“How old were they?” He put the pizza on the dresser so she wouldn’t fail to notice it. She was packing hurriedly but with the usual ruthless efficiency.

“About your age. Overweight, violent men, no doubt paranoid drinkers, killers of birds and fish and deer.” He was alarmed at her hysteria which he had never seen before.

“Are you going somewhere?” She responded to his question with a haymaker slap. He pretended she hadn’t done so. “I hope you’re not going away too long.”

“You’re going to a fucking psychiatrist or you’ll never see me again,” she screamed in his face.

“I’ll go to the psychiatrist thirty-three times if you’ll read the complete file on Doctor Rabun. It’s only by my good graces that your golden-age paramour isn’t going directly to prison.”

She read the file and wept. She wept long and hard, refusing any consolation. He was alarmed and wandered around the house with a lump in his throat. He fetched a ten milligram Valium, a pitcher of Margaritas, and a joint of sin semilla marijuana Feingold had slipped him at the Holiday Inn. He sat down across the table from her, insensitively humming High Noon’s “Do Not Forsake Me O My Darling.” Finally her trembling fingers reached for the Valium, then a Margarita, then she lit the joint, drawing on it strongly and staring at him with reddened eyes.

“Why didn’t you let me know about all of this when you came home in December? You let me be a victim of a terrible pervert.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I had a few setbacks in Florida where I didn’t exactly come out on top. I began to doubt myself and I was afraid of losing you for good.”

“Darling, Johnny, it wasn’t really totally what you think. We’ll talk about it later. My head is whirling.”

Both their heads whirled that night and they only touched the raw spots with delicacy, tangentially, knowing that nature avoids direct confrontation. His empathy and love for her was so great that he told her the complete story of Laura Fardel, wanting to lighten the load of her grief. Diana caromed off the kitchen walls with laughter.

“Oh dear Johnny, how could you be so gullible?” she said, collapsing back into her chair.

“I wouldn’t say that you’ve exactly been Miss Hip, darling. Was it the Dolphin, numbers one through seven? I bet it was.” Warlock was referring to the elaborate prosthetic device Rabun had invented, and which the doctor planned to market under the trade name Dolphin. Warlock had questioned a possible ambivalence about the device in the big Miami market, but Rabun was entirely ignorant on the subject of pro football.