The Upside of Betrayal

When I was seven years old, Aunt Luba married her third husband. Alan was a well-regarded author, ten years younger than she. He was the scion of an old New England family, an Ivy League intellectual who was pals with literary stars and scholars. Luba was a sort of saloniste, collecting people — preferably the very rich, talented, or both — who were entranced by her charm, wit, gold-threaded caftans, cigarette holders, and the big lie they gobbled up like caviar-topped blini that she was deposed Russian royalty. My new uncle arrived at Luba’s apartment with a black typewriter I wasn’t allowed to touch, cartons of books that crowded her already sizable collection, and a stack of Ray Charles, Dinah Washington, and Lenny Bruce records. Hunched over his Remington in the back room overlooking Madison Avenue, Uncle Alan banged away, stopping only for a drag off a Pall Mall. The ashtrays overflowed. A tobacco haze hung in the air, the smell of grownups. I was in awe. After his writing sessions, Alan would unfold his very tall, gangly self and join Aunt Luba in the living room for drinks. I remember the slap slap of his boat shoes, too loose on his bare feet and unlike anything my father wore. He’d crack open a beer, followed up with scotch and soda. Luba, drawling darling and bursts of Italian or Russian into the red phone receiver under her chin, drank vodka on the rocks. <a href="https://medium.com/the-narrative-arc/the-upside-of-betrayal-bcb2b4732b37">Website</a>