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A Final Conversation in a Life of Confusion

The Only Way She'd Leave This World Was With Her Son Knowing She Was in Control After All

March 05, 2000|STEVE SALERNO | Steve Salerno last wrote for the magazine about his love affair with batting cages

The boxed-up ash that remains of my mother is crammed into a 12-inch hem of earth abutting the fence in San Diego's Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, where I stand with head bowed, a solitary celebrant of what would have been her 80th year. It is what we call a "nice plot" (an oxymoron, as if any final resting place is truly "nice"), with arboreal shelter and a view of the famed harbor that seemed to please her when she previewed it in life. That is not said lightly, for my mother, in her later years, could be hard to please.

She buried two husbands--my father and the jovial retired sanitation worker we came to call St. Marty, for his godly forbearance in the face of her haranguing. Loneliness, my mother would say, had induced her to "marry beneath" herself the second time around. She had no qualms about saying this to Marty himself.

In fairness to my mother, her treatment of Marty, like so much of her behavior, was the fever that told of the malaise below. To some degree, we are all marked by contradiction, but my mother could've been the poster girl for it--a perplexing blend of nurture and nonchalance, charm and chafe. Though an avid lover of privacy, she thought nothing of making the most intimate inquiries of others. (Her very first question for my wide-eyed wife-to-be: "So, who uses the protection?") Her broad grin and easy, deep-from-the-chest laugh would lead casual acquaintances to think her the life of the party when, in fact, away from the crowd, she often succumbed to despondency and an unshakable pessimism; a freshly cleaned black dress always hung in her closet, "just in case."

Notwithstanding her casual attitude toward the feelings of the man who waited on her hand and foot, she was a kindly soul who'd do almost anything to help a stranger. Then again, she was woefully uncomfortable as the recipient of largess. Invite her for lunch and she'd arrive toting her own cold cuts.

"Your mother," my wife would say, "is an original."

Kathy never realized how close she came to the truth. My mother, you see, was one of a generation of women who found themselves teetering on the cusp of feminism--a "modern woman" before the phrase gained currency, with unspoken goals that did not reflect those foist upon her by men. Having grown up in a house ruled by a tyrannical patriarch, she allowed herself to fall into a submissive role with my father as well. Besides, that's what good little Italian girls from Brooklyn did back then: They loved--they honored--their husbands. One supposes this silent clash between instinct and obligation had much to do with my mother's outward incongruities.

In time, my father decreed that they would begin saving for a place of their own. He gave his blessing to my mother to work, whereupon she launched a clerical career on the graveyard shift at the Federal Reserve Bank in Manhattan. This occurred when I was 6 or 7. By the time I'd reached 11 or 12, she was among the first wave of women management at FRB--New York, reporting directly to one Paul A. Volcker. Some years later, Volcker would go on to glory as chairman of the entire Fed system, a turn of events that set my mother to wistful reverie. "I wonder how far I could've gone," she would say, "if I'd just pushed a little harder."

At get-togethers, I'd hear her FRB friends describe a person unknown to me: brassy, free-thinking, indomitable. For at home she remained the loyal sidekick, deferring to my father in all matters domestic and financial--even though her job better equipped her for such decision-making and her contributions to the home-buying fund had eclipsed his roundly by the time he took ill.

After Dad died, my mother's transformation became complete. Indeed, after playing the quiet supplicant in her first marriage, she must have felt the need to overcompensate with Marty. From Day 1, she was unmistakably The Boss. Whether the topic was their relocation to California or the composition of a salad, she presided over all household issues with the manic heedfulness of a world-class fashion designer at the unveiling of her new spring line.

Generally her bossiness remained good-natured--as long as Marty remained his usual tractable self. But she became notorious in the family for her spontaneous detonations at his slightest "offense." A traditional Catholic, Marty clung to a belief in purgatory long after the church abandoned the notion. When he spoke of this one day shortly before his death, my sister told him not to worry. "You did your penance right here, Marty," said Ginny, giving his hand a sympathetic pat. "You'll be on the heaven express."

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