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john grishman - the street lawer.docx
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It was over. And I hated to tell my mother.

* * *

My parents were in their early sixties, both healthy and trying gamely to enjoy forced

retirement. Dad was an airline pilot for thirty years. Mom had been a bank manager. They

worked hard, saved well, and provided a comfortable upper-middle-class home for us.

My two brothers and I had the best private schools we could get into.

They were solid people, conservative, patriotic, free of bad habits, fiercely devoted to

each other. They went to church on Sundays, the parade on July the Fourth, Rotary Club

once a week, and they traveled whenever they wanted.

They were still grieving over my brother Warner's divorce three years earlier. He was an

attorney in Atlanta who married his college sweetheart, a Memphis girl from a family we

knew. After two kids, the marriage went sour. His wife got custody and moved to

Portland. My parents got to see the grandkids once a year, if all went well. It was a

subject I never brought up.

I rented a car at the Memphis airport and drove east into the sprawling suburbs where the

white people lived. The blacks had the city; the whites, the suburbs. Sometimes the

blacks would move into a subdivision, and the whites would move to another one, farther

away. Memphis crept eastward, the races running from each other.

My parents lived on a golf course, in a new glass house designed so that every window

overlooked a fairway. I hated the house because the fairway was always busy. I didn't

express my opinions, though.

I had called from the airport, so Mother was waiting with great anticipation when I

arrived. Dad was on the back nine somewhere.

"You look tired," she said after the hug and kiss. It was her standard greeting.

"Thanks, Mom. You look great." And she did. Slender and bronze from her daily tennis

and tanning regimen at the country club.

She fixed iced tea and we drank it on the patio, where we watched other retirees fly down

the fairway in their golf carts.

"What's wrong?" she said before a minute passed, before I took the first sip. "Nothing.

I'm fine."

"Where's Claire? You guys never call us, you know. I haven't heard her voice in two

months."

"Claire's fine, Mom. We're both alive and healthy and working very hard."

"Are you spending enough time together?"

"No."

"Are you spending any time together?"

"Not much."

She frowned and rolled her eyes with motherly concern. "Are you having trouble?" she

asked, on the attack.

"Yes."

"I knew it. I knew it. I could tell by your voice on the phone that something was wrong.

Surely you're not headed for a divorce too. Have you tried counseling?"

"No. Slow down."

"Then why not? She's a wonderful person, Michael. Give the marriage everything you

have."

"We're trying, Mother. But it's difficult."

"Affairs? Drugs? Alcohol? Gambling? Any of the bad things?"

"No. Just two people going their separate ways. I work eighty hours a week. She works

the other eighty."

"Then slow down. Money isn't everything." Her voice broke just a little, and I saw

wetness in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mom. At least we don't have kids."

She bit her lip and tried to be strong, but she was dying inside. And I knew exactly what

she was thinking: two down, one to go. She would take my divorce as a personal failure,

the same way she broke down with my brother's. She would find some way to blame

herself. I didn't want the pity. To move things along to more interesting matters, I told her

the story of Mister, and, for her benefit, downplayed the danger I'd been in. If the story

made the Memphis paper, my parents had missed it.

"Are you all right?" she asked, horrified.

"Of course. The bullet missed me. I'm here."

"Oh, thank God. I mean, well, emotionally are you all right?"

"Yes, Mother, I'm all together. No broken pieces. The firm wanted me to take a couple of

days off, so I came home."

"You poor thing. Claire, and now this."

"I'm fine. We had a lot of snow last night, and it was a good time to leave."

"Is Claire safe?"

"As safe as anybody in Washington. She lives at the hospital, probably the smartest place

to be in that city."

"I worry about you so much. I see the crime statistics, you know. It's a very dangerous

city."

"Almost as dangerous as Memphis."

We watched a ball land near the patio, and waited for its owner to appear. A stout lady

rolled out of a golf cart, hovered over the ball for a second, then shanked it badly.

Mother left to get more tea, and to wipe her eyes.

* * *

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