I’m really a rotten person. My mother was totally right. I’m selfish and lazy and even nasty. It takes one to know one – that’s how I can spot the phonies and users.

(I’d avoid this whole deal if I could. I distrust rituals in general and death duties the most. But I guess I’m stuck.)

It’s not like I was abused or anything. Far from it. Probably I was cherished by parents, nurtured by aunts, and favored by teachers. I know I was practically adopted by Mr. Fartham in fifth grade.

His name was “Far-tham” but behind his back the boys pronounced it “Fart-ham.” He was smart and good and homely. His eyes were small, his nose was bulbous, his teeth were caramel-colored, his skin was pocked with acne scars. He had strange long fingernails because he played classical guitar, but none of the students knew about that then, so he was mocked for his manicure too.

Mr. Fartham had a fat ugly wife and two plain pudgy daughters. Valerie was my age and Elizabeth was younger. The Fartham family did something every Saturday, and sometimes I was invited along. I was expected to hang around with Valerie, who was boring. Elizabeth was a little interesting but mostly Mr. Fartham’s ideas were the attraction for me.

The zoo was their best outing. They knew where to buy day-old bread for the bears and week-old lemon drops for the wolves, and then we could make the animals do tricks. Sometime during the afternoon Mr. Fartham and I would get in one of our talks. Around the others, either the kids at school or the other Farthams, we tried to be lighthearted and funny, but when we were alone together we got heavy, and we discussed the existence of God or the nature of infinity. (I can still see the Fartham women ahead of us on the asphalt path, their shorts riding like Ws up the insides of their thighs.)

I guess maybe Mr. Fartham didn’t have anyone at home to really talk to. I never questioned our conversations at the time. I wonder about a lot of it now.

Was he happy? Was he outgoing? Was he sexy? Why was such a smart man a public school teacher? An elementary school teacher? What did he really think of me?

At the time I saw him only as a foil to myself. Malleable metal I crinkled around me. A durable reflection about glowering brightness.

By then I had a decade of selfish habits. I’m sure I was a beloved baby girl, except I or the schedule must have bothered my mother, for my earliest memories are of her exasperation with me. I don’t think I meant to be willful, and nowadays we aren’t so rigid with our babies, but I think I remember that when I had another idea about how to spend some minutes, then there was a stern face big above me and a friction that wasn’t the right kind of warmth.

(to be continued on Wednesday)