After Sonny had driven away on that September morning in 1975, Mr. Russo realized that the conversation had not gone as planned. He had intended to set Sonny straight about his work and his future; but instead the old wounds had been reopened, leaving Mr. Russo even more anxious than he had been before the conversation began. He needed to talk to someone who was not a part of his family's history, to discuss the present, not the past, or maybe the future, but not the past. So he deliberately worked his way over to the side of the garden that bordered his own driveway.

Thus it was no accident that he was working in that section when his other neighbor, Susan James, came out of her house on her way to work. Susan saw Mr. Russo immediately, and while she hoped that perhaps he wouldn't notice her, she knew that if he did she would take the time to visit with him. He's old and alone, she thought, and I can spare a few minutes.

Of course he did notice her, for Mr. Russo liked Susan James. For one thing she was, as far as he could tell, happily married. For another she took care of her children the way he thought mothers should. Her two young daughters went to school each day in starched dresses and patent leather shoes. Their faces were scrubbed clean and their long, blonde hair always was brushed neatly. Often they wore it in braids with colorful ribbons tied at the ends. What's more, they were extremely polite to Mr. Russo, greeting him respectfully each and every time they saw him. All of which struck him as the way things ought to be, and so he appreciated and liked Susan very much.

Susan, too, was respectful towards him and took equally precise care of her own appearance. Today, for example, she had on a woman's knit suit and a plain white blouse. On her feet were red leather shoes with low heels. While Mr. Russo didn't care for the man's paisley necktie she wore flawlessly tied in a Windsor knot, he approved of the way her own long blonde hair was held neatly back from her face by barrettes. He noticed that the barrettes were golden butterflies with tiny bright stones inlaid along the wings. Being light skinned, she always looked pale to Mr. Russo, especially since she rarely wore makeup. Like her daughters her face had a freshly scrubbed look. Slightly taller than Mr. Russo, she was heavy-set but not overweight. He guessed she was in her early thirties, but he wasn't certain. While he willingly told his own age, he thought it rude to ask others, especially women, how old they were, though he wouldn't hesitate to ask the most personal of questions otherwise. The very reason he had been waiting for her was to do just that, for he was worried about Susan in the same way that he was worried about Sonny.

As she walked down her steps, he watched to see if she would notice him. When she did he said, "Good morning, Susan."

"Good morning, Mr. Russo. What a lovely morning! Looks like the sun's going to shine, after all." Susan's voice sometimes sounded strange to Mr. Russo. It wasn't her tone, which was very pleasant to him, but the way she said certain words, like "aunt," which she pronounced "awrnt," whereas he said "ant," or "barrette," for which she emphasized the first syllable and he the second. She had once told him that she was from New England, and while Mr. Russo knew she didn't mean the British Isles he wasn't exactly sure where she did mean.

"So where ya goin this mornin, Susan?"

"Off to work as usual, Mr. Russo."

"Now what kinda work is that you do?"

"I work for the county, Mr. Russo. I'm the lawyer who is appointed by the courts to represent people accused of serious crimes who cannot afford to hire their own attorney."

As she said this Mr. Russo noticed the expensive leather briefcase she carried at her side. His heavy eyebrows knitted together as though he were thinking. "What do ya call that? It's got a name, right?"

"Yes, that's right. It's called a public defender."

"Public defender?" Mr. Russo seemed to be perplexed by the term, as though the two words together didn't make sense to him.

"Yes, that's what I am, a public defender."

"Public defender?" He said it again, clearly becoming more agitated. "That don't make no sense. You don't defend the public. You defend the people who attack the public!"

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Russo. You see I represent-"

He cut her off, his voice growing harsh: "I understand awright. I understand perfectly. You work for all those bums and scum who make life miserable for the rest of us."

"Now wait just a minute, Mr. Russo. I'm not going to stand here and let you call my clients 'bums and scum.'"

"Well that's just what they are." He was livid now. "I can't believe you work for those creeps, tryin to get them off so they can go back out on the streets and do it all over again!"

"My clients are not 'creeps.' They're people, just like you and me. No different."

"That's where you're wrong, Susan." Mr. Russo nearly chortled. "Your clients are definitely different. They ain't nothin like you and me. Nothin at all."

Susan paused for a moment, trying to think of a way to save the conversation. Suddenly she thought she had it: "Maybe you're right, Mr. Russo, maybe my clients are different. I remember your telling me once about your brother-in-law, the one who was an alcoholic. You said alcohol had twisted him, made him do things he never would have done before he started drinking so much."

Mr. Russo nodded his head slightly, almost reluctantly, unsure where she was going with this and unwilling to concede a point he didn't yet comprehend. "Yeah, so what?"

"Do you know how many of my clients have severe alcohol or drug problems? At a minimum it must be sixty or seventy per cent. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if it were higher, much higher. And substance abuse is only one problem faced by most of the people I represent. The vast majority of them are beset with multiple problems: Most lack job skills and are chronically unemployed or at best underemployed. Many come from families where domestic violence was a way of life or where education and learning weren't valued. Consequently, they've grown up unable to read and write effectively. Some suffer from serious medical problems that have gone untreated or even undetected. Others lack social skills that otherwise would enable them to break out of the cycle of poverty and crime that so viciously entraps them. Take these problems, Mr. Russo, and put them into one life, and what do you expect? What do you expect, Mr. Russo?"

"Aw, Susan, you just got a bleeding heart as big as the state of Texas."

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Russo. I don't have a 'bleeding heart,' as you call it; but I do have compassion. I feel for my clients. You know why? Because I know that if my life were just a little bit different, just a little, it could be me who stands accused."

"Naw, not you, Susan."

"Yes, Mr. Russo, me. In the two years that I've been doing this work I've come to see that I'm not so different from the most violent person I represent. The difference is really only a matter of degree. Thus far I've managed to live with my anger, to hold it in check so that it doesn't destroy me or others."

"Susan, what are you talkin about? You make yourself sound like there's a criminal lurking just beneath your skin. Come on! That's just plain stupid. I know who you are, and you ain't no criminal. You're not scum, Susan."

"And neither are my clients, Mr. Russo. They're just people. People who've been accused of wrongdoing, sometimes falsely accused. And people whose lives have gotten out of control for all kinds of reasons. Look at Sonny. Is he a criminal? Is he scum?"

Mr. Russo jerked back, visibly stunned by her questions about Sonny, which felt to him like an unfair attack. It was as if she had slapped him across the face.

Susan saw her mistake immediately, saw the way she had wounded him by trespassing into some area where she had no right to go. She had been trying to make her point, and her training as a lawyer made all avenues of inquiry fair game; but now she knew she had spoken out of turn. "Oh I'm sorry, Mr. Russo. I . . . I didn't mean to . . . I just wanted to . . . ." She faltered then stopped altogether, struck speechless at the enormity of the older man's hurt.

There was an awkward silence. They both could hear a car start up somewhere on the Avenue. A baby cried. A dog barked and lunged against its chain. A robin flew down onto the other side of the garden and tugged at a worm in the rich, dark soil that had been freshly loosened by Mr. Russo's hoe.

Finally he spoke, all the anger gone from his voice. "It's okay, Susan. You didn't mean no harm. Sonny's like family to me, that's all. And you're right, he ain't no criminal. There was reasons why he went to jail, and it's all in the past now. I've known Sonny his whole life. I watched him grow up. He's a good boy. He lived his whole life right here on St. Mary's Avenue. Which reminds me, I been meanin to ask you somethin. Where do you come from? You told me once but I forget."

Susan's face lit up immediately and she smiled. "Oh the place I come from, Mr. Russo, you would love it! First of all there's the people. They're just like you-family is so important to them. And they care, really care about their neighbors, just the way you do." Mr. Russo was obviously pleased by what she had said, so Susan continued with even more enthusiasm. "Then there's the place itself. There are all these gentle, rolling hills and ancient, stooped mountains. But instead of looking awesome and forbidding, they cradle and comfort you, inviting you into their valleys or onto their craggy peaks.

"Everywhere you go there's water: streams, rivers, ponds, lakes, marshes, and brooks, brooks everywhere. Brooks cascading down mountain paths or running over smooth rocks along dirt roads. And you can even drink from them without fear that the water's unclean. Except of course in the spring when the snow melts and washes the earth of winter's waste. Then the brooks become rushing torrents; but by high summer they're mere trickling streams that meander lazily in the cool shade of thick hardwoods that line their banks.

"And the color, Mr. Russo, the place just abounds with color. In the spring everything turns green, a green that's so rich it enters into you and claims you forever. Nowhere in the world is there a green like this. It's true: you haven't seen green until you've seen Vermont green!

"Then in the fall there's this miracle that happens. People come from all over the country to see it. Bus loads of them. From Houston and Dayton, from Des Moines and Charleston. Why there's so many that we even have a name for them-leaf peepers! Because of course they come to see the leaves.

"Each autumn is different. You never know from year to year what it will be like. Some are rose years when everything blends into a peaches-and-cream haze. Others are scarlet seasons when the maples turn red early on and just keep deepening until they're this wild crimson. Then there are the russet years when we just love to bemoan the lack of bold color and try to explain it: 'We didn't get enough rain at the end of summer,' or 'Too much during the peak, that's what did it!' But in the end it doesn't matter because then the browns get to show off. Like the beech trees. They have these translucent leaves that linger on the saplings and rattle their dry-bones-song right through till spring!

"But the best fall day of all can happen in any of those different autumns. It comes when there's an early snow. Then there are three seasons all at once: Through patches of winter white you see the deep green grass of summer, which is made even more brilliant because it's highlighted against the pure white snow. As if that isn't enough, this contradictory scene of winter and summer coexisting in the same breath of one day is framed by the crazy-quilt canopy of autumn foliage. Oh, it's so beautiful that just talking about it makes me teary."

Indeed, Mr. Russo noticed that Susan's eyes were filling with tears. He was moved by her passion for this place of her birth. "It sounds wonderful, Susan. But why would you ever leave it?"

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr. Russo. Every year for six months the whole place turns white, and you haven't seen white until you've seen Vermont white! Everything's white. White and cold and hard. Those soft, green hills turn white and brittle as glass. The wide open pastures that in early summer explode into wildflowers turn white and pale. The houses already are all white. And so are all the people! Why you can't even buy dark bread in the village where I grew up!"

Mr. Russo smirked as he said, "Sounds very nice to me."

Susan glanced at him for a moment to see if he had intended the racial slur she'd thought she'd heard in his comment. She decided he had, so she said, "But it isn't at all! It's dull and boring and even oppressive. There's too much sameness. Do you realize that I never saw a person of color in my home town? I mean, never. Oh I saw them on TV and a couple of times in Burlington, but never in my own, everyday life. So when I came to your state to go to college I was totally unprepared for what I discovered. I never knew we humans came in so many flavors!"

Mr. Russo had to chuckle at that.

"No, really, Mr. Russo. We are so versatile, so colorful, so full of variety. And it's not just our skin tones, it's all of it: the different languages, the styles of clothing, the exotic foods and music, the way we move down a street or dance on our rhythmic feet-every single thing and all things together. So different from what I experienced as a child.

"When I discovered that truth about us, I felt as though I had been cheated my whole life, kept locked away in a cold, icy tower under a spell of winter white that blankets the world to hide its myriad beauty. I vowed to myself that my children would be free from any enchantment that made them believe the world reflects only their own white image.

"Oh I'll always be a Vermonter in my heart. I love that land and its people like no other; but in my body and soul, I must be with all the peoples of our colorful world."

Once more Mr. Russo was moved by her passion. There was something poetic about her, he realized. Her idealism and her articulate expression of what life meant to her reminded him in some small way of his Carmela. Though Carmela had not been educated like Susan, they seemed to share a similar vision of life-of its endless variety and possibilities, of its hope and rich promise-as pure and unsullied, as dynamic and diverse as the seasons of Susan's Vermont.

"But why are you here, Susan, . . . on St. Mary's Avenue? I know why Sonny and me live here-it's our home, it's what we know. But why you? This place has changed. It used to be a nice neighborhood to raise a family. Now it ain't safe for anybody. The drugs, the violence, the race problems make this a dangerous place to live. You was safe where you were."

"Was I? I'm not so sure about that. The world is a very small place these days, and none of us is safe on our little islands anymore. But I do know what you're talking about. Who would know better than I? I practically live in the criminal courts of this county. It's most lurid crimes are my daily reality. I wish I could say it doesn't bother me, but it does. The crime, the violence, the drugs . . . all of it sickens me.

"I wish I could say I'm not afraid, but I am. I'm afraid for all of us, but especially for women. Last Monday alone I picked up three new rape cases. The violence against women astounds and revolts me. When I leave this work, it will be because I can't bear to cross examine another rape victim or behold another molested child.

"You know, I've never been the victim of violence myself. Yet I'm terrified that some day I will be. Afraid not only for me, but for my daughters-especially my daughters!-for my friends, for all women everywhere."

Mr. Russo saw that Susan was shaking now, but whether from the fear she had described or from a rage barely contained he couldn't tell. "So why do you stay on St. Mary's Avenue?"

She immediately stopped shaking, as though the question somehow calmed her. She looked directly at him and spoke with a certainty that impressed him. "That's easy," she said, smiling. "I believe we can change things. I believe we can turn this mess around. You see, I believe in people, really believe in them, in their goodness and in their ability to change and grow when given the opportunity. I know the struggle isn't an easy one. There are so many obstacles. But I also know that we can make the world a safe and just place for all of us. And my living here is a choice I made to be part of a community that deserves saving. By living here, by taking the risk you describe, I'm saying to myself and the world, 'This place is mine and I will work to make it free from harm.'"

"What about your husband, Susan, how's he feel about all this?"

"Oh he agrees, perhaps even more so. We're partners in this, Mr. Russo, and I think you understand what I mean by that."

Mr. Russo realized that she had used the same words to describe her marriage as Sonny had used to describe his ties with Clarence. Then he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop his eyes from momentarily moving to the cemetery. He could not actually see the double stone filled in on one side, but he could feel it. "Yes," he said, his voice wavering and his eyes growing dark and solemn, "yes, Susan, I understand perfectly."

"I thought you would." She reached out her hand across the low wire fence that separated them and lightly touched his arm. He hadn't felt such a soft touch in a long time. He thought he should pull away from it, but it felt too good. Susan said, "You know, I'm worried about you. You worry about everyone, but I'm worried about you."

"Don't worry about me, Susan."

"Oh but I do. It isn't that you can't take care of yourself, for obviously you can. But I think you need a change, something new in your life."

"Hey, goin to Christine's was enough of a change. That's why I came back. I like things the way they are."

"But I sense that something is going to change for you. I can't explain where the feeling comes from, yet I've learned to trust these things. Some of my friends tell me that I'm psychic. Sometimes I do these informal readings for them, and things often turn out the way I foresaw. Let me do one for you."

The last thing Mr. Russo wanted that morning was a psychic reading from a public defender neighbor in front of the whole of St. Mary's Avenue. But before he could object she had dropped her briefcase onto the drive and was holding the temples on both sides of her head with the middle and index fingers of either hand. Her eyes were shut tightly, her head tilted slightly towards the sky. Mr. Russo looked at her in amazement. He hoped none of his cronies from Asunta Hall was driving by just then.

"I'm gettin something . . . a picture of sorts. Yes, definitely a scene of you . . . and a group of people. Something's happening."

"Yeah, I'm probably gettin mugged."

"Oh don't say that, Mr. Russo! You'll make it happen! Wait, I see someone, someone new coming into your life . . . someone who has a gift to offer. A gift of love."

"Who's gonna love an old man like me?" His voice was full of contempt, yet the question was serious.

Susan dropped her fingers from her temples and looked right at him, her blue eyes glistening. "Oh you never know, Mr. Russo. You never know."

"Yeah, well, when's all this gonna happen?"

"When would you like it to happen?"

"How bout today? I ain't got nothin special on my calendar for this morning. Whadda you think?"

Susan realized Mr. Russo was teasing her now, but she didn't mind. While she had come to believe in her readings, she also knew she "saw" what she hoped would come to pass for the people in her life. Besides, she loved his little smiles of bemusement. "Why not?" she said. "Today is a glorious day for love."

"So what do I owe you, counselor?"

"No charge today. Consider it one of my duties in representing the public at large." Susan winked at him, picked up her briefcase, and walked to the street where her Toyota was parked. She opened the driver's door and, as she got in, called back, "Take care, Mr. Russo."