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modern, both of her time and oddly outside of it, a strange mix of stubborn condence
and acute anxiety.
But there was another reason my mother took such ferocious pride in her personal
appearance. Her marriage had failed, and having a kid in tow made things even more
challenging, but she was still hopeful of nding romance. She’d always loved men and
knew they found her not only attractive but likable as all get-out. She could tell a joke
and take one, and she liked sports and had a good head for booze. She didn’t giggle
demurely like girls who were stupid or pretending to be. She presented herself as a
woman seeking a mate more than a husband, as a Nora Charles searching for her Nick,
except instead of having a yippy little dog for a companion, she had me. There must
surely have been times she’d have liked to trade me in for a dog, because I could be as
nervous and demanding as Asta and far less faithful. Worse, if allowed, I was just as
willing to steal a scene.
Of course she had exactly zero interest in Gloversville men. The ones her own age she
knew from high school, and there wasn’t a Nick Charles in the lot. More to her taste
were the guys who passed through the computer room at GE, or the kind of men who’d
stopped by our table on Martha’s Vineyard, men of the world who had manners and,
even if they didn’t major in repartee like William Powell, at least knew enough to hold
the door for a lady instead of barging right on through. Many of the “fellas” who
interested her had been in the service, and she was at ease with them, having been a
camp follower until my father shipped overseas. After the war they’d taken full
advantage of the GI Bill, as her husband had not, and now they were starting to get
ahead. They dressed well and drove T-Birds and Caddies. Some took her out for lunch in
Schenectady; others who were stuck there over the weekend were willing to hop on the
Thruway and drive to Gloversville on a Saturday night. At this point she was legally
separated but not yet divorced, and dating was one of many sources of discord between
her and my grandparents, who might have suspected, despite my mother’s protestations
to the contrary, that some of her dates had wedding rings in their pockets. They thought
she should think of me rst, because Gloversville was a small town where people loved
to gossip. Also, my father would cause a scene if he found out.
Which he invariably did. It was like he had a mole in the house. My mother didn’t go
out on dates all that often, but every time she did he’d telephone, wanting to know if
this new guy understood she was a married woman. He’d ask where they were going to
dinner. Maybe he’d stop by and buy them a drink. Introduce himself. Maybe he and this
new guy would hit it off.
“We’re separated,” my mother would remind him.
“You’re still my wife,” he’d remind her back. “And I’m still our son’s father, too.”
“What’s the matter? Forget his name?”
Often I’d awake the morning after one of my mother’s dates vaguely aware that
there’d been trouble in the night, shouting out in the street, maybe, or my mother calling
downstairs, telling my grandparents that he was gone and for them to go back to sleep.
Such confrontations were pretty rare, though, because they required focus and steadfast
purpose on my father’s part, and he famously lacked both. He’d have liked nothing