him," she said, with distaste.

"How do you feel about him?"

She gave me an irritated look, brushed her hair from her forehead.

"How do I feel? He doesn't get in my way."

"Do you think he's insincere?"

"I think he's shallow. Pure Hollywood."

Echoing the prejudices she'd just decried. She realized it and said, "I know that sounds very San Labrador, but you'd have to meet him to understand. He's tan in the winter, lives for tennis and skiing, always smiling even when there's nothing to smile about. Father was a man of depth. Mother deserves more. If I'd known it would get this far, I'd never have started it."

"Does he have any children of his own?"

"No. He was never married. Not until now."

The way she emphasized "now" made me ask, "Are you concerned that he married your mother for her money?"

"The thought has occurred to me-Don's not exactly poor, but he's not in Mother's league."

She gave a wave of her hand, so choppy and awkward that it made me take note.

I said, "Is part of your conflict about Harvard a worry that she needs protection from him?"

"No, but I can't see him being able to take care of her. Why she married him I stilt can't figure out.

"What about the staff in terms of taking care of her?"

"They're nice," she said, "but she needs more."

"What about Jacob Dutchy?"

"Jacob," she said, with a tremor in her voice. "Jacob died."

"I'm sorry.

"Just last year," she said. "He developed some kind of cancer and it took him quickly. He left the house right after the diagnosis and went to a place some sort of rest home. But he wouldn't tell us where.

Didn't want anyone to see him sick. After he.

Afterwards, the home called Mother and told her he was... There wasn't even any funeral, just cremation. It really hurt me not being able to help him. But Mother said we'd helped by letting him do it his way.

More rears. More tissues.

I said, "I remember him as being a strong-willed gentleman."

She bowed her head. "At least it was quick."

I waited for her to say more. When she didn't, I said, "So much has been happening to you. It's got to feel overwhelming. I can see why it's hard for you to know what to do."

"Oh, DL Delaware!" she said, getting up and coming forward and throwing her arms around my neck. She'd put on perfume for the appointment. Something heavy and floral and much too old for her.

Something a maiden aunt might wear. I thought of her making her own way through life. The trials and errors.

It made me ache for her. I could feel her hands grip my back.

Her tears moistened my jacket.

I uttered words of comfort that seemed as substantial as the gilded light. When she'd stopped crying for a full minute, I pulled away gently.

She moved away quickly, sat back down, looking shamefaced.

Wringing her hands.

I said, "It's all right, Melissa. You don't always have to be strong.

Shrink's reflex. Another yea-say.

The right thing to say. But in this case, was it the truth?

She began pacing the room. "I can't believe I'm falling apart like this. It's so... I planned for this to be so. businesslike. A consultation, not.

"Not therapy?"

"Yes. This was for her: I really thought I was okay, didn't need therapy. I wanted to show you I was okay."

"You really are okay, Melissa. This is an incredibly stressful time for you. All the changes in your mother's life. Losing Jacob."

"Yes," she said absently. "He was a dear."

I waited several moments before continuing. "And now the Harvard thing. That's a major decision. It would be foolish not to take it seriously."

She sighed.

I said, "Let me ask you this: If everything else was calm, would you want to go?"

"Well I know it's a great opportunity my golden apple.

But I have to I need to feel right about it."

"What could help you feel right about it?"

She shook her head and threw up her hands. "I don't know. I wish I did." She looked at me. I smiled and pointed at the couch. She returned to her seat.

I said, "What could really convince you your mother will be okay?"

"Her being okay! Normal! Like anyone else. That sounds terrible as if I'm ashamed of her. I'm not. I'm just worried."

"You want to be sure she can take care of herself."

"That's the thing, she can. Up in her room. It's her domain. It's just the outside world.. Now that she's going out-trying to change-it's scary.

"Of course it is."

Silence.

I said, "I suppose I'd be wasting my breath to remind you that you can't go on taking responsibility for your mother forever. Being a parent to your parent. That it will get in the way of your own life and do her no good."

"Yes, I know. That's what N Of course that's true."

"Has someone else been telling you the same thing?"

She bit her lip. "Just Noel. Noel Drucker. He's a friend not a boyfriend, just a boy who's a friend. I mean, he likes me as more than a friend, but I'm not sure how I feel about him. But I do respect him.

He's an exceptionally good person.

"How old is Noel?"

"A year older than me. He got accepted to Harvard last year, took time off to work and save up money. His family doesn't have any money it's just him and his mother. He's been working his whole life and is very mature for his age. But when he talks about Mother, I just want to tell him to... stop.

"Ever let him know how you feel?"

"No. He's very sensitive. I don't want to hurt him. And I know he means well he's thinking of me."

"Boy," I said, blowing out breath. "You're taking care of lots of people."

"Guess so." Smile.

"Who's taking care of Melissa?"

"I can take care of myself." Stating it with a defiance that pulled me back nine years.

"I know you can, Melissa. But even caretakers need to be cared for, once in a while."

"Noel tries to take care of me. But I won't let him. That's terrible, isn't it? Frustrating him like that. But I've got to do things my way. And he just doesn't understand the way it is with Mother.

No one does."

"Do Noel and your mother get along?"

"The little they have to do with each other, they do. She thinks he's a nice boy. Which he is. Everyone thinks that if you knew him you'd understand why. And he likes her well enough. But he says I'm doing her more harm than good by protecting her. That she'll get better when she really has to as if it's her choice."

Melissa got up and walked around the room again. Letting her hands settle on things, touching, examining. Feigning sudden fascination with the pictures on the walls.

I said, "How can I best help you, Melissa?"

She pivoted on one foot and faced me. "I thought maybe if you could talk to Mother. Tell me what you think."

"You want me to evaluate her? Give you a professional opinion as to whether she really can cope with your going to Harvard?"

She bit her lip a couple of times, touched one of her earrings, flipped her hair. "I trust your judgment, Dr. Delaware. What you did for me, how you helped me change-it was like magic. If you tell me it's okay to leave her, then I will. I'll just do it."

Years ago I'd seen her as the magician. But letting her know that, now, would be terrifying.

I said, "We were a good team, Melissa. You showed strength and courage back then, just like you're showing now."

"Thank you. So would you... ?"

"I'd be happy to talk with your mother. If she consents. And if it's okay with the Gabneys."

She frowned. "Why them?"

"I need to make sure I don't disrupt their treatment plan."

"Okay," she said. "I just hope she doesn't give you problems."

"Dr. Ursula?"

"Uh-huh."

"Any reason you think she might?"

"No. She's just. She likes to be in charge of everything. I can't help thinking she wants Mother to keep secrets. That have nothing to do with therapy."

"What kind of secrets?"

"I don't know," she said. "That's the thing: I've got nothing to back me up just a feeling. I know it sounds weird. Noel says I'm being paranoid."

"It's not paranoia," I said. "You care deeply about your mother.

You've been taking care of her for years. It wouldn't be natural for you to just Her tension dissipated. She smiled.

I said, "There I go again, huh?"

She started to giggle, stopped, embarrassed.

I said, "I'll call Dr. Ursula today, and we'll take it from there.

Okay?"

"Okay." She rook a couple of steps closer, wrote down the number at the clinic for me.

I said, "Hang in there, Melissa. We'll get through this."

"I sure hope so. You can call me on my private line that's the number you reached me at yesterday."

She walked back to the coffee table, hastily picked up her purse, and held it in front of her, waist-high.

The accessory defense.

I said, "Is there anything else?"

"No," she said, glancing at the door. "Guess we've covered plenty, haven't we?"

"We had plenty to catch up on.

We walked to the door.

She turned the knob and said, "Well, thanks again, Dr. DetaTight shoulders. More tense than when she'd ware.

Tight voice. come in.

I said, "Are you sure there's nothing else you want to talk about, Melissa? There's no rush. I've got plenty of time."

She stared at me. Then her eyes slammed shut like security shutters and her shoulders dropped.

"It's him," she said, in a very small voice. "McCloskey. He's back in L.A. Totally free and I don't know what he'll do!"

I brought her back inside and sat her down.

She said, "I was going to mention it at the start but "It gives a whole different dimension to your fear of leaving."

"Yes, but to be honest, I'd be worried even without him. He just adds to it."

"When did you find out he was back?"

"Last month. There was this show on TV some documentary about the Victim's Bill of Rights-how in some states the family can write away to the prison and they'll tell you when the criminal is coming up for a parole hearing. So you can protest. I knew he'd gotten out-years ago and had moved away. But I wrote anyway, trying to see if there was anything more I could learn-I guess it was part of the same thing.

Trying to help her. The prison took a long time to write back, then told me to get in touch with the Parole Department.

That was a real hassle talking to the wrong people, being put on hold.

In the end I had to submit a written request for information.

Finally I got through and found out the name of his last parole officer.

Here in L.A.! Only he wasn't seeing him anymore McCloskey had just gone off parole."

"How long's he been out of prison?"

"Six years. That I found out from Jacob. I'd been bugging him for a while, wanting to know wanting to understand. He kept putting me off, but I wouldn't give up. Finally, when I was fifteen he admitted he'd been keeping an eye on Mccloskey the whole time, had found out he'd been released a couple of years before and had left the state.

She made tiny white fists and shook them. "The creep served thirteen years out of a twenty-three-year sentence time off for good behavior.

That really stinks, doesn't it? No one cares about the victim. He should have been sent to the gas chamber!"

"Did Jacob know where he'd gone?"

"New Mexico. Then Arizona and, I think, Texas working with the Indians on the reservation or something. Jacob said he was trying to fool the Parole Department into thinking he was a decent human being and that they'd probably he fooled. And he was right, because they did set him free and now he can do anything he wants.

The parole officer was a nice guy, just about ready to retire. His name was Bayliss and he really seemed to care. But he said he was sorry, there was nothing he could do."

"Does he think McCloskey's a threat to your mother or anyone else?"

"He said he had no evidence of that but that he didn't know.

That no one could be sure with someone like him."

"Has McCloskey tried to contact your mother?"

"No, but what's to say he won't? He's crazy that kind of craziness doesn't change overnight, does it?"

"Not usually."

"So he's a clear and present danger, isn't he?"

I had no easy answer for that. Said, "I can see why you're concerned," and didn't like the sound of it.

She said, "Dr. Delaware, how can I leave her? Maybe it's a sign-his coming back. That I shouldn't leave. I mean, I can get a good education here. UCLA and USC both accepted me. In the long run, what difference is it going to make?"

Different tune from the one she'd sung just a few moments ago.

"Melissa, a person with your brains can get a good education anywhere.

Is there a reason, besides education, that you considered Harvard?"

"I don't know maybe it was just ego. Yes, that's probably what it was out to show myself I could do it."

"Any other reason?"

"Well there's Noel. He really wants me to go there and I thought it would be- I mean, it is the best college in the country, isn't it? I figured, why not apply? It was actually kind of a lark. I really didn't think I was going to get in." She shook her head.

"Sometimes I think it would have been easier being a C student.

Fewer choices."

"Melissa, anyone in your position the situation with your mother would be in conflict. And now McCloskey. But the harsh truth is that even if he does pose a danger, you're not in any position to defend your mother against him."

"So what are you saying?" she said angrily. "That I should just give up?"

"I'm saying McCloskey should definitely be looked into. By a professional. To find out why he came back, what he's up to. If he's judged to be dangerous, there are things that can be done."

"Like what?"

"Restraining orders. Security precautions. Is your home well guarded?"

"I guess. There's an alarm system and gates. And the police patrol regularly there's so little crime in San Labrador the police are basically just like rent-a-cops. Should we be doing more?"

"Have you told your mother about McCloskey?"

"No, of course not! I didn't want to freak her out not with how well she's been doing."

"What about your Mr. Ramp?"

"No. No one knows. No one asks me my opinion about anything anyway, and I don't volunteen" "Have you told Noel?"

She gave an uncomfortable look. "Yes. He knows."

"What does he say?"

"To just forget about it. But that's easy for him it's not his mother.

You didn't answer my question, Dr. Delaware is there something else we should be doing?"

"I'm not the one to say. There are professionals who specialize in that kind of thing."

"Where do I find them?"

"Let me check," I said. "I might be able to help you with that."

"Your court connections?"

"Something like that. In the meantime, why don't we proceed as planned. I'll contact the Gabneys and see if it's okay for me to meet with your mother. If it is, I'll let you know and you can set up an appointment for me to come by. If it isn't, we'll take another look at our options. In either event, you and I should be talking some more.

Want to make another appointment?"

"How about tomorrow?" she said. "Same time. If you've got the time."

"I do."

"Thank you and sorry if I got too hot under the collar just now.

"You're fine," I said, and walked her to the door for the second time.

"Thanks, Dr. Delaware."

"Take care of yourself, Melissa."

"I will," she said. But she looked like a kid overloaded with homework.

After she was gone, I thought about the way she'd dropped a crumbtrail of crucial facts: her mother's remarriage, the young man in her life, Dutchy's death, McCloskey's return. All of it delivered parenthetically. With an offfiandedness that screamed self-defense.

But given everything she had to deal with loss, ambivalence, crucial decisions, the erosion of personal control self-defense was damn reasonable.

The control issue had to be especially hard for her. An inflated sense of personal power was the logical legacy of all those years of raising her parent. She'd used it to guide her mother to the brink of change.

Playing matchmaker. Referral service.

Only to be defeated by her own success: forced to stand back and surrender authority to a therapist. To share affection with a stepfather.

Add to that the normal strains and doubts of young-adulthood and it had to be crushing.

Who, indeed, was taking care of Melissa?

Jacob Dutchy had once filled that role.

Though I'd barely known the man, thinking of him gone saddened me. The faithful retainer, ever protective. He'd had a certain... presence.

For Melissa, that amounted to paternal loss number two.

What did that bode in terms of her relationships with men? The development of trust?

If her comments about Don Ramp and Noel Drucker were any example, that road hadn't been smooth, so far.

Now the folks from Cambridge, Mass were demanding a decision, raising the specter of further surrender.

Who was really afraid of separation?

Not that her fears were totally without foundation.

A Mikoksi with acid.

Why had McCloskey come back to L.A nearly two decades after his conviction? Thirteen years of imprisonment plus six on parole made him fifty-three years old. I'd seen what prison years could do. Wondered if he was nothing more than a pallid, weary old con, seeking out the comfort of like-minded losers and dead-end haunts.

Or perhaps he'd used the time at San Quentin to let his rage fester.

Nursing acid-and-blood fantasies, filling his bottle.

A discomfiting sense of self-doubt began nagging at me, the same feeling of missing the mark that I'd experienced nine years ago bending all my rules to treat a terrified child.

A feeling of not really having a grip on the core of the problem Nine years ago, she'd gotten better despite that.

Magic.

How many rabbits were left in the hat?

A machine answered at the Gabney Clinic, listing numbers and emergency beeper codes for both doctors. No other staff members were named. I left a message for Ursula Cunningham-Gabney, identifying myself as Melissa Dickinson's therapist and requesting a callback as soon as possible. During the next few hours several calls came in, but none from Pasadena.

At ten after seven Milo arrived, wearing the same clothes he'd had on that morning, but with grass stains on the pants and sweat stains under the armpits. He smelled of turf and looked tired.

I said, "Any holes in one?"

He shook his head, found a Grolsch in the fridge, popped it, and said, "Not my sport, sport. Chasing a little white blur around the crab grass drives me crazy.

"Putts you crazy. We're talking short-distance, guy.

He smiled. "The only putz is me, for thinking I could go suburban."

Tilting his head back, he guzzled beer. When the bottle was empty he said, "Where to, dinner-wise?"

"Wherever you want.

"Well," he said, "you know me, always pining for the haut monde. See, I even dressed for success.

We ended up at a taco stand on Pico near Twentieth, in the bad part of Santa Monica, inhaling traffic fumes and sitting at a knife-scarred picnic table, eating soft steamed tortillas filled with coarse-ground pork and marinated vegetables, and drinking Coca-Cola Classic over crushed ice out of waxed-paper cups.

The stand stood on a corner patch of devastated asphalt, between a liquor store and a check-cashing outlet. Homeless people, and a few people who wouldn't live in homes if they had them, loitered and scrounged nearby. A couple of them watched us collect our food at the counter and find our seats. Panhandling fantasies or worse brightened their clouded eyes. Milo kept them at bay with policeman's looks.

We ate looking over our shoulders. He said, "Basic enough for you?"

Before I could answer, he was up and heading toward the order counter, one hand in his pocket. A filthy, emaciated, mat-bearded man around my age seized the moment and approached me, grinning and flapping toothless gums incoherently as he waved randomly with a short-circuited arm. The other limb was drawn up to his shoulder, frozen stiff and bent like a chicken wing.

I held out a dollar bill. The mobile arm snapped it up with crustacean precision. He was off before Milo returned with a cardboard carton full of yellow-papered parcels.

But Milo'd seen it, and scowled as he sat down. "What'd you do that for?" say?"

"The guy was brain-damaged," I said.

"Or faking it."

"Either way, he'd have to be pretty desperate, wouldn't you He shook his head, unwrapped a taco, and bit into it. When the food had traversed his gullet he said, "Everyone's desperate, Alex.

Keep doing that and they'll be all over us like fungus."

It didn't sound like something he would have said three months ago.

I looked around, saw the way the rest of the street people were regarding him, and said, "I wouldn't worry about that."

He pointed at the food parcels. "Go ahead, this is for you, too."

I said, "Maybe in a little while," and drank Coke that had turned insipid.

A moment later I said, "If you wanted information about an excon, how would you go about it?"

"What kind of information?" he said, forming the words around a mouthful of pork.

"How the guy behaved in prison, what he's up to now."

"This con on parole?"

"Post-parole. Free and clear."

"A paragon of rehabilitation, huh?"

"That's the question mark."

"How long's Mr. Paragon been free and clear?"

"Bout a year or so.

"What was he in for?"

"Assault, attempted murder, conspiracy to commit murder he paid someone to damage someone else."

"Paid for it, huh?" He wiped his lips.

"Paid with the intent of doing serious damage or worse."

"Then just assume he'll continue to be scum."

"What if I wanted something more specific?"

"To what end?"

"It's related to a patient."

"Meaning hush-hush confidential?"

"At this point."

"Well," he said, "it's really no big deal. You meaning a cop, "cause a civilian's gonna have a hell of a time doing any of this you follow the chain. The past is the best predictor of the future, right? So first link is the guy's sheet. NCIC and local. You talk to any cops who knew him back in the bad old days. Preferably the ones who busted him.

Next you eyeball the D.A."s packet there'll be sentencing recommendations in there, shrink stuff, whatever. Step three is talk to the prison staff find out what kind of time he served. Though the ones who'll really know him best are the assholes who served it with him. If you've got a hook into any of them, you tug. Then checkout his parole officer problem there is caseload and turnover. Lot of what they do is rubber-stamping; the chance of getting anything meaningful is slim. Final step is locating some of his current K.A."s known associates the scum he's been socializing with since he's been out.

Finis. Nothing profound, just legwork. And in the end it won't tell you much. So if you've got a patient who's worried, I'd tell him or her to be careful. Buy a big gun and learn how to use it. Maybe a pit bull."

"The trace you just described could a private attorney do it?"

He eyed me over a taco. "Your average attorney? No. Not in any reasonable length of time. One with access to a good private eye could pull it off, but it would still take a private guy longer unless he's got great police connections."

"Like an ex-cop?"

He nodded. "Some of the private guys are vets. All of them bill by the hour and this kind of thing is going to build lots of hours. So having a rich client would help."

"Sound like the kind of thing you'd be interested in?"

He put his taco down.

"What?"

"A little private consultation, Milo. A real hobby. Are you allowed to work while on suspension?"

"I'm Joe Citizen, can do whatever I want. But why the hell would I want?"

"Better than chasing blurs on crab grass.

He grunted. picked up his taco, finished it, and began unwrapping another.

"Hell," he said, "I wouldn't even know what to charge."

"That mean you're considering it?"

"Mulling. This patient of yours-is he or she the victim?"

"Victim's daughter," I said. "Eighteen years old. I treated her years ago, when she was a kid. She's been accepted at a college out of town and isn't sure about going, even though it's probably the best thing for her."

"Because of the scumbag being back?"

"There are other reasons for her to have doubts. But the scumbag's presence makes it impossible to deal with any of those. I can't encourage her to go away with this guy lurking in the background, Milo."

He nodded and ate.

"The family's got money," I said. "That's why I asked about attorneys if they don't already have a battalion on retainer, they could hire one. But with you doing it I'd have confidence it was being done properly."

"Aw, shucks," he said, and took a few more bites of taco. He pulled up his shirt collar and gave a furtive look. "Milo Marlowe, Milo Spade.

.. which do you think is catchier?"

"What about Sherlock Sturgis?"

"What's that make you? The New Age Watson? Sure, go ahead, tell the family if they want to go that route I'll check him out."

"Thanks."

"No problema." He picked his teeth and looked down at his sweat-stained clothes. "Wrong climate for a trench coat any such thing as a trench shirt?"

"Go all the way," I said. "L.A. Vice. Armani."

We drained our drinks and polished off more food. On our way to the car, another of the panhandlers approached us a heavy man of indeterminate race and creed, wearing a shit-eating grin while doing a palsied boogaloo. Milo glared at him, then reached into his pocket and came up with a handful of pocket change. Thrusting the money at the vagrant, he wiped his hands on his pants, turned his back on the man's gibbered benedictions, and cursed as he reached for the door handle.

But the epithets lacked conviction I'd heard much better out of him.

Dr. Ursula Cunningham-Gabney had called back while I was gone, leaving a number where she could be reached for the rest of the evening. I dialed it, got a throaty, well-modulated female voice.

"Dr. Cunningham-Gabney?"

"Speaking."

"This is Dr. Delaware. Thanks for returning my call, Dr. Gabney."

"Is this by any chance Dr. Alexander Delaware?"

"Yes, it is."

"Ah," she said. "I'm familiar with your research paper nocturnus in children. My husband and I included it in a bibliography on anxiety-mediated disorders we compiled last year for The American journal of Psychiatry. Very thought-provoking."

"Thanks. I'm familiar with your work, too."

"Where do you practice, Dr. Delaware? Children are outside of our bailiwick, so we do have occasion to make frequent referrals."

"I'm on the west side, but I don't do therapy. Just forensic work.

Short-term consultations."

"I see. The message I got said you were someone's therapist."

"Melissa Dickinson. I was her therapist years ago. I remain available for my old patients. She came in to see me recently."

"Melissa," she said. "Such a serious young woman.

"She has a lot to be serious about."

"Yes. Of course she does. The family pathology is deep-rooted.

I'm glad she's finally reached out for help."

"Her main concern seems to be her mother," I said. "Separation.

How her mother will deal with her going away to Harvard."

"Her mother is very proud of her. And eager for her to go to Boston."

"Yes, Melissa's told me that. But she's still worried."

"No doubt she is," she said. "But those worries are Melissa's alone."

"So there's no chance of her mother's relapsing if Melissa goes away?"

"Hardly, Dr. Delaware. In fact, I'm sure Gina Mrs. Ramp would appreciate her newfound freedom. Melissa's a bright girl and a devoted daughter, but she can get a bit cloying."

"Is that her mother's term?"

"No, Mrs. Ramp would never say it that way. But she feels it. So I hope you'll be able to confront Melissa's ambivalence head-on and do it quickly enough for her to make the break. I understand there's a deadline involved. Harvard tends to be impatient I know from experience. So she's going to have to commit. One would hate to see a technicality get in the way of forward movement."

Thinking of McCloskey, I said, "Does Mrs. Ramp have any other worries that might be transmitting themselves to Melissa?"

"Transmitting? As in emotional contagion? No, I'd say it's just the opposite the risk is of Melissa's anxiety transmitting itself to her mother. Mrs. Ramp presented as one of the most severely phobic patients we've ever treated, and we've treated many. But she's made extraordinary progress and she'll continue to do so. Given the chance."

"Are you saying Melissa's a threat to her progress?"

"Melissa means well, Dr. Delaware. I can certainly understand her concern. Growing up with an ineffectual mother would give her a stake in being hypermature. At some level, that would be adaptive.

But things change, and at this point in time, her hovering serves only to reduce her mother's self-confidence."

"How does she hover?"

"She tends to make herself rather conspicuous during crucial therapeutic moments.

"I'm still not sure I understand."

"Okay," she said, "I'll spell it out. As you may know, treatment for agoraphobia needs to be in vivo to take place out in the real world, where the anxiety-provoking stimuli are. Her mother and I literally take steps together. Out the front gate, around the block. It's a slow but steady process, calibrated so that the patient experiences as little anxiety as possible. Melissa makes a point of being there during important moments. Watching. With her arms folded across her chest and this absolutely skeptical look on her face. It's almost comical, but of course it's a distraction. It's gotten so I've scheduled things around her aiming for breakthroughs when she's at school. Now, however, she's out of school and more... conspicuous."

"Have you ever talked to her about this?"

"I've tried, Dr. Delaware, but Melissa shows no interest in talking to me.

"Funny," I said. "She sees it differently."

"Oh?"

"She perceives herself as trying to obtain information from you and getting rebuffed."

Silence. Then: "Yes, I'm sure she does. But that's a neurotic distortion. I'm not without compassion for her situation, Dr. Delaware. She's dealing with a lot of ambivalence intense feelings of threat and jealousy. It can't be easy for her. But I need to focus on my patient. And Melissa could use your help or someone else's, if you're not so inclined in sorting things out.

I said, "She'd like me to talk to her mother. In order to clarify her mother's feelings so she can sort out the Harvard thing. I'm calling to find out if that's okay. I don't want to disrupt your treatment.

"That's wise of you. What, exactly, would you discuss with Mrs. Ramp?"

"Just her feelings about Melissa's leaving which, from what you've told me, sound pretty clear. After hearing it firsthand, I'd be able to deal with Melissa's doubts."

"Using your advocate role to propel her forward?"

"Exactly."

"Well, I don't see any harm in that. As long as you keep your discussion circumscribed."

"Any particular topics you'd like me to stay away from?"

"At this point, I'd say everything other than Melissa's college career.

Let's just keep things simple."

"Doesn't sound as if anything about this case has been simple."

"True," she said, with a lilt in her voice. "But that's the beauty of psychiatry, isn't it?"

I called Melissa at nine and she picked up on the first ring.

"I checked with my contact-he's a police detective on temporary leave so he has some free time. If you still want McCloskey looked into, it can be done."

"I want it," she said. "Tell him to go ahead."

"It may take a bit of time, and investigators usually bill by the hour."

"No problem. I'll take care of it."

"You're going to pay him yourself?"

"Sure."

"It could end up being substantial."

"I've got money of my own, Dr. Delaware I've paid for things for a long time. I'm going to pay your bill, so why not this "Melissa "No problem, Dr. Delaware. Really. I'm a very good money manager. I'm over eighteen, meaning it's totally legal. If I'm going to go away and live independently, why not start right now?"

When I hesitated, she said, "It's the only way, Dr. Delaware. I don't want Mother even knowing he's back."

"What about Don Ramp?"

"I don't want him involved, either. It's not his problem."

"All right," I said. "We'll work out the details when I see you tomorrow. Speaking of which, I spoke to Dr. Ursula and she says it's fine for me to meet with your mother."

"Good. I already talked to Mother and she's willing to meet you.

Tomorrow isn't that great? So can we cancel our appointment and do that instead?"

"All right. I'll be there tomorrow at noon."

"Thanks, Dr. Delaware. I'll have lunch set out for you. What do you like to eat?"

"Lunch isn't necessary, but thanks anyway."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Do you know how to get here?"

"I know how to get to San Labrador."

She gave me directions to her house.

I copied them and said, "Okay, Melissa, see you tomorrow."

"Dr. Delaware?"

"Yes, Melissa?"

"Mother's worried. About you. Even though I told her how nice you are. She's worried about what you'll think of her. Because of the way she treated you years ago.

"Tell her I understand, and that my horns only come out during the full moon.

No laughter.

I said, "I won't be in the least bit rough, Melissa. She'll be fine."

"I hope so.

"Melissa, part of what you're dealing with-a lot more important than money management is breaking away. Finding your own identity and letting your mother do things for herselo I know it's hard I think it's taken lots of guts for you to go as far as you have.

Just calling me took guts. We're going to work it out."

"I hear you," she said. "It's just hard. Loving someone that much."

The stretch of freeway that connects L. A. to Pasadena announces itself with four tunnels whose entries are festooned with exquisite stonework.

Not the kind of thing any city council is likely to approve nowadays, but this bit of progress was carved into the basin long ago, the city's first conduit to ceaseless motion masquerading as freedom.

It's a grubby and graceless asphalt belt now. Three narrow, street-level lanes, bordered by exhaust-warped maples and houses that range from Victorian Relic to Tobacco Road. Psychotically engineered ramps appear without warning. Concrete overpasses that have browned with time L.A."s stab at patina-throw spooky shadows across the blacktop. Every time I get on it I think of Nathanael West and James M. Cain a Southern California history that probably never really existed but is gloomily gratifying to imagine.

I also think of Las Labradoras and how places like the uppercrusty parts of Pasadena, Sierra Madre, and San Labrador might as well be on the moon for all their cross-pollination with the urban tangle at the other end of the freeway.

Las Labradoras. The Farm Girls.

I encountered them years before I met Melissa. In retrospect, the similarity between the experiences seemed obvious. Why hadn't I made the connection before?

They were women who called themselves girls. Two dozen sorority sisters who'd married very well and settled into estate living at a young age, gotten a couple of kids off to school, and started looking for ways to fill time. Seeking comfort in numbers, they banded together and established a volunteer society an exclusive club, sorority days renewed. Their headquarters was a bungalow at the Cathcart Hotel a $200-a-day nest they obtained gratis, including room service, because one of their husbands owned a chunk of that hostelry, and another, the bank that held the mortgage. After composing bylaws and electing officers, they searched for a raison d'etri. Hospital work seemed admirable, so most of their early energies were focused upon remodeling and running the gift shop at Cathcart Memorial.

Then the son of one of their members was diagnosed with a rare and painful disease and transferred to Western Pediatric Hospital, the only place in L.A. where the ailment could be managed. The child survived but suffered chronically. His mother dropped out of the club in order to devote more time to him. Las Labradoras decided to offer their good services to Western Peds.

At the time, I was in my third year on staff I running a psychosocial rehab program for seriously ill children and their families. The chief of staff called me into his office and suggested I find a niche for "these girls," talking about budgetary problems for the softer sciences and emphasizing the need to "interface with positive forces within the community.

One Tuesday in May, I put on a three-piece suit and drove out to the Cathcart Hotel. Ate boiled-shrimp canapes and crustless sandwiches, drank weak coffee, and met the girls.

They were in their mid-thirties, uniformly bright and attractive and genuinely charming, projecting a noblesse oblige tainted by selfconsciousness and self-awareness: They'd gone to college during the sixties, and though that consisted, typically, of four sheltered years at USC or Arizona State or some other place where the foment hadn't really taken hold, even protected senThntas had been touched by the times. They knew that they their husbands, their children, the way they lived and would continue to live-were The Enemy. The privileged battlements all those unwashed radical types clamored to storm.

I wore a beard back then and drove a Dodge Dart that teetered on the brink of death. Despite the suit and my fresh haircut, I figured I had to look like Radical Danger to them. But they accepted me warmly, listened intensely to my after-lunch talk, never removed their eyes from my slide show sick kids, IV poles, surgical theaters.

The one we staffers, during the blackest of moments, called the Tearjerker Matinee.

When it was over, they were all wet-eyed. More certain than ever that they wanted to help.

I decided the best way to make use of their talents would be to have them serve as guides for newly diagnosed families. Psychosocial docents whose goal was to cut through the procedural red tape that hospitals produce even faster than debt. Weekly two-hour shifts in tailored uniforms that they designed themselves, smiles and greetings and guided tours of the misery. Working within the system to blunt some of its indignities, but no swan dives into the deep waters of trauma and tragedy, and no blood and guts. The chief of staff thought it was a great idea.

So did the girls. I set up a training program. Lectures, reading lists, tours of the hospital, debriefings, discussion groups, roleplaying.

They were first-rate students, took detailed notes, made intelligent comments. Half-jokingly asked if I planned on testing them.

After three weeks they graduated. The chief of staff presented them with diplomas bound in pink ribbon. A week before the docent rotation was scheduled to begin, I received a handwritten note on icecolored stationery.

LAS LABRADORAS BUNGALOW B, THE CATHcART PASADENA, CALIFORNIA 91125

Dear Doctor Delaware, On behalf of my Sisters and myself I wish to thank you for the consideration you have shown us during these past few weeks. We girls all agree that we learned a tremendous amount and greatly profited from the experience.

We regret, however; that we will not be able to participate in the "Welcome Mat" program, as it presents some strategic problems for some of our members.

We hope this hasn't caused you any undue inconvenience and have tendered a donation to the Western Pediatric Hospital Christmas Fund in lieu of our participation.

Best wishes for a wonderful year and our sincere appreciation for the terrific work you do.

Faithfully yours, Nancy Brown President, Las Labradoras I found Ms. Brown's home number in my Rolodex, dialed it the next day, at eight in the morning.

"Oh, hi," she said. "How are you?"

"Hanging in, Nancy. I just got your letter."

"Yes. I'm so sorry. I know how terrible this looks, but we just can t.

"You mentioned strategic problems. Anything I can help with?"

"No, I'm sorry, but It's nothing related to your program, Dr. Delaware.

Just your... setting."

"My setting?"

"The hospital's. The environment. L.A Hollywood. Most of us were amazed at how far down it's slid. Some of the girls think it's just too far to travel."

"Too far or too dangerous?"

"Too far and too dangerous. Lots of the husbands are against us coming down there, too.

"We really haven't had any problems, Nancy. You'd be here during the daylight hours, using the VIP parking lot."

Silence.

I said, "Patients come and go every day with no problem."

"Well you know how it is."

"Guess so," Isaid. "Okay. Be well."

"I'm sure it sounds silly to you, Dr. Delaware. And to be honest, I think it's an overreaction I tried to tell them that. But our charter says we either participate as a group or not at all. We took a vote, Dr. Delaware, and this is the way it turned out. I do apologize if we've caused you problems. And we do hope the hospital accepts our gift in the spirit in which it was offered."

"No doubt the hospital does."

"Goodbye, Dr. Delaware. Have a nice day."

Notes on good paper, monetary buy-offs, phone brush-offs. Must be the San Labrador style.

I thought about it all the way to the end of the freeway, onto Arroyo Seco, then east on California Boulevard, past Cal Tech. A quick series of loops through quiet suburban streets, then Cathcart Boulevard appeared and I resumed the eastward trek, into the wilds of San Labrador.

The Farmer Saint.

A canonization that had eluded the Vatican.

The very origins of the place were grounded in a buy-off.

Once the private domain of H. Farmer Cathcart, heir to an East Coast railroad dynasty, San Labrador looked like old money but had been chartered as a city for only fifty years.

Cathcart came to Southern California at the turn of the century in order to scope out commercial possibilities for the family. He liked what he saw, began buying up downtown rail lines and hotels, orange groves, bean farms, and ranch land on the eastern borders of Los Angeles, assembling a four-square-mile fiefdom in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. After building the requisite mansion, he surrounded it with world-class gardens and named the estate San Labrador a bit of self-aggrandizement that made Episcopal tongues wag.

Then, midway through the Great Depression, he discovered his funds weren't infinite. Holding on to half a square mile, he subdivided the rest. Parceling the gardens out to other rich men tycoons of grand but lesser stature who could afford to maintain two- to seven-acre properties. Attaching restrictive covenants to all deed transfers, which ensured his living out the rest of his life in sweet harmony with nature and the finest aspects of Western civilization.

The rest of his life didn't amount to much-he died in 1937 of influenza, leaving a will bequeathing his estate to the city of San Labrador, should such a city exist within two years. The tycoon tenants acted quickly, setting up a charter and pushing it through the L.A. County Board of Supervisors. Cathcart's mansion and grounds became a county-owned but privately funded museum-cum-botanical gardens that nobody visited before the freeways.

During the postwar years the land was subdivided further: halfacre lots for the burgeoning professional class. But the covenants remained in place: no "coloreds," no Orientals, no Jews, no Mexicans.

No multiple dwellings. No alcohol served in public places. No nightclubs or theaters or places of "base entertainment." Commercial establishments limited to an eight-block segment of Cathcart Boulevard, no commercial structure to exceed two stories, architectural style to be in the Spanish Revival mode, with plans approved by the city council.

State and federal law eventually nullified the racial restrictions, but there were ways to get around that, and San Labrador remained lily-white. The rest of the covenants withstood tests of time and litigation. Perhaps that was due to sound legal basis. Or maybe the fact that lots of judges and at least two district attorneys resided in San Labrador had something to do with it.

Whatever the reason, the district's immunity to change remained strong.

As I cruised down Cathcart, nothing seemed different from the last time I'd been there. How long ago had that been?

Three years. A Turner exhibition at the museum, a stroll through the library and grounds. With Robin.

Traffic was sparse but slow-moving. The boulevard was split by a wide greenbelt median. The same mix of shops ran along the south side, ensconced in jewel-box Spanish Revival buildings and dwarfed by the rust-tinged Chinese pistachios H. Farmer Cathcart had planted long ago.

Doctors, dentists... lots of orthodont