E ARRIVE AT THE HOTEL MEZZANINE early Wednesday morning and are efficiently herded into a ballroom larger than a football field. We are registered and catalogued, the fees having long since been paid. There’s a little nervous chatter, but not much socializing. We’re all scared to death.

Of the two hundred or so people taking the bar exam this outing, at least half finished at Memphis State last month. These are my friends and enemies. Booker takes a seat at a table far away from me. We’ve decided not to sit together. Sara Plankmore Wilcox and S. Todd are in a corner on the other side of the room. They were married last Saturday. Nice honeymoon. He’s a handsome guy with the preppy grooming and cocky air of a blueblood. I hope he flunks the exam. Sara too.

I can feel the competition here, very much like the first few weeks of law school when we were terribly concerned with each other’s initial progress. I nod at a few acquaintances, silently hoping they flunk the exam because

they’re silently hoping I collapse too. Such is the nature of the profession.

Once we’re all properly seated at folding tables spaced generously apart, we are given ten minutes’ worth of instruction. Then the exams are passed out at exactly 8 A.M.

The exam begins with a section called Multi-State, an endless series of tricky multiple-choice questions covering that body of law common to all states. It’s absolutely impossible to tell how well I’m prepared. The morning drags along. Lunch is a quiet hotel buffet with Booker, not a word spoken about the exam.

Dinner is a turkey sandwich on the patio with Miss Birdie. I’m in bed by nine.

THE EXAM ENDS at 5 P.M. Friday, with a whimper. We’re too exhausted to celebrate. They gather our papers tor the last time, and tell us we can leave. There’s talk of a cold drink somewhere, for old times’ sake, and six of us meet at Yogi’s for a few rounds. Prince is gone tonight and there’s no sign of Bruiser, which is quite a relief because I’d hate my friends to see me in the presence of my boss. There’d be a lot of questions about our practice. Give me a year, and I’ll have a better job.

We learned after the first semester in law school that it’s best never to discuss exams. If notes are compared afterward, you become painfully aware of things you missed.

We eat pizza, drink a few beers, but are too tired to do any damage. Booker tells me on the way home that the exam has made him physically ill. He’s certain he blew it.

I SLEEP for twelve hours. I have promised Miss Birdie that I will tend to my chores this day, assuming it’s not raining, and my apartment is filled with bright sunlight when I finally awake. It’s hot, humid, muggy, the typical

Memphis July. After three days of straining my eyes and imagination and memory in a windowless room, I’m ready for a little sweat and dirt. I leave the house without being seen, and twenty minutes later I park in the Blacks’ driveway.

Donny Ray is waiting on the front porch, dressed in jeans, sneakers, dark socks, white tee shirt, and wearing a regular-sized baseball cap which over his shrunken face looks much too large. He walks with a cane, but needs a firm hand under his fragile arm for stability. Dot and I shuffle him along the narrow sidewalk and carefully fold him into the front seat of my car. She’s relieved to get him out of the house for a few hours, his first time out in months, she tells me. Now she’s left with only Buddy and the cats.

Donny Ray sits with his cane between his legs, resting his chin on it, as we drive across town. After he thanks me once, he doesn’t say much.

He finished high school three years ago at the age of nineteen, his twin, Ron, having graduated a year earlier. He never attempted college. For two years he worked as a clerk in a convenience store, but quit after a robbery. His employment history is sketchy, but he has never left home. From the records I’ve studied so far, Donny Ray has never earned more than minimum wage.

Ron, on the other hand, scratched his way through UTEP and is now in grad school in Houston. He, too, is single, never married, and seldom returns to Memphis. The boys were never close, Dot said. Donny Ray stayed indoors and read books and built model airplanes. Ron rode bikes and once joined a street gang of twelve-year-olds. They were good boys, Dot assured me. The file is thoroughly documented with clear and sufficient evidence that Ron’s bone marrow would be a perfect match for Donny Ray’s transplant.

We bounce along in my ragged little car. He stares straight ahead, the bill of the cap resting low on his forehead, speaking only when spoken to. We park beside Miss Birdie’s Cadillac, and I explain that this rather nice old house in this exclusive section of town is where I live. I can’t tell if he’s impressed, but I doubt it. I help him around the mulch to a shady spot on the patio.

Miss Birdie knows I’m bringing him over, and she’s waiting eagerly with fresh lemonade. Introductions are made, and she quickly takes control of the visit. Cookies? Brownies? Something to read? She props pillows around him on the bench, chirping happily the entire time. She has a heart of gold. I explained to her that I met Donny Ray’s parents at Cypress Gardens, so she feels especially close to him. One of her flock.

Once he’s properly situated in a cool spot, safely away from any sunlight that would blister his chalky skin, Miss Birdie declares it’s time to start working. She dramatically pauses and surveys the backyard, scratches her chin as if deeply in thought, then slowly allows her gaze to descend upon the mulch. She gives a few orders, for Donny Ray’s benefit, and I hop to it.

I’m soon soaked with sweat, but this time I enjoy every minute of it. Miss Birdie fusses about the humidity for the first hour, then decides to piddle in the flowers around the patio, where it’s cooler. I can hear her talking nonstop to Donny Ray, who says little but is enjoying the fresh air. On one trip with the wheelbarrow, I notice they’re playing checkers. On another, she’s sitting snugly beside him, pointing to pictures in a book.

I’ve thought many times about asking Miss Birdie if she would be interested in helping Donny Ray. I do believe this dear woman would write a check for the transplant, if she in fact has the money. But I haven’t for two reasons. First, it’s too late for the transplant. And second, it would

humiliate Miss Birdie if she didn’t have the money. She already has enough suspicions about my interest in her money. I can’t ask for any of it.

Shortly after he was diagnosed with acute leukemia, a feeble effort was made to raise funds for his treatment. Dot organized some friends and they placed Donny Ray’s face on milk cartons in cafes and in convenience stores all over North Memphis. Didn’t raise much, she said. They rented a local Moose Lodge and threw a big party with catfish and bluegrass, even got a local country DJ to spin records. The shindig lost twenty-eight dollars.

His first round of chemo cost four thousand dollars, two thirds of which was absorbed by St. Peter’s. They scraped together the rest. Five months later, the leukemia was back in full bloom.

As I shovel and haul and sweat, I direct my mental energies into hating Great Benefit. It doesn’t take a lot of work, but I’ll need a lot of self-righteous zeal to sustain me once the war starts with Tinley Britt.

Lunch is a pleasant surprise. Miss Birdie has made chicken soup, not exactly what I wanted on a day like today, but a welcome change from turkey sandwiches. Donny Ray eats a half a bowl, then says he needs a nap. He’d like to try the hammock. We walk him across the lawn, and ease him into it. Though the temperature is above ninety, he asks for a blanket.

WE SIT IN THE SHADE, sip more lemonade and talk about how sad he is. I tell her a little about the case against Great Benefit, and place emphasis on the fact that I’ve sued them for ten million dollars. She asks a few general questions about the bar exam, then disappears into the house.

When she returns, she hands me an envelope from a lawyer in Atlanta. I recognize the name of the firm.

“Can you explain this?” she asks, standing before me, hands on hips.

The lawyer has written a letter to Miss Birdie, and along with his letter he has attached a copy of the letter I sent to him. In my letter, I explained that I now represent Miss Birdie Birdsong, that she has asked me to draft a new will and that I need information about the estate of her deceased husband. In his letter to her, he simply asks if he may divulge any information to me. He sounds quite indifferent, as if he’s just following orders.

“It’s all in black and white,” I say. “I’m your lawyer. I’m trying to gather information.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to go dig around in Atlanta.”

“What’s wrong with it? What’s hidden over there, Miss Birdie? Why is this so secretive?”

“The judge sealed the court file,” she says with a shrug, as if that’s the end of it.

“What’s in the court file?”

“A bunch of trash.”

“Concerning you?”

“Heavens no!”

“Okay. About who?”

“Tony’s family. His brother was filthy rich, down in Florida, you see, had several wives and different sets of children. Whole family was loony. They had this big fight over his wills, four wills, I think. I don’t know much about it, but I heard once that when it was all over the lawyers got paid six million dollars. Some of the money filtered down to Tony, who lived just long enough to inherit it under Florida law. Tony didn’t even know it, because he died too fast. Left nothing but a wife. Me. That’s all I know.”

It’s not important how she obtained the money. But it

would be nice to know how much of it she inherited. “Do you want to talk about your will?” I ask.

“No. Later,” she says, reaching for her gardening gloves. “Let’s get to work.”

HOURS LATER, I sit with Dot and Donny Ray on the weedy patio outside their kitchen. Buddy is in bed, thank goodness. Donny Ray is exhausted from his day at Miss Birdie’s.

It’s Saturday night in the suburbs, and the smell of charcoal and barbecue permeates the sweltering air. The voices of backyard chefs and their guests filter across wooden fences and neat hedgerows.

It’s easier to sit and listen than it is to sit and talk. Dot prefers to smoke and drink her instant decaf coffee, occasionally passing along some useless tidbit of gossip about one of the neighbors. Or one of the neighbor’s dogs. The retired man next door lost a finger last week with a jigsaw, and she mentions this no fewer than three times.

I don’t care. I can sit and listen for hours. My mind is still numb from the bar exam. It doesn’t take much to arnuse me. And when I’m successful in forgetting the law, I always have Kelly to occupy my thoughts. I have yet to figure out a harmless way to contact her, but I will. Just give me time.