Hook was finding it difficult to sort out what she was saying, for the alcohol had reached him all of a sudden, and he was beginning to feel his exhaustion. It seemed like a month ago that he had gotten out of bed on the farm at his usual five-thirty, and in fact it had been almost twenty hours, he estimated, for it was about eleven Pacific time now. He pushed his drink away and dragged deeply on his cigarette, determined to see the evening through.

“And that’s what you talked to my son about?” he said.

She smiled sadly, almost sardonically. “Not really. I guess I’m just trying to change the subject. The other hurts. I guess I just don’t have your particular kind of sang-froid.”

Hook ignored her thrust. “When you talked—was he morose then? Was he depressed?”

“Not then, no. Not till—afterwards.”

“You mean after he failed. After he couldn’t make love to you.”

Nodding, Miss Madera looked at him wonderingly. “You must be a glutton for punishment.”

“These were the last hours of his life,” he said. “I want to know about them.”

“You’re very tough, aren’t you? Or is it just unfeeling?”

Watching her, Hook dragged again on his cigarette, exhaled. Through the smoke her eyes looked brilliant with something like outrage. “Maybe you felt more for him than I did,” he said. “You think that could be it?”

“You tell me.”

Hook shook his head. “I don’t have to, Miss Madera. I know what I felt for my son.”

“Then why aren’t you with him? Why aren’t you mourning?” It was an accusation.

“There’ll be time enough for that.” In his exhaustion Hook had to speak very slowly and carefully. “Right now I’m more interested in his life, the kind of life he lived. The kind of boy he was. I don’t want anyone taking that away from him now, after he’s gone.”

Miss Madera was looking down at her empty glass, revolving it slowly. She did not look up at him.

“And what kind of life was that, Mr. Hook?”

But before he could say anything, the waitress came to the table again and Hook ordered another daiquiri for Miss Madera, nothing for himself.

“Was it pastoral and blissful?” she asked, all irony now. “Was it so masculine there was absolutely no chance that he—”

“It was a good life,” Hook cut in. And then he went on flatly, coldly, as if he were reading the bill of fare on the restaurant’s menu. “His mother died about seven years ago in a car crash. I have two other children, a boy sixteen and a girl fifteen. They were close. But each was closer to Chris. My aunt and her husband also live with us. The farm is a large one by Midwest standards, over a thousand acres. We raise Black Angus cattle. It’s a good farm. And beautiful country, colder than this, and hotter too, and harder. But we like it. We’ve always been happy there. Chris was happy there. He was a very popular boy. I don’t like the word, but it fits in his case. He was well-liked. Girls and boys and men and old ladies—they all liked him. And we—we loved him. He was generous and decent. And bright. And strong. And he was funny too, in his way. He made you smile more than laugh.”