Chapter One

Chapter 1

The last person in the world I wanted to know about was my father. I did not want to know if he had lovers. I did not want to know if he took diuretics. I certainly did not want to know if he liked to masturbate, or if, even occasionally, he fantasized about teenage boys. It was of absolutely no interest to me if he cheated at bridge, or if his secret ambition was to become a ballet dancer, or if he had an obsession with women’s shoes, or if he washed his body with lemon, or if he hit my mother (especially, God forbid, if she liked it). So when I was presented with twenty-four volumes of journals, each bound with a rubber band so old it was as brittle as the leather cover it held together, and was told, “These are your father’s, take them,” I was less than enthusiastic. Especially since it was my father who gave them to me.

“These are your father’s,” he said, “take them.”

“Dad,” I said, “you are my father.”

He looked at me quizzically. His eyes were like aspic. Cloudy. Beneath which something obscure, unappetizing.

“Where’s Karen?” he asked.

“Karen is dead,” I reminded him.

“That’s not true,” he said. “She was just here. I was speaking to her. Take these.”

With his feet, he pushed the box of journals toward my chair.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll take them. But I won’t read them.”

Then he turned away, and looked out the window.

“I’m waiting for F