593 Riverside Drive - 1. Chapter 1

My father, when he was young, traveling out west with the circus, and still courting my mother here in New York, used to sign his postcards, “Yours, full of fun.” But just now, Papa was not being full of fun.

There were a couple of reasons, though one he should have been happy about was that I’d just graduated from Barnard. I did it in only three years, too, though admittedly not with the highest grades, just a low cum laude. I might have done better, he pointed out, if I’d taken the normal four.

“You always want to hurry things,” my mother had softly agreed when I’d told my parents of my plans for second semester of my freshman year.

“Well, I took the five courses my advisor recommended,” I’d said. “And some of them were interesting and others just required. And we went over a lot of what I’d studied in high school. And junior high. And even elementary school. And I still have a lot of required courses – they’re part of Liberal Arts. But I think they’ll be more interesting if I’m also studying things I’m curious about – new ideas.”

It seemed like a good argument, and my father usually liked those, but my mother just looked at me. Still, my aunt – Mama’s younger sister – smiled and said, “Lee, by now, you’ve learned not to reason with Ethel. You always lose.” And my father, who normally encouraged people to think for themselves, just sat silently, toying with his mashed potatoes. We were in the dining room, and Emily had just served lunch.

My father started to encourage me to “Get ahead of the next guy,” – or in my case, the “next girl,” which was different for him – when I was in second grade. At least, that’s the earliest I can remember it with an example. We were again in the dining room, though I think for dinner, and I don’t think Aunt Ella was there. I was poking my way through my food, eating things I didn’t like first and saving the good ones for last, when suddenly, my father swooped in and took the thing he knew I liked most – my last slice of Emily’s fried potatoes. He calmly stabbed it with his fork, popped it in his mouth, chewed a couple of times, swallowed, then smiled.

“Papa!” I protested.

“Arthur,” my mother joined in. “You know not to do that.” That’s what gives me the idea he’d done it before.

“It’s not fair,” I added.

My father just smiled again and said, “You can’t put the best things off for last. They may not be there when you want them.”

I had to admit he was right. Because in the summer, in Asbury Park, ice cream melted so quickly, you had to lick it fast or all you’d have was the cone.

“But I really like my potatoes last,” I’d told to Papa. “They’re my reward for eating Brussels sprouts. And cauliflower. And broccoli.” I didn’t really hate any of those things, but they weren’t my favorites, either – no matter who told me, and how many times, that they were good for me. Still, I could never persuade Emily not to buy them.

“They’re healthy,” she simply insisted.

“Then I’ll eat them when I grow up. I’m sure they can wait.”

Emily laughed at that, but she agreed with Papa when he said, “Eat your oatmeal, and you’ll grow up to reach the moon.” Though he didn’t seems as happy when I reached 5'-8" and, even in low heels, was as tall as he was.

But that’s not what we were talking about that evening – discussing calmly, since no one ever raised their voices in our well-mannered home. We were talking about law school.