That night the psychologist told me I had a phone call.
"Jeannettie-kins!" It was Mom. "Guess what?" she asked in a voice
brimming with excitement. "Your daddy and I have moved to New
York!"
The first thing I thought about was the van that had broken down on the
turnpike that morning. When I asked Mom about it, she admitted that
yes, she and Dad had a teensy bit of technical difficulty with the van. It
had popped a belt on some big, crowded highway, and Tinkle, who was
sick and tired of being cooped up, you know how that goes, had gotten
loose. The police had shown up, and Dad got into an argument with
them, and they threatened to arrest him, and gosh it was quite the drama.
"How did you know?" she asked.
"It was on the radio."
"On the radio?" Mom asked. She couldn't believe it. "With everything
going on in the world these days, an old van popping a belt is news?" But
there was genuine glee in her voice. "We only just got here, and we're
already famous!"
After talking to Mom, I looked around my room. It was the maid's room
off the kitchen, and it was tiny, with one narrow window and a bathroom
that doubled as a closet. But it was mine. I had a room now, and I had a
life, too, and there was no place in either one for Mom and Dad.
Still, the next day I went up to Lori's apartment to see them. Everyone
was there. Mom and Dad hugged me. Dad pulled a pint of whiskey out of
a paper bag while Mom described their various adventures on the trip.
They had gone sightseeing earlier that day, and taken their first ride on
the subway, which Dad called a goddamn hole in the ground. Mom said
the art deco murals at Rockefeller Center were disappointing, not nearly
as good as some of her own paintings. None of us kids was doing much