I honestly have no way ofexplaining this paradox. Maybe it was because of the games we'd playedtogether: the handstands, the step-overs, the cartwheel.... But it wasmore than that, of course. Watching Eve slide those shiny nylon briefsup Chrissie's legs, I would have given anything to trade places withher: she was so happy, so vibrant, so beautiful.And her Mommy loved her so much."There you go," Eve said, pulling the pants up to Chrissie's waist andreleasing the band with an audible snap, "that's. I am looking at you, Donald. Please look at me.”“Your father won’t let me, Ann.”“Donald, my father is not me. I am not my father.”“Yes, yes, yes, the great Danny Thomas.”He’d waited for her to launch him. He pounced:“How does he introduce me, Ann? Let’s see,,, oh yeah, I got it:“And Ann’s power mower, (paramour) Donald Hollinger, a beat writer for a great metropolitan newspaper.”She used to have to stifle a laugh at such introduction, no more, it had been a while. And he wouldn’t stop, no. More

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