When I was eleven, and my sister was thirteen, we shared the attic bedroom that, in Civil War times, had been the maid's quarters. Before taking my bath every night I would tie my hair up with a red ribbon and fill the old claw foot tub with scalding water. On those cold nights I would read Kafka's The Trial which I had stolen from my father's bookshelf. And later, wrapped in my robe, I would sit in the window seat sniffing that old empty bottle of Kahlua and watch the snow fall. A big… Continue

To be a boy is to be a god. Fly like a bird. Live on an island. Never grow up. I wasn't born a boy. But to die like one will be an awfully big adventure.

The quiet and steely reserve of a man with a liar for a wife never ceases to amaze me. He does not smile at the hyperbolic stories. He casually pours himself neat whiskeys all evening, one right after the other, as if nothing is amiss. It’s just another dinner party with a few close, understanding friends. And when they’re all gone home, those friends, he looks at me with those sad brown eyes, puts his empty glass down on the spindly-legged antique mahogany side table, missing the crystal… Continue

"If you like how he looks, ask him to take you out dancing on a hot summer night. Make sure he gets good and drunk. Gin and tonics are best. If the sweat on his neck tastes sweet, claim him as your own." She said all this squinting through her cigarette smoke. It's so nice to have a mother you can talk to.

After the eleven o'clock news the rest of the family would trundle off to bed. We sisters had gotten into the habit of staying up to watch old black and white movies with the sound off. We didn't care what was showing: Moll Flanders, Tanned Legs, or Airport '77. My silent solidarity. Every so often her hand would smooth over her rounded belly. A few more weeks and her childhood would be over.