Pearl and Arthur would then head west toward their favorite bench facing the marina, Katie trailing behind them as she scouted for regulars. There was the vivacious, wickedly clever Georgie, who talked in a gravelly smoker’s voice; the hard-of-hearing, rather stiff and proper millionairess, Sally; the tall, athletic retired headmistress of a private girls’ academy, Ruth, who swam laps each morning in our pool; the petite college professor in towering high heels, Sylvia, who always spoke in a whisper; the corpulent and boisterous retired businessman Brody; the shy, slim Chanel-attired Gloria, always floating in a mist of Tiffany perfume; and the eldest, Georgia, ninety, in a wheelchair, accompanied by her delightful and devoted daughter, Anita.
Spotting the wheelchair from quite a distance, Katie would spring out of Pearl’s arms, leap off the bench, and run over to greet Georgia. She’d then protectively lead her over to Pearl and the rest of the group.
Having successfully herded her entire gang together, Katie sat contentedly as everyone gazed out at the sailboats and private yachts floating on the Hudson. Katie was typically balanced on Pearl’s lap, blissfully taking it all in as she snacked on a banana.
One summer night as Katie sat with her regulars, I noticed her leaning her head dreamily against Georgia’s arm, her big brown eyes batting away. What a flirt.
“She’s such a lover,” Georgia marveled, never suspecting Katie’s fire and passion, which erupted weekly when it came to greeting my longtime housekeeper Ramon.
As you might remember from earlier, Ramon was originally terrified of Katie, and threatened to quit when I got her, but not anymore.
“Hiya Katie girl, what’s up?” he’d now ask playfully. Katie got breathless with excitement whenever she saw him. My dog was crazier about Ramon than anybody else. Nobody, including me, got a more ecstatic greeting than him.
On Tuesdays, when the doorman buzzed to tell me that Ramon was on his way up, I’d open the door, clap my hands, and let Katie loose as I made a sound similar to a cowboy herding horses.
She could just smell him coming—and galloped down the hallway in a frenzy as he came off the elevator, then jumping up on him and wildly running in circles as she beckoned him toward my door with her head.
Once inside, she’d throw herself down on the living room carpet, and like an acrobat, roll over and over, begging him to stroke her tummy. Amazingly, he started doing it.
“Okay, Okay, Okay… Yes, yes, yes girlie… show it to me!” he’d tease, giving her vigorous belly rubs. “You like it?” She was in ecstasy and I’d tease Ramon that he got her more excited than food.
And after that, as Ramon worked, Katie followed him around for the entire four hours. When he was folding laundry, she laid her head on the warm towels, angelically looking up at him; when he was in the bathtub scrubbing down the tiles, she was just outside it, lounging on the floor, keeping a watchful eye; and when he was vacuuming, she stood just behind him, fascinated by the electric cord and often tripping over it.
“Get OUT of my way, Katie!” he’d tell her. But she never did. Their friendship would last Katie’s entire lifetime.
In contrast to the ecstasy she felt at seeing Ramon, Katie was totally uninterested in her two regular dog walkers—a sweet Chinese woman named Ann, who adored my dog, and her nephew, Ken, the business brains behind their Battery Park dog-walking operation. The thought of leaving Pearl’s cozy nest for a mandatory walk with either of them was unappealing to Katie.
“Kay-teeeee,” Ann would sing in high-pitched singsong, waltzing into Pearl’s apartment to retrieve her charge. She’d plant a big kiss on Pearl’s cheek, often bringing her apples or oranges as treats.
“Kay-teeeee,” Ann continued. But Katie played deaf, hiding under Pearl’s twin bed, burrowing toward the center of it, knowing she was too far to reach. Ann would laugh and have to either bribe Katie out with a cookie or literally drag her out by her front paws. Katie always resisted, her sharp nails digging into the tan carpet, her head down.
At other times, Katie would attempt to camouflage herself on the lowest shelf of a mahogany bookcase where Pearl had placed a soft towel. She’d lean into that shelf like a magician trying to blend into the scenery, hiding from view, determined to evade capture. But ultimately, tail down, she’d reluctantly trail out of the apartment for a walk.
On rainy days, Ann hitched Katie into her blue-and-white slicker, the two sides of the coat connecting with Velcro. Katie gingerly put her paws into the four holes and off they went. Once back inside, Pearl would be waiting at the door with a towel, ready to dry Katie off from the indignity of being soaked to the bone. She’d rub-a-dub-dub away at Katie’s wet head, ears, and body, and then wrap her in a big fluffy towel as if Katie were at a spa, with only her face poking out. Finally dry, Katie would vigorously shake herself and then leap onto Pearl’s soft bed for some relaxing television, not to be budged until dinner.
Some nights, Katie would wrest herself from Pearl’s side, returning to my apartment ahead of schedule, discerning and curious to judge any new friends. Jealousy was clearly a prime factor.
If she liked the person—the vibe or smell they gave off—she’d crawl into their lap and snuggle close, seducing them with her charms. But if she didn’t, she’d hide and refuse to accept even a pat on the back.
Or worse. On one occasion, a friend who was a pastry chef was whipping up a chocolate pot de crème in my kitchen. Katie seemed especially receptive, feigning interest in exchange for some whipped cream. But later that night, after the snack, she whacked her paw against his face, knocking his eyeglasses to the floor, then sat down on them, refusing to budge.
“Naughty! No! Bad dog!” I yelled. She slinked away, tail down, though she had a sly look on her face, her tongue hanging out of her mouth, a sure sign that she had no regrets.
The ultimate insult, of course, was the rare occasion when she’d take one look at a prospective competitor for my affection and relieve herself.
Such were her strong opinions.
CHAPTER NINE
A Real Pearl
Katie idolized her mom down the hall and followed Pearl around incessantly, while she also continued her busybody walks at sunset—herding together the pack of seniors who had adopted her as their prized mascot.
But outside of Manhattan, my dog’s favorite person was my grandmother, Essie. Each Thanksgiving when we went home to Buffalo, Nana fussed over Katie, and, later, actively kept tabs on her adventures in New York via the phone.
I can still see Nana and Katie sitting together on the orange velvet couch in my mom’s living room—Nana combing out Katie’s ears as my dog snoozed in her lap, oblivious to being primped while deliciously comforted by my grandmother’s presence.
Very sadly, my Nana died of bone cancer in 1990 at age ninety-one, her passing leaving a great hole in our family—and in my heart.
Katie went to Nana’s funeral, sitting obediently at the graveside, her ears blowing in the brisk November wind. Later that day, she climbed into my mom’s lap to comfort her, licking her face.
“I’ll never forget when Katie crawled up on top of me,” my mom later reflected, “put her head right under my chin, and laid her paw on my chest, hugging me all night long. She never let go.”
Especially after Nana’s death, slowly, imperceptibly, Pearl became even more important to me, my all-in-one confidante, best neighborhood friend, surrogate grandmother, and comrade-in-arms.
Being able to see her daily was a real luxury, a happy treat for me and Katie. There was Pearl at the door, standing with ramrod posture, a look of wry expectation on her face—a blend of affection, amusement, and genuine interest.
Like the captain of a ship at the wheel, she was usually stationed at her dining table, peeling apples, shucking corn, or cutting up zucchini. I joined her there and we shot the breeze on pretty much everything—from my celebrity interviews to dating, from world headlines to healthy eating, though Katie was always topic number one.
We had nic
knamed Katie “the child,” jokingly pronounced “chaaa-aellll-d,” and when I’d walk in, I’d typically ask: “How’s my sweet little chaaa-aellll-d doin’ today?”
“Your child stole my best napkin out of the linen closet—the one my mother embroidered—and turned it into this!” Pearl announced dramatically, holding up the shredded linen.
“Bad girl!” I lectured Katie, showing her the decimated napkin as she sniffed it with disinterest, having had her way with it.
“What are you going to do to make it up to me?” Pearl asked. Katie licked her hand in penance, the fastest way back into Pearl’s good graces. All was quickly forgiven as Pearl hugged her girl tightly.
“Girlie,” Pearl would ask, “you want an apple?”
Katie knew that word like her own name, and would leap on the dining room chair and wait for Pearl to pop one little chunk of a red delicious after another into her mouth.
“What about a cookie?” Katie trotted over to the cookie jar, hitting it with her paw.
“My girl want to dance?” Katie threw up her front paws at Pearl, prancing on her back legs as Pearl sang, “I wanna be in pictures… I wanna be a star.”
I quickly discovered the many facets of our Pearl.
She could be extremely girlish at times, and feisty at others.
“She was a serious, plain woman, not a game player,” my mom once observed, “and she sometimes had a gruff look on her face. You had to get to know her. She was what she was—and made no bones about it.”
But just underneath her no-nonsense exterior was a layer of kindness and pathos that reflected itself in her complete interest in others. Never one to reveal much about her emotions, she much preferred putting the focus on her guests during visits to her apartment.
“She was a very good listener,” my mom noted. “But when she wanted you to leave—you knew it!”
For most people, this was true, but the relationship as it developed between us was so comfortable that I never felt as if I was imposing on her time, and vice versa.
One day, when Pearl and Arthur came by to show off their outfits and pose for pictures before they left for an afternoon wedding, she was all giggles. “I have a handsome date, don’t I? And I’m not bad myself,” Pearl winked, outfitted in a pale green silk suit, simple gold jewelry, and patent leather shoes with bows.
But when I gave Pearl some advice too forwardly about having her windows professionally cleaned (something they desperately needed), she snapped, “Mind your own business! I like the spots.” Case closed. She wasn’t about to pay for that luxury.
As I knew, Pearl was conservative about money, with coupons frequently in hand, yet immensely generous, often taking clothes to the homeless or making dinner for friends at loose ends. And underlying her sometimes prickly demeanor and sarcastic wit were compassion for people’s frailties and a cautious realism born of the Great Depression.
“You spend too much money!” she lectured me, over and over again. “Katie doesn’t need five winter coats… take that one back.”
Yes, Ma’am.
Soon enough, our long dining room table chats became habit-forming and were often accompanied by something good to eat. On the way home from work, stopping in nearby Greenwich Village, I’d pick up Pearl and Arthur’s favorite Italian pastries from Veniero’s or Rocco’s, or I’d get glazed cookies from Jon Vie, or crispy Italian bread from Zito’s, any of it cause for celebration.
During this period, out of nowhere, I came up with the nickname “Pa-Re-El,” affectionately calling out Pearl’s name in a stretched-out cattle call, that started low, went high on “Re,” and ended lower on the syllable “El.” I’d get home with the goodies and knock on her door, letting out that unmistakable “Pa-Re-El.”
She’d laugh good-naturedly as she beckoned me toward the dining table, drawn by the mystery of the white bakery box in my hands.
Arthur would emerge from the bedroom in a rush, clap his hands, and Katie would fly out from the bed as if she’d been shot from a cannon. She’d jump in one leap onto the dining chair at the prospect of a cannoli or sliver of ricotta cheesecake.
Over numerous visits and dozens of Italian pastries, I learned more and more about Pearl and Arthur’s history and was intrigued by it, piecing together snippets of information as the calories mounted.
Born in New York City in 1912, Pearl and her older sister, Stella (“the pretty one,” she laughed), were raised in a middle-class Jewish family in the Kingsbridge section of the West Bronx. The young Pearl doted on her little fox terrier.
Pearl’s mother, Ray, was a perfectionist, an excellent cook and astute homemaker, while her father, Isadore, nicknamed “Doc,” very distinguished in wire-rim glasses, was a rep for a women’s clothing manufacturer, selling piece goods.
Although the vivacious Pearl was a very bright girl with natural wit, she had little interest in her studies, but much interest in boys.
“I was supposed to marry a doctor—my parents had him all picked out for me—talk about handsome!” she laughed, remembering her beau with relish.
“Yeah, maybe he was handsome—big deal—but I came along,” interjected Arthur.
“Yes, at Christmas 1934, I was working part-time at the perfume counter in Macy’s,” Pearl explained, “and Arthur came by looking for a gift for his mother. I was the gift! And he wasn’t bad looking either.”
“I was irresistible,” mugged Arthur, explaining that his family worked as house painters, “and that doctor was history.”
The young couple hit it off immediately and discovered that they coincidentally lived just a few doors down from one another on Aqueduct Avenue. It was love at first sight.
In 1935, though her parents thought she was too young, the twenty-three-year-old Pearl forged ahead and married “the boy next door.”
Despite the fast repartee and easy affection between Pearl and Arthur during our visits, I sensed a mild sadness hanging in the air, a sense of loss or regret. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it until a few years after I met them, when I finally understood the missing link.
As it turned out, early in their marriage, Pearl became pregnant—and the couple was ecstatic. But their happiness was short-lived.
Three months into her pregnancy, an ovarian tumor was discovered. A stricken Pearl was told that if it wasn’t promptly removed, it could threaten her life. She wound up having the surgery, which included a hysterectomy, and, of course, she lost the baby.
This was the tragedy that Pearl never discussed.
Although Pearl and Arthur had initially gotten a little Bronx apartment of their own after getting married, Pearl was so depressed after the surgery that she and Arthur wound up moving back home to live with her parents, Doc and Ray.
Recovering slowly in the nurturing environment of home, Pearl’s spirits revived and, a few years later, Arthur was drafted into the Navy.
Although he rarely talked about his experiences during World War II, Arthur repeatedly reminisced about his favorite on-ship friend, a pet monkey. One day, he dug into a shoebox of ancient photos and pulled out a picture of himself as a bare-chested young sailor, holding up his precocious primate. “That monkey had more sense than some of my mates,” he laughed.
“And sometimes more than you,” ribbed Pearl.
After the war, Pearl worked as a secretary, typing up notes for a writer—“I earned $12 a week and gave my mother $5”—while Arthur was a salesman of wholesale women’s apparel. All the while, they continued living with Pearl’s parents. One year drifted into the next, and decades slipped by, and Pearl and Arthur wound up living with Pearl’s parents for nearly their entire married life!
In fact, they remained in the Bronx until they themselves were in their seventies, caring for Ray and Doc until their deaths, then staying on to care for Arthur’s mother until her death. Their only respite from family duty was the small country home in Dutchess County that they enjoyed on weekends.
So amazingly, Pearl and Arthur almo
st never lived alone as a couple until they moved to Battery Park City in 1983.
At last, they were on their own, though a profound vacuum was left behind, the proximity of family gone.
And by the time I met them, even their beloved cocker spaniel Brandy had passed away.
As a result, Pearl and Arthur were wide open to a new chapter in their lives—and adopted Katie and me as their brand-new family.
At first prim about her personal business, Pearl gradually confided more of her intimate feelings about many things, as we became closer and closer.
She was disappointed, for example, in some of her family members with whom she’d cut off relations, though she adored her grand-niece, Susan, who lived in London, and her grand-nephew, James, in Boston. Like all good aunts, she bragged about their accomplishments, showing me their cards and letters, though she regretted they only visited about once or twice a year.
Private as she was, she would never have told them how much she worried about her finances (“we’re living on a strict budget”) and what serious concerns she had about Arthur’s health (he often had colds, bronchial infections, and intense pain due to arthritis).
“Arthur was always so strong—and he used to take me dancing in Atlantic City,” she smiled, looking over at her prized photo, taken on her honeymoon there. In it, Pearl was wearing a fur-trimmed coat and looked very chic, while Arthur was quite debonair in a blue blazer and white slacks.
“But now he spends so much of his time in bed,” she frowned, though she was determined to keep him strong by buying his favorite foods and going to the farmers’ market for fruits and vegetables.
I marveled at Pearl’s sheer energy. Nearly eighty, she was sturdily built and rarely sick, and did all her own shopping, cooking, and cleaning, while also taking superb care of Arthur (and, of course, Katie).
“I got my little girlie some dog vitamins today,” she told Katie one day, popping a chewable pill into my dog’s mouth before she could resist, then following it with a Milk-Bone chaser. “Now go over by the window and get some sun,” she ordered. And off Katie went, stretching out on her back for a snooze.
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