This column ran here on August 27, 2013. It drew a lot of mail from folks who had been thinking, as I had when both my parents were alive, "I hope they die in the right order." I heard from another batch of people when I raised that matter with regard to Jack and Roz Kirby in my first book about Jack. (Another is coming, though currently roadblocked by a matter I'm not able to discuss.) Jack and Roz died in "the right order" as did my parents…
From the day my parents married in March of 1951 until the day my father died in March of 1991, they were darn near inseparable. Oh, he went to work every day and she had some part-time jobs — but every night with very few exceptions, they were together.
Twice after they were wed, my mother felt it was necessary to go east on family-type business. My father had bad memories of Hartford and no desire to accompany her back there so he didn't go either time. There were also occasional periods when one or the other was hospitalized for some reason — like when he had a bleeding ulcer or when she had me. But apart from those instances, they ate together and slept together every night.
My father came from a big family and lived with brothers and/or sisters until the day he moved to Los Angeles to find a job and an apartment to rent. Once he had both, he sent for my mother, she flew out and they drove to Las Vegas and got married. The weeks it took him to get set up in L.A. constituted the only period in his life when he truly lived alone.
He hated it. And once he and my mother had a home together, he hated the very occasional nights when she'd be away or in the hospital. He hated the empty house. He hated the empty bed. He didn't know how to cook or clean so that made things more difficult. Putting my father in the kitchen and expecting food preparation to result was like putting an otter in a hospital operating room and expecting successful open heart surgery. I would have bet money on the otter before I wagered hard cash on Dad assembling a grilled cheese sandwich.
The first time my mother went back to Hartford, I was nine or ten and I went with her. Cleaning out my mother's house last year, I came across letters they exchanged during that ten-day period. My father's were all about him going out of his mind, not being able to find anything, not being able to sleep, etc. My mother's were all about reassuring him we'd be home soon. She had made the bed in layers, bottom sheet over bottom sheet over bottom sheet. Every few days, he just had to peel off the top bottom sheet and there'd be a clean one under it to sleep on. He was somehow unable to do this.
The second time she went back, I didn't go. I was about twenty-six then and it was after I'd moved out of their house. My father was panicked at the thought of being without her for, I believe, five whole nights. He asked if maybe I could sleep at the house those nights so he wouldn't be all alone there.
I wasn't wild about that idea and when I talked about it with my mother, she wasn't, either. It was, after all, within the realm of possibility that she might predecease him in this world. As they got older, it was also likely that she would be hospitalized for longer periods or have to go back to Hartford a few more times. "He's got to learn that it's not the end of the world to be alone in a house for a few nights," she said and I agreed. My father then asked, well, could I at least have dinner with him every night? Even as he asked that, I was hatching a plan. It began with me telling him, as I did, "If I'm free, I'll give you a call."
The first evening my mother was away was a Monday and I didn't call him. Instead, I figured out where he'd be eating and when. That was not as difficult as it might seem. My father's two favorite restaurants‚ the places he ate when he went out to lunch or he and I went out to dinner‚ were Nate 'n Al's Delicatessen in Beverly Hills and Clifton's Cafeteria over in Century City. He loved the pea soup they served on Tuesdays at Nate 'n Al's so I figured he'd do Clifton's on Monday, Nate 'n Al's on Tuesday. As for the precise suppertime itself, that was simple. My father always wanted to eat dinner at 5:30.
So I went over to Century City and found a bench near Clifton's. I got there about 5:10 and watched the door until around 5:25 when, sure enough, I saw my father walk up and go in. He didn't see me — so I went in and got into the cafeteria line right behind him, unnoticed for about two minutes until I did the following. We were halfway through the serving area, loading delicacies onto our respective trays, when I finally leaned over and asked him to pass me a plate of the steamed carrots. He handed one to me, realized it was me and did a "take" that would have been considered overacting in a Tex Avery cartoon.
He was so glad to see me — gladder than if we'd made a date to meet there. We dined together and talked for a long time‚ until I told him I had to get home and finish a script. He started to ask if he could come over and sit in my living room and watch TV while I worked — but he stopped himself. Before I could even reply, he said, "No, I have to go home and face it. It's just an empty house. I can get through this week." He did ask if we could have dinner again the next night and I told him, "If I'm free, I'll give you a call."
The next day when I hadn't called, he figured, "Well, I guess the boy's too busy." He drove over to Nate 'n Al's, walked in — and there was "the boy" sitting at a table for two, waiting for him. He laughed, sat down and said, "I'll bet you won't be able to figure out where I'm going to eat tomorrow night." I said, "I already have. You're going to go back to Clifton's and you're going to eat the exact same meal you ate last night."
Again, he laughed. Then he said with a big grin, "Okay, Mr. Detective. I'm not going to eat at Clifton's and I'm not going to eat here. I dare you to figure out where I'll be and meet me there." I accepted the challenge and I thought it was a good sign. Instead of being afraid to be without me, he was now half-hoping I wouldn't be there when he walked into wherever he chose to dine. It was kind of a win/win. He'd win if he outsmarted me and he'd win if he got to eat with me again.
I spent much of that evening and the next day trying to figure out where he'd eat. He wasn't going to go somewhere he'd never eaten before because that would have ruined the game for both of us. It had to be a place that I could have guessed but didn't. The trouble was that after I eliminated Clifton's and Nate 'n Al's from consideration, no other eateries stood out. I could think of about six possibles but no probables. There was a great Chinese restaurant where he often lunched with his best friend from the office but I decided he wouldn't go Chinese on me. What he liked about Chinese food was ordering several dishes with someone else and sharing. You can't share when you're dining alone.
Finally, I did what you would have done. I cheated. I drove over to his house around 4:30 and parked halfway down the block. When he came out and got in his car, I followed him at a safe distance. I followed him long enough to realize his destination was Junior's Delicatessen over on Westwood Boulevard. Then I turned down another street, took a shortcut and got there before him. I had the advantage because I had the ability to valet-park. My father, having been reared in the Depression, would park three blocks away and walk rather than pay some kid to park his car.
So when he walked into Junior's, he found me sitting in the waiting area, reading a newspaper. I looked up from it and asked, "What kept you?" He was delighted. Absolutely delighted.
Over dinner, I told him, "I won't be able to join you tomorrow night. I have a network meeting I can't get out of. So it's okay. You can go back to Clifton's or Nate 'n Al's." He smiled and said, "I'll be fine. It's not as scary being without your mother as I thought it would be." God, was I happy to hear him say that.
The next day, my network meeting was canceled and for about two minutes, I thought about going over to Clifton's, where I knew he'd be and surprising him again. I didn't for two reasons, one being that I realized it would be good for him to eat by himself that night. He was a very good man, as he proved time and again throughout our lives together. He knew it was a fear he had to overcome and he was overcoming it as much as he could.
They may not ever speak it aloud but with a couple that has a good shot at enduring "'til death do us part," there's always this concern about who's going to part first and how the other one will manage. That is, assuming they can manage. My father had long worried about what would happen if my mother died before he did. That didn't happen — by a wide margin. He died in 1991 and she lived another 22 years after that. He could never have lived 22 years without her. I'm not sure he could have lived 22 months. But after those five days she was off in Hartford, I think he was bit less worried that, should it come to that, he couldn't have lived 22 minutes without her.
So that was one reason I didn't go to Clifton's Cafeteria the next night. The other was that my father could be very smart at times — smarter than anyone expected. I had this feeling he just might double-cross me and go to Nate 'n Al's.