My Florida Visit

I was reaching for another piece of rugalach when my father grabbed my arm and said, "Listen, Joanie. When I die, I want you to have the piano, the car, this condo. Everything we own, for that matter." He let go of me and swept his arm around in a broad, encompassing gesture. "It's all yours, Joanie. Just make sure to take care of your mother."

"Please, Dad. Give me a break." Every time, it was the same thing. I definitely did not want their white-lacquered upright piano, the matching breakfront filled with knick knacks and figurines, nor my father's pride and joy - his mucus-green Cadillac with only four thousand miles. And, especially, their two-bedroom apartment in what my mother called "God's little waiting room."

He let go and then slid over the plate. "Here. Go ahead. Have another piece." Food and death, I thought. What a combination!

"For chrissakes, Dad. You've got a long time before you go. You'll probably outlive us all."

"Bullshit, Joanie." He paused. "And you know what else?" He leaned over to confide in me, as if I hadn't heard all of this before. "I don't want your good-for-nothing brother to have any of it, you hear? None of it. The way he's throwing his life away on that shiksa. And after getting married in a church, no less."

So what if he married a Catholic and in a church? I thought to myself. What kind of Jew were you, Dad? Well, I'll tell you. The kind that went to temple only three times a year, on the high holidays. And they got married in a church because you weren't going to go anyway. So what if they do have a Christmas tree and a menorah? At least he was married. At least he was giving them grandchildren. Only you never saw them, you schmuck. You never held them. Maybe I should have said it out loud, but the whole issue exhausted me. Each of them had tried to get me to choose sides, but it was not my battle to fight.

My mother, who had been standing at the sink, doing the dishes - "What do I need with a dishwasher? It's only the two of us" - wiped her reddened, roughened hands on a dishrag, and looked back at me and then, her husband. She scowled and shook her head.

"Listen, Sylvia. Joanie's also our executrix. I want her to know what our wishes are.

"Our wishes?" My mother was raising her voice. "Our wishes? Those are your wishes."

"Oy vey iz mer!" I wailed in mock exaggeration. "Woe is me!" I slapped my forehead, rolled my eyes, and shook my head, as much to derail the situation as to belittle the ongoing feud. My father got up in huff and stalked off towards the bedroom.

And that's how my visit to Florida began: with a five-mile backdown on northbound I-95 as an appetizer, with overcooked chicken for dinner, and with all their mishegas for dessert - their own special brand of craziness.

I ask myself why I visit them every year. Yes, it's probably out of a sense of obligation. Yes, there's the "honor thy father and thy mother" dictate in the fifth commandment. And, yes, I know that if I didn't visit them, then nobody would, because my brother David would certainly not be welcome. Every time I drop off the Alamo rental at the Fort Lauderdale airport, I hold my breath until the plane is up in the air. Only then can I exhale.

It's been a dozen years, already - a dozen visits altogether since they migrated south two years after I graduated from Hunter College. Every year I have to buy a ticket far in advance to fly down during the peak holiday time when my sixth-graders and I have our vacation. And every time - the first several years, after hanging up the phone, and now, after clicking the "submit" icon - I get the same sinking feeling in my stomach, of excitement and anticipation soured by regret and misgivings.

I sometimes wish they had stayed on Long Island. I could've taken the train out to visit them every once in a while and then it wouldn't have been such a production. Or they could've driven in or even taken the train to the city to visit me, and we could've gone to a show or visited a museum. "Aaa, what's there to see?" I imagine my mother protesting. "It's all the same. We've done it all. It's your turn now, Joanie." How could I answer that? What is there to say?

Yes, I know that all of their friends had either died or moved away, fleeing from the shvartzes who were invading like a plague, as they put it - the blacks who would inevitably drag down property values. How could I get them to believe that the color problem was not black, but green? That anyone who could afford to buy a house would be welcome in my neighborhood? That even I could not have afforded my parent's house? Can a rational argument be used to change an irrational person's beliefs? The answer: No, it can't. "Your head's in the clouds," they'd answer. "You've always been such an idealist." So, thank you, Mom and Dad, for that vote of confidence.

Yes, I know that my mother hated the winter's cold and damp weather, those times when her arthritis was especially debilitating. Yes, I know Dad wanted to "leave the goddam island" when he had to sell off the business for "stinking pennies on the dollar." And, after Davie married his longtime Catholic girlfriend, and even after they bought a house only minutes away from my parents, my mother and father decided there was nothing left to keep them up north. Their geographic cure for mishegas was, apparently, not in the least effective.

But living on an eighteen-hole golf course? Morty had never picked up a nine-iron in his life. Racing to get to the early-bird specials in strip-mall restaurants? Morty and Sylvia used to pore over Newsday's restaurant reviews like crazed groupies. Enduring the tropical heat and the community's regulations and all those alter-cocker Florida drivers? There had to be - had to be! - more to life than sitting on the screened-in balcony with a glass of diluted lemonade, watching the egret strutting around the artificial lagoon.

I heard a file cabinet drawer snapping shut from the second bedroom - the one in which I would be staying - the one that also doubled as a den, an office and a storage room, I had insisted that they go for the two-bedroom in case they had visitors or if they ever needed someone to stay with them "just in case, down the road. You never know." They followed my advice and claimed that I was the pragmatic one, the one who could be depended on, but, of course, they only boasted about that when it served their interest. Sometimes I wish they had bought the one-bedroom unit so I'd have an excuse to stay at a motel and have my own space and privacy. But they would never hear of it, of course. They would have insisted that I sleep on the convertible sofa, and that would have been much worse.

My father returned, and handed me a couple of ragged sheets torn from a yellow legal pad. "Here. Look at this. I've made a list of all of our belongings. See all of these?" He pointed down at the page; I noticed his finger trembling. "The ones marked with the 'J' are the things I want you to have."

The handwriting was almost unintelligible. It was nothing at all like the beautiful penmanship he had once been so proud of. Instead of smooth curves and flourishes, there were jagged edges and scribbles. And the writing refused to adhere to the blue printed lines.

"What do you mean - when the time comes?" This was becoming too morbid and too ridiculous for me. I could imagine - probably the result of too many pieces of rugalach, and way too much sugar - the headline in the Sun-Sentinel: "Deerfield Couple in Double Suicide." But, then, it wouldn't even make page one, above the fold. What's with this new mishegas - "when the time comes?" Morton and Sylvia Eisenberg planning their own version of Jonestown? And in their Florida-style living room, with all that white furniture? In a deluxe two-bedroom condo overlooking a land-filled golf course? I could not help giggling.

"Uh, nothing, Dad." I squelched another giggle and forced myself to keep a straight face. "Nothing at all."

"This isn't easy for us." She looked at her husband and he nodded. "Your father has been having a series of strokes. But not exactly mini-strokes, as they're called, because there have been some lasting effects." She motioned towards the yellow sheets in front of me.

"What was I supposed to say?" my mother asked. "With you up there and us down here?"

"Why? What for?" This time it was my father's turn. "There's nothing you could possibly have done."

"Give her a break, Morty," my mother said, running interference as always. "She's here right now."

And what was I supposed to do? I was lying in bed, on a sheet damp from my own sweat, flipping through the channels, with the sound turned way down so I wouldn't wake them up. My stomach was churning, and it wasn't only from the chicken. I was wired, the place was sour-smelling and oppressive, and I couldn't fall asleep. I felt feverish, like I was having hot flashes, God forbid. In the distance, I heard a siren - probably, in my father's words, "a meat wagon picking up another stiff."

The air was almost still. The feeble breeze from the balcony could not even make the drapes stir. And only on the hottest days of summer would they relent and switch on the air conditioning.

Basic cable was all they had: a Law & Order rerun, QVC and the Home Shopping Network, Florida news, and community announcements. Dreck, dreck, and more dreck. I clicked off the television, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. And I waited for the Ambien to take effect.

They drop a bomb like that on me and then, what? "Here, Joanie. Here's the ball. Go score a touchdown." What the fuck, Dad? And tell me, where the fuck is the fucking end zone? ... was the last thing I remembered, as the white capsule mercifully kicked in.

The next morning - why so goddam early? - I was awakened by the ear-piercing sounds of landscapers - growling lawnmowers and whining leaf blowers over raucous laughter and shouting in Spanish. It was too early for me to get up, but it was already too warm and muggy to fall back asleep. I lay in bed, still drowsy and lightheaded. Finally, I sat up, slipped on my robe and went into the guest bathroom to wash up.

I really didn't want to start the day but I shuffled towards the dining alcove anyway. My father, in striped Bermuda shorts and a paisley shirt, was sitting at the table, leafing through the Sun-Sentinel. My mother was puttering in the kitchen, in her flannel robe, as usual. "And there's Miss Sleepy-head," he announced. As if I were still four years old. As if nothing had been mentioned last night. As if everything were perfectly hunky-dory. And I certainly didn't want to bring it up again.

Usually, I was in too much of a hurry for breakfast. I only had time to stop at the Korean deli on the corner for a cup of coffee. But I didn't want to get into an argument.

My mother reached up into a kitchen cabinet and then handed me a jar, saying, "Folgers crystals, just like you like." The jar had probably not been opened since the last time I was there. "Give me your cup, Joanie. Let me pour you some boiling water."

She took out several cereal boxes and placed them on the table - generic Oatie-O's, Raisin Bran, Winn-Dixie Corn Flakes - and then passed me a quart container of two percent milk. "Here. Your father got this, special for you. You know we usually drink powdered skim."

"Thanks, Mom." Still, as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place the night before.

"You know, Joanie," my father said, "I saw Pinky Zuckerman yelling at someone when I went to check the mail. So I walked over, and he asked about you."

"Well, he'll be home all afternoon. That'd be a good time for you to go over there." The summons was thereby delivered and my father went back to browsing through his newspaper.

I really liked Pinky Zuckerman, even though his childhood nickname was so incongruous for a man nearing eighty. Pinchas Zuckerman was my father's mentor, an original resident of the complex, who showed him the ropes when he and my mother first moved in. He was also my father's pinochle buddy, a chess opponent, and, as my mother put it, my father's partner in crime.

It was Pinky's self-assigned job to keep a lookout at the dumpsters in the recycling area. He would struggle out to confront and insult, between phlegmy coughs and throat-clearings, anyone who had the temerity to make a mess or to break the clearly spelled-out recycling rules. So far, my father had successfully avoided being recruited into Pinky's crusade, his raison d'être, his reason for living.

My father, on the other hand, had no such cause. During the years on Long Island, the business had kept my father all to itself. Although he claimed that he "worked his fingers to the bone" seven days a week, and eight if he could have for us, we - Mom, Davie and I - always came second. He might have owned the business, but the business really owned him. He was never at an Open School night, never at any of my concerts, never in the bleachers at Davie's games. You name it, and he was never there. "You gotta understand, Joanie. The business ..." The business this, the business that. I never bothered to listen to the rest.

That afternoon, I put on a long-sleeved navy blouse and a long denim skirt, slipped on a pair of Birkenstocks, and walked past the unused pool over to the garden apartment where Pinky lived. Drawn to the new shul within walking distance, many Orthodox Jews were replacing the original residents who were dying off or moving on. If not for the Orthodox, I would have worn shorts and a tank top. After all, I ran in the park and still had the body to show for it. But this time I had on a skirt and blouse because of the "you shouldn't offend" baloney my parents hammered into me. It's too bad that they didn't live up to their own lofty principles.

When I knocked on the door, Pinky rasped, "Come in, come in." The years of smoking unfiltered Camels were finally catching up to him. Still, I wondered how he had gone on for so long.

The door was unlocked and I let myself in. "Oh, let me look at you! Oh, such a shana maideleh, still!" Pinky gushed. And I blushed. He was a man who still knew how to flatter a lady, even if he was more than twice my age.

I bent over to hug him. Under his flannel shirt, he felt more bony, more fragile and less substantial than ever before. I knew we would lose him soon. He patted the sofa cushion next to him and said, "So sit, Joanie. Sit." Then, "Tell me. What's new?"

I told him how things were: that no, I hadn't met anyone worth marrying - yet; that teaching was becoming more disappointing and less gratifying because of administrative micro-management; that the kids were harder to get to, not to mention their parents; but that I was still enjoying the city and, yes - "Don't you worry in the least, Pinky" - that it was safer than ever before.

"That's so nice to hear, Joanie. Enjoy it while you can. Before I moved down here, things in the city were pretty bad. After my Estelle died, she should rest in peace, I couldn't live in New York anymore." Always, he got around to that, and I wondered if some people never stopped grieving.

Visiting with him was a pleasure because it was always so easy to talk to him. He had been an elementary school principal "in the good old days, a simpler time," as he put it, "when the teachers taught and the kids learned." As we sat in his living room I felt the wafting of cooler air. The sun had disappeared behind darkening clouds.

"It's going to rain soon," Pinky said. "You know, it rains somewhere in Florida all the time."

"And boy, do those people get wet." I finished his joke and we laughed together.

Pinky cleared his throat. "So tell me, Joanie." His smile suddenly disappeared. "Did your father mention something to you about his health?"

I wanted to play dumb, to draw him out, but decided, instead, to lay it out in the open. "You mean about the strokes?"

"Mom said something about mini-strokes. My father's talking about 'when the time comes.' They dropped all of that on me last night and then abruptly changed the subject."

"Well, it's not good. Your father has been having cardiac arrhythmias that are causing his strokes. He could have a massive heart attack - they call it a myocardial infarction, a coronary event - at any time." He shook his head sadly. "It's serious, Joanie. He could die. His doctor assures him that his condition is treatable but, of course, he wouldn't make any promises. And listen to this: All he might need is a pacemaker."

"Your father is scared, terrified. He doesn't want an operation. As he says, he 'doesn't want any son of a bitch to cut him open.'"

"I told you. He's afraid of dying. And of living like this. But nobody can get through his goddam thick skull. Not the doctors. Not your mother. Not even me."

There was silence while I mulled that one over. Then, "Listen, Joanie. I'm an old man. And I'm getting older every day. So it's time for my beauty rest." His laughter turned into convulsive coughing. I reached towards him but he waved my hand away. When the paroxysms subsided, he wiped off his mouth on a handkerchief and said, "I've got to get up later to watch the mamzerim, those bastards, throw their ferkokteh garbage away."

My visit with Pinky was briefer than I had expected, so I took a walk to buy a cup of real coffee and to pick up a newspaper. If I were lucky, maybe I could even find a copy of the Times.

I made sure to smile and say hello to the guard at the pedestrian gate because I wanted to avoid a confrontation on the way back in. Me, they might actually hassle, since I didn't have a resident's ID card. Such was life living in a gated community.

The adjoining shopping mall was once a thriving center of stores and businesses and bank branches. The banks were still there, of course, but many of the stores had been replaced by the offices of medical specialists. Here a cardiologist, there an endocrinologist. Surgeons and ophthalmologists, oncologists and neurologists. Too bad there wasn't a psychiatrist; I should've gotten my head examined for flying down here in the first place.

It started to drizzle, and I ducked into the luncheonette, eerily empty at that time of day. Only a few newspapers were in a pile. "Excuse me," I said. "Do you have any New York Times left?"

The man behind the counter, who looked to be as old as my parents, looked up. "No, missy. I don't think so. Just what's there."

Damn. Then: "Could you get me a large cup of black coffee, please?" I didn't even care if it had been warming since the morning.

He filled a cardboard cup and passed it over the counter to me. "Watch yourself. It's very hot." He also handed me a top.

"Sure. Go ahead. Stay as long as you want. But we're closing in three hours." He laughed to himself and went back to wiping the counter.

I didn't want any cream or sugar in my coffee. I wanted to drink it straight up. I wanted it to burn my tongue. I wanted to taste its unadulterated bitterness.

I cupped my hands around the container more for comfort than to warm them. I listened to my breathing to calm myself, to slow myself down: in, then out, in, then out, my inhalations and exhalations wisping between my lips.

"You know what you're supposed to do," were his words. Yeah, right. Fucking Obi-Wan Kenobi Zuckerman to Joanie Skywalker. Pinky Zuckerman - the Jedi knight of the dumpsters - intoning to an acolyte who had no clue.

Thank goodness I had my cell phone. My father still keeps a record of long distance calls to check against the bill even though it costs him only a nickel a minute and he's never found a mistake. If I were to call from their apartment, it'd be, "Who ya calling, Joanie? I've got to write it down." It might have been the deluxe two-bedroom, but it was too cramped for me.

I took a sip and speed-dialed my brother's number. He answered on the third ring.

"Hello, Davie?" I was glad he was home. I didn't want to hear any snide remarks about my parents and their angst from Katherine, the shiksa. Oh my god! I suddenly realized with disgust. I'm sounding just like my father!

I decided to get right to the point. "Dad's health is poor. He's had some mini-strokes. They wouldn't tell me exactly what was going on, but Pinky Zuckerman said that he's been having serious cardiac arrhythmias."

"I don't know, Davie. But I needed someone to talk to." My eyes were starting to water.

"Davie, the problem's serious, and he could die. But maybe all he needs is a pacemaker."

"Well, he's scared shitless. He's scared of the knife. And he refuses to be operated on."

"I don't know, Davie. You're his son. Maybe you can call and talk to him. Try to convince him to ..."

"Then how about calling me on my cell phone, later on maybe, when we're having dinner, and we'll see what happens."

"Who knows? Mom might. She was never as hard-headed about the religion thing as he was."

"Thanks. Thanks so much. And say hello to Kathy and the kids and give them a big hug for me."

I snapped my cell phone shut, dried my eyes with a napkin, and finished the rest of my coffee. By the time I walked out of the luncheonette, the rain had stopped, the sun was out, and it was steamy again. I wanted to get back because I didn't want to be out too long. Even at my age, they would worry and wonder where I was.

After reheating, the chicken was even more inedible that the night before. I picked at a drumstick and carefully rearranged the warmed-up vegetables on my plate.

I wanted to scream, "Just once, turn on the goddam air conditioning!" I wanted to shout, "Stop being so goddam pig-headed!" I wanted to yell, "Have the fucking operation already, so my mother won't become a widow!" But I didn't. It wouldn't have done any good, anyway.

My cell phone vibrated an instant before it rang. David's phone number was on the screen. I flipped it open and said, "Hello?"

I mouthed, "David." My father scowled and turned away, but I knew he was still listening.

She looked down at her husband and then back at me. Then she dried off her hands and took the phone from my outstretched hand.

I got up and, as I walked towards the bedroom, I heard her saying, "It's been so long, Davie." And I heard her asking, "How have you been?" and then "How are Kathleen and the kids?" I could almost taste my mother's tears.

I stood out on the balcony for a moment, then eased myself onto a rickety plastic chair. It was already dark. There was a soft, cool breeze and the lagoon was shimmering in the moonlight. And I knew the egret would be back tomorrow.

Rev 19 / August 17, 2006

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August, 2006…Copyright © 2006, Lloyd B. Abrams

-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Number 48, November 2018

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