Dedication

      To my City of Women:

      Stephanie Heaton, Sandra Shadic, Lindsay Dwelley.

       Plus two men: David Ebershoff and Bill Clegg.

       They know why.

      Epigraph

      I always say my life is this family, and that’s the truth.

      Dorothy Deanne Keaton Hall

      Contents

       Cover

      Title Page

      Dedication

      Epigraph

      Part One

      1

      Dorothy

      2

      Jack

      Part Two

      3

      Manhattan

      4

      Big Year

      5

      The List

      6

      The Uphill Climb Versus the Downhill Slide

      7

      Di-Annie Hall

      8

      Something Big for a Small Family

      Part Three

      9

      Artistic

      10

      This Isn’t Sometimes, This is Always

      11

      Aftermath

      12

      Hello

      13

      The Gray Zone

      14

      Then Again

      Picture Section

      In Memory of

      Acknowledgments

      About the Author

      About the Type

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      1

      DOROTHY

      Extraordinary

      Dorothy’s commitment to writing began with a letter to Ensign Jack Hall, who was stationed with the Navy in Boston. It was just after the end of World War II. She was resting in the Queen of Angels Hospital after having given birth to me. All alone with a seven-pound, seven-ounce baby, she began a correspondence that would develop into a different kind of passion. At that time, Mom’s words were influenced by the few movies Beulah had allowed her to see, like 1938’s Broadway Melody. Harmless fluff pieces with dialogue out of the mouth of Judy Garland. Mom’s “I sure do love you more than anything in the world” and her use of “swell” and “No one could ever make me happier than you” mirrored the American worldview of life and its expectations during the 1940s. For Dorothy, more than anything, it was love. It was Jack. It was Diane, and it was swell.

      Mom wrote her first “Hello, Honey” letter when I was eight days old. Fifty years later I met my daughter, Dexter, and held her in my arms when she was eight days old. She was a cheerful baby. Contrary to my long-held belief, I was not a cheerful baby or even very cute. Mother’s concern about my appearance was defined by a bad photograph. Photography was already telling people how to see me. I didn’t pass Dad’s pretty-picture test, or Mom’s for that matter. Holed up in Grammy Keaton’s little bungalow on Monterey Road in Highland Park, Dorothy had no choice. Through her twenty-four-year-old eyes she wanted to believe I was extraordinary. I had to be. She passed this kind of hope on to a baby girl who got caught up in its force. Our six months alone together sealed the deal. Everything for Dorothy became heightened because she was exploding with the joy, pain, fear, and empathy of being a first-time mother.

      January 13, 1946

      Dearest Jack,

      You should be just about getting into Boston, and I’ll bet you are pretty worn out from the trip. It’s hard to realize it could be so cold there when it’s so nice here. I’m sorry I acted the way I did when you left. I sure didn’t want to, but the thought of you leaving got me so upset. I tried awfully hard to stop crying, because I knew it wasn’t good for Diane.

      It’s 8:00 p.m., and your daughter’s asleep. She’s getting prettier every day and by the time you see her you may decide to have her for your “favorite dish.” That’s not fair, honey—I saw you first, so I should be first choice in your harem, don’t you think? Chiquita and Lois came over today. They agreed she was swell, even though she has one bad habit—whenever anyone comes to look at her she looks back at them cross-eyed.

      Well, honey, I think I’ll wake little “Angel Face” up. We’ve certainly got a prize, no fooling. Every time I look at her I think I can’t wait until you can see her, and we can be by ourselves.

      Good night, my love,

       Dorothy

      January 18, 1946

      Hello, Honey,

      I wish I wasn’t such a crybaby. I don’t understand me. Until I was married you couldn’t make me cry over anything. I thought I couldn’t cry—but now all I have to do is think of you and how swell you are and I miss you so much before I know it I’m bawling just like Diane. I sure do love you more than you could know, honey. Even if I don’t tell you very often when I see you, I’m always thinking it.

      Diane & I had our picture taken—just small cheap ones. I’m afraid they can’t be too good of her—she’s so tiny—and naturally they won’t be good of me, but that’s to be expected. I hope you can at least see what she looks like a little bit. The photographer said she was very good for a baby her size & age. She’s not fat like her mother used to be. Incidentally I’m still on the plump side = darn it. She weighs over 9 lbs. and, as I say in every letter—gets cuter everyday. I think that’s a nice idea of yours, sending her $2.00 bills. I’m putting them away for her. It’s adding up. Maybe pretty soon we could start a savings account for her. Good night, my Honey.

      Love,

       Dorothy

      February 21, 1946

      Hello, Honey,

      I’m so disappointed. Those pictures are just as I expected—awful. Diane looks kind of funny. I’m not going to send them cause you’ll think I’ve been kidding you about how cute she is.

      You said in your letter today that you wish we could relive those good old days again. I sure look back and dream about how swell they were. We don’t want to ever change, do we? Even though we have a family and more responsibilities, I don’t think that’s any reason to act older and not have the fun we used to. Right?!

      Good night, Darling Jack,

       Your Dorothy

      March 31, 1946

      Dear Jack,

      Right now I’m so mad at you I could really tell you off if you were here. I don’t know whatever gave you the crazy idea that I might have changed and “start liking someone else.” You aren’t the only person that believes in making a success of their marriage—it means just as much to me as it does you, and if you think I go around looking for someone that might suit