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By Root 532 0

of money left by his father. He’d edited his high school’s small newspaper; the scholarship was based upon that and his stated intention to pursue a career in journalism. He came home on breaks during his first two years and wanted to visit Michael. But his mother forbade it, and he never pressed her to change her mind. She died during the summer between his sophomore and junior years. He sold the house, which had been left to him in her will, and never again stepped foot in that house, on that land, at the cemetery where both parents were buried, or in a church. Nor did he attempt to see Michael. As far as he was concerned Michael was dead, too, and he decided it was better that way. He forged his life as a reporter, met and married Georgia, and fathered Roberta. He’d succeeded in escaping and had freed himself from the family into which he’d been born, and vowed to never look back. He’d kept that vow for more than forty years.

Until now.

• • •

Knowing how difficult parking was in Adams Morgan, he took a taxi there, telling his turbaned driver to take him to the busy corner of Eighteenth Street and Columbia Road, the heart of this section of the city. He was glad Edith had suggested having dinner there. While Washington was no longer considered a culinary wasteland—it now had as many good restaurants as any other major city—the city’s eateries tended to reflect the pretentiousness of the city itself and its political heavyweights, the food not always matching up to the promise. But Adams Morgan’s eclectic array of restaurants served authentic ethnic cooking, one of the reasons tourists and native Washingtonians alike flocked to this gentrified conclave north of Dupont Circle, which had become Washington’s Latin Quarter and Greenwich Village rolled into one.

The intersection was chockablock with people. Aromas from the kitchens of ethnic restaurants and sidewalk food vendors hung heavy in the air. Salsa and Afro-Cuban music poured from speakers outside nightclubs and open-air cafés, causing some on the streets to move to their rhythms. He stopped to admire an Andean band of pan-pipers playing their native music. After dropping a few dollars in a case at the feet of the band’s leader, he moved down the block to where two African stiltwalkers perched precariously high atop their slender stilts, their colorful costumes and hats blowing in the breeze, wide smiles on their coal-black faces. The energy on the street was contagious and uplifting, and he forgot about his visit with Michael and what it might mean to his life. But by the time he’d navigated the crowds to the restaurant, his elevated spirit had sunk back to its previous level.

Edith Vargas-Swayze stood outside beneath the restaurant’s large chrome and neon sign talking with a well-dressed black couple when Wilcox arrived. She introduced him to them, promised they’d be in touch, and the couple walked away.

“What’s he do?” Wilcox asked.

“Lawyer, securities, and a good one. Or so I’m told. She owns a dress shop downtown.”

“I should have been a lawyer,” Wilcox said. “Or owned a dress shop.”

She laughed. “You’d look funny in basic black with pearls, Joe. Hungry?”

“No, but a drink would be welcome.”

“They make the best martinis in town,” she said, leading him inside. She stopped suddenly. “Hey, I caught you on TV. You were great.”

“Thanks, but being a talking head isn’t my thing. I’ve got some more lined up. Good PR for the paper—or so I’m told.”

“Ever been here before?” she asked about the restaurant.

“Yeah. A couple of times, but not recently. It’s like a throwback to the eighties.”

“I love it here, especially on Friday nights.”

“Why Friday?”

“The chef serves up matzoh-ball soup, challah bread, and brisket.”

“This place goes kosher?” he said, laughing.

“On Friday nights.”

“I thought you were Hispanic.”

“Orthodox Hispanic.”

“Oh.”

They were led to a table away from the lively bar.

“Glad we could do this,” he said. “We didn’t get much of a chance to talk last time.”

“Duty called.”

After ordering drinks and a platter of crisply fried calamari