Page 137 of What Boys Learn

“But he was helping you sell the house, wasn’t he?”

Dr. Campbell Sr. grimaced, like his dentures had slipped—or maybe it was nothing physical at all, only the painful interruption of a helpful delusion.

He worked his jaw a few times, squinting. “Oh, we don’t have to sell the house. It’s not a bother, and I’ll be cutting back my hours soon. Then I’ll have more time to look after things. These rotations are murder.”

Robert raised his eyebrow at “rotation.” He pulled out his phone in response to a chime and mouthed the wordJaguarto me. Then he leaned into my shoulder, whispering. “Someone saw it parked in a restaurant lot in downtown Fond du Lac. That’s our best lead. Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet,” I said, hand up. I needed focus. Dr. Campbell Sr. needed it even more.

“You’ve always been busy, isn’t that right?” I asked, trying to grab the thread that was slipping away.

“Jenny complains I work too many hours. I keep telling her, it’ll be worth it. Wait and see. ‘Learn to defer gratification,’ I always told our son. Can’t be a success if you’re a hothead, alwaysnow now now, gimme gimme. That’s how he was as a little boy. But he mastered himself. I give him that.”

We’d been going in circles like this since we’d sat down, but at least Dr. Campbell Sr. seemed pleased rather than agitated each time either of us steered the subject back to Curtis.

“Did you ever practice together? You said you were quite the pair. I don’t know if you meant you were just similar or if you worked side by side?”

“We couldn’t have worked together. He’s his own man. That’s fine. You do things your way and I’ll do them mine.”

Robert and I exchanged glances, both of us looking for the lost key to the man’s memories.

Robert asked, “You both like to camp, fish, anything like that?”

Dr. Campbell Sr.’s mouth split into a loose, wet grin. He pushed the mostly empty soup bowl away. “Ohhhh, yes. Fishing. Certainly. Even better when we didn’t catch anything, though. That’s what Jenny said. Have fun and don’t catch anything!”

“Any particular spot?”

A waiter interrupted, removing the soup bowl.

Dr. Campbell Sr. set his liver-spotted hands on the table and leaned forward, fingers pressed into the tablecloth, stilling his tremor. “I can tell you just where to go. You leave the marina—”

“Which marina?” Robert interrupted.

“Well, the one with the yacht club, of course.”

“Is this club on the lake near your house, on Lake Winnebago, or is it on Lake Michigan? At Sheboygan? Where are we talking about?”

“Let him answer,” I cautioned Robert, grabbing my phone. I saw a public boat launch in Fond du Lac, on Lake Winnebago. Only one yacht club, close to town. Sheboygan, on Lake Michigan, was forty-five minutes away, to the east. When Dr. Campbell Sr. was younger, I reminded myself, he was a busy, busy man. Back and forth to Lake Michigan would take too long. The nearest yacht club, on Winnebago, was convenient.

“You and Curtis would go,” I prompted. “When he was a boy? When he was all grown up?”

Dr. Campbell Sr. frowned. We were confusing him.

“Your son, Curtis, the doctor.”

Now he showed his gums, smiling. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

Behind us, a rattly cart pulled up with the next course. Pale, overcooked pink salmon next to a lump of mashed potatoes. Dr. Campbell Sr. clapped his hands with anticipation. We were losing him.

“The pair of us,” he said, removing his hands slowly, so that the waiter could set down the plate. “Pair of docs. See? Curtis came up with that. Jenny wanted something else, but Curtis gets what he wants. Always has. Pair of docs.”

“Pair of docs,” I repeated, watching his shaky hand reach slowly for the fork.

He frowned. “You’re saying it wrong.”

Robert looked to me. Deepening his Chicago workingclass accent, he tried, “Pair o’ docs?”

“That’s better.”