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.
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 foursomeahead 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 thosewilling 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
“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.
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 foursomeahead 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 thosewilling 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
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