Fizz was a dancer. She was tall and buff and had WWII pin-up legs and big brown eyes borrowed from a fawn, and fire-engine red lips that were almost as expressive as her eyes. I saw her only once when I was walking on Park Avenue with my dad’s valet at the corner of 75th Street. I was eight. She got out of a cab and walked into the building on the corner, 812 Park Avenue. I realized I had been standing there with my mouth hanging open since she presented herself from within the taxi. When they saw her, people on the sidewalk broke their stride, stopped talking, and forgot what they were talking about. Passing cars slowed and nearly hit one another. The doorman threw the door open so hard he nearly snapped it off its hinges. That’s how spectacular Fizz was. After she disappeared into the building, George, the valet, could finally speak. “That was Fizz,” he said. He didn’t have to explain that she was my father’s mistress. I already knew that. Kids of eight know way more than you think. But when you’re eight, it’s often smart to play dumb. “What’s a mistress?” I said. “A really good friend,” said George.
