Season of the Witch: A Novel

The Season of the

Witch

James Leo Herlihy

The Season of the Witch Copyright © 1971 by James Leo Herlihy

All rights copyright owner Jeffrey J. Bailey

Cover art and Electronic Edition © 2018 by RosettaBooks LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover jacket design by

ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795351228

For DICK DUANE

James Leo Herlihy’s unique ability to connect the reader with other people’s lives has made his previous novels, Midnight Cowboy and All Fall Down, modern American classics. Brilliantly readable, his new novel, The Season of the Witch, goes far beyond them to explore a society in revolution.

At the novel’s center is the Witch of its title, Gloria Random. Gloria is seventeen, turned on, a fugitive from home, on the run with her draft-evading friend John. Tough, innocent and shrewd, she confronts New York with her complete unshockability and an implacable lack of self-pity. The results are bizarre, comic, and profoundly moving.

The Season of the Witch is to other novels what Woodstock is to a chamber music concert. By bringing to it the full impact of his exceptional storytelling powers, Herlihy has produced what may well be regarded as the first major work of fiction of the Aquarian Age.

Special thanks to EVAN RHODES

for valuable help

in editing the manuscript.

J.L.H.

CONTENTS

BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, IN MY BED, SEPTEMBER 2, 1969

DEPARTURE DAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1969

AT THE LAKE, SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1969

WESTERN UNION OFFICE, NEW YORK CITY, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1969

CANAL STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1969

CANAL STREET, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1969

CANAL STREET, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1969

CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 12, 1969

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1969, 11 P.M., 23RD STREET AUTOMAT

CANAL STREET, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1969

CANAL STREET, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1969

CANAL STREET, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1969

CANAL STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1969

CANAL STREET, MONDAY NOON, SEPTEMBER 22, 1969

THE STATEN ISLAND FERRY, 10 P.M. OF THE SAME DAY

CANAL STREET, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1969

CANAL STREET, 7:10 P.M., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1969

WILL’S GREENHOUSE, SUNSET, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1969

CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 27, 1969, 4:30 A.M.

CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 27, 1969, 4:30 A.M.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1969

THE AUTOMAT, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1969

THE LADIES’ ROOM AT CAPRICORN CAPERS, MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1969

IN MY ALCOVE AT CANAL STREET, BEDTIME, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1969

THE SHEEP MEADOW, CENTRAL PARK, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1969— MORATORIUM DAY

WILL’S GREENHOUSE, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1969

ORANGE—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969

BRIGHT GREEN—THANKSGIVING 1970

RED—CHRISTMAS 1970

ROBIN’S EGG BLUE—EASTER 1971

MARIJUANA GREEN—FOURTH OF JULY 1971

TURQUOISE—LABOR DAY 1971

MAGENTA—NEW YEAR’S DAY 1972

PINK—BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY 1972

PURE WHITE—THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1976

BLACK AND WHITE AGAIN—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969

ON JOSHUA’S BUS, ABOUT 100 MILES EAST OF BUFFALO, NOVEMBER 3, 1969

SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, NOVEMBER 7, 1969

IN MOTHER’S ROOM, BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 11, 1969

IN MY ROOM, BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 14, 1969

BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, IN MY BED, SEPTEMBER 2, 1969

Sometimes I think Mother hits it right on the nose when she calls me a cold cookie. I’ve just spent five full minutes eyeballing this room and telling myself all sorts of sad things like Oh dear, my princess doll will miss me, and Just think, Gloria, you’ll never spend another night here, etc., etc.

But nothing happens. You might think I could squeeze out one teensy little tearlet just for form’s sake, but my eyes are as dry as stones. All I feel is relief, anticipation, and enough excitement to keep me awake for the rest of my life.

Unless . . . !

There. That’s better. I just found a roach in my bag and got two lovely tokes out of it. Thanks to the prez and his grass curtain on the Mexican border, we’re suffering a ghastly marijuana famine this summer, so this is my first smoke in days. I’d almost forgotten how much I dig it. (Not really.)

Now, let us return to

Departure Blues, absence of

Back in the dark ages of my girlhood I used to think I’d have to get married to spring myself from this dainty quilted prison, but not a bit of it, my dears. John, my fellow fugitive, is homosexual. The first time we took LSD together, we observed our relationship. It couldn’t be simpler: He’s my guru, I’m his earth mother. Which means I’ll be walking out of here tomorrow not in bondage but with a beautiful soul companion. No compromises, no strings, no bullshit, just two free souls (both Pisces!) dedicated to one another’s purity and freedom, embarking together on their journey into reality.

Reality. Wow. And to think it starts tomorrow! If I weren’t just faintly stoned, I’d probably faint and turn to stone.

This has been such a bleak summer, with John going to the mailbox every day expecting to find the Big Finger waiting for him, me trying to help him decide what to do, and neither of us able to come up with any answers.

And then suddenly, Friday morning, the waiting is over.

I hear John’s voice from the yard next door, calling up to my window. I look out. He’s leaning on the fence, waving an envelope in his hand. I know immediately what it is.

When? I ask.

Monday, the twenty-second.

How do you feel?

I’ve decided to split. Want to come?

Yes.

I loved my answering without a second’s pause. I thought that had style. So did John. He told me so later.

Where to go?

We went to Delano’s to discuss it, because Delano knows everything. He really does. I found that out when he was my lover.

John thought he’d like to try living underground for a while, right here in the States. If he had to, he could always go to Canada later on. So the only question was where in the States. I said what about New York, because that’s where my real father lives and I’ve been dying to meet him ever since I was 12 and first heard of his existence.

Delano thought New York was sheer genius. He said it was the only place in the country where a person could get really lost. So that was it, the perfect place for both of us. There have been other miracles, too.

An hour ago for instance, while I was next door in John’s basement going over our super-simple plans for the 99th time, Delano phoned to say he had a buyer for the Vespa. This is major news. It means we won’t have to hitchhike, we’ll have bus fare plus. We both know luck like this can’t be just luck. It’s much too spooky. Obviously our trip is being guided by higher beings. All John and I have to do is keep our heads straight, maintain a nice high, and go with it.

Tomorrow, we wake up whenever we feel like it, grab our bags, and head out on the Vespa in the direction of Aunt June’s cottage. Then, at Jefferson Avenue, we turn right instead of left. The buyer for the scooter will be waiting at Delano’s. From there, after relaxing for a couple of hours and stoking our beautiful heads on some of Delano’s righteous hashish, we proceed downtown to catch the Greyhound at 4:30, never to be heard from again.

That’s not true. We’ll have to write occasionally. Otherwise we’ll feel guilty.

Speaking of which, I’d better compose a little number right now to leave on the kitchen table.

Or.

Why don’t I just put the Beatles on the stereo downstairs, let it play over and over again

She’s leaving home

after living alone

for so many years.

But that wouldn’t do, because when it got to the part about she’s meeting a man from the motor trade, mother’d say, Ha, the little slut, she’s run off with a used car dealer!

Why am I chattering to myself like this? Avoiding something?

The note, of course. Okay. Here goes.

Dear Mother,

I’m gone.

Stunning beginning. How obvious can you get?

Dear Mother,

By the time you read this

That’s an improvement?

Dear Mother,

At first I wasn’t going to leave a note, because you never believe anything anyway, but I feel I have to explain, even if you think it’s all crap. To begin with, I’m not angry. I love you. I really do. I was angry, because you made me miss the Woodstock Festival, but I’m over that now. And yet, missing Woodstock is the reason I have to leave now instead of waiting till I’m 18, as agreed. This is hard to explain, maybe impossible. Woodstock wasn’t just a festival, it’s the future and I have to go out and meet it somewhere. No doubt it’ll be muddy and crowded too, with not enough food and no place to pee, but there’ll be love and peace wherever my compatriots are, and that’s why I have to go find them and live with them and try to make a real

It’s no good. She’ll never buy it. To her, love and peace is sex and drugs. Besides, who am I kidding when I say I’m not angry?

Dear Mother,

I’m getting out of here because I’m pissed off. I missed Woodstock but I’m not missing my life, no matter what you say. You and a hundred million mothers just like you are the reason there had to be a festival in the first place. It’s urgent that the earth be saved from your lethal, uptight clutches before you succeed in hassling the life out of it altogether. I’m sick of living in this house pretending to be your daughter just because you gave birth to me. I saw very clearly under acid that I’m your mother, and you’re a wicked, reckless, selfish brat. I’m fed up to the teeth with your blind, criminal, phony, aggressive, power-mad behavior, and I have decided to abandon you to shift for yourself in this plastic palace that means more to you than I ever could.

Okay, Gloria, now that the bile is out of your system, can’t you write something sweet? Try!

Dear Mommy,

Your itty-bitty girl is running away from home because she’s naughty. But she loves her mommy very much and she promises not to take any more nasty old drugs. So please don’t worry about her. Her’s a big girl now and if some dirty long-haired bum tries to stick his thing in her, she’ll scream for the Green Berets to come and save her. Love and Kisses.

Gloria

Maybe I’ll do better in the morning.

Good night, room. Good night, princess doll. Good night, my girlhood, you poor wretch. Somehow I’ve managed to survive you.

Later

Can’t sleep. My head won’t quit.

Fantasy: The simple act of running away from home causes some miraculous change in my character! I become disciplined. I keep my journal faithfully, every single day. Starting tomorrow at 4:30, the minute the bus pulls out of Detroit, I record everything that happens to John and me, his adventures living like a fugitive to avoid becoming a hired killer in Uncle Sam’s Army, and my first meeting with my real father. I write it all down, a simple flat report of the truth, no flourishes, no bullshit. To keep myself honest, I vow it’s not for publication. Then, one day in New York, when I’ve got enough material to fill a good fat book, I lose the notebook on the subway. By chance, it gets found. By a reader for a publishing house, etc., etc. The Detroit News calls it the Most Fabulous Human Document of Our Time, Time magazine prints my picture. (On the cover?) Much success. Much money. We buy a strip of land in Central America, start a new nation dedicated to love and peace. Live happily ever after. End of fantasy

DEPARTURE DAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1969

Dear Mother,

The reason I’m leaving is to put an end to the hassles. You and I have been hurting each other and I don’t think either of us wants to. I won’t make any promises about what I’ll be doing, because the whole point of leaving home is to be free. But I can promise one thing. I’ll be myself. I won’t fake anything.

I’ve given some thought to whether or not I can truthfully say I love you, and I find that I can. I do love you, Mother, I truly do. But hardly ever when we’re in the same room. And I know you feel the same way about me. I don’t think we should blame each other for this. It’s just life.

Love,

Gloria

This isn’t much, but at least it’s honest and not unkind. John says I should mail it special delivery instead of leaving it on the table because if she sees it before we leave town, we’re fucked.

Late afternoon, on the bus

Another miracle. The bus fare was only $28.75 apiece, so if we don’t make friends immediately in New York, we can spend a night or two in some hotel.

Back at the Greyhound station, I suffered a minor attack of paranoia. I was sure the clerk knew we were runaways and would call the police the minute we left the window. John quieted me down, which is a switch. Usually he has the paranoia and I do the soothing.

Then two minutes later, while I’m in the phone booth calling Mother to get my father’s address, John has a little fit of his own. As I’m dialing the last digit, he slaps his hand down on the receiver cradle, severing the connection.

"Gloria, think! She’ll know it’s a local call, and if she’s not too stupid, she’ll send fuzz to all airports and bus stations."

Who cares? I said. By then we’ll be on the bus and gone!

All right, but be safe. Look. He took from his pocket a handful of ¼-inch brass washers with the holes in the middles stuffed to make them act like dimes in pay phones. When she answers, don’t say a word. Drop in five or six of these. Then the bells’ll go ding ding ding and she’ll think it’s long distance.

I didn’t stop to think it through, but it sounded reasonable. So I dialed again, and when mother hello-ed, I dropped in a few washers and made the bells go. Then I said, Mother, this is Gloria. I’m phoning from a distant city.

What are you talking about, Gloria? Gloria, where are you? She was talking stiff-lipped, which painted the whole picture for me. I could see her lying on her chaise longue next to the phone with a mask of Sudden Beauty all over her triple-Virgo face.

I’m in a distant city, Mother, and that’s all I’m telling you.

You’re at Aunt June’s cottage. Now stop this nonsense.

If I’m calling from Aunt June’s, why did I have to drop in seven dimes?

To deceive me. I don’t know why yet. I suspect I’m about to be punished for something.

I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to John, She didn’t fall for it. Now what?

I don’t know. Brazen it out. He crossed his fingers for me. Big help.

You truly hate me, don’t you, Gloria, Mother was saying. "And that’s what all this behavior is about. All right, hate me if you must, but I’m still your mother and I demand the truth."

All right then, we’re at Kennedy airport in New York. John McFadden’s with me. I can prove all this because he’s right here and you can talk to him if you want to.

"First of all, young lady, you’re lying. But if you’re not, I’ll die. . . . Oh, God! Are you telling the truth?"

I can’t talk forever, Mother. I don’t have that many coins.

Then give me the number and I’ll call you back.

No, thanks. I’m not getting into any big discussions. I’ve sent you a note, special delivery. All I want is my father’s address.

Your father’s what? He’s at the office, you know that.

I didn’t say my stepfather. I said my father. Hank Glyczwycz.

Pause.

I beg your pardon, Gloria?

I don’t expect you to understand this, Mother, but I’ve had a revelation, and I know I’ve got to meet my real father. That’s what I’ve come to New York for.

Gloria. Sweetheart. Have you taken LSD again? She went into a cooing voice thing, like somebody luring a lunatic out of a treetop. Mother’s not angry, darling, she loves you very much, but you must be truthful. Are you tripping again, honey? You know you did promise Mother you’d never do it again, hmm?

I’m not tripping. I’m in a phone booth in New York and I’m asking you for Hank Glyczwycz’s address. May I have it or not?

After a loaded silence, she said, I do not carry on conversations with cruel, evil young ladies.

Okay then, I’ll hang up. Shall I hang up?

I want to know where you are, immediately.

We’ll make a bargain. Give me the address and I’ll tell you the whole truth.

John made a warning face and shook his head vigorously. I gave him an I-know-what-I’m-doing with my hand, but of course I was just playing the whole thing by ear.

Gloria, I do not have the address you are requesting. I am not in contact with that person, and you know it.

Yes, but I’m sure you have the address where he teaches, don’t you?

Cruel cruel cruel.

What’s so cruel about a girl wanting to meet her own father?

Nothing. Nothing at all. No matter how much she makes her mother suffer. Anyway, I haven’t the faintest idea how to reach him. Being a Communist, he’s probably changed his name a dozen times by now. So there’s simply nothing to go by.

"Do you mean to tell me you couldn’t locate him if you wanted to?"

Suppose you tell me how?

Let’s skip it. I’ll just hang up. Okay?

No, no. We won’t skip it. I won’t have you thinking I could lie to you. Now you just tell me, Gloria, how would I go about locating the man? You don’t think City College of New York would hire a man who admitted to having once been a member of the Communist party, do you? (Thank you, Mother dear! Until you blurted it out, I hadn’t known it was City College!) His name was in the papers and everything. Don’t you suppose the FBI knows what it’s doing? So of course he had to change his name. If he hasn’t been deported altogether. Which is really quite likely. He’s probably back in Poland somewhere by now. In fact, I’m sure he is. Yes, I’m sure he’s been deported. So you see, darling, you’re looking for a man who for all practical purposes has ceased to exist. That means you’re not thinking very clearly, doesn’t it? And do you know why? It’s because your hostility toward your mother is clouding your brain. Truly, sweetheart, and I’m not angry either, I’m just pointing this out, because I know how you love candor.

I decided to play it her way. Thanks, Mother. You’re right. I do appreciate having things like that pointed out. But listen, and I know I’m probably not thinking too clearly, even now that you’ve straightened me out, but what if a person were to go to the History Department at City College, and just ask around? Don’t you suppose she could gather some sort of a clue?

There was a long silence on the Belle Woods end of the telephone, a silence my moon-in-Scorpio self bathed in luxuriously while Mrs. Random recovered her aplomb. And I knew exactly what she’d say. Her first words would be Very well, Gloria. And they were.

Very well, Gloria. Her voice was dark with tragedy, pain, and assorted bullshit. Persist, she said. "Persist in your hatred of your mother. Look up this man. Stir up the past. Make as much pain as you can for me. Perhaps that’s the kind of person you want to be. And if it is, I can’t stop you. Just know that whatever you do, and however you hurt me, I’ll still love you. You can’t stand that, Gloria, can you? The hardest thing you have to bear in this world is that your mother really loves you. If it weren’t for that, you’d be free to become just a wanton little bitch who takes her high IQ that God gave her and her wonderful flair for words, and uses them to cut people up with. Is that what you really want to be, Gloria?"

While Mother was delivering her neat little thumbnail portrait of me, John started tugging at my elbow. It was time to get on the bus. Somehow I managed to round out the phone call with a minimum of hassle and followed John to the departure gate. But all the while my mind was playing a movie for me:

I arrive in New York, trot right up to City College, sit in on one of Professor Glyczwycz’s classes. At first glance, it’s perfectly clear he’s a Great Man, Turned On, Wise, Open, Terribly Big in the Movement. And for extras, he’s got longish salt-and-pepper hair and a thick walrus mustache. After class I introduce myself. Big shock, much fainting. We hug. He thinks I’m terrific, just the kind of daughter he’d always hoped for. I go home with him, to this big, sort of empty bachelor’s apartment and cook a meal for him. It turns out heaven, pure Julia Child. He’s bowled over. Within a week, I become indispensable. John and I both move in and the three of us become a family, go to peace marches together, etc., etc.

Something wonderful just happened. No one watching would have seen a thing, and yet it was spectacular. I just looked at John and really saw him. The whole thing, inside out, in the round. He’s glorious. Every once in a while I get a blast like this, and it reminds me why I adore him so.

At the moment, he’s scared. Sitting here next to the window pulling his eyebrows and biting his nails. No, I guess he’s working on the cuticles, the nails are already gone. This trip is his first big manhood test thing and he’s afraid he might blow it. My earth-mother urges are overwhelming. I want to hold him and say, Shoo shoo, baby, everything’ll be great. But of course I wouldn’t dare. And yet I can actually see him worrying and it touches me so I can hardly bear it. Everything about him does. Unfortunately we don’t turn each other on sexually, not even when we’re lying around naked together. I suppose that’s just as well. No sex, no hangups. I shouldn’t phrase it so negatively though, because the thing we have together is wildly positive. Between the two of us there’s this colossal flow of soul energy that keeps us both super-UP, and we’re both totally committed to the belief that we simply must as a matter of conscience stay high as much of the time as possible. John and I are convinced that people who go around unhigh are the ones who are crapping up the world. John is definitely not one of them. He is entirely sweet. He is pure light. Once when I was tripping I saw his aura, and it’s just about 99 per cent angel-colored.

I function as the female principle in his life. When I look at him, I reflect him. He sees mirrored in me how totally marvelous he is in all ways. Gradually he’ll come to know himself fully, and then his mind will stop over-amping. He’s always worrying about things that will take care of themselves. For instance, right now he’s trying to outsmart Manhattan before we even get there by memorizing the map Delano gave him. Delano drew directions all over it with magic markers, circling in Tompkins Square Park, Fillmore East, etc. John had all the north and south streets committed to memory before we left Detroit, and now he’s working on Greenwich Village.

Thinking about sex and hangups just now, I flashed on Delano. He’s been an angel this week, helping John and me make our getaway. And he doesn’t have that much time to spare either. Getting out an underground newspaper every two weeks is a full-time job, especially with the cops hassling him all the time and constant money problems, but he came through like a real brother. What I want to know is why he had to spoil it all by getting me excited. Ever since we broke up (stupid, infuriating phrase!), everything’s been lovely and relaxed between us. I’m never uptight with him, and I don’t make him uptight. We’re just brothers. But this afternoon, he wanted to make love. I knew he did. He kept trying to turn me on with his eyes, deliberately looking at my neck in that lingering way that makes me want to faint. Also, there must be something aphrodisiac about having a newspaper office in the dining room of an old tumbledown house. I always have to remind myself not to get turned on by the smell of it. And of course when the editor and publisher happens to be not only a Leo but a lion with a beautiful tawny mane and enormous gentle hands . . .

Enough. Later for Delano. I’m on my way to New York, and right outside my window there’s a glorious sunset.

John and I just had a conversation.

I said, John, remember ‘America,’ that Simon and Garfunkel song? That’s us, John. ‘Michigan seems like a dream to me now.’

Oh, wow, you’re not gonna believe this, he said. But I’ve been hearing that exact song in my head, and look! There’s the moon rising over an open field!

It was. It was right there, rising over an open field. We both got enormous goose pimples from the magic of it, and then John said, My God, there’s a man with a gabardine suit; do you suppose he’s a spy? John and I can riff like this for hours, our heads are always in the same place.

Anyway, this whole Simon and Garfunkel thing makes me want desperately to cry, but I’m trying to wait till Pittsburgh so I can do it in the ladies’ room. We get 45 minutes there, and I’m going to spend the whole time bawling. I’m not sure about what. I think it’s just because I love us so much. I love John and me, and I love all our brothers and sisters, the ones we’ll meet and the ones we won’t, all riding around on Greyhound buses searching for America out the window and looking for cigarettes in their raincoat pockets while the moon rises over open fields, and wondering all the while if there’ll be cops waiting at the next stop. When I look at John, with his bad skin and his hideous but gorgeous hair that doesn’t look right being long, and his scared little chin and his big gray wide-open eyes, and his long pale boy’s neck with the Adam’s apple, and that awful Army coat, when I look at him, I see all of us, all the people who have to be true and real no matter what, and it just makes me very happy to know we’re so fucking beautiful. But I will not cry in front of John. Tears freak him out.

Midnight

By the time we got to Pittsburgh, I was too sleepy to cry, so we decided to get out and look the place over. Nothing much to report, it’s more or less like Detroit. There must have been a thousand freaks pouring out of Easy Rider and a lot of them smiled at us. Then John got the worries again, he was afraid the driver would leave without us, so we got some coffee in cartons and came back to the bus and sat here drinking it. Now I’m wide awake again.

If I ever do write a book about my life, and I certainly intend to someday, these notebooks really will come in handy. The Life and Loves of Gloria Random. Maybe by then I’ll have changed my name to Glyczwycz. Even if I don’t find my father in New York, I’d like to be called that. Then when I become fabulously famous, he’ll hear about me and the name will make his ears perk up. Maybe it should be Gloria Glyczwycz Random, so everybody in Belle Woods will know it’s me, too. Mother of course will break out in purple polka-dot hives, but I can’t help that.

In chapter one, I’ll explain to the reader that even though my legal surname has a lovely bona fide WASP ring to it, I am a Jewess by blood, sired out of wedlock by a Polish Communist, and that I choose to mention this fact at the outset in spite of the embarrassment it may cause in certain quarters, so that my real father, wherever he is, will see what pride I take in my heritage.

But of course that doesn’t ring true. Too bad I’m not more skilled in kidding myself. All I’m really interested in doing is rattling Mother’s rafters by exposing her. What a delicious temptation! All her friends would devour every word of it. How the telephones would buzz with that first chapter! My dear, have you heard? Irene Random’s daughter is not only a Jew, but a Jew bastard to boot! . . . On publication day, Mother would have a collapse and be forced to call in her special emergency pal, Maude Dangerfield, to take over arrangements for the funeral of her reputation.

But I could never do it.

Could I?

This is a perfect example of my sun in Pisces in direct conflict with my moon in Scorpio. Gloria Pisces Me has compassion for her mother, knowing how sad the poor bitch really is, still secretly in love with her gorgeous Polack lover. Gloria Pisces Me even suspects that whatever happened between them must have had some really powerhouse depth to it, and that Hank Glyczwycz is really a great and wonderful man. Because whenever Mother talks about him, which is never by choice, there’s no hatred in her voice or in her face. Only nervousness. And a kind of fake disdain. She tries to make him seem inconsequential, as if he were nothing more than a minor blunder of her girlhood. You know, darling, he wasn’t much, just a pushy little refugee with all sorts of pretensions, a typical Communist. But was he awful? I asked. I mean did he beat you or bore you or sit around picking his toes, or what? But Mother won’t be pressed. She just gets up and walks away.

So. Gloria Pisces Me would bet her eyes Mother still thinks longingly of their nights together. And at the same