It was after five and the beach was vacant except for the four of them. He had driven Diana to work with a special intensity, however phony, his Hermes briefcase between them signifying a more prosperous time. After work she was having a quick supper, then on to her ERA meeting, a group which she led with grace and intelligence. She was one of those farm girl valedictorians who go through college and into life with the confidence of gaited horses. She was the only daughter among three sons and, as the apple of her father’s eye, had been raised with a quantum of parental and male esteem. Such women, Warlock had read in Ladies ’Home Journal, are usually multi-orgasmic and have a definite edge in marital and public life. At thirty-two she was without a cavity and had only recently confessed to him an IQ superior to his own, after repeated questioning. He had suddenly felt dumb. Oh for a fat paycheck.

He tapped at the briefcase, then slid his hand up her resplendently white nurse’s uniform. Why wouldn’t she return to garter belts and the half foot of bare thigh? They often drove with his hand snuggling toward bull’s-eye but the habit was mitigated a great deal by the advent of panty hose. His little finger poked tentatively upward.

“Stop it. I don’t want to get all worked up.”

“Sorry. I was absentminded.”

“Bullshit. You should have gotten up earlier when there was still time.”

“I feel the torpor of the unemployed.”

“You read that in the paper yesterday. I read it myself. Stop getting your feelings out of the newspaper.”

“You’re right. An hour with the paper is a dead pecker shot. Remember when it only took fifteen minutes?”

“Stop remembering anything. It’s not doing you any good.”

“Is this a hint of your Oriental leanings?”

“For god’s sake, Johnny. I just want you to get your spine back and be happy.”

“Thanks. Don’t worry. I got a plan.”

The plan that day was the beach, but only the beach in lieu of voluminous clouds of mosquitoes that infest Michigan in June. Stragglers in the forest have actually died in torment from these insects. He needed the sense of wilderness, but not death threats if he strayed from well worn paths. Diana was so right about newspapers and the little death of wasted time. The sole memorable item recently had been the disappearance of a honeymooning Brazilian couple. The account had said they had been out for a walk and had broken through the earth where the crust was especially thin, and fallen into an underground river. He had never wanted to go to South America in the first place. And more important, the beach rekindled his memories of the great Gauguin.