Only once do I remember my father asking me to join him in any other activity at the house besides watching TV. I was in the kitchen with my mother, and I could hear him calling for me. It was early summer, and he wanted me to come outside to help him plant some marigolds. My father loved to garden, and he did all of the landscaping around the house himself. He built a grape arbor trellis that led all the way along a brick path from the kitchen to the garage; there were beds of green pachysandra all along the front of the house and to either side; in summer, I remember rhododendron bushes and white petunias with red snapdragons, and pink petunias outside the kitchen. I was so honored that he would trust me with the task of planting the marigolds that I got up from the table go to him, but my mother stood in my way. I wasn’t well enough, she explained. I needed to stay inside. The marigold beds were on the opposite side of the house, too far away from the kitchen windows she could look out of to check on me. After a while, my father stopped calling for me. He never asked me to join him in the garden again.
Even when the five of us were home together, we kept to ourselves: my father in his den or in the garden; my mother and me in the laundry room or the kitchen; my sisters in their rooms. The only time I remember going someplace as a family was to the Fireman’s Fair in nearby Southdown. I must have been about six years old. The fair was in the parking lot of the firehouse. There were fire trucks on display, a big Ferris wheel, and carnival games for the children. To my delight, my father came with me to play one of the games. I had to throw balls and knock down three clown faces, and, with my father’s help, I won. My prize was either a doll or toy cap guns. I chose the cap guns; they were white and silver and came with a belt and holsters. I knew my father had always wanted a son—my baby blanket that I kept for years was blue with a white ribbon trim because my mother had been so convinced she was going to have a boy. I knew I had been a disappointment to him, so I thought perhaps playing with boy toys would help keep his attention just a little bit longer. I was right. My father got a big kick out of my choice. He loved that I chose the guns.
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BEFORE I WAS BORN, my father had been a successful advertising executive on Madison Avenue; when I was still a baby, he had worked in publishing for McGraw-Hill. But by the time my memories of him begin, he had left his corporate job to work for himself as an inventor and entrepreneur. His company, the Sight Radio Corporation, had its offices on Park Avenue. My father’s big idea was to use the new technology of the “flap display”—the kind you saw in train stations with the numbers and letters on metal flaps that flipped to reveal your platform and departure time—to keep airport travelers up-to-date with the latest news. “Sight Radios” were large free-standing boxes designed to sit in airport lounges with displays that flipped to show the latest weather alerts, sports updates, and news headlines.
In all his ventures, my father was encouraged by the example of his friend and our neighbor Sherman Fairchild. In those days, Sherman was one of the most successful inventors and investors in America. His Fairchild Camera and Instrument Corporation had developed the first aerial camera, the first home movie camera with sound, the first synchronized camera shutter and flash. He had been on the cover of Time magazine. Sherman had made millions of dollars from his patents, and he was constantly coming up with new ideas. One day, he was trying to light a cigarette outside, and the match blew out; he set about designing a new and improved match with a slot below the head for air currents to pass through so the flame would stay lit in the breeze.
Throughout my childhood, there was always the expectation that at any moment, my father might achieve a level of success similar to Sherman’s and our circumstances might change. He designed drinking glasses with portraits of tennis champions on them. He made a square game table with an inset board that could be turned over to reveal a backgammon board. He pioneered a belt made from clear plastic and synthetic leather with pockets for photos all the way around in which you could display photos of your friends. He talked about building a gondola system in New York for transportation. But although some of my father’s products were more successful than others, none of them made the millions he had hoped.
After he left his steady publishing job to become an entrepreneur, there was never enough money to go around, and this was a constant source of conflict between my parents. When I was very young, I remember, we had help around the house: a young babysitter who spoke Spanish, a woman who came in to clean, and an older babysitter, Mrs. Christianson. At that time, we were members of the Bath Club in Lloyd Neck, with its private beach and tennis courts. My sisters took horseback riding lessons and swimming lessons and went to dance classes. At some point, the help around the house, the lessons, and the trips to the Bath Club stopped, because I only remember taking one riding lesson, one ballet lesson, a few piano lessons, and then that was it. There wasn’t money for more. I remember my father once becoming furious at me
