That summer like many summers before, my family took a vacation in the Catskill mountains. Avoiding the sticky heat of Queens, New York, this respite gave us much to look forward to the rest of the year. Cool mountain air, starry nights, rushing streams, blueberries eaten straight from the bush, fields filled with wildflowers, and mysterious forests juxtaposed our usual red brick and concrete paved lives. But even as a little kid, I knew the trip had its downside, for it was in the mountains that it became more apparent than it was at home which families had money and which didn’t. This was a matter of obvious import to my parents, who would have held a bank robber in high esteem if he had enough money. They desperately aspired to be one of the “rich families” that spent the whole summer away. Mothers and children stayed put, while fathers drove up each Friday night, returning to the city late Sunday. Where a family stayed further separated the struggling from the successful. Only the wealthy went to such stylish hotels as the Concord, Grossingers or Kutshers, where the women’s shoes and pocketbooks always matched their outfits. My family went to the Lakeside that year, a small, cheaper hotel, but a big improvement from the run-down bungalow colony of the previous two summers that my mother swore she’d never step foot into again. For the month of July my older sister Wendy, my parents and I would live in one cramped room with two bunk beds in a building sandwiched between the parking lot and the hotel staff’s sleeping quarters, additional strikes against us in the financial pecking order, as well as fertile breeding grounds for assorted future neuroses.
The ride up was long and hot in our turquoise and white Chevrolet Bel Air, which had no air conditioning. My father didn’t believe in buying the extras because, he said, “That’s where they get you.” We stuffed ourselves into the car along with a months’ worth of clothing and toiletries, only stopping for bathroom emergencies and a quick lunch at the Red Apple Rest. A therapist would have much food for thought at our table. Already at the age of ten I knew to check the prices on the menu before ordering or watch my father implode with worry. My sister had different issues. She was overweight, a problem which my father attempted to correct by informing her that she was getting to be as big as a Mack truck, while my mother lamented that she was ruining her beautiful face with as much emotion as if she had a fatal disease. Their strategy wasn’t working. Wendy still ate like a storm trooper back from the front, but by then most of her food was consumed on the sly. I could see that these family lunches, where she delicately picked at a scoop of tuna fish and drank Diet Coke while longing to sink her recently straightened teeth into a meatball hero and a mound of fries, were tough for her. This was before anyone knew enough to be bulimic, so she was really packing on the pounds with her secret runs to the bakery and pizzeria. My mother Rose, on the other hand, was always dieting, deathly afraid of turning into her sister Lily who had a horrendous weight problem. Lily was what they’d call obese today, but unlike her comely sibling, Lily’s heart was even bigger than her enormous stomach. And my father Sidney, a child of the depression and pathologically consumed with money, would no sooner order an expensive item on a menu than cut off his thumb.
At the hotel I went to camp every day, even eating my meals with the other children. Wendy, fifteen that summer, was a counselor-in-training for the six-year olds. Living in such close proximity, we hardly saw one another. The counselors’ job was to exhaust the campers during the day so we’d pass out at night, leaving our parents to their own particular merrymaking.
My mother brought a full wardrobe and complete make-up case to the Lakeside, heedless that the well-dressed set was nowhere near our hotel. She was intent on being the most beautiful wherever she happened to be, and spent hours every day in the john. Having to share our bathroom, I can’t imagine how the people in the adjoining room managed to take a good shit that month.
That summer marked the time when my parents’ arguments reached the boiling point and never returned to simmer. It was because of the tennis pro. His name was Larry, Larry Silver. He seemed old to me, but actually was in his thirties. He was tall, dark and handsome, even handsomer than my father. Most of the women at the Lakeside were more interested in Larry than in his teaching skills. Suddenly many of them were taking up tennis; the Lakeside Racquet Shop never had a better season. But not my mother. She was beating an altogether different path to Larry’s heart, determined to win him over with her great beauty.
Never a fan of physical exercise of any sort, she simply ate half of her usual small portions and managed to drop five pounds in no time, enhancing her fabulous cheek bones beyond even her wildest expectations. She tanned her face and body to a dreamy brown and spent countless hours on make-up and clothing. Then she set off to make friends with the women tennis players who clearly wanted no part of her.
“Estelle, what have you done with your hair? I’ve never seen it look so well,” she lied.
“Oh, Rose, how are you? Haven’t seen you since the welcome cocktail party.” A shiny white tennis racket and two real gold bangle bracelets dangled from Estelle’s right arm. She and her family were staying in the Lakeside Towers, a three-story section of premium rooms, but she had a face like a chipmunk.
“Busy getting settled. You know, the usual. Join me for lunch today?”
Estelle was caught off guard by the unexpected invitation. “Uh, sure. I’ve got a lesson at eleven. Twelve thirty okay?”
“Let’s eat out on the patio. It’s such a glorious day.” My mother smiled as she walked off.
As luck would have it, Estelle brought three other women with her to lunch, all fledgling tennis players. My mother lost no time attempting to charm each of them, though the threat of her beauty surely ate at their souls. Now she was ready for action, armed with all the excuse she needed to hang out at the courts.
The next day Estelle, Joan and Adele were having a group lesson with Larry. It was a balmy, breezy day and Rose’s lavender flowered sundress rustled in the wind as if on cue. Her jet black curls framed her perfectly tanned, flawless face as she sashayed over to the tennis courts.
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