By the time John returned with popcorn and a large Coke, the theater had filled up with high-school kids. A dissipated, loose-living man. She married my Dad in a small ceremony down at City Hall. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. 1. Beside me on Anna’s table was a pistol. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. Mike’s a fireman and he’s got kids too.
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