He held my small, soft hand in his big, calloused one and walked me to nursery school. He taught me to stomp my boots to get the snow off, dressed me in itchy wool "trousers" and tartan button downs, made me scrambled eggs for every meal, and scratched his head at what to do to get the splinters out of my knee when Mommy was stuck in DC during that snowstorm in 1978. He sent me to an all girls school where I learned, primarily, that I wasn't a WASP and then held me when I cried that I "have no friends and nobody likes me." He came to Parents' Day, made friends with my Irish science teacher, and beamed at me when I raised my hand and squirmed in my seat with eagerness and hyperactivity, emitting an "oh oh oh" so I would be called on. I knew the answers, and I wanted to impress him. He drove me to ice-skating and took me out for hot chocolate on Lexington Avenue and picked me up from Carolyn Davis's house on Beekman Place and adored her because she kissed me goodbye, lightly, sweetly, on the cheek. And there was always classical music in the car, and he always carried me inside the house when I fell (or pretended to fall) asleep on the way home.
