“Magnificent times, Alexander,” Tamara cooed. “And my restaurant, it is magnificent also, no? See what becomes of you if they put your name in the New York Times.”

“They put your name in?” my mother asked.

Tamara stiffened at the question, offended. “Yes, yes, they did. Why would they not use my name?”

From the look of outrage on my mother’s face, I assumed that we had reached the same conclusion: my father had known that Tamara owned Zalman’s from the review, which was why he wanted to eat here, and he had been looking for her during dinner.

“Alexander,” said Tamara, “I must get back. It has been lovely, yes?”

Dad bussed her cheek and stepped back to gaze at her. While he was gazing, he went to puff on his Lucky Strike and stuck the lit end in his mouth. Tough as Bogart, he withdrew the cigarette without giving any indication that he had burned his lips. I noticed it—so did Tamara, Glenna, and my mother. And if my father figured he was going to get off without being humiliated in front of his ex-flame, he was in outer space.

“That was clumsy, darling,” said my mother, picking up the seltzer bottle. “Burning your mouth like that. Here, let me help.”

My father started to protest, but before he could speak, my mother sprayed seltzer in his face. He sat there, too proud to wipe himself off, and my mother said, “Tamara, get us some napkins, will you?”

AS THE wind hurried the litter along in the gutters, Glenna and I waited for the attendant to retrieve the GTO from the lot on Chrystie Street.

Glenna took my hand. “Dad’s a little hard on the family, hmm?”

“Tonight was an improvement. He usually concentrates on me. But he liked you. So did my mom.”

“Not really.”

“She kissed you good-bye, hugged you. She liked you, Glenna.”

“No, your dad liked me. Men are easy. My dad also likes me.”

“What about your mom?”

Unflappable as usual, Glenna said, “She doesn’t like me.”

“You know, you hardly mention your parents.” All Glenna had said about her folks since San Gennaro was that I shouldn’t answer the phone in the morning in case they were calling because they might ask her what some strange guy was doing there so early, and she didn’t want to lie. Glenna never even raised the idea of my meeting them, and I assumed she thought that they would disapprove of me—my five years at Brooklyn College, my half-ass career, and that I was living with their daughter.

Glenna said, “You’re changing the subject,” which I was, because now I wasn’t sure what my mother thought of her.

And it annoyed me that I wanted to know her opinion. I was too old for that, wasn’t I?

Apparently not, because on Monday, after my Modern Lit class, I dropped by the house in Brooklyn.

My mother was in the kitchen, sticking a meat loaf in the oven. She poured me a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove, and I said, “Glenna doesn’t think you like her.”