Right.” My smooth-talking Armenian father, Johnnie Sarkisian, was Mr. Wrong from the outset, and when he asked my mother to jitterbug with him at a Harry James big band dance in Fresno, California, in 1944, her instincts warned her to be careful. The spoiled youngest son of a large Armenian family, Johnnie was a year older than Mom but wore the kind of flashy clothes and jewelry that gave him an air of greater maturity. He wasn’t her type and was too short for her taste, but when they danced together her blouse got caught on his shirt button and she literally couldn’t get away. By the time
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Fresno
