I didn't smell anything foul, though I was certain I could feel lice jumping from its head

to mine. My best friend Mordecai appeared and turned on a switch. "How cute," he said.

"Do we have any diapers?" I hissed at him.

"Big job or little job?" he asked happily, walking toward the cabinets.

"I don't know. Just hurry."

He pulled out a pack of Pampers, and I thrust the child at him. My denim jacket had a

large wet spot on the left shoulder. With incredible deftness he placed the baby on the

cutting board, removed the wet diaper, revealing a baby girl, cleaned her with a wipe of

some sort, rediapered her with a fresh Pamper, then thrust her back at me. "There she is,"

he said proudly. "Good as new."

"The things they don't teach you in law school," I said, taking the child.

I paced the floor with her for an hour, until she fell asleep. I wrapped her in my jacket,

and gently placed her between her mother and Ontario.

It was almost 3 A.M., Saturday, and I had to go. My freshly pricked conscience could

take only so much in one day. Mordecai walked me to the street, thanked me for coming,

and sent me away madess into the night. My car was sitting where I left it, covered with

new snow. He was standing in front of the church, watching me as I drove away.

________________________________________________________________

Nine

Since my run-in with Mister on Tuesday, I had not billed a single hour for dear old Drake

& Sweeney. I'd been averaging two hundred a month for five years, which meant eight

per day for six days, with a couple left over. No day could be wasted and precious few

hours left unaccounted for. When I fell behind, which rarely happened, I would work

twelve hours on a Saturday and perhaps do the same on a Sunday. And if I wasn't behind,

I would do only seven or eight hours on Saturday and maybe a few on Sunday. No

wonder Claire went to med school.

As I stared at the bedroom ceiling late Saturday morning, I was almost paralyzed with

inaction. I did not want to go to the office. I hated the thought. I dreaded the neat little

rows of pink phone messages Polly had on my desk, the memos from higher-ups

arranging meetings to inquire about my well-being, the nosy chitchat from the gossipers,

and the inevitable "How you doin'?" from friends and those genuinely concerned and

those who couldn't care less. What I dreaded most, though, was the work. Antitrust cases

are long and arduous, with files so thick they require boxes, and what was the point

anyway? One billion-dollar corporation fighting another. A hundred lawyers involved, all

cranking out paper.

I admitted to myself that I'd never loved the work. It was a means to an end. If I practiced

it with a fury, became a whiz and perfected a specialty, then one day soon I would be in

demand. It could've been tax or labor or litigation. Who could love anti-trust law?

By sheer will, I forced myself out of bed and into the shower.

Breakfast was a croissant from a bakery on M, with strong coffee, all taken with one hand

on the wheel. I wondered what Ontario was having for breakfast, then told myself to stop

the torture. I had the right to eat without feeling guilty, but food was losing its importance

for me.

The radio said the day's high would be twenty degrees, the low near zero, with no more

snow for a week.

I made it as far as the building's lobby before being accosted by one of my brethren.

Bruce somebody from communications stepped onto the elevator when I did, and said

gravely, "How you doin', pal?"

"Fine. You?" I shot back.

"Okay. Look, we're pulling for you, you know. Hang in there."

I nodded as if his support was crucial. Mercifully, he left on the second floor, but not

before favoring me with a locker-room pat on the shoulder. Give 'em hell, Bruce.

I was damaged goods. My steps were slower as I passed Madam Devier's desk and the

conference room. I went down the marble hallway until I found my office and slumped

into the leather swivel, exhausted.

Polly had several ways of leaving behind the phone litter. If I had been diligent in

returning calls, and if she happened to be pleased with my efforts, she would leave one or

two message slips near my phone. If, however, I had not, and if this happened to

displease her, then she liked nothing better than to line them up in the center of my desk,

a sea of pink, all perfectly arranged in chronological order.

I counted thirty-nine messages, several urgent, several from the brass. Rudolph especially

seemed to be irritated, judging by Polly's trail. ! read them slowly as I collected them,

then set them aside. I was determined to finish my coffee, in peace and without pressure,

and so I was sitting at my desk, holding the cup with both hands, staring into the

unknown, looking very much like someone teetering on the edge of a cliff, when Rudolph

walked in.

The spies must have called him; a paralegal on the lookout, or maybe Bruce from the

elevator. Perhaps the entire firm was on alert. No. They were too busy.

"Hello, Mike," he said crisply, taking a seat, crossing his legs, setfling in for serious

business.

"Hi, Rudy," I said. I had never called him Rudy to his face. It was always Rudolph. His

current wife and the partners called him Rudy, but no one else.

"Where have you been?" he asked, without the slightest hint of compassion.

"Memphis."

"Memphis?"

"Yeah, I needed to see my parents. Plus the family shrink is there."

"A shrink?"

"Yes, he observed me for a couple of days."

"Observed you?"

"Yeah, in one of those swanky little units with Persian rugs and salmon for dinner. A

thousand bucks a day."

"For two days? You were in for two days?"

"Yeah." The lying didn't bother me, nor did I feel bad because the lying didn't bother me.

The firm can be harsh, even ruthless, when it decides to be, and I was in no mood for an

ass-chewing from Rudolph. He had marching orders from the executive committee, and

he would make a report minutes after leaving my office. If I could thaw him, the report

would go soft, the brass would relax. Life would be easier, for the short term.

"You should've called somebody," he said, still hard, but the crack was coming.

"Come on, Rudolph. I was locked down. No phones." There was just enough agony in

my voice to soften him.

After a long pause, he said, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You're fine?"

"The shrink said I'm fine."

"One hundred percent?"

"A hundred and ten. No problems, Rudolph. I needed a little break, that's all. I'm fine.

Back at full throttle."

That was all Rudolph wanted. He smiled and relaxed and said, "We have lots of work to

do."

"I know. I can't wait."

He practically ran from my office. He would go straight to the phone and report that one

of the firm's many producers was back in the saddle.

I locked the door and turned off the lights, then spent a painful hour covering my desk

with papers and scribblings. Nothing was accomplished, but at least I was on the clock.

When I couldn't stand it any longer, I stuffed the phone messages in my pocket and

walked out. I escaped without getting caught.

* * *

I stopped at a large discount pharmacy on Massachusetts, and had a delightful shopping

spree. Candy and small toys for the kids, soap and toiletries for them all, socks and

sweatpants in a variety of children's sizes. A large carton of Pampers. I had never had so

much fun spending two hundred dollars.

And I would spend whatever was necessary to get them into a warm place. If it was a

motel for a month, no problem. They would soon become my clients, and I would

threaten and Irangate with a vengeance until they had adequate housing. I couldn't wait to

sue somebody.

I parked across from the church, much less afraid than I had been the night before, but

still sufficiently scared. Wisely, I left the care packages in the car. If I walked in like

Santa Claus it would start a riot. My intentions were to leave there with the family, take

them to a motel, check them in, make sure they were bathed and cleaned and disinfected,

then feed them until they were stuffed, see if they needed medical attention, maybe take

them to get shoes and warm clothes, then feed them again. I didn't care what it would cost

or how long it might take.

Nor did I care if people thought I was just another rich white guy working off a little guilt.

Miss Dolly was pleased to see me. She said hello and pointed to a pile of vegetables with

skins in need of removal. First, though, I checked on Ontario and family, and couldn't

find them. They were not in their spot, so I roamed through the basement, stepping over

and around dozens of street people. They were not in the sanctuary, nor in the balcony.

I chatted with Miss Dolly as I peeled potatoes. She remembered the family from last

night, but they had already left when she arrived around nine. "Where would they go?" I

wondered.

"Honey, these people move. They go from kitchen to kitchen, shelter to shelter. Maybe

she heard they're giving out cheese over in Brightwood, or blankets somewhere. She

might even have a job at McDonald's and she leaves the kids with her sister. You never

know. But they don't stay in one place."

I seriously doubted if Ontario's mother had a job, but I wasn't about to debate this with

Miss Dolly in her kitchen.

Mordecai arrived as the line was forming for lunch. I saw him before he saw me, and

when our eyes made contact his entire face smiled.

A new volunteer had sandwich duty; Mordecai and I worked the serving tables, dipping

ladles into the pots and pouring the soup into the plastic bowls. There was an art to it.

Too much broth and the recipient might glare at you. Too many vegetables and there

would be nothing left but broth. Mordecai had perfected his technique years ago; I

suffered a number of glaring looks before I caught on. Mordecai had a pleasant word for

everyone we served--hello, good morning, how are you, nice to see you again. Some of

them smiled back, others never looked up.

As noon approached, the doors grew busier and the lines longer. More volunteers

appeared from nowhere, and the kitchen hummed with the pleasant clutter and bang of

happy people busy with their work. I kept looking for Ontario. Santa Claus was waiting,

and the little fella didn't have a clue.

* * *

We waited until the lines were gone, then filled a bowl each. The tables were packed, so

we ate in the kitchen, leaning against the sink.

"You remember that diaper you changed last night?" I asked between bites.

"As if I could forget."

"I haven't seen them today."

He chewed and thought about it for a second. "They were here when I left this morning."

"What time was that?"

"Six. They were in the corner over there, sound asleep."

"Where would they go?"

"You never know."

"The little boy told me they stayed in a car."

"You talked to him?"

"Yeah."

"And now you want to find him, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Don't count on it."

* * *

After lunch, the sun popped through and the movement began. One by one they walked

by the serving table, took an apple or an orange, and left the basement.

"The homeless are also restless," Mordecai explained as we watched. "They like to roam

around. They have rituals and routines, favorite places, friends on the streets, things to do.

They'll go back to their parks and alleys and dig out from the snow."

"It's twenty degrees outside. Near zero tonight," I said.

"They'll be back. Wait till dark, and this place will be hopping again. Let's take a ride."

We checked in with Miss Dolly, who excused us for a while. Mordecai's well-used Ford

Taurus was parked next to my Lexus. "That won't last long around here," he said,

pointing at my car. "If you plan to spend time in this part of town, I'd suggest you trade

down."