After the surliness, the sloppy food, and the general squalor of an El Al charter flight, the final relief of new promised land: flawless, smooth entry through customs; the swift-gliding rhapsodic traffic of the huge automotive monsters on the parkways; illuminated, transparent, gut-showing buildings springing from the flat land, guilelessly, like oldtime American candor. Signs everywhere promise everything: easy money to borrow, retirement on full income at an early age, a home in the suburbs, kids in college, vacations, trips, and permanence—the family that prays together stays together.

Off to Gloversville. It’s Good Friday. Time for the passion to begin. I stare, famished, at the cuteness of American airline hostesses and compare their “My name is Jane” cozy hospitality and perky gingham cocktail aprons, as they pour drinks with impeccable bravura, to the down-in-the-mouth sullenness of their Old World sisters, wrapped in frowsy smocks and hating every minute of the flight.

Three in the morning for me, but the evening before for them and there I am—the comfortable big thick beds of the Tudor house. Its utter comfort: lush, deep-pile rugs; heat; jam-packed fridge and jam-packed freezer; drawers full of candy bars, chewing gum, cigarettes, and cigars; cake mixes by the dozens and liquor by the gallons in the cupboards; every cosmetic and toothpaste known in the bathroom cabinets; shrines of gold leaf–framed photographs of the grandchildren on the walls of the sunroom; bouquets of lush fake flowers on the piano, making a backdrop for the sisters-in-law who sit radiant, gazing steadily out from their studio photographs in white wedding dresses and veils. I must admit that I, too, would have made a beautiful bride.

Tina at odds with the grandparents because she’s become a hippie. Sulking and vying for my attention as I greet the folks. “Wait till they hear what you’re here for,” she says darkly. “Cool it, Tina,” I tell her. At Christmas when we talked about the separation she said she didn’t care, it would be nice to live a bit in Rome with her father and a bit in Florence with me. Weezy, the same. So much for the traumas of the children of separated parents.

Tina is a bulldozer—no ego deficiency in her, she sucked whatever health still remained in me while I carried her and has flourished from my ground-up bones like some gorgeous wild bloom ever since. Eighteen and steady in her affections, her self-esteem, her nature. A beautiful girl. I love her. She is what I wanted to be.