Rainey surveys me.

“The one downtown,” she says, nodding at Sarah.

“What’s wrong with that?” I say. I know who they’re talking about. Clean, polite, efficient, he always looks presentable to me.

“I take that as a compliment,” I say, preparing for the worst.

“I’m sure you do,” Rainey says, winking at my daughter.

“You’re a lawyer!” Sarah exclaims.

“You ought to wear suits.”

I do sometimes, but if I know I’m not going to court, I can’t bring myself to wear one. Suits I associate with weddings and funerals.

“Having to go to work every day is bad enough,” I say, knowing my defense is falling on deaf ears.

“I’m not going to make it any worse.

That guy probably makes a fortune.”

At the dinner table I move our main topic of conversation from my clothes to the Razorbacks, which is appropriate given the season of the year. How will the Razorbacks do in the NCAA basketball tournament? In the legends that surround the Kennedys, one that has stuck with me as the myths have accumulated is the story that among his other accomplishments, old Joe, the father of a president, an attorney general, and a U.S.

senator, insisted that his children discuss world affairs at dinner. If table talk about geopolitics is a requirement of greatness, my daughter and I are doomed to the sticks.

“The best thing that ever happened to the Hogs was moving to the Southeastern Conference,” Sarah pronounces buttering corn bread that is soft as cake.

“Playing Kentucky, LSU, and Alabama has got to toughen you up a lot more than blowing out TCU and Texas Tech.”

I bite into cucumber and lettuce and chew.

“I miss playing Texas,” I say after I swallow.

“God, we hated them.” How boring my life would be without the emotions of resentment and envy.