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had one. Her constant wringing of it now touched me even more deeply than her words.
    â€œHave you talked to him?”
    â€œNot since the shooting. But I need to tell you some things. Philip came to me a few weeks ago, talking a mile a minute. He told me you’d agreed to help Russell in Washington. He was so excited, Jack, talking about how his years of tilting at windmills were finally paying off. Then the next evening he came home and—”
    I interrupted, “Woody still lives here?”
    â€œHe moved back in after Cheryl divorced him. Wasn’t planning to stay, but he had no reason to leave. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”
    Back into his old room—I hadn’t known things were that bad. Cheryl and Woody had been campus activists, involved in every progressive cause of the time. After college, they’d worked on political campaigns, organized protest rallies, and moved in together. To appease Mrs. Cole’s sense of propriety, they’d gotten married, but Cheryl had a propensity for getting too close to the candidates. No one mentioned it to Woody, although he had to have known. He would forge ahead for the cause or campaign, ignoring Cheryl’s appetite for politicians and power. Eventually, Cheryl had asked him for a divorce. She was having an affair with Little Rock’s mayor, who was running for Congress. The mayor had promised to take Cheryl to DC with him, but he lost the election. She went to DC anyway and now works for a congressman who thinks his wife in Illinois doesn’t know about Cheryl. Woody never remarried. His only comment about the divorce had been his disappointment that Cheryl hadn’t changed the mayor’s position on affirmative action. He figured it had cost the mayor the election.
    I suddenly realized I had been deep in thought and was hoping I hadn’t missed anything, when Helen said, “I could tell that something was eating at him that night. I tried to draw him out, but he clammed up. And he started to act so strange—staying up late, typing like a madman, printing documents. I’d wake up in the middle of the nightand hear the printer going in his room. I’d go check on him, and there’d be papers all over the floor. He tried to brush it off, blaming it on his workload, but it was so unlike him, Jack. He was at it night after night. I went into his room a few mornings after he’d left for work, but it was always immaculate. That in itself was weird.”
    â€œWoody’s never made a bed in all the days I’ve known him.”
    â€œOh, believe me, I know! I suppose it was my fault for doing it for him all those years. I like things just so in my house. Anyway, I have no idea what was keeping him up so late or what he was doing. I admit that I tried to open his filing cabinet a few times, but I couldn’t.”
    Helen paused, as if to regain her strength.
    â€œHe never told you what was wrong?”
What could have been so bad he couldn’t tell Helen?
    â€œNo!” she responded, almost in a wail. “He said it was just work keeping him busy. But he looked terrible. I knew something was wrong, but … I did suggest he see a doctor or take a vacation. Or at least call you.”
    â€œI wish he had.”
    â€œIt was funny, though. This past Wednesday, when he came down for breakfast, he was my Philip again. He kissed me and said, ‘Mom, I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been myself. I’ve been working the graveyard shift, and it’s been hell. When I get home tonight, we’ll have a good talk.’ He seemed to be his old self.”
    â€œWhat else was different that morning?”
    â€œNothing that I recall, except that he carried an extra briefcase. Anyway, that evening he came home in great spirits and insisted we have a glass of wine before dinner. He had brought two very nice bottles home with him. At least he said they were nice. I