sleazy bars; joints where they wouldn’tnknow linen from gabardine and eventually,neven they wouldn’t let me in.nThe only way to stop the downwardnspiral was to dry-clean, but I couldn’tnlet those butchers get their hands onnmy pants.nI let it all slip away and now, here wenlay in tatters. But if you think either ofnus regrets an instant of it, you’renwrong. We may have taken a few yearsnoff each other’s lives, but we’ve experiencedna depth of passion that few evernwill. And when we go — defiantlynlocked in each other’s embrace —nperhaps our passing will inspire othersnto proclaim their forbidden love, andnfinally come out of the closet.nStephen Provizer writes fromnCambridge, Massachusetts.nNoninby Clinton W. TrowbridgenWniinhew-whew! Whew-Whew!”nI looked past my mothernthrough the half open taxi window. Annold man in a grey flecked, tweed jacketnwas walking a Scotch terrier on a leash.nWith much effort she cranked the windowndown another turn and stuck hernhead out. “Whew-whew!” she whistlednagain. The man turned, surprised,nthough not unpleased, and then the taxinlurched forward and my mothernslumped back into her seat. “What an48/CHRONICLESnhunk!” she said, and let out a momentousngroan. I laughed, but she did notnrespond. She sank more deeply into hernseat, her face turned away.nEighty-three, and weighing no morenthan that, she was still capable of suchnsurprises. My sister, Katharine, hadncalled the previous week to tell me thatn”Noni,” as we called her now, had —nwith tears in her eyes and all thenfrustration of a teenager — fought withnher for half an hour about wanting tonmarry Bob, her 41-year-old physicalntherapist. “Why shouldn’t I?” she’dncomplained over and over again.n”We’re both free.” Recently divorced,nher therapist was known to us all for hisngood looks — the picture on her dressernshowed a smiling, wavy-haired PerrynComo—for his magic fingers, and fornthe jokes he told her twice a week,nrepeated to us as regulariy as newsnbulletins. “Good,” I’d said to Katharine.n”Keeps her young.” But I didn’t have tondeal with her except on the phone. Tonme it was just another funny story. Mynwife and I lived fifty miles away, out onnLong Island, and got into New Yorknonly occasionally. My sister, innChappaqua, saw our mother severalntimes each week. My younger brother,nGus, lived with his family only 13nblocks away. More detached, I couldnenjoy being surprised.nWe drove on another few blocks innsilence, and then she turned toward menand I saw her tears. “Why shouldn’t Inget married again,” she said, her facentwisted in misery.n”Mother!” I found myself saying,nshocked by the nakedness of her emotion.n”Why shouldn’t I?” she cried outnagain. “We’re both free!”nMy father had died just over nine yearsnbefore, in 1976, at the age of 79. Theynhad been living at the AmsterdamnHouse, a posh “care facility” with annacross-the-street view of St. John thenDivine, elegant paintings in the foyer,nelaborate wooden puzzles spread outntemptingly on card tables, and biweeklynsing-alongs. They’d wanted to go homento their apartment on 68th Street thenday they’d arrived, but to please us andnthe doctors, they’d stayed three monthsn— as long as they could. “I don’t givenhim two weeks,” the doctor told menwhen at last we agreed to let them gonnnhome. My mother had originally gonento be with my father, but the doctorsntried to keep her there for psychiatricntreatment at the end. She insulted themndaily, corrected their grammar — as shenalways did everyone’s — and could notnrefrain from telling them to their facesnhow stupid she thought them. Mynfather, who had been an Episcopaliannminister for 51 years, died six weeksnlater, peacefully, with a smile on his lips.nA week before my mother remarkednquite casually that he’d lost his belief innthe life hereafter. “How do you knownthat?” I’d said, shocked.n”He told me so. Yesterday.” She saidnit just as she said everything else — as ifnshe were reading it aloud from the NewnYork Times. It was only later that itnoccurred to me that she’d probablynmade it up. Some six months after thatnshe had no memory of having said it,nso I will never know whether mynfather’s almost saintly serenity at thenend was based on his sure hope ofneternal bliss or on an acceptance ofndeath as nothingness. His life hadncertainly not been serene, neither withinnnor outside the bosom of the familyn— he and my mother having rathernfamously and vociferously fought fornmost of their lives — and his ministrynhad been passionate but frustrating.nWhy did my mother tell me that aboutnhim, if it were not true? Or why,nwithout amplification, if it were? Whyndidn’t I press her? Why did I notnquestion my father? Why?nMy brother is the founder and headnof the Manhattan Country School. Henhas suffered more than the rest of us,nprobably, from my mother’s delusions.nA few years ago when she called to tellnus that her good friend so-and-so hadnjust given Gus’s school one millionndollars, we bubbled with excitement.nBut Gus’s voice sounded weary when Inspoke to him on the phone. He’dncalled the woman in question, hopefulnyet suspicious. “No,” she’d said, “Inwish I could afford to. Poor Jean.”nMy mother should have been annactress. That was part of it. We all saidnthat. She had such a capacity fornmaking the unreal real. And for a briefnmoment she had been an actress, threenyears before that million-dollar delusionarynremark. As a result of a chancenencounter between a granddaughternand Woody Allen’s talent scout, Noninhad made a cameo appearance in then