the
diet
frozen dinners, he thought, blanching at one five-hundred-calorie pasta entree. Just lately people had been exhibiting a regrettable tendency to overestimate his age. A sophomore from the local high school had tried to interview him on details of the Korean War. As if he’d admit to being on the
planet
during the Korean War! He blamed it on the Simmons family physique, which tended toward short stature and nonexistent waistlines. His hairline wasn’t much help, either; he was going bald on top, which only increased his resemblance to Friar Tuck. If the low-calorie cuisine didn’t improve matters, Tommy was afraid that he might have to invest in a videocassette and seek help from another Simmons: Richard, to whom he was not related.
He was just heading toward the produce section to purchase massive quantities of lettuce when a gaunt individual with an armload of herbal-tea packages backed into his cart. Not wishing to contemplate hit-and-run, the lawyer eased his shopping cart to the side of the aisle and rushed forward to see to the plaintiff.
“Are you all right?” he asked, for the fellow did look alarmingly pale. “I’m afraid you didn’t see me coming.”
“Oh, I’m fine. The velocity of that thing wasn’t—” Glowing dark eyes looked down into Tommy Simmons’s round face. “Hey, aren’t you the family lawyer? Makes you want to believe in synchronicity, doesn’t it? I was just thinking about you.”
Tommy would have willingly returned the compliment, but he had no idea whom he was addressing. “Well, it’s nice to see you,” he ventured. The dark-haired young man was dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He could be anybody.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. I guess lawyers have to have a good memory, but I’m flattered all the same.”
Inwardly, Tommy Simmons groaned. When someone said that, it was impossible to admit that you had absolutely no idea who they were. The only conceivable course of action was to keep the conversation going as neutrally as possible, and to hope that further clues would be forthcoming. At times like this, Tommy was haunted by the tale of an Atlanta colleague who had experienced just such a memory lapse once while talking to an elderly woman at a reception. After a few pleasantries, the woman had mentioned her son, and grasping at this clue to her identity, the fellow had exclaimed, “Oh, yes, your
son
. What’s he doing these days?” Towhich Lillian Carter had replied, “Oh, he’s still president of the United States.”
“Well, how have you been?” asked Tommy, casting about for safe topics of inquiry.
“All right, I guess. There’s not much to do around here, though. And the public library is most deficient in the sciences.”
Tommy endeavored to look sympathetic. Then, noticing the boxes of herbal tea, he said, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the library, but I can recommend another place for you to grocery-shop. Did you know that a health-food place has opened in the old gristmill?”
The stranger looked interested. “No kidding! Macrobiotic stuff?”
“Er … probably,” said Tommy, who wouldn’t have shopped there at gunpoint. “Kelp and trail mix and that sort of thing. It’s called Earthlings. You should check them out.”
“Thanks, I will.” Tommy had intended for that to be the end of the encounter, but the young man steadied the tea boxes, making no attempt to move on. “Listen, there’s something I need to ask you.” He cast furtive glances up and down the aisle of the supermarket. “Just a quick question, really. Do you think you could answer it off the top of your head—without having to consult files in your office, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Tommy, eyeing his frozen food with some concern. “I could try.”
“It’s about my great-aunt Augusta’s will. You looked into the matter a couple of years ago when my sister Eileen—just before she—”
Tommy managed to suppress
diet
frozen dinners, he thought, blanching at one five-hundred-calorie pasta entree. Just lately people had been exhibiting a regrettable tendency to overestimate his age. A sophomore from the local high school had tried to interview him on details of the Korean War. As if he’d admit to being on the
planet
during the Korean War! He blamed it on the Simmons family physique, which tended toward short stature and nonexistent waistlines. His hairline wasn’t much help, either; he was going bald on top, which only increased his resemblance to Friar Tuck. If the low-calorie cuisine didn’t improve matters, Tommy was afraid that he might have to invest in a videocassette and seek help from another Simmons: Richard, to whom he was not related.
He was just heading toward the produce section to purchase massive quantities of lettuce when a gaunt individual with an armload of herbal-tea packages backed into his cart. Not wishing to contemplate hit-and-run, the lawyer eased his shopping cart to the side of the aisle and rushed forward to see to the plaintiff.
“Are you all right?” he asked, for the fellow did look alarmingly pale. “I’m afraid you didn’t see me coming.”
“Oh, I’m fine. The velocity of that thing wasn’t—” Glowing dark eyes looked down into Tommy Simmons’s round face. “Hey, aren’t you the family lawyer? Makes you want to believe in synchronicity, doesn’t it? I was just thinking about you.”
Tommy would have willingly returned the compliment, but he had no idea whom he was addressing. “Well, it’s nice to see you,” he ventured. The dark-haired young man was dressed in jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He could be anybody.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. I guess lawyers have to have a good memory, but I’m flattered all the same.”
Inwardly, Tommy Simmons groaned. When someone said that, it was impossible to admit that you had absolutely no idea who they were. The only conceivable course of action was to keep the conversation going as neutrally as possible, and to hope that further clues would be forthcoming. At times like this, Tommy was haunted by the tale of an Atlanta colleague who had experienced just such a memory lapse once while talking to an elderly woman at a reception. After a few pleasantries, the woman had mentioned her son, and grasping at this clue to her identity, the fellow had exclaimed, “Oh, yes, your
son
. What’s he doing these days?” Towhich Lillian Carter had replied, “Oh, he’s still president of the United States.”
“Well, how have you been?” asked Tommy, casting about for safe topics of inquiry.
“All right, I guess. There’s not much to do around here, though. And the public library is most deficient in the sciences.”
Tommy endeavored to look sympathetic. Then, noticing the boxes of herbal tea, he said, “Well, there’s nothing I can do about the library, but I can recommend another place for you to grocery-shop. Did you know that a health-food place has opened in the old gristmill?”
The stranger looked interested. “No kidding! Macrobiotic stuff?”
“Er … probably,” said Tommy, who wouldn’t have shopped there at gunpoint. “Kelp and trail mix and that sort of thing. It’s called Earthlings. You should check them out.”
“Thanks, I will.” Tommy had intended for that to be the end of the encounter, but the young man steadied the tea boxes, making no attempt to move on. “Listen, there’s something I need to ask you.” He cast furtive glances up and down the aisle of the supermarket. “Just a quick question, really. Do you think you could answer it off the top of your head—without having to consult files in your office, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Tommy, eyeing his frozen food with some concern. “I could try.”
“It’s about my great-aunt Augusta’s will. You looked into the matter a couple of years ago when my sister Eileen—just before she—”
Tommy managed to suppress
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