Having a sophisticated or at least a satiated palate has always played an essential role in my father’s life. Every family story involves a meal or food group. During World War II, chewing gum was a luxury. To stretch the life of his Dubble Bubble, Dad would take a worked-over, flavorless wad of gum, sprinkle it with sugar, wrap it in wax paper, and freeze it. It’s unfathomable to imagine an eight-year-old today going to that kind of trouble.* Stories about his time in military school in northern Florida revolve around hunting possum (not kosher) and making turtle soup (even less kosher) or eating alligator (don’t even ask) in the Okefenokee Swamp. His gumbo recipe (which has not only every kind of shellfish imaginable but bacon, ham, and pork sausage to boot) is famous in several counties.
Our family vacations were planned around food. We went to Boston, ostensibly, to visit historical sites. Pictures show us walking the Freedom Trail, but I don’t remember it at all. The only vivid memory I have of that trip is climbing the narrow, dimly lit staircase leading to the century-old dining room of the Durgin-Park restaurant, where we ordered Flintstone-sized slabs of prime rib.
The Jockey Club offered tennis, dockage for yachts, disco dancing, casual access to the wealthiest locals, and over-the-top Sunday buffets. This combination of access to the monied class and marbled meats was irresistible to my father. A towering presence in his younger days, six foot four and 250-ish pounds, my dad had an insatiable appetite for money and food equally.
At the end of each week, the nouveau riche and the faux riche, like us, gathered at the club, where the gluten was free flowing and diners engaged in a competition to see who could raise their cholesterol level quickest. I was my father’s daughter, buying into his financial alchemy and sharing in his passion for movies and meats of all kinds, so Sundays were special to me as well. Dressed in our matching shiny polyester shirts and bell-bottoms, we’d load into my dad’s copper Mercedes 450 or my mother’s powder blue 280 and take the causeway connecting our gated island community in Biscayne Bay to the private drive of the swanky club, located a bit further north on the water. I’m certain these were some of the happiest moments of his life. At least the ones that don’t involve hookers or poker.
To this day, I’ve never seen so much food in one place in my life as I did at those Sunday brunches. Table after table of silver platters overflowing with eggs Benedict, eggs Florentine, sausage, bacon, ham, and lamb. The meats were laid out like the stations of the cross and manned by a corpulent server in chef whites and toque blanche who carved roast beefs the size of beach balls. These were the days before veganism displaced hedonism as the preferred ism of the moneyed classes and patrons gazed rapturously as the beef fat glistened in the Florida sunlight.
The clubbing days are long gone for my parents.
Dad’s last high-profile venture was a relaunching of the Embers Restaurant, a Miami Beach institution famous for its thick-cut steaks cooked over an open fire pit that had fallen into disrepair. I’d just started college when the renovation was completed. I flew down and warbled Shirelles songs at the reopening-night party. Luckily, the acoustics were terrible and my singing didn’t spoil the festivities. As with many of his ventures, business was booming at first, but very quickly graft became rampant, steaks were flying out the back door, and Dad couldn’t hold on to staff.
Word got to our cousins in Mobile, who knew people who knew “Sam the Plumber,” a bagman for the mob. Sam DeCavalcante was a member of the New Jersey Mafia who did a little moonlighting for mobster Meyer Lansky, who’d retired to Miami. I was home for the holidays when Sam brought a brown paper Winn-Dixie grocery store bag containing two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to our home. I stared at it on the kitchen counter, too frightened to peer inside but tempted by its contents nonetheless.
“Dad, you should keep it!” I advised with an eighteen-year-old’s naïve enthusiasm. He didn’t. In hindsight, with the benefit of repeated viewings of Goodfellas, I understand that a bagman collects ill-gotten gains that the mob launders in a way that has nothing to do with washing machines, and there’s never just one bag. Plumbing is always a good business to be in.
The restaurant went under and became a seedy nightclub. Five years later, my grandmother Rebecca would call to ask, “What is my grandbaby doing on the television looking like a nafka?”
“Becca, I’m playing a hooker.” I was showing Detective Sonny Crockett on Miami Vice where I’d been “cut” on my neck by my pimp Choo Choo, while standing right where I’d sung “Dedicated to the One I Love.” It’s impossible to say what was more surreal, trying to convincingly portray a scarred-up streetwalker or filming at the location of the restaurant whose demise contributed to altering the course of my life.
Not long after the Embers closed, a massage table at the spa of another exclusive haunt, the Cricket Club, collapsed under my father’s weight. Even though this turned out to be rather fortuitous, as my parents successfully sued and lived on that insurance settlement for several years, they were blacklisted from clubs and spas around town.
So, what kind of food the facility serves, whether the address will connote wealth, and whether it will be close to the casinos are the questions of the utmost importance to my father.
My mother rode that roller coaster for fifty-eight years, but that e-ticket to a cushy landing never materialized and she wants off. She’s made her decision. She wants to be the one who gets to decide where they will live next, but my father isn’t budging.
I’d like to recuse myself and turn this over to Lisa, but I can’t. We made a pact.
After our grandfather Johnny received a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, my mom visited only a few times during the decade-long decline before his death. The caregiving fell to Gloria, Mom’s older sister, and Nanny, who carried out her duty with her signature stoicism. When Gloria stopped recognizing my mother’s voice, it was just too much for her. “I know my limitations,” my mother would repeat. We begged her to go to Delaware, offered to pay for tickets, even to accompany her. When Gloria died in 2011, it had been ten years since my mother had spoken to her sister. Lisa and I promised each other that no matter what, we’d never stop speaking to each other and we’d try to divide the caregiving as equally as possible. This has required some stepping up on my part because I’ve enjoyed and, frankly, benefited from being the little sister.
In pictures from my early childhood, Lisa’s arms wrap protectively around me. Lisa’s leading us through a dance routine or comforting me because I’m bawling my eyes out on bumper cars at Six Flags Over Georgia. Impervious to the laughter that greeted our deep Southern accents, she spoke for me when we moved from Alabama to Delaware. In our Shari Lewis–inspired puppet shows, she was Lamb Chop and I was Lamby’s less memorable sidekick Hush Puppy.*
Our parents still marvel at how on our Mexican vacation Lisa happily gobbled down ceviche and spoke perfect Spanish while I managed to get raw sewage dumped on my head and got hysterical when a guide instructed our tour group to throw me into a cenote, a deep well where the Mayans sacrificed virgins at the Chichen Itza pyramids. To be fair, the guide was kidding, but he sounded awfully convincing to this twelve-year-old.
Growing up in the shadow of her excellence was trying but in no way justified my cutting a rickrack pattern into her bangs the night before middle school picture day. This unfortunate incident was memorialized in the school portrait that still graces my mother’s coffee table as a testament to my immaturity. When I headed into the arts and Lisa became an attorney, our roles in the family were solidified. She was organized and prompt. I was messy and possibly unreliable.*
I’ve managed to raise a kid and remain marginally employable, and have never left my house pantsless, but Lisa is my emotional rock. She reminds me when our parents’ birthdays and anniversary are coming up and she can be counted on to host holiday dinners. But everything changed the year Lisa showed up to crash on my couch.
I was commuting
between my home in Los Angeles and a one-bedroom apartment in NYC, rented by the television network I was working for, when Lisa called to say she and her husband of twenty-five years had separated, she was leaving the job she’d held for nineteen years and was setting off in a new direction, and wouldn’t it be fun if we were roomies? My shooting days lasted between twelve and seventeen hours on location and the show’s budget was minimal, so the apartment also served as our wardrobe, hair and makeup, and prop department, but I’d camped out at her place so many times, it was impossible to refuse. It seemed odd when she showed up with four large suitcases, scuffing the hallway wall on her way in, and odder still when she collapsed a clothing rack in the closet and shrugged it off. When she knocked over an illuminated sculpture, I was sure I was in the presence of a pod person and we were in a scene from a remake of the remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
The next morning, I awoke to find Lisa in her pajamas, another foreboding sign, as normally she’s biking by dawn or heading out to solve the world’s problems. Really, that’s what she does for a living. She leads organizations dedicated to solving issues of global importance. But no. Recalling that I once cohosted a TV show called The Dream Team alongside a psychic–cum–dream counselor, she invited me to interpret her dreams from the previous night.
Here’s something I learned as the host of a TV show about dreams: no one wants to hear about your dreams. We can’t see “the turreted golden mansion with secret passageways leading to chambers filled with treasures,” and that “when you tried climbing to the top of the tower, the steps of the staircase multiplied,” and how “suddenly, you were driving a car and it turned into an egg and you soared into the stratosphere.” But I comply.
“The mansion represents your talents that have gone unrealized, you are moving in the right direction but it will take more time than you anticipated, and your life is going to take you on a new journey across the globe.” I was flying blind on the egg, so I suggested that her new life might involve dairy.*
“You’re amazing.”
“I learned from an expert,” I said, neglecting to mention that the dream interpreter predicted our program would last for three years. We shot two hundred episodes and the network canceled us after airing only ten, but Lisa didn’t need to know that.
Over the next days she announced that she was considering becoming a rabbi, a salsa dancer, or a salsa-dancing rabbi. “Let’s take early morning walks,” she suggested, even though my mornings already started at five thirty a.m. I was pulling the covers over my head on my one day off when she opened the door with, “Can you make a lecture at the Frick on humanitarian efforts in China?” Did she say “humidifying Crock-Pots for the vagina”? “Rain check,” I mumbled.
I craved solitude when I wasn’t working. She was networking with strangers in elevators. She traded contact information in our apartment building elevator with a guy who plays the “sad” clown in the Big Apple Circus and I prayed that she wouldn’t run away with him on my watch, because I knew that our parents would blame it on me.*
Things came to a head after she treated herself to a haircut from Didier, a New York hair guru. Didier worked his magic and Lisa’s hair was chicer than I’d ever seen, but as is inevitable with these celebrity hairstylists, once she got home, re-creating the magic proved impossible. After one washing, it looked like Lisa had bedazzled a Prada. I sat her down in the bathroom and called up the only measurable skill I’ve acquired from acting in low-budget films: proficiency with a blow-dryer. “You’re pulling your hair in the wrong direction and you need a smaller brush.” I caught sight of us in the mirror. My big sister looked so vulnerable and trusting. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was the sister of rickrack-bangs infamy, and a wave of warm feelings spread across my chest. It turned out to be a hot flash, but still. I was filled with love for her and the satisfying largesse of the Big Sister.
We started going on walks and enjoying late-night drinks, and I even made “I’m listening intently” sounds while she read to me from her journals. She regained her equilibrium, got the sculpture repaired, and went on a salsa immersion trip to Cuba. Within three months, she accepted a new position, relocated across the country, and forged a rewarding new relationship. My sister never fails. That visit marked my graduation out of little sisterhood.
Since the “we’re broke” phone call, we’ve been taking turns, flying in for several days at a time. Lisa has taken the lead, as per usual, with financial and legal matters, but she is hopeful that together we can break this deadlock. The clock is ticking, as they can’t afford to renew the lease for the condo they are renting.
Our flights are landing at Miami International Airport at almost exactly the same time. Mine arrives first and I take up a position by the baggage claim, our designated meet-up spot. The seating area is located behind a freestanding billboard that blocks my view of arriving passengers. I can only see the travelers approaching from the knee down, and it’s not like our family has such distinctively shaped lower appendages, but I am confident that I will recognize my sister’s calves and footwear.
A pair of shoes comes into view, sophisticated black-and-white patent-leather pumps, but the legs stop tentatively. This can’t be the locomotion of my executive-decision-making sister—she always gets what she wants, always wins, and she never stops. Never.
On a recent visit to her home in Georgetown, she suggested we take the scenic route into the city. That route turned out to be a steep nine-mile trail through a park. We missed a turnoff and found ourselves facing a tributary of the Potomac. We had to ford a stream in order to make our dinner reservations. She is my best friend and biggest supporter, but she also terrifies me.* While I can be tireless and overbearing, hence the nickname “Sergeant Gurwitch,” my sister is known simply as “the General.”
A pair of sensible but elegant shoes purposefully strides toward the bank of chairs. These are shoes that one might wear when helping to airlift refugees out of Ethiopia but would also be appropriate when conducting a board meeting. Though a hundred people have walked by and I’ve spotted her, before I can revel in this inconsequential victory, she appears and says, “I recognized your purse. Let’s go.” I carry a bag fashioned from recycled tarp, and the shoulder straps are made from seat belts, which is a bit distinctive, but still, she always wins. She’s exiting the building before I even stand up.
• • •
OUR PARENTS’ CONDO is only a few miles from the house they lived in for forty years, on the same stretch of sand where I spent weekends slathering on baby oil in my string bikini before I discovered punk rock and torn ballet tutus.
The real estate agents, a duo with big bright teeth and even bigger, brighter hair, known as the Debbies, found this temporary landing spot. The Debbies, anxious to get the prestigious Sunset Islands listing, were brought on with promises of selling the house and securing the next home for them. “We’ll treat your parents like family.” The house sold quickly, but they tired of clients whose finances shifted shape like images in a fun-house mirror, and a sublet was the best they could come up with.
I begged the Debbies to let me keep the Sunset Islands home’s brass knocker, an absurdly and disturbingly realistic woman’s hand. I became obsessed with the idea that this disembodied limb must remain in our family. It’s a family relic, I explained in a series of impassioned e-mails. So much for family, or maybe it’s because we’re family that I never heard back from them. My cousin Ruth recently confessed to having several e-mail addresses, including one dedicated to annoying family members that she “forgets” to check regularly. “What a great idea,” I shrieked before realizing that the address I’d been given is the one that’s labeled family. I suspect that e-mails sent to [email protected] land in an account that gets checked neverly.
This luxury condo seemed like a soft landing. My parents were already familiar with the neighborhood, and making the tr
ansition from a 3,500-square-foot home on a gated island to the kind of downsizing they’d eventually need to do could have been a shock to the system. But it’s time to move.
It’s also been disappointing in ways we didn’t anticipate. Each wing of the building has its own elevators, which means that they’re basically private elevators, eliminating most opportunities for chance meetings. This has totally subverted my fantasy that my mother, who was becoming increasingly isolated on the island, could find a new social circle in the building. It’s important to remember that even within tribes, there are subsets that don’t overlap. One Friday night a couple about my parents’ age got on the elevator with my father. The husband was wearing a kippah, and as they appeared to be coming from services, my dad said, “Shabbat shalom,” only to be dressed down with, “How dare you address my wife!” Same religion, different tribe.
My parents are so anticipating our visit that they are standing outside of the lobby by the valet parking desk. How long they have been there is anyone’s guess, as the ride from the airport takes at least an hour. My father looks stooped. His neck is thrusting forward, his face turned downward, and he’s lost at least forty pounds. He’s a shadow of his former self. My mother looks better than she has in years. This is despite the fact that she is dying. Not dying like we are all dying, but actually dying.
She has metastasized breast cancer that has spread to her bones and now is showing up in spots on her liver. We were told to expect maybe two years at best, but it’s been over two years and even her doctors are puzzled by her continued presence aboveground. She’s begun to take great pride in telling anyone who will listen that she doesn’t take any medication on a regular basis. That is true; she’s had her thyroid removed and takes a daily synthetic replacement; one breast has been recalled to the earth, and there are regular blood transfusions and rounds of chemo, but she is not on other medication on a regular basis. It’s likely that the cancer will do her in before she will need to go on any other medication.
Wherever You Go, There They Are Page 15
