to discuss with her. I now had a good job, I said, and was in a position to
help her and Dad. I wanted to buy them something that would improve
their lives. It could be a small car. It could be the security deposit and a
few months' rent on an apartment. It could be the down payment on a
house in an inexpensive neighborhood.
"We don't need anything," Mom said. "We're fine." She put down her
teacup. "It's you I'm worried about."
"You're worried about me?"
"Yes. Very worried."
"Mom," I said. "I'm doing very well. I'm very, very comfortable."
"That's what I'm worried about," Mom said. "Look at the way you live.
You've sold out. Next thing I know, you'll become a Republican." She
shook her head. "Where are the values I raised you with?"
Mom became even more concerned about my values when my editor
offered me a job writing a weekly column about what he called the
behind-the-scenes doings of the movers and shakers. Mom thought I
should be writing exposés about oppressive landlords, social injustice,
and the class struggle on the Lower East Side. But I leaped at the job,
because it meant I would become one of those people who knew what
was really going on. Also, most people in Welch had a pretty good idea
how bad off the Walls family was, but the truth was, they all had their
problems, too—they were just better than we were at covering them up. I
wanted to let the world know that no one had a perfect life, that even the
people who seemed to have it all had their secrets.
Dad thought it was great that I was writing a weekly column about, as he
put it, the skinny dames and the fat cats. He became one of my most
faithful readers, and would go to the library to research the people in the