"You can't just live like this," I said.
"Why not?" Mom said. "Being homeless is an adventure."
As fall came and the days shortened and the weather cooled, Mom and
Dad began spending more time in the libraries, which were warm and
comfortable, and some of which remained open well into the evening.
Mom was working her way through Balzac. Dad had become interested
in chaos theory and was reading Los Alamos Science and the Journal of
Statistical Physics. He said it had already helped his pool game.
"What are you going to do when winter comes?" I asked Mom.
She smiled. "Winter is one of my favorite seasons," she said.
I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to do whatever I could to
take care of Mom and Dad, and part of me just wanted to wash my hands
of them. The cold came early that year, and every time I left the
psychologist's apartment, I found myself looking into the faces of the
homeless people I passed on the street, wondering each time if one of
them would turn out to be Mom or Dad. I usually gave homeless people
whatever spare change I had, but I couldn't help feeling like I was trying
to ease my conscience about Mom and Dad wandering the streets while I
had a steady job and a warm room to come home to.
One day I was walking down Broadway with another student named
Carol when I gave some change to a young homeless guy. "You shouldn't
do that," Carol said.
"Why?"
"It only encourages them. They're all scam artists."
What do you know? I wanted to ask. I felt like telling Carol that my