I don't know which of my parents got the worst end of my visit. My mother wanted

strong families with lots of grandchildren. My father wanted his boys to move quickly up

the ladder and enjoy the rewards of our hard-earned success.

Late that afternoon my dad and I did nine holes. He played; I drank beer and drove the

cart. Golf had yet to work its magic on me. Two cold ones and I was ready to talk. I had

repeated the Mister tale over lunch, so he figured I was just loafing for a couple of days,

collecting myself before I roared back into the arena.

"I'm getting kind of sick of the big firm, Dad," I said as we sat by the third tee, waiting

for the foursome ahead to clear. I was nervous, and my nervousness irritated me greatly.

It was my life, not his.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means I'm tired of what I'm doing."

"Welcome to the real world. You think the guy working a drill press in a factory doesn't

get tired of what he's doing? At least you're getting rich."

So he took round one, almost by a knockout. Two holes later, as we stomped through the

rough looking for his ball, he said, "Are you changing jobs?"

"Thinking about it."

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know. It's too early. I haven't been looking for another position."

"Then how do you know the grass is greener if you haven't been looking?" He picked up

his ball and walked off.

I drove alone on the narrow paved trail while he stalked down the fairway chasing his

shot, and I wondered why that gray-haired man out there scared me so much. He had

pushed all of his sons to set goals, work hard, strive to be Big Men, with everything

aimed at making lots of money and living the American dream. He had certainly paid for

anything we needed.

Like my brothers, I was not born with a social conscience. We gave offerings to the

church because the Bible strongly suggests it. We paid taxes to the government because

the law requires it. Surely, somewhere in the midst of all this giving some good would be

done, and we had a hand in it. Politics belonged to those willing to play that game, and

besides, there was no money to be made by honest people. We were taught to be

productive, and the more success we attained, the more society would benefit, in some

way. Set goals, work hard, play fair, achieve prosperity.

He double-bogeyed the fifth hole, and was blaming it on his putter when he climbed into

the cart. "Maybe I'm not looking for greener pastures," I said. "Why don't you just go

ahead and say what you're trying to say?" he said. As usual, I felt weak for not facing the

issue boldly.

"I'm thinking about public interest law."

"What the hell is that?"

"It's when you work for the good of society without making a lot of money."

"What are you, a Democrat now? You've been in Washington too long."

"There are lots of Republicans in Washington. In fact, they've taken over."

We rode to the next tee in silence. He was a good golfer, but his shots were getting worse.

I'd broken his concentration.

Stomping through the rough again, he said, "So some wino gets his head blown off and

you gotta change society. Is that it?"

"He wasn't a wino. He fought in Vietnam."

Dad flew B-52's in the early years of Vietnam, and this stopped him cold. But only for a

second. He wasn't about to yield an inch. "One of those, huh?"

I didn't respond. The ball was hopelessly lost, and he wasn't really looking. He flipped

another onto the fairway, hooked it badly, and away we went.

"I hate to see you blow a good career, son," he said. "You've worked too hard. You'll be a

partner in a few years."

"Maybe."

"You need some time off, that's all."

That seemed to be everybody's remedy.

* * *

I took them to dinner at a nice restaurant. We worked hard to avoid the topics of Claire,

my career, and the grandkids they seldom saw. We talked about old friends and old

neighborhoods. I caught up on the gossip, none of which interested me in the least.

I left them at noon on Friday, four hours before my flight, and I headed back to my

muddled life in D.C.

________________________________________________________________

Seven

Of course, the apartment was empty when I returned Friday night, but with a new twist.

There was a note on the kitchen counter. Following my cue, Claire had gone home to Providence for a couple of days. No reason was given. She asked me to phone when I got

home.

I called her parents' and interrupted dinner. I labored through a five-minute chat in which

it was determined that both of us were indeed fine, Memphis was fine and so was

Providence, the families were fine, and she would return sometime Sunday afternoon.

I hung up, fixed coffee, and drank a cup staring out the bedroom window, watching the

traffic crawl along P Street, still covered with snow. If any of the snow had melted, it

wasn't obvious.

I suspected Claire was telling her parents the same dismal story I had burdened mine with.

It was sad and odd and yet somehow not surprising that we were being honest with our

families before we faced the truth ourselves. I was fired of it and determined that one day

very soon, perhaps as early as Sunday, we would sit somewhere, probably at the kitchen

table, and confront reality. We would lay bare our feelings and fears and, I was quite sure,

start planning our separate futures. I knew she wanted out, I just didn't know how badly.

I practiced the words I would say to her out loud until they sounded convincing, then I

went for a long walk. It was ten degrees with a sharp wind, and the chill cut through my

trench coat. I passed the handsome homes and cozy rowhouses, where I saw real families

eating and laughing and enjoying the warmth, and moved onto M Street, where throngs

of those suffering from cabin fever filled the sidewalks. Even a freezing Friday night on

M was never dull; the bars were packed, the restaurants had waiting lines, the coffee

shops were filled.

I stood at the window of a music club, listening to the blues with snow packed around my

ankles, watching the young couples drink and dance. For the first time in my life, I felt

like something other than a young person. I was thirty-two, but in the last seven years I

had worked more than most people do in twenty. I was fired, not old but bearing down

hard on middle age, and I admitted that I was no longer fresh from college. Those pretty

girls in there would never look twice at me now.

I was frozen, and it was snowing again. I bought a sandwich, stuffed it into a pocket, and

slogged my way back to the apartment. I fixed a strong drink, and a small fire, and I ate

in the semidarkness, very much alone.

In the old days, Claire's absence for the weekend would have given me guilt-free grounds

to live at the office. Sitting by the fire, I was repulsed by that thought. Drake & Sweeney

would be standing proudly long after I was gone, and the clients and their problems,

which had seemed so crucial, would be tended to by other squads of young lawyers. My

departure would be a slight bump in the road for the firm, scarcely noticeable. My office

would be taken minutes after I walked out.

At some time after nine, the phone rang, jolting me from a long, somber daydream. It was

Mordecai Green, speaking loudly into a cell phone. "Are you busy?" he asked.

"Uh, not exactly. What's going on?"

"It's cold as hell, snowing again, and we're short on manpower. Do you have a few hours

to spare?"

"To do what?"

"To work. We really need able bodies down here. The shelters and soup kitchens are

packed, and we don't have enough volunteers."

"I'm not sure I'm qualified."

"Can you spread peanut butter on bread?"

"I think so."

"Then you're qualified."

"Okay, where do I go?"

"We're ten blocks or so from the office. At the intersection of Thirteenth and Euclid,

you'll see a yellow church on your right. Ebenezer Christian Fellowship. We're in the

basement."

I scribbled this down, each word getting shakier because Mordecai was calling me into a

combat zone. I wanted to ask if I should pack a gun. I wondered if he carried one. But he

was black, and I wasn't. What about my car, my prized Lexus?

"Got that?" he growled after a pause.

"Yeah. Be there in twenty minutes," I said bravely, my heart already pounding.

I changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and designer hiking boots. I took the credit cards and

most of the cash out of my wallet. In the top of a closet, I found an old wool-lined denim

jacket, stained with coffee and paint, a relic from law school, and as I modeled it in the

mirror I hoped it made me look non-affluent. It did not. If a young actor wore it on the

cover of Vanity Fair, a trend would start immediately.

I desperately wanted a bulletproof vest. I was scared, but as I locked the door and stepped

into the snow, I was also strangely excited.

* * *

The drive-by shootighs and gang attacks I had expected did not materialize. The weather

kept the streets empty and safe, for the moment. I found the church and parked in a lot

across the street. It looked like a small cathedral, at least a hundred years old and no

doubt abandoned by its original congregation.

Around a comer I saw some men huddled together, waiting by a door. I brushed past

them as if I knew exactly where I was going, and I entered the world of the homeless.

As badly as I wanted to barge ahead, to pretend I had seen this before and had work to do,

I couldn't move. I gawked in amazement at the sheer number of poor people stuffed into

the basement. Some were lying on the floor, trying to sleep. Some were sitting in groups,

talking in low tones. Some were eating at long tables and others in their folding chairs.

Every square inch along the walls was covered with people sitting with their backs to the

cinder blocks. Small children cried and played as their mothers tried to keep them close.

Winos lay rigid, snoring through it all. Volunteers passed out blankets and walked among

the throng, handing out apples.

The kitchen was at one end, bustling with action as food was prepared and served. I could

see Mordecai in the background, pouring fruit juice into paper cups, talking incessantly.

A line waited patiently at the serving tables.

The room was warm, and the odors and aromas and the gas heat mixed to create a thick

smell that was not unpleasant. A homeless man, bundled up much like Mister, bumped

into me and it was time to move.

I went straight to Mordecai, who was delighted to see me. We shook hands like old

friends, and he introduced me to two volunteers whose names I never heard.

"It's crazy," he said. "A big snow, a cold snap, and we work all night. Grab that bread

over there." He pointed to a tray of sliced white bread. I took it and followed him to a

table.

"It's real complicated. You got bologna here, mustard and mayo there. Half the

sandwiches get mustard, half get mayo, one slice of bologna, two slices of bread. Do a

dozen with peanut butter every now and then. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"You catch on quick." He slapped me on the shoulder and disappeared.

I hurriedly made ten sandwiches, and declared myself to be proficient. Then I slowed,

and began to watch the people as they waited in line, their eyes downcast but always

glancing at the food ahead. They were handed a paper plate, a plastic bowl and spoon,

and a napkin. As they shuffled along, the bowl was filled with soup, half a sandwich was

placed on the plate, then an apple and a small cookie were added. A cup of apple juice

was waiting at the end.

Most of them said a quiet "Thanks" to the volunteer handing out the juice, then they

moved away, gingerly holding the plate and bowl. Even the children were still and

careful with their food.

Most seemed to eat slowly, savoring the warmth and feel of food in their mouths, the

aroma in their faces. Others ate as fast as possible.

Next to me was a gas stove with four burners, each with a large pot of soup cooking away.

On the other side of it, a table was covered with celery, carrots, onions, tomatoes, and

whole chickens. A volunteer with a large knife was chopping and dicing with a