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| The Fall of 1959 was not a happy time for us. Mother was recently divorced from Father, and we were living in a one bedroom apartment south of San Francisco. Mother worked nights, part-time, as a dance instructor for Arthur Murray's. And I was having trouble adjusting to third grade at the San Mateo Boys Academy. In late October Mother began dating Francois, a childhood friend, also divorced. On Saturday nights, Francois would drive down from the City and bring his mother, Mrs. Parasett, along for the ride. Mother was annoyed, said it wasn't right for a woman to tag along everywhere with her son. I told her we did a lot together, but she said that was different. At first we laughed about the white-haired, septuagenarian with the round, wrinkled face all powdered and rouged. Old fashioned, yet elegant in a dark blue suit, matching hat with veil rolled to a peak at the top. Long white gloves and a fur piece draped over her shoulders. After a while, Mother came to realize Mrs. Parasett's value as a ready made baby-sitter. And eventually we accepted her as part of the package. Mrs. Parasett never spoke much except to remind me that she was French and her name was pronounced "Par-a-say." As soon as Mother and Francois left for a late supper and dancing at the Villa Chartier, Mrs. Parasett would settle herself on the couch. I'd pour her a small sherry from Grandma's crystal decanter, then tune the television to her favorite station and set up the TV trays. Swanson frozen dinners were the usual fare. Her favorite was the Salisbury steak with gravy and mashed potatoes. I usually went for the fried chicken and cranberry sauce. Mrs. Parasett was good company for an eight year old, and I looked forward to her weekend visits. Time passed quickly as we laughed at Jackie Gleason's antics or tapped our feet to Lawrence Welk's Champagne Music Makers. Sometimes we even scared ourselves silly with an old Charlie Chan mystery. After our programs, around midnight, I'd change into pajamas and slide into one of the twin beds in the room that I shared with Mother. Mrs. Parasett would pull down the spread on Mother's bed. Then slipping off her shoes, she'd wink at me, lie down and ever so gently draw the spread up around her shoulders. At daybreak, Francois would tiptoe into the room and wake his mother. Mrs. Parasett would rise, smooth down the spread and fluff up the pillows, obliterating every trace of her presence. After donning her hat and gloves and arranging the fur, she'd lean down, brush my cheek with her lips, say "Goodnight," and slip quietly out the door. In the spring, Mrs. Parasett and Francois stopped coming to visit. Mother said it was over, and we never spoke about them again. Now in middle age, I spend more time looking back than forward. The eight year old still wonders if Mrs. Parasett found another little boy to take care of her. I hope he was good to her. |
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