THE SNOW had finally stopped. Claire and I sipped our coffee by the kitchen window. I was reading the paper by the light of a brilliant morning sun. They had managed to keep National Airport open.
"Let's go to Florida," I said. "Now."
She gave me a withering look. "Florida?"
"Okay, the Bahamas. We can be there by early afternoon."
"There's no way."
"Sure there is. I'm not going to work for a few days, and—"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm cracking up, and around the firm if you crack up, then you get a few days off."
"You are cracking up."
"I know. It's kinda tim, really. People give you space, treat you with velvet gloves, kiss your ass. Might as well make the most of it." The tight face returned, and she said, "I can't." And that was the end of that. It was a whim, and I knew she had too many obligations. It was a cruel thing to do, I decided as I returned to the paper, but I didn't feel bad about it. She wouldn't have gone with me under any circumstances.
She was suddenly in a hurry—appointments, classes, rounds, the life of an ambitious young surgical resident. She showered and changed and was ready to go. I drove her to the hospital.
We didn't talk as we inched through the snow-filled streets.
"I'm going to Memphis for a couple of days," I said matter-of-factly when we arrived at the hospital entrance on Reservoir Street. "Oh really," she said, with no discernible reaction. "I need to see my parents. It's been almost a year. I figure this is a good time. I don't do well in snow, and I'm not in the mood for work. Cracking up, you know."
"Well, call me," she said, opening her door. Then she shut it—no kiss, no good-bye, no concern. I watched her hurry down the sidewalk and disappear into the building.
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. Morn 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 south. 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, Robert. 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 litde, 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 Thomas, 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'sa 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.
***
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 Thomas 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."