Amid all of us humans, there was Arthur’s canine companion, her face soaked with the rain, wanting to be part of her “pack,” through thick and thin.
When we got back home, Pearl was exhausted.
“That,” she told me over a cup of steaming tea, “was the worst day of my life.” Saying good-bye to Arthur was the only time I ever saw Pearl cry.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Ready, Set, Go!”
On a warm spring afternoon in 1996, a familiar yellow school bus, filled with talkative six- to nine-year-olds, pulled up to our complex, its red lights blinking as it stopped in front of the local ice-cream and bagel shop.
Together with many of the waiting moms and dads, Pearl was there too, right on time for her 3:00 p.m. pickup—the highlight of her day.
She was dressed in sensible black lace-up shoes, a gray tweed skirt, and a blue windbreaker, her thick mane of hair blowing in the breeze.
Katie was also eagerly waiting at the stop, sitting at attention as the door of the bus opened. She scrutinized each of the kids coming down the steps, searching nervously for six-year-old Ryan.
And then there he was—giggling wildly with a friend as he jumped off the bus, outfitted in a denim jacket, blue jeans, and red sneakers, a blue Power Rangers backpack falling off his shoulders.
Katie dashed forward and nearly knocked Ryan over, jumping up on her hind legs to greet him.
“Hi, Katie girl,” he smiled, bending down to affectionately stroke her head, then running into Pearl’s arms. She enveloped him in a huge hug.
“Graaaaanny!” he boomed, “this is for you.” He handed Pearl a little ceramic dish he’d made that day in arts and crafts.
“Thank you, sweetheart. How was your day?” she asked, getting back a quick “fine” before the boy skipped ahead, with Katie trailing after him. The two raced home together.
Somewhere along the line, Pearl’s nickname Pa-Re-El had morphed into Granny, stretched out as Graaaaanny, the longer the better. If we wanted to tease Pearl, we called her Oldest Granny, which drew a smile, or just Oldest, which elicited a mock frown.
And Pearl wasn’t the only member of our group who got a stretched-out nickname. By this point in time, Katie’s moniker, “the child,” was now pronounced “chaaa-aellll-d,” which Ryan repeated in a singsong over and over again with glee.
“Hello, chaaa-aellll-d!” he giggled, rubbing her head. “You good or bad?”
That all depended.
For example, when Pearl used Katie’s nickname, it was usually to underline a point. Upon returning home, I’d typically ask her, “So, how was my sweet little chaaa-aellll-d today?” to which she’d enumerate her various infractions—stealing food (scarfing down Pearl’s pound cake, one of her favorites), having accidents, pulling apart a sock, you name it.
“Your sweet little child isn’t so sweet today,” opined Granny, shuffling Katie to the door with her feet and laughing, always forgiving of her canine charge.
Likewise, even with the mayhem that Ryan sometimes created, which included overflowing her bathtub or splattering finger paint on her floor, Oldest seemed happier than I’d ever seen her, though she never said it out loud.
In the year and a half since Arthur had died, I’d seen a gradual change in Pearl. At first, she was disoriented and profoundly sad, as anyone with such a devastating loss would be, and she mostly stayed at home, sorting through Arthur’s clothing and giving most of it away to the Salvation Army.
But after a few months, she seemed to rebound quickly from her loss and didn’t often talk about it. Instead, she began taking advantage of her new freedom. She spent more time with women friends in the building—shopping with them, talking on the phone, and attending neighbor-to-neighbor teas.
Every morning, she and I had breakfast together, where we mostly talked about Katie, while in the afternoons, Pearl would roam Battery Park on long walks with her “girl.” I also drew Pearl into my activities more than ever, inviting her to movies, plays, dinners, and parties.
But more than anything, it was Ryan who was the key to Pearl’s recovery from losing Arthur. His adorable presence was like a powerful elixir to Pearl. It energized her and gave her new purpose, providing grand distractions and deep affection. Her world now revolved around him—though she would deny it.
“He’s a brat!” she’d protest good-naturedly, ordering Ryan out of the house and into the hall for soccer practice after one of his high kicks nearly smashed her favorite white china pitcher. He bragged that he had control of the ball. “And I’ve got control of you!” she countered.
With pride, she’d tell her friends that “the kid” was undeniably athletic and the cutest little boy imaginable (which he really was, with those dimples and unruly cowlick).
And so, with John at work each day, Oldest had taken on her babysitting role with relish, picking Ryan up every afternoon and taking him to her home for cookies, milk, and more.
She was Ryan’s grandmother. She truly was. And it made me happy to see how much Pearl was reinvigorated by the closeness to Ryan and her new responsibility. She focused on her young charge with total devotion.
As John later reflected, “With Arthur gone, Pearl took Ryan on as her life’s project—her mission.”
“Most days when Ryan gets off the bus,” Pearl told us proudly one night, “he runs right over and hugs me.
“His friends just stand there looking kind of cockeyed,” she said, “and I ask them: ‘Do any of you have a Granny?’ They shake their heads no and come over to me. So I hug them all!”
“Do they like it?” John asked.
“Yes, they do.”
It touched my heart to see the satisfaction in Pearl’s eyes as she related this, knowing how she had lost her own chance for motherhood decades earlier. At last, she had found a child that loved and needed her.
So Pearl was now Ryan’s number one babysitter, the main female presence in his life, reliably stepping in for John anytime he was at work, at a meeting, or on a date. (Katie acted as Pearl’s energetic aide-de-camp.)
“Wednesday is my day,” Pearl announced at first, though her after-school babysitting role soon expanded to most any day. She helped Ryan with his homework, packed up his Power Rangers lunch box for the next day, whipped up chicken or meat loaf for dinner, and rewarded him at dessert time with her graham-cracker-crust chocolate pie (or spoiled him with Krispy Kreme doughnuts).
Dessert time also now included Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey—banana ice cream with fudge chunks and walnuts. You could always depend on Katie to lick Ryan’s bowl clean. “No need for a dishwasher with her around,” quipped Granny, wary that Katie never ate any of the chocolate chunks that were so bad for dogs.
Once, Pearl was spraying whipped cream on Ryan’s ice cream when Katie dove into the bowl, her nose instantly covered with the white topping. When Ryan objected, Granny spritzed him on the face with the cream, Katie merrily licked it off his nose. And so it went.
“But Granny,” John told me one day, “is no pushover and she won’t stay up with ‘the kid’ past eleven o’clock—so I better damn well be home by then.”
“And if you’re not,” Pearl scolded, “that’s your problem, not mine.”
When this happened, she usually turned Ryan over to me. That meant that I’d literally pick him up and carry him—sound asleep in my arms—from Pearl’s to my apartment and place him on my living room couch next to Katie until John got back. Later, John would scoop him up and carry him home. Through it all, Ryan never woke up.
But first thing in the morning, Ryan was right back at Granny’s door, ready for some fun. This twosome, seventy-eight years apart, could be heard giggling for hours at Pearl’s dining table as they talked about school and played cards together. “Granny really knows how to play,” Ryan told John, “and she usually beats me.” Sometimes I’d find them finger painting at the table or putting together a model airplane.
Ryan was intently curious about everything i
n Pearl’s world. One day, he poked his head into her bedroom closet as she pulled out Arthur’s coin and stamp collections, along with a silver stopwatch that Arthur had used when judging track meets at Madison Square Garden. Ryan marveled at the heavy timepiece. I could see Pearl getting emotional as she held it in her hand. “One day,” she promised, “when you’re older, I’ll make sure you have this.”
Sometimes when I came into her apartment, Ryan would be on the couch with his feet propped up on Granny’s lap, Katie next to him, as Pearl read him one of the Curious George books or taught him how to do a crossword puzzle. At other times, Pearl, who loved gardening, would show Ryan how to pot a plant or properly water the dozens of blooms set along her windowsill.
“Don’t overwater,” she instructed as Ryan flooded a small plant, though he soon got the hang of it, enjoying the process of filling the water can and using it.
Ryan was also interested in Pearl’s collection of old vinyl LPs. “Choose one,” she’d smile, and a few minutes later I’d find them singing and dancing together to Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin, or to the soundtrack of My Fair Lady.
You never knew what you might find going on in 3C!
At Halloween, Granny surprised Ryan by wearing a monster mask when he trick-or-treated at her door.
At Thanksgiving, she stuffed him with turkey.
At Christmas, she reached up to the top of the tree to position the star.
On July fourth, she took him outside to watch the fireworks—lighting up the sky and the Statue of Liberty just down the river in the harbor.
And on his birthday in August, she helped blow out that last stubborn candle, wiping chocolate off his face.
In short, when it came to being a grandmother, Pearl was everything that a boy could ask for—and more.
Pearl, who took special pride in the meals she prepared, also began teaching Ryan the basics of cooking, starting with scrambled eggs and French toast. “This is how you break the eggs,” she explained as he looked on at the frying pan with a spatula in his hand. (It was poignant seeing this eighty-four-year-old patiently teaching a six-year-old.) Katie attempted to push him out of the way with her paws, wanting to stand next to Pearl and capture any morsel that fell to the floor, but Ryan nudged her back with his foot.
Around this time, I also got on a cooking kick—and Pearl was my “taster” down the hall. At first, I attempted to bake some of the desserts my grandmother had made, plus others I’d seen on the Food Network. As soon as they were fresh out of the oven, I’d bring my attempts down the hall for table tests.
“Oh, my,” Pearl would grimace. “Maybe you should take a class.” (Most of my creations found their way into Pearl’s wastebasket, sorry to say.)
But I persisted, and after watching Martha Stewart’s show for months (she made everything look so easy and I liked her calm, detailed approach), I was inspired to go out and buy a professional mixer and the right pans and utensils. Everything was gleaming new.
“Granny, can you come over? I’m about to try out Julia Child’s pound cake with vanilla glacé…” And Pearl was down the hall in a flash, standing next to me. She sifted the flour (warning me not to add the dry ingredients too quickly into the wet ones), measured out the baking powder and vanilla, leveled in the cake batter, and later helped me mix up the frosting and spread it. Standing side by side brought back such fond memories of Nana, whom I missed—so I treasured this kitchen time with Pearl. Katie followed our every move.
Sometimes the cakes were complete flops—over- or underdone—and taken right down to the garbage chute. Other times they were tasty but lopsided, and we gave them away to the doorman downstairs (who I heard fed them to the dogs in the building). Once in a while, the result was perfect, and Katie helped us polish it all off in an evening.
One night, I was convinced I’d mastered a recipe and couldn’t understand why Granny spit out her slice. “You put SALT into it instead of sugar!” she scowled, scraping it into the wastebasket—once again.
After two hours of baking and frosting, I would be tired, while Pearl would look as fresh as ever.
Indeed, though Granny had years on me, she had more stamina (and a healthier back) than I did. There she was, lugging laundry to the utility room, mopping floors, trudging to the bus stop for a shopping expedition, taking Ryan to play dates or soccer practice, or going out on long hikes on the Esplanade with Katie and her “boy,” showing them both off as grandmothers do.
Ryan was also interested in showing Granny off. He took her photograph to his art teacher at school. And a week later he proudly brought home a striking pen-and-ink drawing that he thereafter kept in his bedroom. In it, the artist had captured Pearl’s homespun expression—her plump cheeks with dimples, her high forehead, the unruly mane of hair, and her expressive eyes, that were, humorously, hooded with the extra skin that comes with age. Not the girly type, Pearl’s idea of makeup was putting on some lipstick for a wedding. Other than that, she wore none at all.
“Half the time,” John smiled in later years, “she looked a little like something from a Marx Brothers movie with that wild hair.” But that only made her more lovable. To me, Pearl was as basic as bread, not fancy or primped in any way.
When it came to taking care of Ryan, Pearl wasn’t particularly strict, though she kept a watchful, amused eye on everything that “the kid” and Katie did. From the bedroom doorway in her apartment, she once caught them eating bagels together in bed, Katie licking cream cheese off Ryan’s lips. Then Katie snoozed on top of Ryan, loudly snoring, as he watched cartoons.
When Ryan had a friend over for a playdate, Katie ran around the apartment as they played War, circling the boys. And at night, Katie would even submit to bubble baths with Ryan, her face becoming all sudsy as he rinsed her with little cups of water.
After Ryan’s bath, there was always time for a final race down the hallway, with Pearl acting as referee. Unlike the days when Arthur would throw Katie’s rubber ball, we now had running contests with no ball at all. To make the race fair, I’d line Katie and Ryan up on an imaginary starting line right in front of Pearl’s front door, holding my arm out to keep them both positioned, like horses.
“Now stay, Katie,” I told her, though she sometimes “jumped the gun,” trying to gain an advantage over Ryan.
“She’s cheating!” Ryan hollered, scowling.
“Shhhhh,” exclaimed Pearl. “Get with it, Katie.”
I’d call Katie back and she cooperatively lined up again.
Then Pearl made her announcement: “Ready… Set… Goooooooo!”
Ryan and Katie galloped wildly down to the end of the hallway and then back again to Pearl, a blur of energy. More often than not, Katie was the triumphant winner (“she cheated again,” Ryan would mope), her head held high in the air and her tongue hanging out of her mouth. As usual, she’d promenade in a victory lap back up the hall before hightailing it back to Pearl’s for a reward.
These races got to be such a hit on our floor that several of the neighbors would open their doors and cheer from the sidelines. “Go Ryan!” shouted one college student, encouraging “the kid” to overtake my dog, while Freda, my across-the-hall neighbor, would root for Katie. One night, five doors opened, everyone laughing and cheering as Katie swept down the hall, the winner yet again. Ryan was looking down, vowing to beat “the child” next time, as Katie licked his face, unaware of how she’d irritated her little friend.
After three or four races, it was time to tuck Ryan into “his” bed in Pearl’s bedroom. The boy put his arms around Granny for a hug good night while Katie crawled in next to him, her head nuzzled on his shoulder.
“She licks my face and kisses me a lot,” he told Granny, as he yawned.
“That’s because she loves you. Now go to sleep.”
On nights like these, Ryan and Katie were in seventh heaven—and so was Granny.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Accident
During the darkest days of my
nonworking years when my back was at its worst, there were times when I literally couldn’t walk.
It was quite a turnaround for me. It wasn’t so long before that I was jetting from coast to coast for interviews; now I was literally crawling from the bedroom to the bathroom.
“Pearl, can you come down?”
“I’ll be right there,” she clipped, hanging up the phone. And within minutes, with Katie skipping merrily behind her, Pearl was down the hall to my apartment ready to offer a helping hand, whether it was changing the bed linens, bringing in groceries, or helping me up from the floor and back to the bed.
It was pretty ironic. I was sometimes laid up with back spasms and pain that made it difficult, or impossible, to straighten up or walk while my much older friend, Pearl, was in excellent health, coming to my rescue when I most needed her.
Katie, Pearl, John, and Ryan were all like a tonic, dramatically lifting my spirits and giving me a reason to recover from what seemed like an intractable problem that had led me to feeling severely depressed.
In fact, I was, at times, so down that I went back to sleep after taking Katie out for her first walk of the day. On Tuesdays, when Ramon arrived, he’d let himself in and walk into the bedroom, sitting down on the bed.
“Good morning!” he’d say, knowing how badly I felt. And as Katie jumped in his lap to say hi, he’d gently pat my leg, his voice soothing.
“I tried to cheer you up,” he later told me. “But it was terrible. You’d stay in bed and say, ‘just clean around me,’ and that’s what I did.”
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