She, too, has committed her transgressions and has been duly punished. In her wild youth (which all took place before I got to know her), she had allowed herself to be bamboozled (which is to say, flattered and shamed simultaneously) into eating Lobster Newburg by a mischievous, attractive insurance agent who worked with my father for Boston & Northeastern. His name, could it be better? Was Doyle. It was at a convention held by the company in Atlantic City, at a noisy farewell banquet, that Doyle led my mother to believe that even though that wasn’t what it smelled like, the plate the waiter had shoved in front of her corsage contained nothing but chicken à la king. To be sure, she sensed that something was up even then, suspected even as the handsome drunken Doyle tried to feed her with her own fork that tragedy, as she calls it, was lurking in the wings. But high herself on the fruit of two whiskey sours, she rashly turned up her long Jewish nose to a very genuine premonition of foul play, and—oh, hotheaded bitch, wanton hussy, improvident adventuress!—surrendered herself wholly to the spirit of reckless abandon that apparently had taken possession of this hall full of insurance agents and their wives. Not until the sherbet arrived did Doyle—who my mother also describes as "in looks a second Errol Flynn, and not just in looks"—reveal to her what it was she had actually ingested. Subsequently, she was over the toilet all night throwing up.
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