Fiction

I had become interested in the old man in spite of his gruff manner. His words were like the newspapers reporting things that were important.

A man craggy as granite rock had a habit of putting the flag up on his mailbox. He never had anything to mail, nor did the mail deliver much of anything except circulars, which he pasted to cylindrical form before burning them in his porcelain kitchen sink. Those paper stacks emitted their smoke out the kitchen window, and curious neighbors said...

When the right engine of his Cessna 310 sputtered and quit, Nick Melon wasn’t thinking about the $10 million he had stacked in the back of his plane. He wasn’t thinking about the shark-friendly waters of the Gulf of Mexico below, nor was he thinking about the fact that absolutely no one knew where the hell he was, because he was flying below radar...

The explosion of 20 bombs in the city center had thrown Belfast into complete chaos. Ambulances, fire trucks, and rescue units filled the streets. Royal Victoria Hospital was overwhelmed with the injured. The Army and police had set up roadblocks. The mood was ugly, a mixture of shock, anger, and fear.

Forty-three years ago this month, I was a New York journalist in Belfast to cover “the troubles” in Northern Ireland. I had been there many times since the conflict began in 1969.

In mid-July of 1975, a newly single woman, I threw myself a birthday bash. Sixty people showed up at my home in suburban New Jersey on a Sunday afternoon. Huge amounts of food were prepared, by me and others, from chicken Marengo and quiche...

This past weekend I hosted four family members for the Fourth of July. While manageable and enjoyable in terms of everything summer house, it was in sharp contrast to past summers where we numbered some 22 and the week was anything but manageable. The joy of those summers, however, was palpable.

“Buddy Looney’s gone,” whispered Louie as he slowly maneuvered his intimidating back end onto a barstool.

Behind his desk, a desk even bigger than Mr. Slotkin’s, Mr. Langly breathed through his nose like a train whistle and stood his fingertips. “What is this all about, Frances? Where did a little girl like you learn such language?”

We walked 86th Street. The trolley alongside us rode its tracks, sparks shooting off its long swaying rod, slotted into the wire strung above.

I’m sitting with my girlfriend, Amita, and another couple, her friends, in Della Femina’s in East Hampton. Though I grew up in Hicksville, where I watched the Long Island Expressway being built practically through my backyard, this is my first time in the Hamptons, Amita having insisted that I rent a house in the Amagansett dunes for a couple...

Now that she was turning 65, Alexandra regretted the tattoo. Truth be told, she’d regretted it for years.

“Come here! Come out here!” my father called to my little brother and me through the screen door.