to where we were so he could explore his various sore spots."
"I sustained bruises and abrasions through my clothes. It wasn't just a little nothing. It was even bleeding a little bit. I didn't think it was safe to—"
I said, "Dad! People climb up mountains and rappel down them! Couldn't you hold on to the railing and keep going?"
"Six flights," he said solemnly. "I made a rational decision. It wasn't as if the building was on fire. We'd stay put until someone fixed the problem."
"Was it romantic?" I asked.
"It could have been," my mother answered.
"Except I was a married man."
I was deeply disappointed in their romantic genesis. It didn't dramatize anything I didn't already know about my father: that
there had never been a younger David reckless enough to walk down six innocent flights of stairs in the dark.
They were smiling at me expectantly. I said, "I'm missing something."
They looked surprised.
"The
affair.
What happened between the blackout and Dad's divorce."
"We fell in love," said my father.
"Were you a scandal?"
"Very much so," said my mother. "Some of my classmates thought I should lose my fellowship for moral turpitude."
I liked that. I asked if she'd been a virgin before David.
"This is where the privacy line gets crossed," she said.
I pointed out that they loved the topic of sex. Hadn't they brought it up light-years ahead of when anyone else's parents even thought of passing on pamphlets? Like in fifth grade?"
"We talk about human sexual response when it's educational," said my father. "Not to satisfy a prurient interest"
I said, "I think I have a fair question that's somewhat educational and not that personal."
Okay, they said. Go on.
"How did you tell Laura Lee? I mean, was it 'I'm in love with someone else, so I'm moving out and divorcing you'? Or was it 'I think we should take a marital sabbatical. Nothing personal'?"
"To the best of my recollection, I took the coward's way out. I was never good at confrontation."
I pointed out that he was president of the Dewing Society of Professors and therefore
extremely
good at confrontation.
"That's different," said my mother. "That's professional and political. He means he's not good at confrontation when it's personal. Can you imagine what it takes to sit down opposite your spouse and say, 'I don't think this marriage is right for either of us'?"
"And 'P.S. I love someone else'?" I asked.
My father turned to my mother, "Why does she need me to reconstruct, word for word, such a terribly difficult and painful period in my life?"
My mother turned to me. "Frederica? Can you answer David's question?"
"Not until he answers mine."
My father took a deep, tragic breath. "I don't remember word for word, but I put it in a letter."
"Tell me you didn't," I said.
"It was beautifully written," said my mother.
"You helped him with it?"
"I wanted the woman's point of view," said my father.
"You don't break up with someone in a letter or over the phone. Everyone knows that."
"Then how did the expression 'Dear John letter' enter the lexicon if it weren't a common practice?" asked my father.
"You were married! Didn't you owe her a face-to-face explanation?"
"I gave her the letter in person and I stayed while she read it."
"But—"
"Your father was afraid that she might storm out as soon as she understood the nature of the discussion, whereas if it were in a letter, she'd read the whole thing. And could reread it as many times as she needed to."
"Did she go berserk?"
"Why are you asking?" my father said.
"I just want the whole story. She could have stormed out of the house to find Mom and kill her. I never would've been born. Maybe you'd have stayed together and she'd be my mother."
They both looked alarmed. My father said, "You take biology! If Laura Lee and I had had a child together, it couldn't have been you. You have half of Aviva's DNA. Were you serious? Or was it a form of poetic license to say that if we'd stayed together Laura Lee
"I sustained bruises and abrasions through my clothes. It wasn't just a little nothing. It was even bleeding a little bit. I didn't think it was safe to—"
I said, "Dad! People climb up mountains and rappel down them! Couldn't you hold on to the railing and keep going?"
"Six flights," he said solemnly. "I made a rational decision. It wasn't as if the building was on fire. We'd stay put until someone fixed the problem."
"Was it romantic?" I asked.
"It could have been," my mother answered.
"Except I was a married man."
I was deeply disappointed in their romantic genesis. It didn't dramatize anything I didn't already know about my father: that
there had never been a younger David reckless enough to walk down six innocent flights of stairs in the dark.
They were smiling at me expectantly. I said, "I'm missing something."
They looked surprised.
"The
affair.
What happened between the blackout and Dad's divorce."
"We fell in love," said my father.
"Were you a scandal?"
"Very much so," said my mother. "Some of my classmates thought I should lose my fellowship for moral turpitude."
I liked that. I asked if she'd been a virgin before David.
"This is where the privacy line gets crossed," she said.
I pointed out that they loved the topic of sex. Hadn't they brought it up light-years ahead of when anyone else's parents even thought of passing on pamphlets? Like in fifth grade?"
"We talk about human sexual response when it's educational," said my father. "Not to satisfy a prurient interest"
I said, "I think I have a fair question that's somewhat educational and not that personal."
Okay, they said. Go on.
"How did you tell Laura Lee? I mean, was it 'I'm in love with someone else, so I'm moving out and divorcing you'? Or was it 'I think we should take a marital sabbatical. Nothing personal'?"
"To the best of my recollection, I took the coward's way out. I was never good at confrontation."
I pointed out that he was president of the Dewing Society of Professors and therefore
extremely
good at confrontation.
"That's different," said my mother. "That's professional and political. He means he's not good at confrontation when it's personal. Can you imagine what it takes to sit down opposite your spouse and say, 'I don't think this marriage is right for either of us'?"
"And 'P.S. I love someone else'?" I asked.
My father turned to my mother, "Why does she need me to reconstruct, word for word, such a terribly difficult and painful period in my life?"
My mother turned to me. "Frederica? Can you answer David's question?"
"Not until he answers mine."
My father took a deep, tragic breath. "I don't remember word for word, but I put it in a letter."
"Tell me you didn't," I said.
"It was beautifully written," said my mother.
"You helped him with it?"
"I wanted the woman's point of view," said my father.
"You don't break up with someone in a letter or over the phone. Everyone knows that."
"Then how did the expression 'Dear John letter' enter the lexicon if it weren't a common practice?" asked my father.
"You were married! Didn't you owe her a face-to-face explanation?"
"I gave her the letter in person and I stayed while she read it."
"But—"
"Your father was afraid that she might storm out as soon as she understood the nature of the discussion, whereas if it were in a letter, she'd read the whole thing. And could reread it as many times as she needed to."
"Did she go berserk?"
"Why are you asking?" my father said.
"I just want the whole story. She could have stormed out of the house to find Mom and kill her. I never would've been born. Maybe you'd have stayed together and she'd be my mother."
They both looked alarmed. My father said, "You take biology! If Laura Lee and I had had a child together, it couldn't have been you. You have half of Aviva's DNA. Were you serious? Or was it a form of poetic license to say that if we'd stayed together Laura Lee
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