526
PARTISAN REVIEW
him-my memories of him are of the man who works past my bedtime,
who often stays in midtown on weekends to take my mother to show
business parties, or stays out late working club dates by himself.
On the elevator he proudly introduces me to his colleagues . And
when he opens the door
to
his private office, there is a very attractive
woman sitting on his desk, her legs crossed self-consciously like Bette
Davis in a forties movie, her wavy brown hair covering one eye, her
black dress sequined at the neck line, apparel obviously inappropriate
for daytime wear. I know immediately this is the woman whose picture
is in my father's wallet: she is his mistress.
"This is Melissa," my father says. "A good friend of mine."
Melissa gets off the desk and pats me on the top of the head. In a
throaty voice she says, "Allie, he's so tall for his age." A lie: I'm short
for a thirteen-year-old.
"You don't have any kids of your own, do you?" I ask.
"No, why?"
"I didn 't think so."
My father kisses her on the forehead, a gesture of intimacy I try not
to
register on my face. At thirteen, I'm trying to learn how to be
sophisticated, grown-up. But all my hormones are working against
me-I nestle against my father, wrapping his arm in mine. I know it's
only a matter of time before he will leave my mother for this attractive
young woman, this woman who holds some charm for my father I
don't yet understand. And I wonder if she' ll like me, if they'll take me
with them.
My father suggests we all go out for breakfast. Outside, it's an
extraordinarily breezy day, a man is chasing his Panama hat down the
street, and the wind lifts Melissa's dress above her knees. She says, and I
remember the exact words, "Oh, it's snowing down south," a remark
I'd expect one of my classmates to make. From that moment on I resent
her totally, though it's something my mother must have said more than
once.
In the restaurant, my father orders French toast and orange juice
for me. I eat mechanically, but I eat. Melissa talks for a while about
business (she's a theatrical agent, that's how they met) and my father
tries to bring me into the conversation. "Tell Melissa why you like the
Yankees better than the Giants," he says . "Tell her about that lovely
young girl you've been seeing. Say something, for Christ's sake, I didn't
raise you to be a mute." I speak, nervously and frenetically, about
everything I can think of, gauging their facial expressions after every
