Island that he restored, and he and his wife had a child, a little girl. They
were his family now. Lori, who was still living in her apartment near the
Port Authority, was more in touch with Mom and Dad, but she, too, had
gone her own way. We hadn't gotten together since Maureen's
arraignment. Something in all of us broke that day, and afterward, we no
longer had the spirit for family gatherings.
About a year after Maureen took off for California, I got a call at work
from Dad. He said he needed to get together to discuss something
important.
"Can't we do it over the phone?"
"I need to see you in person, honey."
Dad asked me to come down to the Lower East Side that evening. "And
if it's not too much trouble," he added. "could you stop on your way and
pick up a bottle of vodka?"
"Oh, so that's what this is about."
"No, no, honey. I do need to talk to you. But I would appreciate some
vodka. Nothing fancy, just the cheapest rotgut they have. A pint would
be fine. A fifth would be great."
I was annoyed by Dad's sly request for vodka—tossing it out at the end
of the conversation as if it were an afterthought, when I figured it was
probably the purpose of the call. That afternoon I called Mom, who still
never drank anything stronger than tea, and asked if I should indulge
Dad.
"Your father is who he is," Mom said. "It's a little late in the game to try
to reform him now. Humor the man."