The house was set further back from the road than its neighbors. It sat almost shyly, a simple house which might have seemed drab had it not been for the blaze of tall red hollyhocks which grew against the front.

The client was Christopher but in my pre-visit call I had spoken to his brother Bobby, who had seemed to be aware of all the clinical details and was dealing with the various aid agencies.

The door was opened by Bethel, a round-faced black lady, heavy set, wearing a muumuu as colorful as the hollyhocks outside. She smiled a kind of wise, weary smile and asked me to come through to her son’s bedroom. Christopher was in bed, very thin, very quiet and obviously very sick, with probably not much longer to go. Bethel sat down in the well-worn chair next to the bed and picked up her crocheting. This had obviously been her post for some time, and would be until she was no longer needed.

I asked my questions in one of those rather uncomfortable three-way exchanges so familiar to me. I directed my questions at Christopher but he was usually too tired to answer and deflected the question to his mother with a slight turn of the head. I hate to talk about someone as if he is already not there, so I tried to engage them both at once. She gave me some of the information, as she continued quietly to crochet, but Bethel was better at comfort that facts. So she said, “Perhaps you would like to speak to my other son, Bobby?”

“Yes, thank you. It was Christopher’s brother I spoke to on the phone, so that would be helpful”.

With a quiet, steady voice, “Bobby, could you come in for a minute”.

He did, a tall, sturdily built man, in contrast to his frail brother in the bed. Bobby was wearing a flowered dress, not unlike his mother’s but a bit more stylish, a shiny, black, shoulder-length wig, a single row of pearls and makeup. He shook hands.

“Hello, Robert, it’s good of you to come”.

“You’re more than welcome. I just need to ask a few questions so we have all the information we need on Christopher”.

“Sure”. He answered my queries very confidently, obviously having immersed himself in all the previously unfamiliar technicalities necessary for the logistical support of his brother.

Bethel sat serenely crocheting. On one side lay her frail and dying son. On the other stood her older son, looming almost, protectively, fingering his pearls as he spoke.

When I had finished I chatted a bit about ways of making Christopher comfortable. Then I stood, leaned over and kissed Christopher on the cheek, still leaning gave Bethel a small hug, and standing, received another very firm handshake from Bobby. As Christopher closed his eyes Bethel resumed her crocheting, and the very slight, weary smile set back on her face. Bobby thanked me again and saw me to the door.

I sat in my car, parked right opposite, finishing up my report. I looked up at the simple, quiet house and thought of the static scene inside, with Bethel flanked by her two sons, all of it shielded from the world outside by bright red hollyhocks.