a lot of things, such as birds and botany and classical music. She was the one who insisted on buying a piano for the house and who arranged music lessons for the younger children, lessons that Paul, alone among his siblings, relished. In Paul’s baby book, his mother wrote of him at three years old: “Doesn’t ride trike much now, but has constant interest in trucks & cars. Always busy & never bored. Very friendly child. Seldom indoors—plays with anyone. Amazing conversationalist. We love to hear him talk—tells us stories. Great imagination. Wants to grow ‘bigger’ so he can touch the sky. Wants to be superman & runs around with towel-cape.” Clearly, she felt affection for him, but even after her cure, he never felt great warmth from her. Maybe there were just too many children and not enough of her to go around.
In any case, it was mainly his father to whom Paul looked for guidance. His father could be gruff, and sometimes Paul imagined anger radiating from him, along with the sweet smell from the cocktail glass on the table by the easy chair. But his father wasn’t a drunk and wasn’t usually angry, and when he was, Paul would try, even as a schoolboy, to imagine what it must be like to work all day and come home to seven noisy kids and a sick wife. And his dad had a shiny side. He was a prankster and a great storyteller, especially at the dinner table. There was this guy at Boston Gas who boasted endlessly about the good mileage he got from his Volkswagen. If he had served in World War II in Europe, as Paul’s father had, he would never have bought a
German
car. How to stop the guy’s boasting? Well, Paul’s father said, every day for about a week he sneaked out to the parking lot and poured gas into the VW’s fuel tank, and then when the guy began telling everyone that his car’s great mileage was
actually increasing,
Paul’s father started siphoning gas out of the fuel tank. And then, just to top things off, he and some other men from work sneaked over to the fellow’s house one night, lifted the Volkswagen over his fence, and left it sitting in his front yard.
Paul’s father was a second-generation Irish American, son of a woman who had come from Ireland as a teenager. For a time she had worked as a servant for a lace-curtain Irish family who insisted that she walk several paces behind them when they went to church in their finery. Paul’s father was only eighteen when his own father died, and to support his mother and five sisters he had gone to work as an apprentice pipe fitter for Boston Gas. No one without a college degree, Paul gathered, had ever risen as high in that company as his father. Once when Paul was still in grade school, his father took him to lunch with some other midlevel executives. Paul felt shy in the company of those strangers, and it worried him when his father ordered first one Manhattan and then another. It seemed like a lot to drink at lunch, but the other men had drinks, too, and it was clear that his dad was someone they looked up to, from the way they bent forward when he talked, from the hearty way they laughed at his jokes. Paul wished he could be like that, sure of himself, the life of the party.
On weekends and evenings, his father always seemed to have a do-it-yourself project, and Paul and his next-older brother, Danny, were usually eager to help, starting from the time when they were still very young and their father praised them for being good at holding flashlights while he worked on the furnace. Soon he was teaching them how to sweat pipes and snake wires behind walls and fix carburetors. He helped them build a clubhouse behind the garage.
Paul’s father also made a small side business out of buying, repairing, and selling used appliances. It made sense that a man with seven kids would look to make some extra money, but Paul soon realized that this business was mostly a game his father played, for the sake of the hunt and the sport of bargaining. His
In any case, it was mainly his father to whom Paul looked for guidance. His father could be gruff, and sometimes Paul imagined anger radiating from him, along with the sweet smell from the cocktail glass on the table by the easy chair. But his father wasn’t a drunk and wasn’t usually angry, and when he was, Paul would try, even as a schoolboy, to imagine what it must be like to work all day and come home to seven noisy kids and a sick wife. And his dad had a shiny side. He was a prankster and a great storyteller, especially at the dinner table. There was this guy at Boston Gas who boasted endlessly about the good mileage he got from his Volkswagen. If he had served in World War II in Europe, as Paul’s father had, he would never have bought a
German
car. How to stop the guy’s boasting? Well, Paul’s father said, every day for about a week he sneaked out to the parking lot and poured gas into the VW’s fuel tank, and then when the guy began telling everyone that his car’s great mileage was
actually increasing,
Paul’s father started siphoning gas out of the fuel tank. And then, just to top things off, he and some other men from work sneaked over to the fellow’s house one night, lifted the Volkswagen over his fence, and left it sitting in his front yard.
Paul’s father was a second-generation Irish American, son of a woman who had come from Ireland as a teenager. For a time she had worked as a servant for a lace-curtain Irish family who insisted that she walk several paces behind them when they went to church in their finery. Paul’s father was only eighteen when his own father died, and to support his mother and five sisters he had gone to work as an apprentice pipe fitter for Boston Gas. No one without a college degree, Paul gathered, had ever risen as high in that company as his father. Once when Paul was still in grade school, his father took him to lunch with some other midlevel executives. Paul felt shy in the company of those strangers, and it worried him when his father ordered first one Manhattan and then another. It seemed like a lot to drink at lunch, but the other men had drinks, too, and it was clear that his dad was someone they looked up to, from the way they bent forward when he talked, from the hearty way they laughed at his jokes. Paul wished he could be like that, sure of himself, the life of the party.
On weekends and evenings, his father always seemed to have a do-it-yourself project, and Paul and his next-older brother, Danny, were usually eager to help, starting from the time when they were still very young and their father praised them for being good at holding flashlights while he worked on the furnace. Soon he was teaching them how to sweat pipes and snake wires behind walls and fix carburetors. He helped them build a clubhouse behind the garage.
Paul’s father also made a small side business out of buying, repairing, and selling used appliances. It made sense that a man with seven kids would look to make some extra money, but Paul soon realized that this business was mostly a game his father played, for the sake of the hunt and the sport of bargaining. His
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