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midnight, I fashioned a bed for the dog out of a couple of towels, placed it on the floor of the service porch, and turned out the light. The dog stared at it, then trotted over to the fridge.
    “No way,” I said. “Time to sleep.”
    He turned his back on me and sat. I left for the bedroom. He heeled along. Feeling like Simon Legree, I closed the door on his supplicating eyes.
    As soon as I got under the covers I heard scratching, then heavy breathing. Then something that sounded like an old man choking.
    I jumped out of bed and opened the door. The dog raced through my feet and hurled himself up on the bed.
    “Forget it,” I said and put him on the carpet.
    He made the choking sound again, stared, and tried to climb up.
    I returned him to the floor.
    A couple more tries and he gave up, turning his back on me and staying hunkered against the dust ruffle.
    It seemed a reasonable compromise.
    But when I awoke in the middle of the night, thinking about pain screams and robot chants, he was right next to me, soft eyes full of pity. I left him there. A moment later, he was snoring and it helped put me back to sleep.
     
CHAPTER 4
     
    The next morning I woke up tasting the metal and bite of bad dreams. I fed the dog and called the Rodriguez house again. Still no answer, but this time a machine fed me Evelyn’s tired voice over a background of Conway Twitty singing “Slow Hand.”
    I asked her to call me. She hadn’t by the time I finished showering and shaving. Neither had anyone else.
    Determined to get outdoors, I left the dog with a big biscuit and walked the couple of miles to the university campus. The computers at the biomed library yielded no references to “bad love” in any medical or psychological journals, and I returned home at noon. The dog licked my hand and jumped up and down. I petted him, gave him some cheese, and received a drool-covered hand by way of thanks.
    After boxing my charts, I carried them back to the closet. A single carton had remained on the shelf. Wondering if it contained files I’d missed, I pulled it down.
    No patient records: it was crammed with charts and reprints of technical articles I’d set aside as references. A thick roll of papers bound with a rubber band was wedged between the folders. The word “PROFUNDITIES” was scrawled across it, in my handwriting. I remembered myself younger, angrier, sarcastic.
    Removing the band from the roll, I flattened the sheaf and inhaled a snootful of dust.
    More nostalgia: a collection of articles
I’d
authored, and programs from scientific meetings at which I’d presented papers.
    I leafed through it absently until a brochure near the bottom caught my eye. Strong black letters on stiff blue paper, a coffee stain on one corner.
     
    GOOD LOVE/BAD LOVE
     
    Psychoanalytic Perspectives and
    Strategies in a Changing World
     
    November 28–29, 1979
    Western Pediatric Medical Center
    Los Angeles, California
     
    A Conference Examining the Relevance
    and Application of de Boschian Theory
    to Social and Psychobiological Issues
     
    and Commemorating Fifty Years of
    Teaching, Research, and Clinical Work by
     
    ANDRES B. DE BOSCH, Ph.D.
     
    Co-sponsored by WPMC
    and
    The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School,
    Santa Barbara, California
     
Conference Co-Chairs

Katarina V. de Bosch, Ph.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Acting Director,
The de Bosch Institute and Corrective School

Alexander Delaware, Ph.D.
Assistant Professor of Pediatrics
and Psychology, WPMC

Harvey M. Rosenblatt, M.D.
Practicing Psychoanalyst and Clinical Professor of
Psychiatry
New York University School of Medicine
     
    Headshot photos of all three of us. Katarina de Bosch, thin and brooding; Rosenblatt and I, bearded and professorial.
    The rest was a list of scheduled speakers — more photos — and details of registration.
    “Good Love/Bad Love.” I remembered it clearly now. Wondered how I could have forgotten.
    Nineteen seventy-nine had been my fourth year on staff