
He lived in a 20-by-20 foot studio apartment for fifteen years. He washed his clothing in the sink, and the hallway reeked of his bathroom…
When they announced Bev’s name, I think I half expected Drew Barrymore to walk out onto the stage. I had just watched Riding in Cars with Boys only weeks earlier and, despite having read the book first, the image of a brown-haired Barrymore with a Brooklyn accent still resonated in my subconscious. Instead, a slim, tall woman with a very full wig, a funky hat and a glittery dress walked out onto the stage.
The boxes are sitting on my Seattle steps, bright white against the dark, mildew-stained stairs. I heft them up; they’re surprisingly heavy. I elbow my way inside the front door and drop them on the table with a thump. The red and blue lettering reveals nothing about what’s inside, though I have my suspicions.
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I piled everything into a boxy folding cart, the kind only New Yorkers use because we don’t have cars to haul junk in, and pushed it to Goodwill, around the corner on Second Avenue. It was my seventh trip that week.
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I was gazing out at Provincetown Bay through the enormous picture window in Norman Mailer’s home. Betty Friedan’s classic analysis, The Feminine Mystique, sat open on my lap. Jessica, an administrator of the Norman Mailer Writers Colony, entered through the patio door, bringing in the chilly fall air and the news that Norris Church Mailer had died.
When I arrived at the Army Induction Center in 1954, I was required to fill out a form so that my dog tags could be punched out. Among the information to be included, beyond name and serial number, was religious orientation. The choices were Catholic, Protestant, Jewish or None. I chose the last.
“Wake up! Wake up, little Amalia! Wake up, my daughter! We must go, we must go and turn your father in, he’s poisoning me and his stinky family is in cahoots!” The Mother pulls the covers off her nine-year-old daughter’s small body, warm with the scent of sleep and dreams.