was different than what I had experienced earlier in the summer. I wasn’t haunted by memories of what Epstein and the other doctors had foretold for my future or by the traumatic memories of cruel taunts and teasing. I was thrilled but also frightened.
Earlier that night, Papa had challenged me. He recalled how I had spent the summer hiding in my room and how, in my effort to avoid people, I had even skipped out on my job as a lifeguard at the reservoir. Later, tossing and turning in the cramped hotel bed, I played and replayed Papa’s words. They were like a song in my head, the kind you can’t forget.
“How will you ever handle all the attention?” he’d said to me.
Papa was right; I loathed attention. Yet, the December before, when I wore the raggedy Santa suit in front of my parents’ store, I remember how I felt absolutely carbonated. That mangy costume felt comfortable. When I did my Saint Nick impression, the ragtag group of children and not a few adults swarmed me on the sidewalk. The commotion brought out Morris Thurmond, the photographer whose studio was across the street. When he set up to take my picture, about a hundred shoppers—Mexicans, Texans, and a few Tigua Indians—all rushed to be in that shot. The three hours I spent in costume went by like three minutes. I felt free in a way I’d never felt before. I never told Papa or Mama, but I couldn’t wait for next Christmas. That’s kind of strange for a Jewish boy.
I wondered if playing roles in Hollywood would make me feel like that. I started to drift off. If Mama blessed this whole business, which was very unlikely, I couldn’t imagine what life in the movies would really be like; just like later when I couldn’t imagine what life would be like without the circus. How would I learn to act in front of a camera? Would my bosses be kind? I had only been away from my mother and father once. That was just a weekend trip with the Kahn’s when I was eight and went with them and Abbie to their cabin in Cloudcroft. Since there was no way I’d fit in their bunk beds, I had to sleep on the floor. Those two days I was up there with them in the mountains, I cried myself to sleep. How could I ever live on my own without my family?
The last thing I remember that night in our hotel in Santa Monica was a gray image: me under bright lights in a brown cowboy outfit, complete with boots, sheep skin chaps, silver-engraved six-guns, a tin star, and a ten-gallon hat. Just before I fell asleep, I thought I heard the crisp, booming sound of a movie director’s voice: “Roll ‘em.”
XXXX
At about seven o’clock the next morning, we called Mama from the pay phone in the hotel lobby. I bounded down the three flights of stairs well ahead of Papa, carrying Treasure Island in my right hand. I was so anxious for him to make the call; I figured reading would help me pass the time. Books have always helped me to calm down. But that morning I couldn’t concentrate enough to read even one sentence. I waited impatiently for Papa by the stairs.
It seemed like it took him two weeks to reach the lobby. When he finally did, we walked past the registration desk and Mrs. Tomasic, the hotel owner’s mother. She seemed to perennially stand guard from her post; her small, ancient frame almost hidden by the overstuffed green and orange floral couch where she always sat in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Tomasic put down her Daily Forward. How could I ever have imagined that newspaper would write articles about me in the future? She looked us up and down as if we were thieves in the night, and grunted, “Guten Tag.” Without so much as a smile, she lifted her paper and began reading again.
At that early hour, besides the desk clerk and a skinny bellhop whose pants were too short, Mrs. Tomasic was the only person in sight. I was relieved. I didn’t want a pack of strangers eavesdropping on my parents’ discussion about my future.
Papa approached the public telephone that was mounted on the middle of a beige wall at the rear of the lobby next to a magazine rack. He lifted the large black receiver and rapidly depressed the metal lever that had supported it two times.
“Operator, operator,” he demanded. An instant later I heard Papa say, “I want to make a station-to-station collect call to El Paso, Texas. The number is 4256.”
Papa replaced the receiver and looked over at me where I was standing about four feet behind him. I took a step closer. Mama would have just opened Geneva for business. I imagined her standing in front of the open safe, counting out the U.S. currency and Mexican pesos she would use to make change for customers. At that hour, Ben would be washing the windows and Myer would be dusting the glass showcases in the store.
The phone rang. “Yes, yes my name is Erlich, Isadore Erlich,” Papa said. “Hello Mamala, it’s Yitzhak. No, nothing is wrong! We are having a wonderful time. But I have something very important to tell you . . . No! I promise nothing is wrong . . . Jakey is right here . . . Yes, he’s fine.”
I inched closer and struggled to make out what they were saying, but not so close as to make my father feel I was intruding. I held the book in front my nose, but even Long John Silver couldn’t hold my attention. Papa lowered his voice to prevent me from hearing. I knew he was telling Mama about the meeting with Meyers and Ash and their offer.
I imagined that Mama’s scream of disapproval was so deafening it pierced the distance and traveled across three states from Texas to the Pacific Coast without the need of Mr. Graham Bell’s invention: “No . . . No way . . . never . . . not over my dead body will I let my little boy move to such a God-forsaken place with strangers—actors no less! Hollywood. Puey.” I could just see her spitting as she enunciated the word. “He’s just a child. How do you know these two talent scouts aren’t ganuveem (thieves)?”
Papa’s voice brought me back to the real world.
“I know I know, but he’s been so sad. When he finishes school if something should happen to us, how will he make a living in El Paso?” Papa asked.
In order to keep my fearful fantasy about Mama’s response at bay, I anxiously tried to weave together the entire conversation from the few fragments I heard.
“Yes, of course . . . but maybe the movies would be a place where his height would help him.”
I found myself pacing back and forth.
“Ya, ya, I’m worried about it as well. Who would watch him? Show people?”
“Papa!” I roared. He was about to murder my movie career. The sound of my own voice startled me. It woke up the bellhop, who had fallen asleep where he was standing. It got the clerk to raise his head from the numbers he was inscribing in the ledger. It so unnerved Mrs. Tomasic that she looked up from her newspaper and angrily opened it to the next page. But Papa just ignored me and went on talking. I wanted to grab the phone from Papa’s hand and beg Mama to let me accept the offer and move to Hollywood.
“Certainly, but he’ll never be happy working in the store. It’s not for him,” he continued. Papa was right. “I hate to say it, but . . . ” His voice trailed off so I couldn’t hear the rest of what Papa said.
Then there was an uncomfortable, and what felt like unending, silence. Papa listened for several minutes, nodding his head in agreement as the words that would determine my fate were magically transported across space. I watched Papa, but visualized Mama slicing and carving the idea of me moving to California and finally, in a fatal coup-de-grâce, stabbing it in the heart. I looked down at the hotel lobby’s warped wooden floor and mourned for the loss of my future.
“We’ll take the first train tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about the car. The Gattagnos are out here on vacation. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind driving the Ford back and saving the train fare . . . Ya, I love you, too!” Then
