Assisted Loving (19 page)

S
ix months later now, our plane has landed at Palm Beach airport, and I'm stepping off my flight just as I have for dozens of years. The airport crowd is the same—same tan faces of a certain age, same old pastel cardigans, Bermuda shorts, and golf caps on bald heads. Same looks of expectation on snowbird parents waiting for youngsters to get off the plane and make them proud. But something has changed for me. I am not stepping off the plane (among all the young couples and families) as the alienated single adult this weekend. Today I am here with Ira, my princely prize in an alligator shirt. I am a husband, or something like one.

We're planning to stay in Dad's apartment. He is to stay with Doreen for the long weekend. Ira would never make this kind of arrangement—a whole weekend with
my father and his new love? It's potentially treacherous—four opinionated pushy people thrown into a first weekend together, a double-dating demolition derby. No wonder I'm anxious. But as the newly evolved me, the
better
me, I firmly believe that I won't fall back into the old cynical toxic patterns around my father. Today I'm a man, a son, and a husband. And I am not here to criticize or judge. I am not even here for reconciliation or meaning. I'm here to love, to be loved, and to get a tan, in that order, and that's all.

We pick up the rental car—and it's the same style of white Sebring convertible I had when I drove Dad on his date with Edie. Except now I've got Ira at my side, fiddling with his BlackBerry. There are all kinds of things I want to tell him. So it's very annoying that his first impulse is to look at his e-mail rather than at me or the lovely, wide waterway sparkling under the bridge. But now that we've been living together for a while, I have started to understand the value of self-restraint, rather than saying every stupid little thing that comes into my head. I try to listen and just let him be. This is what it means to move together as a couple, to ebb and flow, give and take, cha-cha-cha, like my parents in those old home movies, halting, awkward, and attentive. So instead of sniping at him to put away the BlackBerry and enjoy the damn view, I pull over and figure out how to get the convertible top to go down. He puts on his expensive sunglasses and looks up. Even without a tan, he's handsome and aristocratic—so Palm Beach, maybe Hollywood, too—and perfect for the setting.

“This is fabulous,” he says, then goes back to work. I drive us the scenic way, and feel proud—as if it's my own
turf—of the sapphire ocean, Spanish mansions, rows of royal palms—slender as socialites—that sway above Ocean Boulevard. He appreciates it all, then he continues e-mailing. When we pull into the parking lot of my father's white wedding cake of a building, he looks up and nods, impressed with the 1950s architecture. “I love buildings like this,” he declares. “They're such modern classics.”

I don't see the architecture when I look up at this building. I just see my mother, who used to wait for me in a housedress on the fourth-floor walkway that looked down over the parking lot. And I see myself up there with her, trying to cheer her up, upgrade her look and her outlook. She refused to exercise. And I just kept nagging her about it straight through to the end. My brother never spoke to her as harshly as I did. But I didn't know how else to motivate her. I honestly thought that if she could just keep walking, then she wouldn't become so dependent on us for help. It took me a long time to realize that all she really needed was unconditional support, not coaching and criticism. Why couldn't I give it? And was it right to feel such relief at her deathbed? All these questions rush over me in waves as I pull up to this apartment building.

The doorman in the white-tiled lobby has our names. As we get into the elevator, I am seized with worries. Will my father embarrass me in front of Ira? Will Aunt Sylvia approve of him? Will I stop concerning myself with Doreen's wig and start focusing on what's beneath it? Most important, will my father make good on his solemn promise to shack up with her for the weekend so we can be alone in his apartment? And did he have the cleaning
lady come today, as promised? I hope he'll be on his best behavior. Will I, for that matter? The last thing I need Ira to see is one of Dad's rage storms brought on by my cynicism.

No. That was the
old
me, I tell myself in an attempt to staunch the flow of anxieties. Nothing is going to faze me now that I am in love.

“But, Dad, you said you'd be staying with Doreen all weekend,” I am hissing a half hour later, when it becomes clear he will not be clearing out of his apartment for us.

“Yes, but she has a friend visiting her now,” he says.

I can actually feel my scalp tingling, my face flushing with rage. “How did this happen? We talked about it twice before we booked our flight.”

“Come on, Bobby. What's your worry? I won't be in your way.”

I had promised Ira that, if he came down here, we'd be staying alone. It was the way I could offer a weekend with Dad without being on top of him. Now, in this snug two-bedroom apartment that I thought we would have as our private aerie with a water view, we have a Joe Morris view. It feels like we're in the galley of a very small boat on a somewhat unpleasant sea. In ill-fitting cardigan and khakis and beige vinyl slip-ons, Dad hobbles from bedroom to kitchen with teabag hanging out of ceramic mug. He sits in front of the TV for ball games and news shows, expecting us to join him so he can have conversations during commercials. His cell phone is constantly going with the “Mexican Hat Dance” ring tone. His bridge magazines clutter the bathroom. Used toothpicks garnish the vanity. I had wanted to protect Ira from all this and not let him see how annoyed I can get. The big, evolved Bob
who touched down an hour ago is now one little pissy Bobby on the verge of a tantrum.

Is this what happens to every child in the orbit of his parents?

“I'm so sorry for his mess,” I tell Ira on the balcony. “It's bad, I know.”

“No worse than yours,” he replies. “And he closes his closet doors.”

“I'm learning to close doors. I'm not this messy!”

“Don't kid yourself. I look at this apartment, and I see I've married your father.”

I feel as if I've been hit in the face with a pie and a realization at the same time. I know I look like the old man. I know I sing like him. But in terms of everything else, aren't we as different as any father and son could be?

“Let's go find a hotel, my treat,” I say. “This is going to end badly.”

“Don't be such a drama queen,” Ira says. “Stop projecting. It is what it is.”

“Aren't you the self-actualized little houseguest,” I say.

“Do I have any choice?” he replies.

I really should be in a worse mood than I am. My father's little margarine tubs of dried fruit soaking in wine are on the kitchen counters, and his Styrofoam containers of rancid leftovers from early-bird specials are in the fridge. His freebie newspapers, bank statements, bridge scores, and half-written letters are covering every surface of the living room, while his politically unsupportable news shows blare throughout the apartment, and the phone calls are so constant you'd think he was running the office of recreation for the entire municipality of Palm Beach. It's not pretty, not at all. But with Ira right at
my side witnessing the whole hilarious debacle, how can I be annoyed? My father is doing everything he can to welcome us. He leaves us cleanish towels. He remembers to leave no socks on the living room floor. He makes us coffee in the morning, and although it's way too weak, we appreciate the gesture.

“I love having you here with me,” he says. “What a thrill.”

The next morning, Dad wants to take us to breakfast at a motel with an oceanfront deck, a surprisingly nice choice for someone who isn't partial to the majesty of nature. We choose a big table closest to the beach. The surf is so picturesque today—2 percent–skim foam waves are frothing against wheat-toast sand. Ira fills Dad in on the baby he helped make, a little girl named June, whom we see a couple times a week. Dad gives us unsolicited legal advice about the mortgage for the apartment we are buying together. For a little while, the conversation is easy and breakfast is breezy. Then it gets a little prickly, at least for me. It isn't the shameless fascination Dad is showing the bottle-blond waitress, grilling her about everything from her education to her marital status. And it isn't the fact that, as usual, he is playing games, saving money by not ordering his own meal but sharing ours instead. It's the agenda he has brought to this breakfast, an agenda I thought we had put to rest weeks ago. He's soliciting Ira. Doreen is having trouble finding an agent for her book about Soviet Jews. It isn't that she can't write. She's been published before. It's the topic, decidedly not hot.

“I wonder if the world has moved on from all that, Joe,” says Ira, who was gracious enough to read some of the manuscript.

“Look, she's family now,” he told me at the time. “So I have to try.”

Nothing came of it.
Dayenu
, as the Jews say. Enough. For anyone else that would be the end of the story. But Dad, who lives to be a useful adviser in all fields (even without experience in any of them), doesn't want to see Doreen frustrated. He has a new plan today, and a proposal, imperfectly typed on onion-skin paper. He hands it to Ira.

“The Second Hanukah?” Ira reads off the page. “A Soviet Jewry Story.”

“I was hoping you'd be able to get this to Steven Spielberg,” Dad says.

Ira takes a long drink from his coffee mug. He paces his response. “Second Hanukah, Joe?” he says. “Isn't an exodus more a Passover story?”

“Ira! Don't engage him,” I say. “Steven Spielberg will
not
be interested.”

“Let him talk, let him talk,” Dad says.

“I can't believe you're still bugging Ira with this,” I moan.

“Bobby, please, just let him talk!”

So I do, but it isn't easy. I mean, Ira is a generous person, and I appreciate that. But that doesn't mean he should get dragged into Doreen's publishing problems, too. And frankly, I don't know if I want to share him with someone so new to our lives. I really should be reaching over the table and crumbling up that movie pitch.

But Ira, typically so tough, is so sweet now, so solicitous, letting my father rattle on. So instead of making my own little pogrom and running Dad (along with Doreen's Soviet Jews) off this deck, I just listen and nod.
Why am I suddenly so sanguine? Maybe it's the cloudless Florida day and view of an ocean as infinite as the future I can see with Ira. Maybe it's the earnest tone of my well-meaning father, who just wants to help the lady he loves. Maybe the sun is frying my brain. The waves come in and go out, soothing and serene. I listen and drink my coffee. Ira keeps nodding. He loves me. So he loves my dad. Simple as that.

That night, we attend a dinner party at Doreen's place. Her building is nearby, a high-rise. She's on the ground floor. She greets us at the door warmly, with kisses, as if we've been part of the family forever. She wears an apron over her light blue slacks and blouse, a plain, midwestern look that reminds me of something my mother would have worn on a cool Florida night. The wig seems better now, or maybe I am.

“Come in,” she says in a high-pitched flutter. “Let me show you around.”

We say hello to her friend, Estelle, the houseguest who displaced my father this weekend. She is busy setting the table. Ira goes to help her. My father heads to the bathroom. Doreen takes off her apron and gives me a tour, proudly pointing out this sculpture from Africa and that painting from Israel. I find myself assessing things with a proprietary air, as if this apartment were the new annex to my family's territory. And since she owns and he rents, I have to assume that, in an effort to save some money next winter, he'll be moving in with her. Which means this may be where we'll be staying the next time we come down. It's almost impossible to imagine. But entirely plausible. And I actually kind of like this place. It's spacious and bright. The furniture is modern and unfussy. The books on her
shelves are diverse and impressive. This is the home of a cultured woman. Photos of her family are framed in every room. They're sunny-looking people who could actually become family to me. My father has already reported that her kids are prosperous and trouble-free. Good. Who needs new issues in our family?

“This is the guest room,” Doreen says. “You guys are welcome here anytime.”

I stand in the door, eyeing a big pullout couch. It looks substantial enough to hold two people comfortably. And the room is big and well appointed. I check out her bedroom for only a moment, and barely step inside. Nice as it is, I'm too squeamish to look at the bed where my father has been sleeping with her this winter.

“I have lots of room for everyone here,” she says. “I hope you'll come stay.”

Something about this apartment feels familiar. It takes a while to figure it out, but by the time Doreen has led me to her living room and seated me on her couch, I realize what it is. Her home is decorated just like the one where I grew up, right down to the blue Chagall print on the wall.

Dad is sitting in an easy chair that reminds me of the one in our old living room. Doreen looks out from the kitchen and smiles at him as he relaxes in her home as if it were his own. A photograph of her deceased husband is on a bookshelf nearby, smiling down on us. My father is better looking, but not by much. “That's where your father sat the first time I had him over last winter,” she tells me. “I was making him dinner, and I looked out into my living room and saw him sitting right there, feet up, reading my
Palm Beach Post
. He looked so at home, just
like my husband, who loved this apartment. After that, I just knew he was the man for me.”