general. Chivalry is not dead. People always tended to rush to her aid."
"Daddy's saying that it was hard being married to someone so childlike. That's why, ultimately, he was drawn to someone who was competent and independent."
"You?"
"Yes, me."
"Go on," I said.
My mother took a breath. "Women who play up their so-called feminine wiles or, worse, feign incompetence—"
"Not that," I said. "I meant that I want to hear more about Dad's being drawn to you."
She looked to my father. They said nothing.
"Did he sweep you off your feet? Was it love at first sight? Or did it begin as a friendship but slowly grow into something deeper that you finally couldn't deny?"
"That's Hollywood love," said my mother, "imbued with an added layer of teenage romanticism."
"Why is talking about love called romanticism? You left your wife for Mom. She wasn't pregnant with me. I know that. Was there some other big reason besides love that I'm not getting?"
"Let's be frank," said my father. "You're a young, impressionable girl. We engaged in some behaviors that we wouldn't want you to emulate. We want you to see marriage as inviolable."
"He means for life," said my mother. "Like Canada geese."
I craved the low-down. David and Aviva were so deliberately plain, so earnest and interchangeable, that I needed to imagine them as two separate people radiating animal magnetism at detectable levels. "You've always been honest with me," I tried. "And I think I need to hear your whole story. As a cautionary tale."
When they continued to sit there, exchanging silent signals, I added, "Is it the sex part? Because you don't have to be specific. I'm just trying to get an idea of your history: You met in class. You met at a party. You met at the malt shop. You met on a picket line."
My mother smiled first. "It's almost a cliché how we met."
I said, "I love clichés."
"David?" she prompted.
"There was a blackout," he began.
"And you were stuck in an elevator together?" I asked eagerly.
"Almost," said my mother.
"We were in a lab when the lights went out. We waited for a while, assuming someone had blown a fuse, or, if it were the real thing, then a generator would kick in. After a while—"
"Maybe a half hour—"
"We groped our way along the corridor to the stairwell—"
"Were you lab partners?"
My mother smiled and said no, not lab partners. This was a neuroscience lab, so not the kind with Bunsen burners. Nonetheless, they were there at night because they both had experiments in progress.
"Did you know each other at all before this?"
"Only by sight," said my father.
"Which of course is so ironic," my mother continued.
"Why?"
"Because—and I just recognized this for the first time—we
knew each other only by sight. So it took a blackout to bring us together. In other words, sight didn't bring us together. Which we think says so much about our relationship and the depth of it."
I didn't say aloud what I was thinking: Yes, because sight brought people together when they were attractive. "So you made it to the stairwell...," I prompted.
"And I fell down the stairs!" my father exclaimed.
"Slight exaggeration," said my mother. "He was going ahead of me to be gallant. Almost immediately he slipped—they were old, worn stone steps—and I caught him by the back of the shirt."
"I still fell. Not any distance, but I landed on my coccyx. And I wasn't very stoic about it."
"Please don't tell me you cried."
My mother answered like the good note-taker that her field required her to be, "No crying. Just a little hysterical paralysis for a few minutes."
"Now
she's
exaggerating. I just sat where I'd landed. But for a very sound reason—"
"He didn't want to move in case it was a spinal injury."
"Because," my father rushed to explain, "we had just finished experiments on animals with spinal cord injuries. So that was me being my sensible self."
"He did stand up eventually, but he didn't want to risk going down the stairs. We walked back up
"Daddy's saying that it was hard being married to someone so childlike. That's why, ultimately, he was drawn to someone who was competent and independent."
"You?"
"Yes, me."
"Go on," I said.
My mother took a breath. "Women who play up their so-called feminine wiles or, worse, feign incompetence—"
"Not that," I said. "I meant that I want to hear more about Dad's being drawn to you."
She looked to my father. They said nothing.
"Did he sweep you off your feet? Was it love at first sight? Or did it begin as a friendship but slowly grow into something deeper that you finally couldn't deny?"
"That's Hollywood love," said my mother, "imbued with an added layer of teenage romanticism."
"Why is talking about love called romanticism? You left your wife for Mom. She wasn't pregnant with me. I know that. Was there some other big reason besides love that I'm not getting?"
"Let's be frank," said my father. "You're a young, impressionable girl. We engaged in some behaviors that we wouldn't want you to emulate. We want you to see marriage as inviolable."
"He means for life," said my mother. "Like Canada geese."
I craved the low-down. David and Aviva were so deliberately plain, so earnest and interchangeable, that I needed to imagine them as two separate people radiating animal magnetism at detectable levels. "You've always been honest with me," I tried. "And I think I need to hear your whole story. As a cautionary tale."
When they continued to sit there, exchanging silent signals, I added, "Is it the sex part? Because you don't have to be specific. I'm just trying to get an idea of your history: You met in class. You met at a party. You met at the malt shop. You met on a picket line."
My mother smiled first. "It's almost a cliché how we met."
I said, "I love clichés."
"David?" she prompted.
"There was a blackout," he began.
"And you were stuck in an elevator together?" I asked eagerly.
"Almost," said my mother.
"We were in a lab when the lights went out. We waited for a while, assuming someone had blown a fuse, or, if it were the real thing, then a generator would kick in. After a while—"
"Maybe a half hour—"
"We groped our way along the corridor to the stairwell—"
"Were you lab partners?"
My mother smiled and said no, not lab partners. This was a neuroscience lab, so not the kind with Bunsen burners. Nonetheless, they were there at night because they both had experiments in progress.
"Did you know each other at all before this?"
"Only by sight," said my father.
"Which of course is so ironic," my mother continued.
"Why?"
"Because—and I just recognized this for the first time—we
knew each other only by sight. So it took a blackout to bring us together. In other words, sight didn't bring us together. Which we think says so much about our relationship and the depth of it."
I didn't say aloud what I was thinking: Yes, because sight brought people together when they were attractive. "So you made it to the stairwell...," I prompted.
"And I fell down the stairs!" my father exclaimed.
"Slight exaggeration," said my mother. "He was going ahead of me to be gallant. Almost immediately he slipped—they were old, worn stone steps—and I caught him by the back of the shirt."
"I still fell. Not any distance, but I landed on my coccyx. And I wasn't very stoic about it."
"Please don't tell me you cried."
My mother answered like the good note-taker that her field required her to be, "No crying. Just a little hysterical paralysis for a few minutes."
"Now
she's
exaggerating. I just sat where I'd landed. But for a very sound reason—"
"He didn't want to move in case it was a spinal injury."
"Because," my father rushed to explain, "we had just finished experiments on animals with spinal cord injuries. So that was me being my sensible self."
"He did stand up eventually, but he didn't want to risk going down the stairs. We walked back up
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