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She was invited by a producer to audition for television, and became the host
of the Prize Movie (rechristened Pat's Prize Movie) on Channel 7, with twenty
minutes of live on-air talk time. She wore frilly boas and long evening gowns
and ad-libbed it. She became a local cult phenomenon. Pat's Prize Movie was the
highest rated program on the air in the Bay Area. Mom had a fan club. She went
to the opening of the opera, stuffy San Francisco's biggest deal, and was
greeted
by photographers and fan club members holding homemade signs that said "Pat's
our Gal." Mom made her smiling entrance, doubled back outside, picked up a
cameraman
and mic, and covered all the (other) celebrity arrivals live, runway style.
She published a book about giving parties, called How to Be a Party Girl.
Meeting Mom is like meeting a celebrity you've never heard of.
Then: Dad. Recently a widower, he read about Mom in the paper and had a
friend introduce them. He phoned to ask her out, she said yes, then she
canceled.
He asked again. She said yes, and canceled again. He asked a third time, and she
said no. There was something about his voice she didn't like.
"Please," he said before she hung up. "You could come up to my
house for dinner. I live near you. My son and I are here alone for the evening.
We 've just cooked a chicken."
Somehow this was irresistible. It was kind.
She didn't put on any makeup. He drove down Russian Hill and drove her
back up. His apartment was at the top of a new building called The Summit. It
occupied the front half of the top two floorsthe space generally allotted to
six
two-bedroom apartments with twin baths, full kitchens, large living rooms. Dad
had bought The Summit with his closest childhood friend, a real estate developer
who urged Dad and his older brother, Jack, to branch out of the butterand-
egg business they'd taken over when their father had died. He 'd already
been married in Marin, had four kids, got divorced, raised his two sons Mike and
Lad (been given the "mother of the year" award by his local PTA), discovered
the woman next door had cancer (they'd been having an affair while he was
married
to his first wife, who'd moved to Hawaii with his two daughters), married
her, watched her die in their bed, taken a shower, called the undertaker, buried
her, and a few years short of fifty, moved into this massive,
six-apartment-sized
penthouse apartment by himself. Dad had left or been left by everyone of
significance
in his life. He told Mom he was just sitting up there waiting to die, and
she'd saved his life by coming for dinner.
She met Lad, who was visiting Dad for the evening. They all talked for an
hour, ate the chicken, and then Dad drove Mom home. It was the best evening
she'd had since Sinatra. Dad was a gentleman, too. A man who could take care of
her. For a second date he cleaned up her kitchen and went home. He discovered
how hard it was to reach her on the phone (always busy) and asked if he could
install another line so he could get through. She said yes. The telephone was
red.
They got married in 1969. It was a civil ceremony, and all the photographs are
lost except for the photographer's set, which show Mom smiling hugely in a
white eyelet dress, and Dad in a dark suit, looking quietly content, with the
word "PROOF" stamped across them. Then her best friend was killed. The coroner
was baffled: lower body immolated, but no smoke in the lungs; blood carbon
monoxide levels less than what you'd get from a cigarette; all the doors locked
from the inside; no reason why she couldn't have woken up when the fire started.
The arson inspector suggested she died "from fright." Mom went to bed,
mourned, got pregnant with meand then went into labor when a huge fire
started in our building. After the fire department left an ambulance came for
Mom. She was forty-one.
From Oh The Glory Of It All by Sean Wilsey. Copyright 2005 Sean Wilsey. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, The Penguin Press.
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