Father’s Day

by Jim Freund

    © 2021                

"So, here's the thing, Dad – I know you're a lawyer, but I've got no idea what you do."

            Mark and I are in a rented car, driving from the airport in Denver to the ski resort at Steamboat Springs – just the two of us on vacation over the New Year's holiday.  We've made the turn north off Route 70 and are heading up to the pass called "Rabbit Ears."  A light snow is falling.  At three-thirty in the afternoon, it's starting to get dark, although there’s still adequate visibility.

            "I mean, Josh's father is a surgeon – he cuts people up, takes out the bad stuff, and sews them back together.  Kyle's dad is an architect – he makes up the design for a school or office building.  I know what they do.  But you – the big-shot lawyer Dan Barton, who likes to brag that in all his days at Jenkins & Price he's never seen the inside of a courtroom – what do you do?"

            This, I'm thinking, is some precocious 12-year old.  Dammit, I wish I could spend more time with him –    like the many hours we'll have together on this vacation. It’s the first trip the two of us have ever taken on our own. Ever since Alice and I split last summer, it's just been weekends for Mark and me.  And I churn up those Saturdays and Sundays into such non-stop activity – ball games, workouts, movies and so on – that there's little quiet time to hold a serious conversation.

            I miss those hours of pre-bedtime "guy talk" with Mark on weekday evenings in our Bronxville home – not that I always made it home on time.  Nowadays, my weekday non-working evenings are mostly spent chatting with the date du jour.  And while there are some definite advantages to dealing with the other gender, the talking part doesn't always score high on my list.

            "See what I mean, Dad?  I can't picture your work, the way I can with those other guys' fathers."

            As a kid, I always knew what my father did.  He owned a company that made those little ball bearings they used in roller skates.  But the business wasn't interesting, and I took no pride in it – I guess it seemed so inconsequential.  I remember avoiding the subject when other kids discussed their fathers' professions.

            Funny, I never thought Mark had any interest in what I do for a living.  And the last thing I wanted was to bore him with war stories about my heroics on some current deal.  So I just stayed away from the subject.  But now, having posed a sensible question, he's entitled to a helpful reply.

            "You know, I'm glad you asked the question. I'll try to answer it in a way that makes sense to you."

            But how do I give him the flavor of what I do – make it seem interesting, in terms he can understand – without piling on all the baggage I have to deal with?  Well, I'm not in a rush now, like I usually am.  There's no client or other activity getting in the way.  If I can't handle this inquiry, I'm not much of a lawyer – or a father, either.

            Actually, I’m not sure how good a father I am to Mark, who's my only child.  It's tough to excel at parenting when you're not around that much.  But what the hell, I had to get out – our marriage just wasn't cutting it.

            Hey, don't get me wrong – Alice is a nice enough lady, a good mother to Mark, and I bear her no ill will.  I intend to be generous to her financially when we get around to filing for divorce.  But the plain fact was that she made no effort to keep up with me.  There I was – sprinting ahead in the law firm, mingling with all those slick investment bankers and corporate honchos with their worldly wives – while Alice was teaching kindergarten kids how to draw stick figures and cooking early dinners for our boy .

            I feel bad for Mark, of course, as an only child in a – what's the clinical term? – in a broken home.  But I'll say this for the kid – to all appearances, he seems to be handling the situation very well.  When we get together each weekend at my apartment in the city, I always start out by asking him how things are going.  He invariably answers, "Fine".  I'm inclined to take that at face value and not probe too much – we never talk about the marriage or the separation.  I'm sure if our split was causing him problems, he'd let me know.

            "When you get right down to it, Mark, most of what I do is assist my clients – those people, mainly from big corporations, who come to me for help – in making difficult decisions."

            "Decisions about what?"

            "About different kinds of business matters – deals, contracts, disputes.   And questions like what's the best path to take when there's a choice, what tactic should we adopt in a negotiation, how can we make the other side move closer to our position, and so on."

            Mark doesn't respond right away.  I infer from his silence that my answer to his question was too abstract.  But unfortunately, it's not that easy to describe what I do to a non-lawyer. 

            Take Alice, for instance.  She always seemed uninterested in my work, so I rarely brought it up. . . .  You know, come to think of it, maybe she was interested, but didn't want to intrude after my long day at the office.  If  I'd volunteered some morsels, she might have gotten more involved.  She's not unintelligent – it's just that she inhabited another world that I knew nothing about and wasn't interested in.

            It's getting darker now, and my headlights sweep the narrow road as it ascends steadily toward Steamboat.  There's still enough light to glimpse my son in profile across the front seat.  We share a distinctive feature – a slightly crooked nose.  Mine came from a football injury – the handiwork of a second-rate doctor who reset it off-center. The trauma of Mark's broken nose – the result of a fall from his crib – is something I'd just as soon forget.  It happened on a night when Alice was at a PTA meeting, leaving me as the parent in charge.  I was speaking on one of those endless conference calls in the next room when I heard the crash . . . .

             "So, Dad, if these clients all come from big companies, they're probably smart guys – why do they need your help?"  I can see, out of the corner of my eye, that when Mark talks, he turns in his seat to look directly at me.  I've been trying, as much as possible, to keep my eyes glued to the road.

            "Good question.  Well, on some of the problems, there's a tough legal issue involved.  They want to get an expert opinion from a lawyer who specializes in the area."

            I don't like the way that came out.  It's all right for others to call me an expert, but I shouldn't be making that boast to my son .

            I never boasted to Susan Collins, but then again I didn't need to.  We'd worked together on a couple of deals, so she had a golden opportunity to see me in action.  Susan was a bright, good-looking Jenkins & Price junior partner who spoke my language, covered for me with clients, and worshipped the ground I walked on .  And boy, did I have the hots for her . . . .

            Mark's next question catches me by surprise.  "You said that 'some' of the problems are legal – does that mean that other ones aren't about legal stuff?"

            "Oh, what a sharp kid – you picked right up on that, didn't you?  As a matter of fact, a lot of what I advise on isn't legal at all."

            I don't look over, but I can tell from his voice that Mark is pleased with himself.  "Well, if the problem isn't legal, then why do they need help from a lawyer like you?"

            This boy is setting me up to blow my own horn, but I may as well play it straight.  "Because I have a reputation for giving good advice – I'm said to have good judgment." 

            That, in fact, is just what Susan Collins said to  me – the night we spent in Akron on the Voyager deal, when I knocked on the door of her hotel room.  She opened it a crack to be heard but kept the chain on.  "Use your good judgment, Dan – I'm using mine.  I think you're great, but I’m not into breaking up marriages.  I won't sleep with you as long as you're still with Alice."

            Susan's resolve remained firm.  As far as I could tell, her stance was sincere.  I'd never accuse her of withholding sex as a lever to get me to leave Alice.  But I can't help but wonder – was that, in fact, what pushed me over the edge?

            Mark persists.  "The questions they ask you – are they so tough that they need to bring in an expert?"

            Tough, I'll tell you what's tough – the first relationship you jump into after leaving your wife.  Susan was pretty and bright, but there was a by-the-numbers quality to her lovemaking that make me feel like I'd stumbled into a sex therapy clinic.  Bottom line, she's a better lawyer than a lover.  And maybe so am I – which might account for the steady turnover of ladies who have succeeded Susan in my bed.

            "Well, I wouldn't call it rocket science, but the solution isn't always obvious.  Sometimes the underlying facts aren't clear, and the determinations that need to be made can be uncertain."

            "Hey, whoa, you've lost me.  Listen, why don't you give me an example of a tough decision you help people on – one that's not legal."

            Oh, this kid is tenacious.  But I don't want to disappoint him – like I'm sure I did on the subject of that London trip Alice proposed a few weeks ago.  My sister and brother-in-law – and their son, Willy, who's Mark's favorite cousin – have been living in England the past few years.  Alice wanted to take Mark to visit them in March during the upcoming spring break, provided I went along – since, as she said, "they're your relatives."

            Now, I wouldn't mind seeing my sister, but traveling with Alice could prove to be dangerous.  Did this strike me as an oblique overture on her part to get back together?  If I had said "yes," might that have been misconstrued?  You betcha!  So I said "no" – but I could tell from Mark's reaction to the news he was unhappy we weren't making the trip.

            "Okay, give me a minute to come up with a good example."

            My mind strays to my own family.  This has been happening often lately, doubtless influenced by the Roots series that's such a big TV hit now.  I picture myself at Mark's age on a car trip with my parents and younger sister.  Typically, I'd be curled up in the back seat, devouring a book or magazine, off  in another world.  At 12 years old, did I ever initiate a serious conversation with my old man, like Mark's doing now?  Maybe, but I don't recall one.

            How about on my father's end?  He seldom spoke to me on those rides, other than to call attention to some point of interest along the road.  Was he respecting my privacy?  Or had I rebuffed his prior attempts at dialogue once too often.  Oh, God, I hope not.

            My father and I always seemed to be on two different wavelengths.  He was so wrapped up in his business that there wasn't much time left over for me – even to talk about the business.  We never took a trip, just he and I together, like I'm doing now with Mark – although, to be fair, this is a first for us.

            As for my mother, well, she was a sickly woman who lacked warmth.  She spent most of her time relentlessly pruning the garden behind our Montclair home.  My father would probably have been a lot happier with someone else, but back then, it wasn't anything like today's world. I just read that almost half the marriages now are destined to end in divorce.  Not for my father, though – he stayed with my mother until she passed away.  And now, he's gone too.

            I return to the present.  I'm hesitant to explain to Mark the elements of a real problem, which would be over his head.  But maybe I can get across what I do as a lawyer by using a hypothetical.

            The snow is heavier now, the visibility reduced.  I alternate between my brights and the regular headlights, which sometimes outline the road more clearly.  A car passes us in the other direction with its brights on, blinding me for a second.  And then – prompted, I'm sure, by our present surroundings – something comes to me that I can use with Mark.

            "Okay.  Now, this isn't a real problem that clients ask me about, but it's got some correlative characteristics."

            "Some what?"

            "Sorry – it's difficult to keep lawyer-speak from creeping into my vocabulary, but I'll try harder.  Anyway,  let's say you're driving a rented car on a deserted road, and you look at the dashboard and notice that you have very little gas – the tank is practically empty."

            "I'm not driving illegally, am I?  After all, I'm only 12 years old."

            "No, no, this takes place after you've gotten your driver's license."

            "So it's six years from now –"

            "Don't be a wise guy – your age has nothing to do with the situation I'm trying to explain."

            I catch a glimpse of Mark waggling his finger at me.  "Hey, don't get so bent out of shape.  I just want to make sure I understand the example."

            Why am I so testy?  I should be thankful he's interested and responsive.  "Right, right – I'm sorry.  Those are fair questions to ask – I should have made things clearer.  So now pretend you're 18 and driving a big sedan by yourself on a lonely road in the California desert.  And the car is a real gas-guzzler."

            "Okay, I got it."

            "Now, you don't know for sure, but you think  there's a gas station about ten miles down the road – and it's the only one in the whole area."

            "How much gas do I have?"

            "You think – but again, you're not sure – that you have one gallon left in the tank."

            "Will that get me there?"

            "Well, you've been told – but, of course, it's not certain – that in this car, driving at 30 miles per hour on the open road, you get 12 miles to a gallon."

            "30 miles an hour – why, that's almost like walking –"

            "Yes, but that's the speed at which you get your best mileage.  And if you're correct in thinking that the station is ten miles away, and that you've got at least a gallon of gas left, you would make it all the way at that speed."

            "What if I want to go faster?" 

            "Ah, that's a problem.  You've also been told that at a more normal 60 miles per hour, the car gets only eight miles to the gallon – so you might run out of gas two miles before reaching the station."

            Mark is silent for a few moments, presumably thinking.  The only sounds in the car are the slap-slap-slap of the windshield wipers and the crunch of snow beneath the tires.  I steal a glance his way.  It's curious, but when he's deep in thought, he strokes his chin with his index finger, brushing the bottom of his lip one way and then back the other – like one of those windshield wipers or the arm of a metronome.  It's a gesture I had long considered my own private preserve.

            He breaks the silence.  "Am I in a hurry to get somewhere?  Do I have a date with a pretty girl in the next town?"

            I smile.  "No, there's no rush."

            "So the safe thing for me to do would be to drive at 30 – at turtle speed."

            "Right – if that were all there were to the problem.  But there's more."

            His voice is cautious now.  "What else?"

            "Well, let's do a little simple math.  At 30 miles per hour, how long does it take you to cover the ten miles?"

            Mark thinks for a moment, then says, "Ten is one-third of   30. . . .  So it would take one-third of an hour – 20 minutes."

            "Good.  And how long would it take you at 60 miles per hour?"

            Mark doesn't hesitate on this one.  "60 is twice 30, so half that time – ten minutes."

            "Right again."  Oh, I like the way this kid handles math problems in his head.  It's  just another indication of how well-adjusted he is.  I take his obvious brainpower as a positive sign of effective parenting by Alice and yours truly.

            "Now, here's the other key fact.  You think – but again you're not sure – that the gas station closes at six p.m.  You're not wearing a watch, so you glance at the car clock – which may, but also may not, be on time – and it reads 5:45 p.m. . . . .  Do you see the problem?"

            Mark ponders this for a while and then gives a little laugh.  "Sure.  If I speed at 60, I'll get there in 10 minutes, and that's before closing time – if I get all the way there, which I may not.  If I slow down to 30,  my chances of making it all the way there are better – but since it takes me 20 minutes, the station may be closed."

            I'm ecstatic – he's analyzed the problem perfectly.  And very lawyer-like too.  Hmmm…. I've always avoided bringing up with Mark the subject of him becoming a lawyer. I guess I've been following my own dad's lead here – he never put any pressure on me to go into his business, which I appreciated.  It's clear, though, the boy would be a natural in the profession.

            "You nailed it!  And just to repeat the complicating factors: the clock's ticking, so there's time pressure; and you're really not sure about a whole number of items – is the station ten miles away, do you have a full gallon of gas, does the station close at six, is the car clock  accurate, and are the mileage estimates at different speeds correct?  So you've got a real problem."

            I glimpse the furrows on Mark's brow.  He's trying to figure a way out of the dilemma – just like I would be doing for a client.

            "Do I have a map?"

            "Not one that's helpful."

            "Is there anything in the driver's manual about how many gallons are left when the needle gets to a certain point."

            "Nothing that solves the problem."

            Another pause.  "Are there any phone booths along the road?"

            "No."

            "Damn!  You know, Dad, someday some smart guy is gonna invent a phone you can use in a car."

            "Yeah, like a Dick Tracy two-way wrist radio."

            There's a brief silence before Mark speaks.  "Okay, I see the problem.  But how do you help the clients?  You once told me they pay you 200 bucks an hour for your time.  But you're no expert on gas mileage.  How do you know how far the car is from the station – or whether it closes at six?"

            "Good question.  I help them to analyze the pickle they're in and come to a reasonable decision about what to do.  It gets into risk-reward analysis and a lot of other stuff that I'll save for our next chat on the subject."

            "Yeah, I think we've just about used this one up.    But if Josh asks me what my father does, I still don't know how to answer." I chuckle.  "Tell him I'm a kind of surgeon – I operate on people's psyches."

            "What?"

            "Just kidding."

            We're quiet for the next few minutes.  The snow is getting a lot heavier.  Our car comes up behind a snowplow, and I slow down to follow in its wake. I'm really not that experienced in driving under these conditions.  Should I have chains on the tires?  Do people still use chains?  Even if the car has a set of chains, which I doubt, would I know how to put them on?

            My mind shifts ahead to a more agreeable topic –  how marvelous the skiing will be after this snowstorm.  I envision myself schussing down a moderate slope that's floating in new powder.  I'm skiing alone – because Mark, who has already far outstripped me in technique, is undoubtedly 100 yards ahead, whooping it up.

            There's a wonderful solitary aspect to skiing, even when you're accompanied by someone.  The rest of life is strenuous, with all kinds of problems.  The business issues are complex, and the personal relationships aren't easy either, with lots of subtleties filling your head.  But when you're skiing, the entire focus is on getting your body down the hill in one piece.  No distractions – maybe that's why I enjoy it so much.

            I muse about Steamboat Springs, which Alice, Mark and I visited once before a few years back.  It's a place with two different characters.  Near the mountain are some modern resort high-rises, which appealed to me at first.  But after a while, I found them too antiseptic for my taste.  I was taken with the old parts of the town, where the streets have a rugged western feel that's more . . . well, more in line with reality.

            The silence lasts for a while.  I sneak a look over at Mark and can see he's deep in thought.  But I notice that his expression is different now than when he was trying to solve the car problem.  It's more troubled, almost painful.  When he does speak, his tone is more earnest than before.

            "Dad, does every business decision your clients make – after you've given  them advice – turn out okay?"

            Now that’s an intriguing question for a kid to ask.  "I wish it were so, but I have to admit they don't all turn out as well as we hoped they would."

            The follow-up comes quickly now, as if Mark had anticipated my answer.  "And when that happens, do you sit down with your clients and try to figure out what went wrong?"

            Another uncommon query – is he heading somewhere?  "We do.  That's very important – to be able to see where you erred, and then to learn from your mistakes."

            The car seems to wobble in the thicker snow, which causes me some concern.  I realize I've forgotten what my father used to drill into my head over the years – about the protocol to follow if the tires should start to skid on the snow.  You turn the steering wheel – uh – in the direction of the skid – or is it in the other direction?  And what does that mean – "in the direction of the skid"?  Is it the way the front wheels go, or the back ones?  God, I just hope we don't start to skid . . . .

            Mark continues, more slowly now, a tentative note in his voice.  "And you were saying before that there's a lot of stuff you're not sure of when you make the decision  – the mileage, whether the store closes at six, if the clock's on time.  You think you know, but you're not sure.  Is that ever the problem – that it turns out you were wrong about what you thought you knew?"

            Can you believe this – I'm being cross-examined by my son about my line of work.  Go, kid, go.  "Yes, that can happen.  As I was saying, that's what makes the decisions so tricky."

            "So, the decision seems right when you make it, but when you look back at it, the decision wasn't so hot."

            “Yes."

            He absorbs this, pauses – almost as if he's girding his loins to proceed – and then says, "Dad, do you ever go through the same thing when you're making your own decisions – on stuff that has nothing to do with business or with clients?"

            "Absolutely.  That's my style."

            There's no hesitation now – the words come tumbling out in a rush.  "Well then, did you go through it when you made the decision to split with Mom?" 

            Bam!  I had no idea where this was heading.  Our failed marriage is a topic Mark and I never talk about, so I'm stunned.

            My mind goes back to all those brief father-son exchanges – "How are things going?" "Fine" – that I never followed up on.  I have a sinking feeling that things haven't been fine for Mark – that his cheery replies masked deeper emotions – disappointment, distress, even anger.

            I'd like more time to work out my response, but he deserves an answer right now.  "Well, maybe not in a formal way, but I’m sure I analyzed the pro's and con's."

            He's ready for me, and I can sense some of that pain in the tartness of his tone.  "In the gas problem,  you said there were a lot of things you can't be sure of at the time you have to make the decision.  So, with Mom, were there some things that turned out later to be different than you thought they'd be?"

            You know how in cartoons a light bulb flashes on above a guy's head when something suddenly dawns on him?  Well, my bulb just came on about 500 watts worth.  The kid is right – there are such things!

             My mind begins to sprint through some of the post-split letdowns . . . .  I thought Susan would be more fulfilling than she proved to be . . . .  I thought I'd enjoy my freedom more than I do . . . .  I didn't think I'd miss coming home to a dependable Alice each night, with dinner on the table no matter what the hour . . . .  I never realized how much I treasured the weekday time I used to spend with        Mark . . . .  I didn't appreciate the marvelous job Alice has done in raising this terrific kid. 

            In short, the mileage estimates were understated,  the tank had two gallons of gas, and the station – which was only five miles away – stayed open until midnight!

            But I don't say these things.  "What are you getting at, Mark?"  This time I take my eye off the road to look over at him.  Do I detect the glimmering of a tear in the corner of his eye?

            "Nothing, Dad, nothing at all.  Hey, you're a grown-up – you made your decision."

            Just then, the snow plow I've been following slows down abruptly to get off the road at an unmarked exit.  I brake – but much too forcefully, forgetting to pump the damn thing as my father taught me years ago.  The car starts to skid.  I'm paralyzed in terms of which direction to turn the wheel, so I leave it in the center.

            The only action I take is an involuntary response, left over from my boyhood days in the passenger seat before seat belts were invented.  I reach out my right arm to restrain Mark from hitting the windshield – just like my father used to do for me.

            It's a scary moment – the swaying car seems to have a mind of its own.  I catch a look of terror in Mark's eyes, although no sound comes from his mouth. Meanwhile I'm frozen into immobility, contemplating the abyss beneath the side of the mountain road, and aghast that  we're relying on my minimal driving skills.

            And then, much to my amazement, something happens underneath the chassis to restore the alignment of the tires – without me ever being forced to guess the proper direction to turn the wheel.  In short – and no thanks to my driving ability – the car rights itself and we're okay.

            I exhale in relief.  "Whew!  Sorry about that."

            I look over at Mark, who mimes wiping his brow to indicate relief that the car crisis is over.  My mind goes back to where things stood before the skid, and I'm wondering if we'll return to the subject matter. The answer isn't long in coming.

            "Hey, Dad, do you think you earned your 200 bucks an hour on making the decision to split with Mom?"

            There's a wry smile on Mark's face.  He knows he got off a good zinger that his old man can't help but appreciate – and I do. I reach over and give his arm an affectionate squeeze.

            But I also realize that, from now on – Dummy! Are you finally awake? – I've got to find a way to get beneath Mark's cool exterior, down to where the pain lies, and try to be helpful.  A new mantra pops into my head – inaction is for skids, not kids.

            I've slowed the car down now, to avoid any further mishaps.  I'm pondering where to go with this dialogue.  And then it hits me.  Instead of more talk, there's something positive I can do right now – something that will raise both my parental and spousal batting averages in a single stroke.

            "Enough questions, Mark.  But now, let me ask you something.  Did you have your heart set on that London trip over spring break that Mom proposed?"

            I can almost sense his excitement.  "I sure would like to see my cuz Willy."

            "Well, let me talk to your mother again, and maybe we can work things out . . . ."

* * *

POSTSCRIPT

            I’ve wanted to write something new for the blog about relations between a parent and an adolescent offspring, but given the lengthy passage of time since my own such experience, nothing of note has popped into my head. So now I’ve gone back to my favorite prior effort along those lines – a fictional father-son tale entitled Father’s Day that I wrote about 15 years ago and was included in my book Smell Test – Stories and Advice on Lawyering, published by the American Bar Association in 2013.

            Smell Test is a collection of ten fictional short stories about lawyers. Since the book was aimed primarily at a lawyerly audience, I wrote a commentary to each story – designed to encourage readers to focus on the actions taken by the fictional lawyers, the decisions they made, and the rationalizations they offered for what they said and did. I posed the recurrent question for readers – “How’d they do?” – before offering my own views on both the specific instance and certain broader related issues.

            Nevertheless, I hoped nonlawyers would find the stories readily accessible, and took special pains not to let a lot of “law” intrude on the action. I consider Father’s Day – in which the father (in response to his son’s request) tries to give the boy a sense of what his legal practice is all about by conjuring up an everyday nonlegal situation – to be much more in the category of family relations than a primer on legal practice. I hope that in reading it you felt that way also.

            There were two underlying messages I wanted to get across in the story. First, there ought to be more to life than your work, and what should really come first is the attention paid to your family (as to which the fictional father here was somewhat lacking). Second, it makes sense to step back on occasion and take stock of just what you’re doing for a living; and a useful exercise for this can be pretending to explain the complexities of your work to a youngster – avoiding trade jargon, and perhaps concocting a non-technical example (as the father did here) to give your livelihood an understandable perspective.

            The commentary I wrote to the story did dwell on such issues as Dan’s post-marriage obtuseness to Mark when they got together on weekends, and Mark’s neat conversion of their dialogue about the decisional process into a pointed questioning of the basis for his father’s split with his mother. But it also explored some significant points about decision-making (applicable to both legal and non-legal situations) – namely that tough decisions generally involve a variety of pertinent factors, that these often point in several different (and frequently conflicting) directions, and that when the time comes for the decision to be made, we don’t always possess all the information we would like to have.

            I’ll leave it at that, but if you would like a copy of my entire commentary to Father’s Day, just drop me a note by email (to jim.freund@mac.com).