Authors: Bob Morris
He smokes too much. He plans too much. He needs too much.
Inside, he lights up a cigarette and throws himself onto his laptop. It's the weekend, I'm thinking, what could be so important? But he's pounding away at that thing so compulsively. Then he makes business calls to L.A. and starts tearing apart the room looking for a manuscript he misplaced. Soon there are pages all over the bed. One minute he's complaining about slow Internet access. The next about the shampoo the hotel has provided. He is all histrionics and hysteria. I step outside again, close the balcony door, and try to read. But he comes out and sits on my lap and wants to kiss. I gently push him away. He resists, then tries to nuzzle my ear. “Stop! I'm reading,” I tell him. He takes offense at that, so we have to spend the next ten minutes talking about it.
“Why don't you like to be touched?” he asks.
“Why don't you have any boundaries?” I reply.
God! How do people do this?
Later we're walking along the beach under a cloudy, neon-lit sky. It's not exactly pristine, but it's kind of romantic just the same. Clouds are glowing pink. Seabirds are drifting shadows overhead. There isn't a soul on the
sand. All kinds of things are going through my head. Will this relationship survive? And what in the world will I do if it doesn't? But we walk in silence, our bare feet sloshing in the foam. He looks adorable in his old jeans and Nantucket sweatshirt. I have no idea why I'd have any doubts about such a catch. He lights a cigarette and coughs a little, a smoker's cough. It scares me, and I realize that even though we've been together only a couple of months, I'd be completely lost without him. Then I do something I never do. I take his hand. We walk in silence. I have my ukulele in my backpackâthought it might be nice to serenade him. But he's such a sophisticated man, so flip and sarcastic, that I have to wonder if he's going to laugh at my singing. We climb up on a lifeguard chair. He lights another cigarette. I chug my beer, all nerves. What did my father say? Love is a decision?
I take my ukulele out of my backpack.
“What the hell is that?” he asks.
“Shh,” I whisper. Then I strum and sing.
There were bells on the hill
But I never heard them ringing,
No I never heard them at all
Till there was you.
I sing very tentatively with my head down. But then the moon comes out from behind the clouds, turning the whole world opalescent white. And I raise my head and look out to sea, and throw myself into the little love song with everything I've got.
And there was music,
And there were wonderful roses,
They tell me,
In sweet fragrant meadows of dawn,
And dew.
There was love all around,
But I never heard it singing,
No I never heard it at all
Till there was you.
When I finish, I take a swig of beer and look at Ira, and there are tears in his eyes.
“Wow,” he says more softly than he's ever spoken to me before. “I never expected that from you. Where did it come from?”
I don't say anything. But I know when he meets my dad, who taught me everything I know about singing from the heart, he'll figure it out.
T
here is nothing like a blossoming tree in Manhattan. Who expects such bright clumps of white, yellow, and pink in this dark dirty town? But there they are, outside my window, turning the city into something like a junior prom or maybe a valentine to itself. It's late May now, and I'm feeling anxious, getting dressed to meet Doreen, the new woman in Dad's life. He's back in Great Neck from Palm Beach for the summer. I've been keeping up with his new life by phone. Since he's been back up north, he's been running around like a happy little goat in a field of fresh grass and rubbish. There were times over the winter when I was keenly aware that he was calling me from her apartment, maybe even her bedroom. It took a little getting used to. Now she's come up from Florida for an extended visit and is having
a ball with him, the happy host. Last night they stayed in a Marriott in lower Manhattan. He had a half-price coupon. So the lovebirds are trysting in the big city for a moment. It has been six months for them now, as it has been for Ira and me. After his year of dating dangerously, Dad's firmly in love.
“It's a full-blown romance,” he says. “You'll like her, I know it.”
So on a warm and sunny afternoon, I'm leaving my tidy apartment, where Ira has made the bed impeccably, as he does every morning before leaving for his office. Then I cross the West Side Highway and start walking down to meet Dad and Doreen at an outdoor restaurant near Battery Park. The pedestrian path along the Hudson River is full of adorable people, shirtless guys, women in sports bras, couples holding hands as they glide along on Rollerblades, enjoying New York Harbor. I don't feel my usual resentment today, not even toward the cutest couples. Why should I when I've got love myself? But that doesn't mean I don't feel anxious. I'm meeting the woman my father plans to be with for the rest of his life. What will she look like? Sound like? It's an odd situation to have to welcome a whole new personality into our small family. As I walk, my heart pounds hard, like the waves against the moorings. I don't see him in the lunchtime crowd at the restaurant. Then all at once I do. Yes, there he is. There they are, the happy couple. There should be a pink neon heart over their heads.
“Hello, Robert!” my father says. “What a thrill you could join us!”
Doreen is a slim woman in a cream silk blouse and navy slacks. She's blond, or, I should say, her wig is. She
smiles an unstrained, easy smile as she gets up and opens her arms to embrace me. Should I kiss her or just shake her hand? I panic and stand frozen, hands at my side. But she pulls me in for a warm embrace and a “Mwuh” on the cheek.
“It is such a thrill to meet you,” she says. “You are all your father talks about!”
She isn't drop-dead gorgeous. But her skin is smooth and peachy, her dark eyes bright. And for mid-seventies, she looks great. Her clothes aren't fancy, but they're tasteful. The only thing that bothers me is her wig. It could be nicer. But then, so could I. Why am I even thinking about it?
“When I was growing up, this park didn't even exist,” she's saying. “Now it's a whole world down here.”
The voice is one of a city woman, but not a society lady. Educated but not overly refined. Without much prompting, I'm getting her full story, with Dad filling in as she goes. Her early years were spent as a journalist. She's writing a book on Soviet Jews.
“You two have a lot to talk about,” Dad says, mouth full of focaccia.
I do want to like her. They get along so well. They play Jewish Ping-Pong with their food and share with hardly a negotiation. They order a cheesecake and eat from the same plate like kids over a malted milk shake. Then she asks the waiter for a refill on her cappuccino.
Right away, I know that's not allowed, and I blush.
“I'll have to charge you,” he says.
“Oh, come on,” she replies. “Let me see the manager.”
It's just a little thing. But it makes me uncomfortable. My mother, parsimonious as she was, would never push like that. I excuse myself and go to the men's room to
call my brother at his office. He's not in. Ira isn't available either. I'm anxious to talk to someone, vent my silly anxieties, purge myself of my nonsense so I can go back out there and sit back down in a more open-minded and welcoming way. Then, as I walk back to the table, I notice how right they look together. She is laughing as she feeds him cheesecake as if on a honeymoon. And under the table, he's holding her hand. I feel my emotional claws retracting as I sit back down.
“You know what I loved?” she says to me. “When you described your father in one of your columns as a well-meaning iconoclast. That captures him so well.”
“He isn't the world's easiest guy,” I say. “Have you noticed?”
“Sure, but he's full of fun, and we're having a wonderful time together. He's put a shine on my life that I never thought would be possible at my age.”
“How long did it take for you to click?” I ask.
“On our third date I had him over for dinner, and I just knew,” she says.
“She made tilapia, and it was marvelous,” Dad adds.
“Remember the night you turned up the music and danced with me on your balcony,” she says, as she straightens his hair. “You really swept me off my feet, Joe.”
“You are entirely sweep-able,” he says.
She chuckles, leans in against him, and says, “What about when you came over with flowers from the Winn-Dixie and sang that parody you wrote? I was stunned.”
“I have a copy of it right here,” he says. I hope he's kidding. But he reaches into his wallet and pulls out a paper with typed lyrics and, without taking a breath, sings.
I bought some nice flowers for a sweet lady
Mr. Dixie had the Winn-ing ones.
“This is so cute,” she says as he goes on. “I was so flattered.”
I hope that my selection bought her some fun
She has earned the title of my honey bunâ¦
This isn't our backyard or balcony, where we sing in private. We're in public here, in my sophisticated city, and so, even at my age, I can't help feeling like an adolescent, embarrassed by my uncontrollable father. But he just keeps singing, and she is nodding along, her head bobbing happily, and it's impossible not to be warmed by the whole thing, even as my face blushes red as Chianti.
Wrapped up some nice petals that I hope will thank her
For her many kindnesses to meâ¦
Sure hope she likes this tune,
'Cause I'm coming over soon
For some kisses and a great big spoon!
It's utterly cornball, of course. But I have to say, there is something so lovely about how she is charmed by him, the same way my mother had been charmed by him. And I can see, as clear as her nail polish, that this Doreen, wig and all, is nothing less than the perfect match for the old man. No, she isn't quite as impeccable as I require. But she has this way of looking us both in the eye and listening just the way my mother did. And really, after watching him date all year, it's obvious to me that some
one as nice as my mother is all we really need again in our family.
Lunch finished, my father pays the bill, and we get up to go.
“How about we walk a little?” I ask as we leave the restaurant.
“Oh yes, it would be nice to look at the river,” she says.
“You two go ahead,” my father says. “I'll wait right here.”
Some things will never change. Even in love, he's lazy and obstinate. And even today I cannot stop myself from trying to inspire him to do things he doesn't want to do.
“Come on, Dad, join us,” I say. “Walking is good for your circulation. You have to keep your heart in shape. You know that. Use it or lose it!”
He finds the nearest bench and plops himself down.
“Dad! Come on! Just a few steps! You can see the Statue of Liberty!”
“Please, Bobby, just let me be. Go, enjoy.”
“For God's sake, Dad, we're asking you to join us!” For a moment I'm thrown back to every fight we've ever had.
Doreen just smiles and shakes her head. She seems to understand what I'm going through. “It's okay, you go ahead, Bobby,” she says, as she turns to sit with him. “We know you're busy. Go back to your life. Don't worry about us. We'll sit here and enjoy the view and argue about politics. Maybe we'll see you later.”
I don't know what to say. I'm not needed, so I'm free to go. It's a strange feeling, perhaps, the closest I'll come to seeing a child of my own settling into love for the first
time. I stand looking at them another momentâlovers in the sunshine by the river.
Then I say good-bye, turn, and walk away without feeling guilty, leaving him with her on that bench and knowing he's in very loving hands.
We both are now.
R
ight after that, I realize I'm ready for Dad and Ira to meet. It's time. After six months, we are definitely a couple. We've been at his place or mine every night. We're talking about moving in together, getting a domestic partnership contract from City Hall, which is about as married as gays can be in New York, even if, as one friend described it, it's more like getting a parking permit than a marriage license. We go out together to all kinds of dinner parties, careful not to dress too similarly so that we don't get asked if we're brothers. He is as paternal as he is romantic, incredibly helpful with my career, and I feel both protected and the need to protect him at every turn. And all the lip service I've paid to the power of being single has disappeared into the pollen-laden air of late spring. We've been to Paris together, where I had
the hubris to think I could make him quit smoking. We've been to Bermuda, where we got into a fight after I made fun of his obsession with face cream, then threw my back out because I felt so bad. Before leaving the island, we took a picture of us together on the beach where my parents honeymooned in 1951.
He is a man who knows what he wants as much as or more than I do. So every few weeks, we fight, and he says it's over between us, and walks out the door or storms away from me on the street, then comes back two minutes later to apologize. It has taken a while to realize that all this conflict is healthy, part of the investment in something that could be for the rest of our lives. It's strange to feel so optimistic. Maybe in middle age, romance is a more sustainable commodity than when you're young.
“I got the oldest puppy in the pound,” Ira says about me.
There isn't a day when I don't look at him and find him beautiful.
So he's met and charmed my brother and his family and regaled them with tales of how impossible I am. And I have met his three siblings and his little white-haired mother, a fireplug of a Bronx woman who is as liberal as an eighty-two-year-old woman can be.
And now it's time for Ira to meet Dad, who volunteers to drive into the city to take us to dinner. He's taking us to a nice place. His idea, not mine, which both pleases me and throws me for a loop. I open my door one May evening, and I can't believe it. He is in the most impeccable sports jacket. Black-and-white check, with a subtle trace of electric blue. Classy. Beyond my wildest dreams.
“My God, Dad! Where did you get that?”
“Brooks Brothers. I thought you'd like it.”
“Were they having a sale?”
“No. I saw it in the window and liked it so much I went inside to try it on. It slipped on like silk. I never felt such soft wool, like something
you
would wear. So I asked the price. Five hundred dollars! For a sports jacket, no trousers even! But then I thought,
Well, what the heck? I like it!
And I thought about how much you'd like it, too.”
This is as unlikely a scenario as I've ever heard him describe. Yet, here he is, standing before me, telling me he paid full price for something well made and stylish.
“Wow, Dad” is all I can say as I mix him a ginger ale with orange juice.
“I kept thinking I'd return it,” he says, “but I wanted something nice for tonight.”
He models it for me, turning around. He could be my son, looking for my approval. And he can have it. He looks so smooth, so young, as if he'll live forever. But I do wonder if he could have done better with his tie.
“Dad, you look like a million bucks. But are you sure about that tie?”
“I love this tie. But what's the trouble? Not the right colors?”
That and so many other things about it are wrong.
“Your jacket's checked and your tie is striped, and also, what is this fabric?” I ask, as I slide my finger over something synthetic and washable. “Acetate?”
“So I don't have to worry about spilling,” he says, slurping his drink.
“I think I have just the thing, Dad. Hang on.”
I leap to my closet and pull out my favorite tieâGucci, solid electric blue. We're running late, but he doesn't argue about trying it on. He steps into my bathroom and,
with slightly trembling hands, removes his tie and puts on mine. I've never stood with him at a mirror before, but I am reminded now how alike we are. Our eye color is exactly the same shade of hazel. He finishes tying the tie and then steps back to admire himself.
“Very nice,” he tells me. “This is just perfect. Thank you.”
He looks handsome. I am so proud. And as I straighten my tie on him, face-to-face, close as we've ever been, I imagine it going for a dip in his soup bowl at dinner, or perhaps having a gentle encounter with his butter knife. But that's okay. Even if my favorite tie doesn't survive, I think there's a pretty good chance that we will now. I can't wait for Ira to see him looking so dapper. And yes, I know style shouldn't mean so much to me. It shouldn't be about the cut of his trousers or the color of a tie. It shouldn't be about the sports jacket, either, but the man who is inside it. But, wait: actually, what
is
inside his sports jacket? As we head for the door I'm noticing that there's a pronounced little
lump
down there in his pocket, ruining the line.
“Dad, is there something in that pocket?”
He pats it gently, then has a realization.
“Oh,
that's
where it is,” he says, as he pulls out a ball of tissue with a slight speckling of blood. “I've been looking all over for this.”
“What is it?”
“I lost a piece of my tooth last month on a toasted bagel. Now I can bring this into my dentist to see if he can use it instead of a crown. Ready for dinner?”
“If you put that tooth away, I might be.”
So we go to dinner, where we meet up with Ira. And of
course he and my father get on as if they've known each other their entire lives. Dad's manners are typically his own. And Ira's are impeccable. But somehow it doesn't matter. Their voices are of equal volume, and their lack of inhibition strangely similar. I find myself at times wanting to intercede and correct them. But they're off and running, comfortable as old friends, and don't need me controlling the conversation. They tell each other shticky jokes. They compare notes on the Ambien and Nexium they take. Ira tells my father about the baby he helped to makeâdue in a monthâand my father is thrilled.
“Maybe we should start calling you Sire-a,” he jokes.
“Anything you like,” Ira says.
“What a wonderful arrangement,” Dad says. “And with so many parents, that child is going to feel so loved.”
Once they finish talking about the baby, they talk about my mother. Ira's heard so much about her.
“What was she like, Joe?” Ira asks.
“Drop-dead gorgeous,” Dad answers. “Just a great gal.”
“So compared to all these other ladies you've been dating?”
“No equal,” he says. “All of them but Doreen have been problematic.”
“Why don't you give us the whole lowdown,” Ira says.
Now, I suddenly want to scream “No!” But I take a long sip of my martini instead.
“That would take all night,” Dad laughs.
“Give us the abridged version,” Ira says.
“Well, let's see,” Dad says. “Mini was anything but.”
“Overweight, huh?” Ira says.
“To say the least. It wore thin with her pretty fast, no pun intended.”
“Who else, Joe?”
“Frieda was quixotic. Rita was neurotic.”
“And Anita was despotic?” Ira adds.
“In a manner of speaking,” Dad says. “Then there was Edie. She wouldn't commit.”
“And Florence?” I ask.
Dad sighs. “Ach, no,” he says. “Thankfully it's all past tense, because Doreen, the lady I'm with now, is the closest I've met to my wife. A lovely person, and she's kept her figure. Good dancer, tennis player, and she likes to sing with me, just like Ethel did.”
“I hear she wears a wig,” Ira says.
“That's Bobby's problem, not mine,” Dad says.
“Well,” Ira says, “I look forward to meeting her.”
Then he excuses himself to use the men's room, walking away in his perfectly cut black blazer. Dad leans over, takes my hand.
“What a terrific guy,” he whispers. “Perfect for you in every way.”
I feel a tingle of pleasure go up my spine. “You think so, Dad?”
“I feel like I now have three sons instead of two. I couldn't be happier for you.”
I should tell him how much it means to me to hear that. But “Thanks, Dad” is all I manage as I pull my hand out from under his. After dessert, as we're about to leave, an older lady who looks to be of means stops by the table. I have become so used to being Dad's pimp that I start assessing her, from soft copper hair to alligator bag. I can tell she's got her eye on him. I can also see she's had work done on her face, which is smooth as a plastic nectarine. Then I realize I'm wasting my powers of assessment.
He's got eyes only for Doreen now. What a relief he's off the market.
“I just had to tell you what nice-looking sons you have,” this woman says to Dad.
Ira and I exchange looks. Then I look down at my plate, embarrassed.
“Yes,” Dad says, not bothering to correct her. “Aren't they terrific?”