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My father had a secretary named Barbara who kept his books and managed his life for twenty years. I don't think he knew much about her, except that she lived in Brooklyn with a diabetic sister and had a son in the Army. The son was a decorated soldier whom I never met, though he figured in the violent arguments that I had with my father, in the late sixties, about his conviction that Kissinger's "domino theory" was a necessary evil, and mine that anyone who subscribed to it was a war criminal. Barbara had always processed her hair, which she wore in a pageboy, a la Coretta Scott King--a rigid helmet as highly polished as a walnut breakfront. Then one Monday, without ...