The Street Lawyer by John Grisham

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. 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 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 glasshouse 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 thephone 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