A Tourist at Home

MY WEEKLY PHONE CALL with my mother had been following its routine of meandering family stories and local news. I had given my usual report about the things I was learning in my second year of medical school, and she had asked when I would be coming home for Christmas vacation. Maybe my mind had wandered for a moment, and then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said, “Your father is OK.”

My father? I hadn’t asked about him. Why would he not be OK? The possibilities started flooding in as my mind raced ahead of my mother’s words. She had a way of letting bad news spill out in the middle of an otherwise ordinary conversation. She tried to keep things pleasant and cheerful until the pressure of what she needed to say became too great. The dam would burst, and I would suddenly be hearing about a death or serious illness in the family. The abrupt mention of my father set off alarms.

“He was robbed by a kid with a gun last night,” I heard her say. My brain processed each unit of information separately: robbed, kid, gun. Eventually, the whole sentence coalesced.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

“Yes. He was coming home from taking the car to the repairman last night at about seven. It was dark. He had to park on Second Street near Florida Avenue because that church was having a service. A kid, who couldn’t have been but sixteen, was walking down the street, and he pulled out a gun. He told your father to hand over his wallet. He did. The kid took it and nipped around the corner. That was it. Your father is fine.”

I knew my mother was working hard to put the best spin on the event. She could find a positive frame for almost anything, but the worse the news, the more strained her efforts grew. I was becoming alarmed by the breezy tone she was using to tell me of a gunpoint robbery.

“He is OK?” I asked again, my heart pounding.

“Yes, he is fine.”

I struggled to focus and ask appropriate questions, but I managed to get a few more details. They had called the police; a report was filed somewhere, describing the assailant as a young black male wearing a black winter coat. They had called and cancelled the credit cards. Tomorrow, they would deal with the driver’s license. The cash was only about twenty dollars. Pop wasn’t sure what else was in the wallet, but they would sort it out.

I asked to speak to Pop. He had a