mother, Millie Charbonneau, to a department party. It was ironic that she lived right in Cambridge, where I was, and yet we hardly saw each other: My lab schedule was that demanding and her job as a Filene’s buyer kept her on the run. But I wanted to see her suddenly. I wanted, I wasn’t sure why, to sit down and talk to her about what I’d been like as a kid. I couldn’t remember much before five or so—and she’d always been closemouthed about that stuff when I asked her questions. Was I a brat? Did I cry a lot? Was I toilet-trained early? When did Í speak? Walk? Was I a kid who laughed?
Mom was delighted to come to the party. She wore a dark pink suit, pearls. Her skin — it’s so lovely — absolutely glowed. You know, it’s so strange: Since my father died, she’d been growing more and more beautiful. At sixty, she looked youthful, her hair swinging in a kind of shiny salt-and-pepper bob. She laughed like a little kid — her whole body moved around.
I introduced her to Q and spent the rest of the party watching them fall in love. I was mesmerized. It was like watching a movie. Millie laughed her great laugh; Q pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, closing his eyes, leaning in to make an animated point. Then they toasted each other, clinking their glasses together in front of the cheery fire leaping in its stone grotto.
“What an amazing man!” Millie cried in the car on the way home. I was driving, a little drunk — I remember being so hunched over my chin almost rested on the wheel. It was a cold starry April night. Everything outside looked eager — the black march of the lampposts, the first electrified shocks of green green grass, waiting to be frozen out or sweetly engaged with the season: stunned to the roots by spring.
“I see now why you think so highly of him,” she said. She leaned over and touched my wrist. “And sweetheart, he thinks the world of you.”
So I got to see it, like a formula, a balanced equation — two people I loved fell in love. I could relive a little history of human chemistry. I was permitted to see my mother young again, laughing, swinging a pocketbook. I got to see Q controlling a kind of joyful goofiness. He pursed his lips at odd moments and reddened, as if he was compressing a huge burst of laughter. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if he didn’t believe what he saw before him. Then he’d go dutifully back to work — and quit early! To take my mother to a Pops concert!
I started applying for jobs — it was time. I wanted to go to Southern California because it was unlike anything I could imagine. It might as well have been the moon. I wanted to get away from my mother, Q, Cambridge, the familiar labs. I wanted a life that belonged entirely to me. Once I had wanted an academic reputation; now I simply wanted out.
When I was hired by the University of Greater California, UGC, I was a little stunned. Now I’d done it. UGC is big, but its chemistry and biochemistry faculties are highly inbred. In fact, in my area of biochemical research, the department was made up entirely of men. But I didn’t care if I’d been picked to fill a demographic requirement. I cobbled together a most peculiar situation at UGC. Though I was trained as a biochemist, with advanced work in molecular biology, I asked, as a special request, to teach undergraduate Organic. I wanted to prove to myself (and Q) that I could hug the earth and theorize. I wanted (I thought) to inspire the young with some kind of politics or rather, (god help me!) some sense of honor in a scientific age that goes without. At the same time, I didn’t want to just transmit the politics I’d contracted from Q.
What I really needed was time to think— and fortunately there was some time for that built in. The one thing I did right was to insist that I not be involved in grant-seeking or fund-raising — from the government or the private sector. Some
Mom was delighted to come to the party. She wore a dark pink suit, pearls. Her skin — it’s so lovely — absolutely glowed. You know, it’s so strange: Since my father died, she’d been growing more and more beautiful. At sixty, she looked youthful, her hair swinging in a kind of shiny salt-and-pepper bob. She laughed like a little kid — her whole body moved around.
I introduced her to Q and spent the rest of the party watching them fall in love. I was mesmerized. It was like watching a movie. Millie laughed her great laugh; Q pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, closing his eyes, leaning in to make an animated point. Then they toasted each other, clinking their glasses together in front of the cheery fire leaping in its stone grotto.
“What an amazing man!” Millie cried in the car on the way home. I was driving, a little drunk — I remember being so hunched over my chin almost rested on the wheel. It was a cold starry April night. Everything outside looked eager — the black march of the lampposts, the first electrified shocks of green green grass, waiting to be frozen out or sweetly engaged with the season: stunned to the roots by spring.
“I see now why you think so highly of him,” she said. She leaned over and touched my wrist. “And sweetheart, he thinks the world of you.”
So I got to see it, like a formula, a balanced equation — two people I loved fell in love. I could relive a little history of human chemistry. I was permitted to see my mother young again, laughing, swinging a pocketbook. I got to see Q controlling a kind of joyful goofiness. He pursed his lips at odd moments and reddened, as if he was compressing a huge burst of laughter. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, as if he didn’t believe what he saw before him. Then he’d go dutifully back to work — and quit early! To take my mother to a Pops concert!
I started applying for jobs — it was time. I wanted to go to Southern California because it was unlike anything I could imagine. It might as well have been the moon. I wanted to get away from my mother, Q, Cambridge, the familiar labs. I wanted a life that belonged entirely to me. Once I had wanted an academic reputation; now I simply wanted out.
When I was hired by the University of Greater California, UGC, I was a little stunned. Now I’d done it. UGC is big, but its chemistry and biochemistry faculties are highly inbred. In fact, in my area of biochemical research, the department was made up entirely of men. But I didn’t care if I’d been picked to fill a demographic requirement. I cobbled together a most peculiar situation at UGC. Though I was trained as a biochemist, with advanced work in molecular biology, I asked, as a special request, to teach undergraduate Organic. I wanted to prove to myself (and Q) that I could hug the earth and theorize. I wanted (I thought) to inspire the young with some kind of politics or rather, (god help me!) some sense of honor in a scientific age that goes without. At the same time, I didn’t want to just transmit the politics I’d contracted from Q.
What I really needed was time to think— and fortunately there was some time for that built in. The one thing I did right was to insist that I not be involved in grant-seeking or fund-raising — from the government or the private sector. Some
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