moving?"
"Her daughter's in school out there. She has family. I have Simon here, and . . . Sherry. Orange County is a long way from Minnesota. Carmen doesn't like winter. I'm not that fond of . . ."
He seemed unable to find the right word. "California?" I suggested.
He laughed. "I was going to say 'summer,' but yeah, it's goofy out there. I'm a pretty flexible guy, but . . . Laguna Beach almost makes Boulder look normal."
"Sam?"
"What?"
"You're not," I said. "A pretty flexible guy. Don't kid yourself."
"Better than I used to be."
"Amen," I said. I decided to press him a little more, sensing that something was unsaid. "But you and Carmen are cool?"
"The back and forth is hard. You ever done one? A longdistance thing?"
I thought about an old love. Felt my stomach flip just a little. "Yeah," I said. "It didn't work out."
"See. There you go." The "go" had an extra o or two tucked on at the end. It was the Iron Ranger in him talking.
"You have plans to get together soon?"
He glared at me in a one-degree-less-than-friendly kind of way. It was a signal that he was done with this part of our conversation and would appreciate it if I played along. He said, "She wants us to meet up in Mexico before it gets too hot and before the monsoons come. Me and Simon. Someplace on the gulf in Baja. Her little brother runs a cantina and a scuba shop. She thinks we can take lessons, learn how to dive."
He sounded skeptical. "Nice offer," I said.
He sipped some more water. "My Spanish isn't too hot."
Nonexistent, I thought. Sam couldn't pronounce " gracias " to save his soul. "Carmen's fluent," I said.
He grunted. "And I'm pale."
Sam was pale. Whale-belly pale. Minnesota-in-January pale. He was the kind of guy who could get sunburned watching the sun rise. In a movie.
"I assume Carmen has seen you naked, Sam. She knows to wear sunglasses."
"She hasn't seen me naked in the sunlight."
It took a moment for that unsettling image to depart my consciousness. Night sounds took over. A breeze whined as it bent the new grasses. A dog barked in the valley. Emily growled. I said, "Think wetsuit."
I'd hoped for a laugh but I didn't get one. "You think Adrienne's up?" he asked. "I should tell her what's going on."
Sam knew Adrienne—our neighbor and friend across the lane. I said, "She and Jonas are visiting family in Israel. Just left. They'll be gone for a few weeks."
"Just as well. We should have him back in custody by then."
After an interlude of silence I said, "This is my fault, Sam."
It would have been a good place for him to disagree with me, were he so inclined. But he didn't. Instead he did what a good conversationalist or a good interviewer would do. He changed directions right along with me and he waited for me to go on without giving a hint of his reaction.
He said, "Yeah? You think it's your fault?"
"After he was arrested? He seemed too . . . crazy. Too paranoid. I should have told the judge that."
"He'd been your patient, Alan. You couldn't tell anybody anything."
"If . . . I had figured out a way to challenge the testimony of those shrinks his defense attorneys found, he would be living the rest of his life in a small concrete room in Cañon City, not in the hospital in Pueblo."
"Cañon City" was Colorado-speak for the maximum security state penitentiary, New Max. "Pueblo," in the same institutional vernacular, meant the indefinite sentencing limbo of the state mental hospital. A criminal who was sent to the penitentiary was shackled with a determinate sentence, usually a lengthy one. Criminals were sent to the forensics side of the state hospital primarily for two reasons. Those who are tried and found not guilty by reason of insanity stay at the hospital until the court
"Her daughter's in school out there. She has family. I have Simon here, and . . . Sherry. Orange County is a long way from Minnesota. Carmen doesn't like winter. I'm not that fond of . . ."
He seemed unable to find the right word. "California?" I suggested.
He laughed. "I was going to say 'summer,' but yeah, it's goofy out there. I'm a pretty flexible guy, but . . . Laguna Beach almost makes Boulder look normal."
"Sam?"
"What?"
"You're not," I said. "A pretty flexible guy. Don't kid yourself."
"Better than I used to be."
"Amen," I said. I decided to press him a little more, sensing that something was unsaid. "But you and Carmen are cool?"
"The back and forth is hard. You ever done one? A longdistance thing?"
I thought about an old love. Felt my stomach flip just a little. "Yeah," I said. "It didn't work out."
"See. There you go." The "go" had an extra o or two tucked on at the end. It was the Iron Ranger in him talking.
"You have plans to get together soon?"
He glared at me in a one-degree-less-than-friendly kind of way. It was a signal that he was done with this part of our conversation and would appreciate it if I played along. He said, "She wants us to meet up in Mexico before it gets too hot and before the monsoons come. Me and Simon. Someplace on the gulf in Baja. Her little brother runs a cantina and a scuba shop. She thinks we can take lessons, learn how to dive."
He sounded skeptical. "Nice offer," I said.
He sipped some more water. "My Spanish isn't too hot."
Nonexistent, I thought. Sam couldn't pronounce " gracias " to save his soul. "Carmen's fluent," I said.
He grunted. "And I'm pale."
Sam was pale. Whale-belly pale. Minnesota-in-January pale. He was the kind of guy who could get sunburned watching the sun rise. In a movie.
"I assume Carmen has seen you naked, Sam. She knows to wear sunglasses."
"She hasn't seen me naked in the sunlight."
It took a moment for that unsettling image to depart my consciousness. Night sounds took over. A breeze whined as it bent the new grasses. A dog barked in the valley. Emily growled. I said, "Think wetsuit."
I'd hoped for a laugh but I didn't get one. "You think Adrienne's up?" he asked. "I should tell her what's going on."
Sam knew Adrienne—our neighbor and friend across the lane. I said, "She and Jonas are visiting family in Israel. Just left. They'll be gone for a few weeks."
"Just as well. We should have him back in custody by then."
After an interlude of silence I said, "This is my fault, Sam."
It would have been a good place for him to disagree with me, were he so inclined. But he didn't. Instead he did what a good conversationalist or a good interviewer would do. He changed directions right along with me and he waited for me to go on without giving a hint of his reaction.
He said, "Yeah? You think it's your fault?"
"After he was arrested? He seemed too . . . crazy. Too paranoid. I should have told the judge that."
"He'd been your patient, Alan. You couldn't tell anybody anything."
"If . . . I had figured out a way to challenge the testimony of those shrinks his defense attorneys found, he would be living the rest of his life in a small concrete room in Cañon City, not in the hospital in Pueblo."
"Cañon City" was Colorado-speak for the maximum security state penitentiary, New Max. "Pueblo," in the same institutional vernacular, meant the indefinite sentencing limbo of the state mental hospital. A criminal who was sent to the penitentiary was shackled with a determinate sentence, usually a lengthy one. Criminals were sent to the forensics side of the state hospital primarily for two reasons. Those who are tried and found not guilty by reason of insanity stay at the hospital until the court
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