outings with my father were planned in advance, but on three occasions he surprised me by showing up at P.S. 6 after school. The first time we took a cab and met the governor at a cocktail party, then went across the Bridge to Newark Airport where we watched planes take off and land. Great roars preceded the transition to flight, soft touchdowns and promenades in the other direction. We continued to look through a picture window during dinner while they served a dazzling dessert: coconut-covered ice-cream balls carried across the darkened room with sparklers.
After that excursion, I searched every day for Uncle Paul beside the Bill-Dave wagon. Twice I rushed toward him in the crowds, only to find another fat man.
Then on an afternoon when I had forgotten to look, there he was, talking to Bill by the wagon. He hugged me and shouted at a cab. We went straight from P.S. 6 to a rehearsal with Eddie Fisher and later dined at a restaurant called Stockholm that had large figures of carved ice around a buffet.
Paul Grossinger was an enigma. Grand and important, smelling of perfume and outfitted in the fanciest suits (PG on his pockets and shirt cuffs), he moved awkwardly, bumping into people, and was often tongue-tied. Though he had both his eyes, I was astonished to learn that he had lost total sight in one. “A kid shot me with a beebee,” he said with surprising irritation over something that had happened when he was younger than me.
In the course of our visits he quizzed me about schoolwork and asked repeatedly if my behavior was improving. “That’s not what I hear from your mother!” he would retort with a wave of a finger. But then he’d chuckle.
He usually had inside scoops from Yankee players and executives, but if I pressed him too much on these, he acted as though he were guarding top-secret information and changed the subject. He preferred to describe his hotel: swimming pool, eighteen holes of golf, ice-skating, and a dining room that could hold five Plaza dining rooms. He mentioned his wife, Aunt Bunny, and my brothers, Michael and James. “You three will raise some hell!”
I didn’t plan on that, but I was dying to meet them.
Though he addressed me in baby language and barely listened to what I said, he was sententiously reassuring, promising that between him and Dr. Fabian all my problems, including my fears, would soon be gone. With his huge belly and soft, round face he reminded me of Babe Ruth, and he had such a warmth and generosity that I wanted to be with him always. I was teary in the cab going home, though he handed me too much money for the fare and told me to keep the change. I would return to icy stares from everyone, even Bridey. It was as though I had been consorting with a convict. My seeming willingness to “be bought” was further proof to them of my selfishness and disloyalty.
On holiday weekends Daddy got his Mercury from the garage and took the whole family, Bridey included, into the countryside three hours to the Nevele. Our room was old-fashioned, with metal beds, fancy quilts, and a singing radiator. In the morning we accompanied our parents to the dining room where folded cloth napkins made goblets into tall birds alongside baskets of hot breakfast rolls and stacks of pancakes.
Daddy’s first order of business was to lead us into the back room to pay our respects to Uncle Ben and Aunt Marian, the owners. Their space was smoky and crowded, people crouching over ledgers. Like the operator of a saloon Aunt Marian rose to greet us with strong handshakes. She gave Mommy a long, concerned hug: “How are you, Martha dear?” Her husky Ethel Merman voice carried innuendos of both rivalry and solicitude. Marian Slutsky was a powerful statuesque lady—Daddy’s boss, Mommy’s confidante, a formidable rival to Uncle Paul. In her presence Mommy acted meek and seemed about to cry.
“She treats me like a dog,” she complained later to Bridey. “You’d think I was some sort of
After that excursion, I searched every day for Uncle Paul beside the Bill-Dave wagon. Twice I rushed toward him in the crowds, only to find another fat man.
Then on an afternoon when I had forgotten to look, there he was, talking to Bill by the wagon. He hugged me and shouted at a cab. We went straight from P.S. 6 to a rehearsal with Eddie Fisher and later dined at a restaurant called Stockholm that had large figures of carved ice around a buffet.
Paul Grossinger was an enigma. Grand and important, smelling of perfume and outfitted in the fanciest suits (PG on his pockets and shirt cuffs), he moved awkwardly, bumping into people, and was often tongue-tied. Though he had both his eyes, I was astonished to learn that he had lost total sight in one. “A kid shot me with a beebee,” he said with surprising irritation over something that had happened when he was younger than me.
In the course of our visits he quizzed me about schoolwork and asked repeatedly if my behavior was improving. “That’s not what I hear from your mother!” he would retort with a wave of a finger. But then he’d chuckle.
He usually had inside scoops from Yankee players and executives, but if I pressed him too much on these, he acted as though he were guarding top-secret information and changed the subject. He preferred to describe his hotel: swimming pool, eighteen holes of golf, ice-skating, and a dining room that could hold five Plaza dining rooms. He mentioned his wife, Aunt Bunny, and my brothers, Michael and James. “You three will raise some hell!”
I didn’t plan on that, but I was dying to meet them.
Though he addressed me in baby language and barely listened to what I said, he was sententiously reassuring, promising that between him and Dr. Fabian all my problems, including my fears, would soon be gone. With his huge belly and soft, round face he reminded me of Babe Ruth, and he had such a warmth and generosity that I wanted to be with him always. I was teary in the cab going home, though he handed me too much money for the fare and told me to keep the change. I would return to icy stares from everyone, even Bridey. It was as though I had been consorting with a convict. My seeming willingness to “be bought” was further proof to them of my selfishness and disloyalty.
On holiday weekends Daddy got his Mercury from the garage and took the whole family, Bridey included, into the countryside three hours to the Nevele. Our room was old-fashioned, with metal beds, fancy quilts, and a singing radiator. In the morning we accompanied our parents to the dining room where folded cloth napkins made goblets into tall birds alongside baskets of hot breakfast rolls and stacks of pancakes.
Daddy’s first order of business was to lead us into the back room to pay our respects to Uncle Ben and Aunt Marian, the owners. Their space was smoky and crowded, people crouching over ledgers. Like the operator of a saloon Aunt Marian rose to greet us with strong handshakes. She gave Mommy a long, concerned hug: “How are you, Martha dear?” Her husky Ethel Merman voice carried innuendos of both rivalry and solicitude. Marian Slutsky was a powerful statuesque lady—Daddy’s boss, Mommy’s confidante, a formidable rival to Uncle Paul. In her presence Mommy acted meek and seemed about to cry.
“She treats me like a dog,” she complained later to Bridey. “You’d think I was some sort of
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