The Thief of Lost Time

Chapter 2: "Values Were Off the Charts"

When Leslie and I were children in the fifties, every grownup we knew – parents, relatives, and the parents of friends – drank. Seen through the eyes of a child, mixing a drink was a fascinating ritual.

Dad was an expert, measuring each ingredient for bourbon old fashions with a Maraschino cherry, double martinis with gin and dry vermouth and a green olive or pickled pearl onion, rye whiskey Manhattans, Sidecars, Tom Collins, and white and black Russians. Leslie and I knew all the names.

At first, our parents drank socially, but after Dad's service in the war, they started having a drink in the living room before dinner: a martini or a double martini. Dad arrived home from the office and prepared the drinks. Leslie and I were not to disturb our parents during the next hour.

Sometimes, if we weren't hustled out to play, we asked Mom if we could have a sip. She'd laugh. "It's a martini. You won't like it."

"Yes, we will," we'd say in a chorus.

"All right, but just a taste."

Leslie would take a sip. She'd scrunch up her face. "I hate it."

Then I had my turn. The liquor burned my mouth. "It's terrible."

Mom would laugh. "I told you, you wouldn't like it."

We didn't like the olive or green onion either.

We learned only to ask when she drank an old-fashioned with a Maraschino cherry. Leslie and I argued over who would get to eat it while Mom fished it out by its stem. If Dad was in a good mood he'd let the loser take one from the jar. I liked the cherry juice better.

As children, we accepted the fact everyone drank. No one talked about a drinking problem. How would we know our parents' experience was different from that of other parents?

Sometimes after a drink, Mom and Dad argued at dinner when resentment boiled over, but for the most part, they were quiet drinkers. They didn't shout or swear or make a nuisance of themselves. In fact, Dad became even more charming. On the other hand, Mom became silent and harbored the injustices dealt to her since she was a child. As she drank, her eyes glazed over which only hastened her retreat into herself.

Leslie and I never suffered physically from our parents' drinking. But even as children, we sensed intuitively drinking had other effects, although we were too young to put it in psychological terms. Later we understood how our parents suffered from their drinking, sapping their self-confidence and a belief in themselves.

***

Our daughter, Jennifer, was born in November 1976. We lived in Durham, North Carolina where I worked on a government project at Duke University. For the Christmas holidays, we returned to Arlington, so our parents could meet Jennifer for the first time.

We stayed with Rachel's parents. Her brother was also home but without a car. When he had an appointment in a nearby town, we loaned him our car. In return, he agreed to drop us off at my parents. When I called ahead to say we were coming, Dad answered the phone and, after some hemming and hawing, said they'd enjoy seeing us.

It didn't take long to realize they had been drinking before we arrived. No wonder Dad had been ambivalent about our dropping by. Rachel's parents didn't drink, and not having grown up around alcohol, she was unforgiving. The visit was awkward.

After dinner, Rachel said Jennifer needed a nap. She called her brother for a ride, but he hadn't returned.

"I'll take you in our car," Dad offered.

Outside, Rachel said she'd sit in back with Jennifer. "We'll be safer there since there's no child seat." We only had a mile to drive. Dad took out his keys and opened the driver's door.