My Father’s Girlfriends
From time to time
he slept with one who had
what he called “real class,”
who knew how to dress.
Maybe she’d spent
time in Europe and
had a taste for luxury. She
worked for some specialty store
and would watch coolly
as my father — looking masculine
yet stylish,
darkly Mediterranean,
recently manicured,
the sleeves of his shirt
rolled up on his forearms,
his colorful silk tie loosened —
showed her the latest in sportswear
and then
asked her to dinner,
business, of course
(though she understood).
A sleek brunette, maybe,
with great legs.
Next day, he’d send
flowers and a romantic note.
“Women,” he told me,
“all of them, crave attention.”
From time to time it was a prostitute,
though by thirty-five he’d mainly
outgrown
that sort of thing. Nothing tawdry,
not the tough whores he
and his buddies used to drive
up to Albany for
when they were eighteen. But
nothing extravagant, either.
A small, neat West Side
apartment. Curtains in the bedroom,
like home.
She’d never make him
rush. He could take an hour
if he needed to.
“They’re the only
ones,” he told me, “who really know
how to please a man.”
But nine times out of ten the women were
like him,
Jews or Italians out of Brooklyn and
the Bronx, one step from the ethnic
ghettos, trying not to smell of pastrami
or spaghetti sauce, or talk with an accent,
dressed to kill, slick and ready
with a joke —
good-looking, youthful women who glanced
in the mirror a lot and wore beautiful clothes;
who knew their looks were an asset
and were determined above all
not to be old-fashioned.
Who’d discovered quickly what marriage
could offer and what
it couldn’t. Who could keep their mouths shut
and not tell other people what
they didn’t want to know anyway.
They liked to gamble, but
not too heavily.
The way I imagine it,
only once in twenty-five years
did anyone come close.
He was forty-five
and watching the gray
make its steady advances
like a disorganized guerrilla
army through the countryside
of his thinning hair.
She worked for a department
store in some small Midwestern
town, and something
about her shyness
cut way into him. She was
fifteen years
younger. They only slept
together twice, but he was
haunted. She never asked for anything,
and he was afraid he couldn’t forget her.
Worst thing he’d ever felt.
He knew what it would mean
if this ever got out —
what would happen to the family, what
his sisters would say.
He wasn’t somebody to throw it
all away on one spin of the wheel.
So he let it die out. Sitting home,
watching TV, and tossing
the football with me in the street.
Somewhere in his early fifties
he got attached
to a seamstress who worked
in his business —
a motherly woman with
a sick husband.
She made him dinner when
they worked late. He gave her
extra money, quietly; just relaxed
and let it happen.
Only his wife couldn’t tell.
She used to say, over and over: “Jack
worships the ground I walk on.”
Sundays, twice a year, we went
to the cemetery where
his father was buried.
We mumbled the Hebrew
prayer for the dead and, keeping with tradition,
put a small rock on the gravestone
to show we’d come. Usually,
we went home without a word.
But once, when I was twenty,
wiping tears away, he
started to tell me about my grandfather:
“He never raised his voice. He was
the sweetest guy. I’d hear
my mother yelling at him in their room.
And he never yelled back.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because everything she said was true — he ran
around and gambled and . . .” He stopped.
“He was the nicest man. Everybody
loved him. But just once I wanted to hear him
yell back at her.
She was right, but I wanted
him to raise his voice. To say,
‘Stop!’ ”
The Question
My mother at seventy-six
has raised a question.
It has occurred to her
that my father
forty-five years ago
spent many Saturdays at work.
My mother, who rarely
thought of anyone
but herself; who could not weep
more than half a dozen tears
when her husband collapsed
in the bathroom
and died of a coronary on the spot; who
remarried
within the year and had
the time of her life taking cruises
around the world that
her previous husband
could never
have afforded — she is starting
to wonder
was he really working
all those Saturdays.
Now, in the quiet of the big
apartment, with time to
think back, she has
remembered a woman
who phoned once
and hung up.
And this is when she calls me
and asks
if I know the answer.
And of course I do —
I, the secret-keeper, who
has found his way
out of every embrace.
I know the answer,
the phone number,
the way to the apartment,
her body in a black kimono
as she answers the door.
Sex
There is a difference between having a
thousand experiences and having the same
experience a thousand times.
— Mark Twain
No one can tell exactly how it is
for you,
but you know
all too well.
You’re finished,
slightly sad,
unsatisfied,
and you get up, trying
to be polite,
and go home.
You turn on the engine
and music blasts
into the car and
you shiver but don’t
turn it off.
It’s a short
trip home.
It’s a short trip.