The Alfa Romeo that Sparked Ten Kids, Two Lovebirds and a Singing Mermaid

His name was Joe.

He had a dark beard, dark eyes, and always seemed a little angry.

He lived two houses down from our home on Deauville Drive in Huntington Beach, California. I was about eight years old when I knew Joe. His three kids played outside with me, my sisters and brother.

Joe had an Alfa Romeo. It was white and slick and fast. No one else in our neighborhood had a speedy car like that.

We had an old, black, clanking Ford, long and tank-like. We would regularly stuff two parents, four kids, and two temperamental dogs into that car. My parents did not believe in fancy cars. They did not believe in flashy things. They thought any outward expression of wealth was in poor taste and “showy.”

In our middle class neighborhood, where children freely roamed, and parents kept a loose eye on their offspring, that fancy, showy Alfa Romeo stood out.

So did Joe.

Looking back, he was a handsome Italian man in a brooding and sexy sort of way. But we kids steered clear of him because he wasn’t friendly. Plus, when you’re a kid, you get a sense about adults, and our sense was not to approach.

Joe’s wife was a woman named Jeanne. Jeanne was my second mother on Deauville Drive. She had piles of brown hair and brown chocolate eyes and was an amazing artist. She was busty and wore low cut shirts. She had a tattoo, which was considered extremely risque at the time, so I saw it as admirably rebellious.

Jeanne was very different from my own lovely mother, who dressed more conservatively, modestly, her family being from the south, and would have been more willing to sprout wings than get a tattoo. My mother never would have let her cleavage show.

But I adored Jeanne. I was a gangly, awkward sort of child, who only wanted to play outside, climb trees, hide in forts and catch butterflies. When I looked in the mirror I saw a plain, freckled face with a toothy smile and hair that was out of control.

But Jeanne, sweet Jeanne, made me feel special.

I sat across her kitchen table, the sunlight streaming in, and watched her paint. We chatted. She muttered. She talked to herself about her art. She sometimes forgot I was there. When she remembered, she would always look up and smile at me.

Jeanne even swore in front of me! My parents never swore. But that swearing made me feel like Jeanne thought I was an equal - not just a kid. Plus I learned bad words which was exciting.

I will never know why brooding Joe sped off in his Alfa Romeo one day to live with his girlfriend, leaving Jeanne and their three children behind.

I’m sure it broke Jeanne’s heart, but I was too young to talk to her about that. I’m sure it broke the hearts of her children, one of whom, so tragically, is no longer with us. We did not talk about Joe leaving when we were playing hide and seek.

In my new book, Ten Kids, Two Lovebirds, and a Singing Mermaid, set in 1979, Joe, the father, announces he’s leaving his wife, Annie, and their five kids, and will be living with his secretary.

He opens the door to his slick Alfa Romeo and Annie shoves a pie in his face, then waters him and his speedy car with a hose on full blast.

Jeanne probably felt like watering her Joe in the face, and that Alfa Romeo, too.

Writers do a lot of daydreaming and Jeanne and Joe’s marriage, this event, was one of the sparks that started Ten Kids, Two Lovebirds, and a Singing Mermaid. I hope you like it.

And to Jeanne: Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like a cool kid, when I knew I wasn’t. Thank you for your kindness, your laughter, and being my second mother on Deauville Drive. I have never forgotten sitting in your family room, the boxers asleep, wondering if I was ever going to be as cool as you.

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