Maybe because it was her piano, because she was the one who played it, I hated that turret. It was simple andbeautiful, unencumbered, bright in the morning and richly colorful in the evening. It was hers, my father’s mistress, the destroyer of our family.
In describing Lisa, Mom had exaggerated in the negative. Lisa was a woman, not a girl. She supported herself as a secretary, but was also an accomplished pianist. She was a little shorter than average and plump in a voluptuous kind of way. She had wavy blond hair and pale blue eyes. I would catch Dad looking at her as if he wanted to touch her, which he never did in front of me. I was glad. I had no desire to play the generous, understanding daughter. It was bad enough seeing their quaint little set-up, their home. Blatant affection would have only twisted the knife in the wound.
I didn’t like Lisa for what she represented in my life, and she clearly didn’t like me, maybe for what I represented in Dad’s life. She treated me with an insidious hostility which only I could detect. That was smart of her. To Dad, she was the kind sort-of-stepmother to his daughter. To me, she was the plunderer of rights. It was as if I were the intruder, not her. I was tempted to tell her, straight out, that she had it backwards. Gwen would have told her. But not Patrick. He didn’t see it as clearly as I. He thought I was exaggerating when I tried to tell him how unwelcome she was making me. He couldn’t taste the poison in her onslaught of gourmet cooking. She must have believed that old cliche that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, because she had both of them, Dad and Patrick, enthralled.
She had all the meals worked out in advance. There were flowers everywhere. She had marked all the good movies listed on t.v. through Sunday. But she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
Dad and Lisa invited some of their friends over for Thanksgiving dinner. That was another thing: their friends. I knew that they’d had this apartment together for nearly five months before Dad left Mom, but still, it shocked me to realize they had cultivated their own social life. Dad had had a whole other, secret existence from ours. I felt betrayed.Who were these friends? Why did I have to meet them? They were all the enemy, against me, against Mom, against the reality of our old life together. I no longer had a real place in Dad’s life; it was like he had flipped the channel mid-plot, and I was lost.
These friends were a couple from Manhattan — Vladimir, a Russian jewelry designer and Suzy, his American actress wife — and another man, a lawyer. His name was Jerry O’Haran and he was the only one I really liked.
Vladimir was big and tubby, with a scraggy beard that looked like pubic hair. Suzy was the opposite: small and neat with short black hair and perfectly ironed clothes. She was decked out in outrageous jewelry made by Vladimir. BIG stones set in BIG strips of gleaming gold or silver. It looked fancy and expensive and I hated all of it. Vladimir and Suzy were nice people, but I hated them too. They just didn’t belong. No one did. Neither did I.
Patrick and I sat next to each other in chairs facing the couch, where Vladimir and Suzy were spread out, especially Vladimir. Dad was in the kitchen cooking, while Lisa played hostess. When she handed around wine glasses, she included Patrick and me. We looked at each other and shrugged. Normally, adults didn’t serve alcohol to minors, especially kids like us who came from a place like Grove. She filled our glasses with wine, and we drank it. I liked the buzzy numb feeling I got before long; it took me out of my tension, into a zero-zone of not really caring.
No one noticed I was getting drunk, not Vladimir or Suzy or Dad or Lisa or even Patrick, no one but Jerry O’Haran. Maybe that was why I liked him. He was unaffected, silent and aware, sitting next to me without a young girlfriend in shining bracelets screaming stones. Jerry had
In describing Lisa, Mom had exaggerated in the negative. Lisa was a woman, not a girl. She supported herself as a secretary, but was also an accomplished pianist. She was a little shorter than average and plump in a voluptuous kind of way. She had wavy blond hair and pale blue eyes. I would catch Dad looking at her as if he wanted to touch her, which he never did in front of me. I was glad. I had no desire to play the generous, understanding daughter. It was bad enough seeing their quaint little set-up, their home. Blatant affection would have only twisted the knife in the wound.
I didn’t like Lisa for what she represented in my life, and she clearly didn’t like me, maybe for what I represented in Dad’s life. She treated me with an insidious hostility which only I could detect. That was smart of her. To Dad, she was the kind sort-of-stepmother to his daughter. To me, she was the plunderer of rights. It was as if I were the intruder, not her. I was tempted to tell her, straight out, that she had it backwards. Gwen would have told her. But not Patrick. He didn’t see it as clearly as I. He thought I was exaggerating when I tried to tell him how unwelcome she was making me. He couldn’t taste the poison in her onslaught of gourmet cooking. She must have believed that old cliche that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, because she had both of them, Dad and Patrick, enthralled.
She had all the meals worked out in advance. There were flowers everywhere. She had marked all the good movies listed on t.v. through Sunday. But she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
Dad and Lisa invited some of their friends over for Thanksgiving dinner. That was another thing: their friends. I knew that they’d had this apartment together for nearly five months before Dad left Mom, but still, it shocked me to realize they had cultivated their own social life. Dad had had a whole other, secret existence from ours. I felt betrayed.Who were these friends? Why did I have to meet them? They were all the enemy, against me, against Mom, against the reality of our old life together. I no longer had a real place in Dad’s life; it was like he had flipped the channel mid-plot, and I was lost.
These friends were a couple from Manhattan — Vladimir, a Russian jewelry designer and Suzy, his American actress wife — and another man, a lawyer. His name was Jerry O’Haran and he was the only one I really liked.
Vladimir was big and tubby, with a scraggy beard that looked like pubic hair. Suzy was the opposite: small and neat with short black hair and perfectly ironed clothes. She was decked out in outrageous jewelry made by Vladimir. BIG stones set in BIG strips of gleaming gold or silver. It looked fancy and expensive and I hated all of it. Vladimir and Suzy were nice people, but I hated them too. They just didn’t belong. No one did. Neither did I.
Patrick and I sat next to each other in chairs facing the couch, where Vladimir and Suzy were spread out, especially Vladimir. Dad was in the kitchen cooking, while Lisa played hostess. When she handed around wine glasses, she included Patrick and me. We looked at each other and shrugged. Normally, adults didn’t serve alcohol to minors, especially kids like us who came from a place like Grove. She filled our glasses with wine, and we drank it. I liked the buzzy numb feeling I got before long; it took me out of my tension, into a zero-zone of not really caring.
No one noticed I was getting drunk, not Vladimir or Suzy or Dad or Lisa or even Patrick, no one but Jerry O’Haran. Maybe that was why I liked him. He was unaffected, silent and aware, sitting next to me without a young girlfriend in shining bracelets screaming stones. Jerry had
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