Serpentine

Milo sat in the front passenger seat, I took the back and scooted to the right to see as much of Val’s profile as possible.

Tight jaw, the lips folding and unfolding, again. Dainty hands gripping the steering wheel.

She said, “All right, no sense putting it off. You remember what I told you about Father changing after Mother died.”

“Of course.”

“Radical change,” she said. “Looking back, I think he was depressed. I was ten, didn’t think in those terms. I did know he’d changed. Went to work, as usual, came home and did his best to be fatherly but he really couldn’t pull it off. He’d give me a token greeting, a hug, force himself to chat, and then he’d escape to his bedroom or his study, close the door and stay there. Bill and Tony were both away at school, so I spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I wondered if it was something I’d done. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t neglected, he hired a couple of nannies to take care of me and they were okay.”

I said, “Not much of an endorsement.”

She swung around, surprised. As if she’d forgotten I was there.

“No, it’s not, they were adequate. By the book. All that solitude worked out fine, that’s when I really got into drawing. Sitting in my room all day — but this isn’t about me. It’s about Father. Basically, he left me.”

She turned back to Milo.

“After a few months of that, the other change began. All of a sudden he began going out at night, and in the morning, at breakfast, more often than not, there’d be a woman at the table. Then women, plural. Two or three, sitting around nibbling toast. Blondes, he always liked blondes. My mom was a blonde. She was English, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Bill and Tony’s mother was American and also blond. So there we were in the morning, Father, blondes, and me.”

Milo said, “That musta been jarring.”

“At first. I got used to it.” Pained smile. “I’m good at getting used to things. They were pretty nice to me, I got a lot of ‘Oh, how adorable.’ ‘Isn’t she the sweetest.’ That kind of thing. My nannies didn’t approve, they were old-school, one was French, the other was German. They’d whisk me away as soon as I finished my cereal. Sometimes Father would take the blondes with him, or he’d leave them behind and they’d be gone by the afternoon. Then that started to change and they’d be around for days. Then weeks.”

She fiddled with her hair. “The biggest changes were the ones Father made to himself. He used to have this cute little mustache. Like David Niven — do you know David Niven.”

Milo said, “The Pink Panther.”

“Sure, there’s that. Also lovely, earlier films like Bonjour Tristesse — I’m a bit of an antiquarian. Anyway, Father’s mustache always amused me. I’d tickle him under the nose and he’d be good-natured about it and pretend to sneeze and I’d just love that. Then all of a sudden he stopped shaving and got all grizzly and then one day he’d trimmed around all the hair and showed up with a rather satanic goatee. Black. Like his hair, he’d begun coloring everything. His attire changed, as well. He’d always been conservative. Suits to work, blazers on the weekend, dress shirt and tie for supper. Now he was wearing brightly colored — okay, garish — silk shirts with buccaneer sleeves, plus tight bell-bottom pants way too young for him and patent-leather shoes with big heels in crazy colors.”

She shivered. “I thought it was ludicrous but of course I’d never say anything. I would catch the nannies raising their eyebrows but they knew better than to insult the boss. And the blondes were all over him. Tony this, Tony that, you’re so cool and out of sight.”

I said, “Trying to be young and hip.”

“Trying far too hard. I found it sad. And confusing. Accepting a caricature of my father. But he must’ve liked the attention because he held on to that look for years. All through my adolescence, you’re with something long enough, you get used to it and I did. The world seemed to be going casual, anyway, so it wasn’t that. And eventually, he toned down — more tasteful casual clothes. But the hair and the beard stayed black.”