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After we'd both looked at the issue a few times, another month came, and the overhill
ride to the Fairmont happened again. It became a father-son tradition. After a
few months, Dad told me, "I'm going to keep these in a drawer from now on, and
you can come take them any time you want. You don't have to ask me. But you have
to put them back when you're done looking at them. I'll be checking on that."
MY PARENTS' third home was a restaurant halfway down Nob Hill, toward
the seedy Tenderloinrun-down on the outside, clubby and leathery and lustrous
on the inside. I was a nonspilling, silent-when-told-to-be child, so, also
when I was nine, my parents convinced the management to make an exception to
their unbendable no-children rule, and for nearly a year I almost lived there,
too.
It was like traveling overseas to a ruleless country. All proscriptions were
thrown out. I got to stay up late. I was an adult. The maitre d' told us what a
great table he had for us, down the hall, past the cigar lady in her closetwho
waved at me as if from a shippast the bathrooms with their zebra-skin doors,
in the dim, glowing hum of the main room, called the Captain's Cabin, which
grew louder as we entered, as if we were newspaper thrown on a fire.
A waiter came, took Dad's drink order"Tanqueray gin on the rocks"and
quickly came back. The air around Dad started to smell like fuel.
Mom ordered. Dad ordered. They ordered for me: an elevated silver platter of
spare ribs with a candle underneath, accompanied by a butterfly-shaped dish,
one wing full of hot yellow mustard, the other sweet red sauce. Dad looked
deeply content. Mom smiled her radiant, irresistible-to-photographers smile.
People came to say hello.
Dad drank his flammable Tanqueray gin on the rocks, slowly, and leaned back
into the banquette, above which maxims were set into wooden plaques with
chiseled
Gothic letters. Above him it said:
No chord of music has yet been found
To even equal that sweet sound
Which to my mind all else surpasses
The clink of ice in crystal glasses
I knew about the clink of ice in crystal glasses: It was a sound that meant
all
was well, everything was in its place, no mistakes were being made, everybody
loved each other. I looked at the maxim on the plaque above Mom and Dad and
I knew we were doing everything perfectly, and as long as the crystal and ice
kept clinking there was nothing to worry about.
MOM AND DAD got divorced that same yearafter ten years without once
fighting, and regular reassurances that they would never get divorcedand
when they did it was vicious and corrosive and melodramatic and strange, like
having all your clothes taken away, being forced to the end of a narrow hallway,
and having a flaming car battery hurled at you.
I thought their marriage was perfect until one night in the middle of dinner.
This was the second night in a row that Mom had placed her head in her hands
and started crying at the table while Dad carried on making conversation as
though nothing were out of the ordinary. I said, "Dad, what's the matter with
Mom?" He hesitated, and she blurted out miserably, "Something terrible has
happened." Dad looked unreadable. I realized that this was serious. Dad said,
"We 're going to tell you about it after dinner." I tried to prepare myself. I
tried
to think of the worst thing that could ever happen happening.
I said, "Has Dede died?"
Mom and Dad told me that Dad would be moving out. A few days later I
went and spent the night with him in the Fairmont Hotel, and for the first time
he told me the following, which he would repeat many times over the years: "If
your mother had cared as much about being a wife as she did about being a star,
we'd still be married."
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.
I am what the librarians have made me with a little assistance from a professor of Greek and a few poets
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