CHAPTER 1
"Your mother's had a stroke. Come right away." It wasa Sunday afternoon in March when Ellie, my thenninety-year-old father, called to tell me that my mother,Gladys, eighty-five, was in critical condition and in theintensive care ward at Desert Hospital in Palm Springs,California. My wife, Julie, our two and a half-year-old son,Michael, and I jumped into our car and raced the two hoursto the hospital from our home in Los Angeles. While Julieparked the car, Michael and I hurried in, just in time to catchthe last wave of my mother's hand to her grandson and me,her youngest child. My mother's eyes focused on us for a fewseconds before she lapsed into unconsciousness and, withina few weeks, her death. I knew that she had waited for us andonly wondered whether she was telling us hello on our wayin or waving good-bye on her way out. But, unknown to meat the time, her death and its aftermath would rule my lifefor the next six years.
Even though my parents had been married for more thansixty-one years, my father's grief was amazingly short-lived.He was completely over it in a couple of days. When I saidI missed her, he'd respond with a detached "Well, she wasyour mother." When Julie commented on how well liked mymother was, he replied, "Well, she kissed everybody, didn'tshe?" It was definitely strange, but I felt that, since he'd neverbeen alone before, his survival mechanism might be kickingin. Still, I had flashbacks of meeting them for lunch not longbefore and noticing that they were holding hands.
At the time that my mother died, my own family was inthe process of a major job change and relocation from LA toSan Francisco. I felt bad about leaving my father alone, andwanting to take care of him in the short time I had left beforeleaving Southern California, my wife, son, and I moved inwith him, sleeping on a huge air mattress in the middle ofhis living room. It was a very difficult time for us—job stressplus relocation stress was now compounded by the deathof my mother. Julie and I were constantly on edge, arguingfrequently, and our attempt to save money by sleeping on thefloor of my father's small apartment suddenly seemed utterlyludicrous.
About a week after we arrived, Julie and I were woken upin the middle of the night to see my father, dressed only inhis underwear, pacing back and forth between the kitchenand his bedroom. He repeatedly swore, "Fucking whore!" and"That no-good dirty son of a bitch!"
I didn't know what was going on, but then I suddenlyrealized that—oh my God—he was talking about my mother!He cursed her and every member of her family—past, present,and future. Julie and I were frozen in place. We finally turnedto look at each other, but we were both too stunned to say,or do, anything.
Ellie had no idea we were awake because, in his mind, hewas whispering. My father was severely hearing impaired formuch of his life, and his whisper constituted anybody else'sscream. He kept repeating, "Fucking whore," and, "Let themall drop dead!" for over an hour, until he finally went back tobed. I stared at the ceiling, glad that Michael was still asleep,and debated whether or not I should have confronted myfather. But I wondered whether, in the end, it was any of mybusiness.
When he continued his angry diatribe into the next day,I had no choice. I thought, Maybe he's in shock and is angryabout being left alone. But I was in mourning, trying toprocess my mother's death, and I couldn't take his unendingnegativity. He was watching a baseball game in the den andmumbling endless profanities about my mother, her sister,and even my grandmother when I confronted him: "Thinkwhatever you want to think, old man, but don't ever say itout loud again."
He began to mount a feeble protest but then stopped andpaused for a long moment. Still staring at the television, hesaid, "All right ... I don't know ... maybe I was just a flop inbed!"
I was too shocked and embarrassed to say anything.
My mother was a great beauty with natural white-blondehair and blueeyes and possessed of anaffectionate nature, whilemy father, though nothandsome, had moneyand style. They werehuge fans of Hollywoodmovies and movie starsand lived as if they were areal Hollywood couple—expensiveclothes, thebest restaurants, and a house in one of the toniest areas ofLong Island. Once, when my brother and I were little boys, wewere on vacation in Atlantic City, New Jersey, and gatheringin the lobby of our hotel for a formal dinner.
A woman and her husband approached my mother andsaid, "We're so sorry to bother you, Miss Turner, but ... maywe have your autograph?"
They actually thought that my mother was glamorousHollywood star Lana Turner! Before my totally surprisedmother could answer, my father took her arm, led her away, andsaid to the couple, "Miss Turner doesn't sign autographs."
Ellie wasn't a tolerant or patient person. During thecultural revolution of the '60s, our house was a majorbattleground—my older brother, Gary, and rock and roll onone side and my parents very firmly planted on the other.
One day in the late '50s, my then teenaged brother repeatedlyplayed the '45 recording of Little Richard's "Tutti Frutti" foran entire afternoon. After a few unheeded warnings to stop,Ellie went into his room, picked up the record, and smashedit to pieces over the edge of the desk, saying, "Get that niggermusic outta here!"
My father's volatile personality and corporal punishmentmethods inspired far more fear than love. Ellie was volcanicand hot-tempered and, at his middle-aged peak, was built likea bull—about five foot eightand over two hundred andten pounds. When he wasmad, he'd hit us in the bodywith an open backhand,correctly thinking that if hehit us in the face, he'dprobably kill us. He'd say,"You're lucky! My fatherwould've murdered me."
Although he'd brag toother people about his sonsand their accomplishments,he rarely expressed affectiondirectly to my brother or me. To him, the congratulations oftoday weren't nearly as important as his expectations of usfor tomorrow.
Notifying friends and family of my mother's passing wasa strange walk down memory lane. Even the smell of theircrumbling address book was a sense memory of my mother'smothballs and cedar blocks. The pages contained...
