I couldn’t have been older than 7 or 8. My family and the Abrams family were in our blue Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser station wagon, driving to or returning from a vacation—I don’t remember which. Hal Abrams was alone in the way-back, a book propped open on one leg, a legal pad on the other. I was whining or complaining or annoying the other adults in the car, and someone had the idea to send me back to “help” Hal with his work.
Hal was my mother’s first cousin and my godfather. I understood that he was an attorney, though my parents more often referred to him as a counselor. I understood that he helped people with taxes and money. I understood that he was brilliant and respected. But I had no idea what Hal actually did.
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