The Chamber (Page 47)

Adam parked in a small lot to the side and asked the security guard for directions. He examined Adam closely then pointed to the front door where two young girls were holding babies and smoking. He entered between them, nodding and trying to be polite, but they only stared. Inside he found a half dozen of the same mothers sitting in plastic chairs with children swarming at their feet. A young lady behind a desk pointed at a door and told him to take the hallway on the left.

The door to Lee’s tiny office was open and she was talking seriously to a patient. She smiled at Adam. "I’ll be five minutes," she said, holding something that appeared to be a diaper. The patient did not have a child with her, but one was due very shortly.

Adam eased along the hallway and found the men’s room. Lee was waiting for him in the hall when he came out. They pecked each other on the cheeks. "What do you think of our little operation?" she asked.

"What exactly do you do here?" They walked through the narrow corridor with worn carpet and peeling walls.

"Auburn House is a nonprofit organization staffed with volunteers. We work with young mothers."

"It must be depressing."

"Depends on how you look at it. Welcome to my office." Lee waved at her door and they stepped inside. The walls were covered with colorful charts, one showing a series of babies and the foods they eat; another listed in large simple words the most common ailments of newborns; another cartoonish illustration hailed the benefits of condoms. Adam took a seat and assessed the walls.

"All of our kids come from the projects, so you can imagine the postnatal instruction they receive at home. None of them are married. They live with their mothers or aunts or grandmothers. Auburn House was founded by some nuns twenty years ago to teach these kids how to raise healthy babies."

Adam nodded at the condom poster. "And to prevent babies?"

"Yes. We’re not family planners, don’t want to be, but it doesn’t hurt to mention birth control."

"Maybe you should do more than mention it.

"Maybe. Sixty percent of the babies born in this county last year were out of wedlock, and the numbers go up each year. And each year there are more cases of battered and abandoned children. It’ll break your heart. Some of these little fellas don’t have a chance."

"Who funds it?"

"It’s all private. We spend half our time trying to raise money. We operate on a very lean budget."

"How many counselors like you?"

"A dozen or so. Some work a few afternoons a week, a few Saturdays. I’m lucky. I can afford to work here full-time."

"How many hours a week?"

"I don’t know. Who keeps up with them? I get here around ten and leave after dark."

"And you do this for free?"

"Yeah. You guys call it pro bono, I think."

"It’s different with lawyers. We do volunteer work to justify ourselves and the money we make, our little contribution to society. We still make plenty of money, you understand. This is a little different."

"It’s rewarding."

"How’d you find this place?"

"I don’t know. It was a long time ago. I was a member of a social club, a hot-tea-drinkers club, and we’d meet once a month for a lovely lunch and discuss ways to raise a few pennies for the less fortunate. One day a.nun spoke to us about Auburn House, and we adopted it as our beneficiary. One thing led to another."

"And you’re not paid a dime?"

"Phelps has plenty of money, Adam. In fact, I donate a lot of it to Auburn House. We have an annual fundraiser now at the Peabody, black tie and champagne, and I make Phelps lean on his banker buddies to show up with their wives and fork over the money. Raised over two hundred thousand last year."

"Where does it go?"

"Some goes to overhead. We have two fulltime staffers. The building is cheap but it still costs. The rest goes for baby supplies, medicine, and literature. There’s never enough."

"So you sort of run the place?"

"No. We pay an administrator. I’m just a counselor."

Adam studied the poster behind her, the one with a bulky yellow condom snaking its way harmlessly across the wall. He gathered from the latest surveys and studies that these little devices were not being used by teenagers, in spite of television campaigns and school slogans and MTV spots by responsible rock stars. He could think of nothing worse than sitting in this cramped little room all day discussing diaper rashes with fifteen-year-old mothers.

"I admire you for this," he said, looking at the wall with the baby food poster.

Lee nodded but said nothing. Her eyes were tired and she was ready to go. "Let’s go eat," she said.

"Where?"

"I don’t know. Anywhere."

"I saw Sam today. Spent two hours with him."

Lee sunk in her seat, and slowly placed her feet on the desk. As usual, she was wearing faded jeans and a button-down.

"I’m his lawyer."

"He signed the agreement?"

"Yes. He prepared one himself, four pages. We both signed it, and so now it’s up to me."

"Are you scared?"

"Terrified. But I can handle it. I talked to a reporter with the Memphis Press this afternoon. They’ve heard the rumor that Sam Cayhall is my grandfather."

"What did you tell him?"

"Couldn’t really deny it, could I? He wanted to ask all kinds of questions about the family, but I told him little. I’m sure he’ll dig around and find some more."

"What about me?"

"I certainly didn’t tell him about you, but he’ll start digging. I’m sorry."

"Sorry about what?"

"Sorry that maybe they’ll expose your true identity. You’ll be branded as the daughter of Sam Cayhall, murderer, racist, anti-Semite, terrorist, Klansman, the oldest man ever led to the gas chamber and gassed like an animal. They’ll run you out of town."

"I’ve been through worse."

"What?"

"Being the wife of Phelps Booth."

A am laughed at this, and Lee managed A middle-aged lady walked to the open door and told Lee she was leaving for the day. Lee jumped to her feet and quickly introduced her handsome young nephew, Adam Hall, a lawyer from Chicago, who was visiting for a spell. The lady was sufficiently impressed as she backed out of the office. and disappeared down the hall.

"You shouldn’t have done that," Adam said.

"Why not?"

"Because my name will be in the paper tomorrow .- Adam Hall, lawyer from Chicago, and grandson."

Lee’s mouth dropped an inch before she caught it. She then gave a shrug as if she didn’t care, but Adam saw the fear in her eyes. What a stupid mistake, she was telling herself. "Who cares?" she said as she picked up her purse and briefcase. "Let’s go find a restaurant."

They went to a neighborhood bistro, an Italian family place with small tables and few lights in a converted bungalow. They sat in a dark corner and ordered drinks, iced tea for her and mineral water for him. When the waiter left, Lee leaned over the table and said, "Adam, there’s something I need to tell you."

He nodded but said nothing.

"I’m an alcoholic."

His eyes narrowed then froze. They’d had drinks together the last two nights.

"It’s been about ten years, now," she explained, still low over the table. The nearest person was fifteen feet away. "There were a lot of reasons, okay, some of which you could probably guess. I went through recovery, came out clean, and lasted about a year. Then, rehab again. I’ve been through treatment three times, the last was five years ago. It’s not easy."