Frank
enrolled in that boarding school. She saw him only on
weekends, and it must have been painful to leave him there every Sunday.
I remember reading in her diary about the nights out with girlfriends from
work, her only escape from all that solitude. On one of those nights she
met my father.
This man, my father, walked with a careless, movie star
kind of swagger. He stood only 5'4" in shoes, barely 2 inches taller than
my mother, and like many short men he overcompensated. He flirted with women
of all ages, picked up the tab if he had the money, flawlessly groomed himself
and dressed impeccably, cultivating a gangster-like steely stare to ward
off bullies, wearing his charm for the ladies like a comfortable suit of
clothes.
In a place and time like Hollywood in the 50s, with so
many facades all around, men like my father were legion. Smooth and attractive,
he must have circulated well. No one knew him well enough to ask the obvious
questions: Why did he live with his parents? Where did he get his money?
With all his talent, smarts and good looks, why was he so unsure of himself?
