When my father was dying of Alzheimer’s, he referred to my writing as typing, and my income as winnings. I have discovered that many people think in those terms when I tell them what I do for a living.
My son cataloged Tyler’s books and I offered them to the American Military Museum in Danbury, Connecticut, which is a small museum with dioramas of battle scenes using life-size mannikins in vintage uniform carrying authentic weapons. There is also a display of gifts sent back from our GIs to their family and friends. (My cousin Donald Grogan, Auntie Yvonne’s son who served in Japan with the occupying forces, sent me a bisque baby doll in a red kimono.) The museum also has a parking lot full of tanks. After receiving the makeshift catalog, the director called and was filled with emotion. He wanted to make sure I knew that many of the books were one of a kind. I told him I didn’t think the books were valuable as they were all dog-eared and spotted with root beer soda and Chef Boyardee spaghetti sauce. He said they were valuable to the museum. I said, Good; they’re yours. I didn’t donate my baby doll in the red kimono.
My Italian grandfather learned English listening to the Boston Red Sox on the radio. He did not live long enough, and neither did my father, to hear the Sox shellac the Yankees in the 2004 American League Championship Series. But all five generations of Tirone Red Sox fans were there in front of our TV sets with my father and Gramps, who definitely hovered. While the gentlemen/idiots of Boston won the World Series we savored the divine fragrance of a Dutch Masters cigar and homemade wine.
When I found myself writing this memoir, I contacted Irene’s brother, Fred. He was pleased to hear about it. Fred and I met, and now we’re friends. His employee said to me, This is like a miracle. Talking with him, I got a feel for what it might have been like to have a normal brother. Often he speaks of a stepdaughter; he has a loving relationship with her. He ends our conversations with questions such as, Do you remember pineapple cream pie? I do, so I get out my mother’s recipe card file filled with nothing but desserts. Here, Fred, is the recipe—so simple, so fifties:
PINEAPPLE CREAM PIE
Bake a pie shell and let it cool.
In a large saucepan bring a 15 oz. can of crushed pineapples to the boil.
Pour in a box of pineapple Jell-O.
When the Jell-O is dissolved, remove from heat.
Spoon a pint of vanilla ice cream into the mix and stir till melted.
Put the pan in the fridge and let the mix set until a mound rises in the center.
Spoon the mix into the pie shell and put back in fridge for at least two hours.
Before serving, spread with whipped cream.
(Yum.)
Irene and Fred Fiederowicz
acknowledgments
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT TO Jessica Auerbach, Sarah Clayton, Ethel Paquin, and Jere Smith for reading, etc.; Margaret Kelley, Cleasse Sullivan, Patty Sullivan, and Rita Belch Giacomazzi for family lore; Bobby and Jackie Tirone for generosity of spirit; Jerry Demeusy and Judge Douglass B. Wright for insight and entertainment; attorney Rick Vaccaro for taking the time to open some crucial doors to the judiciary; Mark Davis, political correspondent, WTNH TV–Channel 8 News, Connecticut, for a last-minute leap to the rescue; the librarians at the Hartford Public Library, the Connecticut Historical Society, the Connecticut State Library and the New London Day for ferreting out so much; the Connecticut Commission for Culture for their liberating grant; my agent, Molly Friedrich, and my editor, Liz Stein, for their literary tango; Paul Cirone for acts of faith; and Amanda Jene for her prescience.
Girls of Tender Age Reading Group Guide
Written with great humor and tenderness, Girls of Tender Age combines an intimate family memoir with the tale of a community plagued by a horrifying crime. Mary-Ann Tirone Smith’s Hartford neighborhood is small-town America, where everyone’s door is unlocked and everything is within walking distance. Her loving family is peopled with memorable characters, but Smith’s household was also “different” because her older brother, Tyler, was autistic before anyone knew what that meant. Unable to bear noise of any kind, Tyler was Mary-Ann’s real-life Boo Radley.
Hanging over Smith’s family is the sinister shadow of an approaching serial killer. The menacing Bob Malm lurks throughout this joyous and chaotic family portrait, and the havoc he unleashes when the paths of innocence and evil cross one early December evening in 1953 forever alters the landscape of Smith’s childhood.
a conversation with Mary-Ann Tirone Smith
1. You paint a vivid picture of the town where you grew up, Hartford, Connecticut, and its strong sense of community. Do you think communities today have the same sense of trust and connectedness? Where did you raise your family? How did it compare with Hartford in the 1950s?
A city of ethnic neighborhoods is a far cry from suburbia, where I ended up when I married in my twenties. In my Hartford neighborhood, there was no such thing as a second car; the dad had the car to get to and from work. The very few mothers who had jobs—my mother being one—took the bus. I knew of two single moms; one had her unmarried sister living with her and they shared child care, and the other worked nights. Everything was within walking distance—school, church, grocery, park, drugstore, 5 & 10, tavern. But in suburbia, nothing is within walking distance and people depend on cars to go anywhere. Living in cars negates any possibility of community as I knew it. Raising my family in a bedroom community outside New York City, the closest we came to a sense of trust and community was Little League. Every spring, families from all over town went to the Little League field where we had a concession stand; the kids would practice after school, we’d eat hamburgers and hot dogs, we’d watch the early evening games, and parents who worked outside their homes would arrive at varying times. Players’ siblings ran around in the surrounding park or fished in the pond. The new crop of babies were welcomed with everyone taking turns holding them or pushing them in their carriages. Except during Little League season, I felt isolated and lonely. Writing sustained me. Today, when I drive through a little neighborhood, I see a ghost town. Parents are working; kids are in school or day care. But on early spring evenings, I notice that Little League still flourishes.
2. You grew up in an atypical household where everything revolved around your brother and his needs, and where your parents’ roles were almost reversed—your father did most of the “mothering.” How did your experiences growing up affect how you raised your own children?
I tried to be an attentive mom. We all had breakfast and dinner together. After school, there was always banana bread or Rice Crispies Treats. I sewed Halloween costumes! I loved that part. I only wished I had friends who liked to take walks. But my friends either worked outside the home or cleaned and pored over wallpaper samples all day long, it seemed.
3. Throughout the book, you make somewhat ironic references to the way things were in the 1950s—from the lack of employment for women to the lack of information given to children. Does the sense of irony arise from resentment or amusement?
Nothing so strong as resentment and nothing so trivial as amusement. More a sense of dumbfoundedment and marvel at the way things worked.
4. The photographs throughout the book are a wonderful and often haunting complement to the text. You say that, after Irene’s death, during the two and a half years you did not remember, your mother took almost no photographs. Do you have any idea why that was?
I can only guess. (A psychoanalyst would have a field day, I’ll bet.) My mother took great pleasure in taking pictures of happy times and wanted to have keepsakes of summer joy and phenomenal snowstorms. When such a tragedy happens—a little girl murdered—there is no joy, and a blizzard leaves you with a feeling of “So what?”
5. On page 162, quoting your article for The Hartford Courant you say, “My writing is driven by fragments of a Hartford childhood.” You note elsewhere that your novels include characters, places, or events drawn from your own life. Is the choice to fictionalize pieces of your life conscious or unconscious
?
I go back to Kurt Vonnegut’s words that I noted in my memoir: “A writer lives for twenty-five years and then spends the rest of his life writing about it.” It is an unconscious phenomenon; it is the process of creativity.
6. On page 178 you write that it was “time to fill in the gap” created by Irene’s death. At what point in your research into Robert Malm’s life and Irene’s murder did you decide to write this book?
After I’d written the autobiographical essay for The Hartford Courant, when Irene’s brother Fred called me I decided I had the real estate for a promising novel. As soon as that thought crossed my brain, I felt a moral indignation. The story of Irene had to be the facts of her death and the facts of her death’s impact on me. I owed that to her. It has been said that fiction is ruthless exploitation. It is. I could not exploit this tragedy.
7. In what ways was Tyler a “normal brother”?
What is the definition of “normal” as it applies to a brother or sister? Based on experience, I wouldn’t know. Based on observation, I’d say “normal” is what’s expected. Conformity to those expectations. “Normal” is a kid who usually gets his homework handed in and who, once in a while, doesn’t because the dog ate it. Tyler wasn’t allowed to go to school. He wouldn’t have done his homework if he did go to school, since he did only what he wanted to do and I can’t imagine he’d want to write a report on the life of the salmon: he suffered agony at the sound of clapping or the toilet flushing. There was nothing “normal” about Tyler.
8. Questions are sometimes raised about the potential conflict between memory and truth in memoirs. Your own experience, in which you repressed memories of two and a half years of your adolescence, speaks to the fluid nature of recollection. What do you think about the state of memoir today? What about an individual’s ability to be objective or subjective?
Your memory is your truth. Frank McCourt’s memory of an event was sometimes at odds with his brother Malachy’s recollection of the same event. A memory is not to be trusted, but a memoirist relating a memory is trustworthy. I was recently informed that Tyler’s doctor at the Yale—New Haven Hospital research program was Chris MacDougal. I remember that it was Chris MacDonald. I would have sworn in court on a bible that it was MacDonald. And I would have been wrong. (His name is corrected in this paperback edition.) My daughter’s three-year-old spent an overnight with his aunt and uncle. I asked him if he had a good time. He said, “No. I missed Mommy.” I told him he was away from her for only one night. He said, “It was a million nights.” In writing a memoir you tell the truth; when you feel the need to embellish you speak a metaphor just like little Christopher. As for the state of the memoir, I can see no evidence that people are getting tired of them. People enjoy trying on other people’s lives. As for being objective or subjective, we can be either. We can make the choice. A memoirist looking at an event objectively translates to a pretentious and boring take, I think. A subjective outlook enveloping human foibles is humble and provocative, and that is the recipe for the poignancy a good memoir requires.
reading group discussion questions
1. Mary-Ann’s father’s role as primary caretaker is established early in her life. On page 10 she tells the story of waking up too late to see her father before he goes to work. She knows that missing him “means a day without any attention whatsoever.” What is her mother’s reaction? How do the parents’ actions throughout the book reinforce your early impressions of them? Does either of them ever change? Does the way that Mary-Ann relates to them ever change?
2. The young Mary-Ann is “always looking for ways to be transported out of the bedlam that is my home” (p. 55), yet as an adult she is saddened when the crying of her new baby means she must be “banished” from her parents’ house. Discuss her conflicting needs to be both close to and distant from her family at various points in her life.
3. Consider Mary-Ann’s experiences with death prior to Irene’s murder. What does she learn from each? What is the cumulative effect of the experiences—do they prepare her in any way to cope with the murder? How do they leave her unprepared?
4. Mary-Ann says that as a child, her “fear is related to the irrational—terror of the guillotine lopping off my feet, for example” (p. 140). What are some of her other irrational childhood fears, and what causes them? Do you see a pattern in the causes?
5. Language—written and spoken—plays an important part in the book. The lack of it harms Mary-Ann: “To this day, I sometimes mispronounce words because of the dearth of speech in my home” (p. 58). But the written word provides her with escape, and the book itself brings her closure. What are some other examples of the significance of language in her life? What are some instances when words left unsaid are as powerful as those that are spoken?
6. Though Girls of Tender Age primarily focuses on the personal lives of the author and her family, it also reveals a great deal about small-town communities and American culture of the 1950s. What is the town of Hartford like? What makes it distinct from, or representative of, the rest of America? Discuss references the author makes to common 1950s attitudes or beliefs.
7. When Mary-Ann’s professor tells her that her brother is not retarded, but autistic—an “idiot savant”—she is surprised. Why do you think an alternative description of her brother never occurred to her? The professor describes life with Tyler as a “rigid, narrow grid” (p. 158). Do you agree with this description? How does the nature of the “grid” change when Mary-Ann’s mother goes back to work? When Tyler grows older?
8. In many ways, police procedures are more advanced today than they were in the 1950s—and in many ways, they are not. How might Robert Malm’s crimes have been handled differently today? Consider the police actions after Malm’s assault of Pidgie D’Allessio, the investigation of the crime scene after Irene’s murder, and Pidgie’s identification of Malm. How might the questioning of Fred Fiederowicz be handled differently today, or would it? Might the ploy to insinuate to Malm that he was the victim still be used? Do the police use trickery or lies to elicit a confession?
9. Robert Malm blames “the monster” inside of him for killing Irene, and the author writes that Tyler also had a monster: autism. Do you agree with the comparison? Do you think that Malm was rightly held accountable for his actions, or were they beyond his control, as Tyler’s were? Does the author’s choice to link her brother and the murderer who killed her friend surprise you? Why or why not?
10. Consider the notion of catharsis and what the author accomplishes by writing about Irene’s death. Do you think she has, as she hoped, created a memorial to Irene? What has she achieved for herself by “fill[ing] in the gap”? What evidence can you find that writing is cathartic for her?
11. The author chose to include the definition of “tender” as the epigraph to her book. Discuss the significance of the title Girls of Tender Age. Why do you think the author chose this title? How do you interpret it? Do you think that everyone is “of tender age” at some point?
12. Do you think autism is an epidemic today?
enhance your reading group experience
1. Food connects and comforts the author and her family. Make the recipe for Pineapple Cream Pie included at the end of the book, eat slices of French bread spread with butter and topped with sliced radishes, or look up a recipe for bagna cauda on www.italianmade.com and serve it during your book group’s meeting.
2. Create a mix CD of music mentioned in the book, such as “Love Me Tender,” “I’ll Never Smile Again,” “My Blue Heaven,” “The Sidewalks of New York,” or other music from the era. You could also include Tyler’s favorite—the polka.
3. If you enjoyed Girls of Tender Age, consider reading another of the author’s books. Discuss notable features of her writing style and whether the books contain any similarities. Alternatively, choose another memoir about family and childhood with similar themes, such as The Glass Castle, Angela’s Ashes, The Liars Club, or Change Me Into Zeus’s Daugh
ter. Compare and contrast the voice, plot, and family dynamic.
4. Girls of Tender Age is filled with the author’s family photos, but she notes that during the time her memories were repressed, her mother stopped taking photos. Have everyone in your reading group bring in a picture from his or her childhood that summons up a significant or poignant memory. Share your photos and stories and discuss the evocative power of photos and what they can and cannot preserve.
about the author
Mary-Ann Tirone Smith is the author of eight novels. She has lived all her life in Connecticut, except for the two years she served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon.
Also by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith
The Book of Phoebe
Lament for a Silver-Eyed Woman
The Port of Missing Men
Masters of Illusion: A Novel of the Great Hartford Circus Fire
An American Killing
The Poppy Rice Mysteries:
She Smiled Sweetly
She’s Not There
Love Her Madly
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Girls of Tender Age: A Memoir Page 26
