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It wasn’t her anyway. She never looked like that. Maureen kept staring at the face in the picture. She was tired. She wanted to go to bed. Sitting on the sofa with her mother looking at old pictures of some sick little girl wasn’t what she wanted to do. That wasn’t her in the picture. That couldn’t be her. Maureen didn’t want to do this any more. She looked at her mother. Andrea had her special warm loving expression on, the expression she always evinced when something real sad or real bad was about to be brought up. She really didn’t want to do this anymore. She was afraid to ask her next question, but blurted out anyway, ‘Who is this girl? This isn’t me.’ There she’d said. It wasn’t her. She’d said it with a finality that would have convinced the most hard boiled judge. Maureen’s mother answered her, ‘No, that’s you dear.’ Maureen put the picture down on the sofa, ‘No. No. That’s not me.’ Andrea wanted to tell her it wasn’t, but it was, ‘No honey, that’s a picture of you.’. Therefore, as the only male child – and the eldest – I was expected to labor on the house project when I wasn’t in school. Of course, that left little time for socializing with friends. So, like any other hormone-driven teen who’d had little experience with the opposite sex, my knowledge consisted of merely a vivid imagination when it came to the mystic powers of females. Maxine was a “script girl” working for a local TV station. Today she’d be called a “Production Assistant.” Her new husband, Ken, was a carpenter…tall, muscular, good-looking, but – to the impressionable Maxine – still a working man and not a true “professional.” On weekends, when Dad and I would be working on the house, Ken would bring his gorgeous wife to the building site…so she could be with him while he earned extra money in addition to his regular weekly paycheck. Maxine and I got along well while all of us worked as a group. Having nothing else to do, she talked with us constantly. When she and I were alone,.
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