Jill Ciment wrote about a relationship she had with a teacher when she was very young – that turned into a marriage – inIt is primarily about her hardscrabble childhood in California's San Fernando Valley, dominated by her difficult, volatile father, whom Ciment realized in hindsight was autistic. But about halfway through, Ciment's life takes a turn, when at 16, she signs up for figure drawing classes, which she pays for with earnings from a part-time job.
The age of consent in California is 18. Had Arnold groomed her with extra attention in class, or with furtive glances down her blouse? What about whispering to her,"I wish you were older"? Her reply in both books:"I'm old enough."Arnold read and discussed the first memoir with her -- commenting, for example, that he would never have called a student"sweetheart.
These early elisions provide a pointed reminder that all writing is selective, and memoirs are certainly no exception. Ciment's frankness extends to the disadvantages of being a much younger wife, including Arnold's inevitable physical diminution, the constant specter of loss, and -- more amusingly -- being asked how much she's paid to take care of the old man dozing on a park bench beside her. You don't have to be a Freudian to note that in Arnold, who was the same age as her father, Ciment found an attentive paternal figure who"showed me who I might become.
Despite their many conversations about the subject, they never reached a firm consensus about who initiated that first kiss. No such uncertainty exists about their heartbreaking last one. This is a book poised to fuel plenty of discussion.