I never actually saw her, but in my mind she was X-rated, a cartoon figure straight out of Playboy or Fritz the Cat?tiny waist, boobs swelling from a pink sweater, a look that said, Meeeow. She had a car to go with the flashy boobs, too, a yellow Mustang that gleamed like a huge piece of sugar-coated candy. The Mustang was real. It stood parked for all the world to see, at a motel on Route 44, next to my father's C?maro. His girlfriend's name was Tina: ridiculous, because my mother was Gina, and leaving Gina for Tina sounded like a game. And in a way it was. Somewhere in America, a giant round of mari tal musical chairs had begun, and by 1974 it had reached Hartford, Connecticut. Anyone could get up and switch lives for any reason, even boobs and a shiny car. For two months my father lived at the Royal Motel. Then one day he and Tina were gone?off to California, where her car made sense.