THE Auburn House had never been a house or a home, but for decades had been a quaint little church of yellow brick and stained glass. It sat surrounded by a ugly chain-link fence on a shaded lot a few blocks from downtown Memphis. Graffiti littered the yellow brick and the stained glass windows had been replaced with plywood. The congregation had fled east years ago, away from the inner city, to the safety of the suburbs. They took their pews and songbooks, and even their steeple. A security guard paced along the fence ready to open the gate. Next door was a crumbling apartment building, and a block behind was a deteriorating federal housing project from which the patients of Auburn House came.
They were all young mothers, teenagers without exception whose mothers had also been teenagers and whose fathers were generally unknown. The average age was fifteen. The youngest had been eleven. They drifted in from the project with a baby on a hip and sometimes another one trailing behind. They came in packs of three and four and made their visits a social event. They came alone and scared. They gathered in the old sanctuary which was now a waiting room where paperwork was required. They waited with their infants while their toddlers played under the seats. They chatted with their friends, other girls from the project who'd walked to Auburn House because cars were scarce and they were too young to drive.
Adam parked in a small lot to the side and asked the security guard for directions. He examined Adam closely then pointed to the front door where two young girls were holding babies and smoking. He entered between them, nodding and trying to be polite, but they only stared. Inside he found a half dozen of the same mothers sitting in plastic chairs with children swarming at their feet. A young lady behind a desk pointed at a door and told him to take the hallway on the left.
The door to Lee's tiny office was open and she was talking seriously to a patient. She smiled at Adam. "I'll be five minutes," she said, holding something that appeared to be a diaper. The patient did not have a child with her, but one was due very shortly.
Adam eased along the hallway and found the men's room. Lee was waiting for him in the hall when he came out. They pecked each other on the cheeks. "What do you think of our little operation?" she asked.
"What exactly do you do here?" They walked through the narrow corridor with worn carpet and peeling walls.
"Auburn House is a nonprofit organization staffed with volunteers. We work with young mothers."
"It must be depressing."
"Depends on how you look at it. Welcome to my office." Lee waved at her door and they stepped inside. The walls were covered with colorful charts, one showing a series of babies and the foods they eat; another listed in large simple words the most common ailments of newborns; another cartoonish illustration hailed the benefits of condoms. Adam took a seat and assessed the walls.
"All of our kids come from the projects, so you can imagine the postnatal instruction they receive at home. None of them are married. They live with their mothers or aunts or grandmothers. Auburn House was founded by some nuns twenty years ago to teach these kids how to raise healthy babies."
Adam nodded at the condom poster. "And to prevent babies?"
"Yes. We're not family planners, don't want to be, but it doesn't hurt to mention birth control."
"Maybe you should do more than mention it. 51
"Maybe. Sixty percent of the babies born in this county last year were out of wedlock, and the numbers go up each year. And each year there are more cases of battered and abandoned children. It'll break your heart. Some of these little fellas don't have a chance."
"Who funds it?"
"It's all private. We spend half our time trying to raise money. We operate on a very lean budget."
"How many counselors like you?"
"A dozen or so. Some work a few afternoons a week, a few Saturdays. I'm lucky. I can afford to work here full-time."
"How many hours a week?"
"I don't know. Who keeps up with them? I get here around ten and leave after dark."
"And you do this for free?"
"Yeah. You guys call it pro bono, I think."
"It's different with lawyers. We do volunteer work to justify ourselves and the money we make, our little contribution to society. We still make plenty of money, you understand. This is a little different."
"It's rewarding."
"How'd you find this place?"
"I don't know. It was a long time ago. I was a member of a social club, a hot-tea-drinkers club, and we'd meet once a month for a lovely lunch and discuss ways to raise a few pennies for the less fortunate. One day a.nun spoke to us about Auburn House, and we adopted it as our beneficiary. One thing led to another."
"And you're not paid a dime?"
"Phelps has plenty of money, Adam. In fact, I donate a lot of it to Auburn House. We have an annual fundraiser now at the Peabody, black tie and champagne, and I make Phelps lean on his banker buddies to show up with their wives and fork over the money. Raised over two hundred thousand last year."
"Where does it go?"
"Some goes to overhead. We have two fulltime staffers. The building is cheap but it still costs. The rest goes for baby supplies, medicine, and literature. There's never enough."
"So you sort of run the place?"
"No. We pay an administrator. I'm just a counselor."
Adam studied the poster behind her, the one with a bulky yellow condom snaking its way harmlessly across the wall. He gathered from the latest surveys and studies that these little devices were not being used by teenagers, in spite of television campaigns and school slogans and MTV spots by responsible rock stars. He could think of nothing worse than sitting in this cramped little room all day discussing diaper rashes with fifteen-year-old mothers.
"I admire you for this," he said, looking at the wall with the baby food poster.
Lee nodded but said nothing. Her eyes were tired and she was ready to go. "Let's go eat," she said.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Anywhere."
"I saw Sam today. Spent two hours with him."
Lee sunk in her seat, and slowly placed her feet on the desk. As usual, she was wearing faded jeans and a button-down.
"I'm his lawyer."
"He signed the agreement?"
"Yes. He prepared one himself, four pages. We both signed it, and so now it's up to me."
"Are you scared?"
"Terrified. But I can handle it. I talked to a reporter with the Memphis Press this afternoon. They've heard the rumor that Sam Cayhall is my grandfather."
"What did you tell him?"
"Couldn't really deny it, could I? He wanted to ask all kinds of questions about the family, but I told him little. I'm sure he'll dig around and find some more."
"What about me?"
"I certainly didn't tell him about you, but he'll start digging. I'm sorry."
"Sorry about what?"