My Fat Dad

by Dawn Lerman

  When we arrived at 9 a.m. at the Alvin Theatre for the open call, the line was already four blocks long—twisting and turning around corners. After waiting for hours, we were finally ushered into the basement of the theater with the hundreds of other hopefuls for a quick chance to come on stage and sing for the casting agents.

  The stage manager scanned through the mass of girls to see who looked the part. “You!” she said to April, shuffling her into the group that would get the opportunity to sing. They liked her. Now she would have to show her stage presence. When they called her name, she skipped onto the stage, where there was a rope that went across to make sure that if you were auditioning, you were below rope level. If you were even a centimeter taller, you wouldn’t have the chance to sing; but April was well under the height requirement. She said her name loudly and began belting out the song. April must have been nervous because she forgot the words, but she kept singing anyway, at the top of her lungs, and performing a crazy dance step with a bright smile.

  “How about trying another song? Do you know how to sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

  “Yes,” she said and began singing, hitting every note with perfect pitch. Then Martha, the stage manager, asked my mom if April could return the next week and sing “Tomorrow” and meet with the choreographer to see if she could follow the dance combinations from the show.

  “We’ll be there!” my mom shouted.

  The next week was like a whirlwind. My mother sent me to Colony Music in Times Square to buy sheet music for “Tomorrow” and a tape of the show. I worked with April every night, making sure she knew all the words.

  To keep April inspired, I made her a new batch of my Rice Krispie treats every day. Some days I added carob chips, some days I mixed in a little peanut butter, and one day I even added coconut flakes and Grape-Nuts cereal. My dad said if April won the part, I should market the treats as a power snack. “The treats that give you so much energy, you can sing from today until tomorrow.” My dad always had a slogan ready.

  My mother, who was normally absent from home most nights, was now home every night, chatting on the phone with some of her actor friends, who recommended vocal coaches. After thorough research, my mom found one of the top vocal coaches in the city. His only appointment was at ten at night, two days before the audition. But my mom said she did not care what time it was as long as he could give April a lesson.

  I was glad for some professional input. April was starting to get annoyed with my coaching as I kept repeating, “Sing louder, sing with emotion, sing from the diaphragm.”

  Ned Hogan lived on the Upper West Side, at 116th Street and Broadway. I had never been above Ninety-Sixth Street before and had never been on a subway above the ground. We accidently missed our stop and got off at 125th Street. Making our way to Ned’s house, I noticed many homeless people sleeping in cardboard boxes for warmth and many women wearing almost nothing at all. My mom kept running ahead so we wouldn’t be late. I couldn’t help but wonder if the people we passed on the streets had big dreams at one time, and what tragedies occurred in their lives that allowed them to just give up on life.

  When we arrived at Mr. Hogan’s house, he didn’t seem excited to see us, even though we had trucked down the dark, gritty streets so late at night for the appointment. He immediately started playing the Annie overture and signaled April to start singing. April belted out the song, remembering every tip I’d given her. Ned seemed to brighten a little. When she was done, he took one look at April and said, “If you want this, you have a good chance.” Something about Ned’s approval transformed April’s desire for the part. As Ned was giving April tips, he told my mom and me to wait in the dimly lit hallway outside the apartment with the worn-out, dirty red rug. We both put an ear to the door trying to listen to what he was saying. After about thirty minutes, both April and Ned came out smiling. “No more rehearsing—April knows exactly what to do.”

  At the next audition, there were not as many girls, and the kids were immediately broken into groups. I couldn’t believe the way all the mothers fussed over their daughters. Most of the girls had big shiny ponytails or braids, and their mothers fed them healthy snacks of cut-up fruit, finger sandwiches, and hot tea with ginger and honey to coat their throats. While I always made April snacks, in the anticipation and panic, I had not prepared anything. I was now scared she might be hungry and it would affect her performance.

  April did not have any silk ribbons in her hair, nor did she wear anything special. My mother and I were in the audience listening to Martin Charnin give directions as April stood among the girls, adjusting her jumper and curling a strand of hair around her finger.

  “Sing as loud as you possibly can,” Martin directed. “Make sure they can hear you in the back row.”

  My legs were shaking, and I could barely stay in my seat while April had her turn. I didn’t know if she knew how to make her voice project that loud. But she belted out “Tomorrow” as if she had been singing professionally her whole life. Not only could they hear her in the back row, they could hear her in the basement, the dressing rooms, and the balcony. When she was finished, everyone applauded—the other mothers, the kids, the casting directors, Mike Nichols, the producer, Thomas Meehan the writer, and Charles Strouse, who wrote the music. We left that day feeling confident. The stage manager said they would be calling soon. The next day her name appeared in the New York Times, where they called April the next Ethel Merman.

  A whole week had passed and we had not heard anything, so my mom, convinced that she had missed the call, hired an answering service. My mother and I both had the number for Actor Phone to check for messages, but after three months, we had given up all hope. As quickly as Annie had come into our lives, the dream was gone. We all tried not to speak about it.

  Then the call finally came. April made it to the final callback, where she would read a script for her prospective role. April read for the part of Tessie. Her famous line was “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness!”

  A couple of weeks later, April was cast. I felt like all my dreams were coming true and I was floating on air. Then reality set in. My sister was going on the road with my mother for a year, and I was to stay home alone with my father. All through the craziness of the audition process, I had been so caught up in the moment that I forgot what April getting the part actually meant. My sister, the person I adored most in the whole world, would be gone. I would remain at home without her.

  That night when I tucked her in bed, I told my sister how proud I was of her and how much fun she was going to have traveling to so many spectacular new cities.

  She said she was really happy but that she was also nervous. “Who is going to cuddle with me and read me stories? What if Mommy forgets to feed me? What are you going to do with all your free time?”

  “Daddy said we will really get to know each other and spend some great quality time together. Don’t worry about me. I will be fine. And you know, I will be at every opening night, and I will send you the most amazing care packages with Rice Krispie treats and blondies so you won’t starve.”

  Hugging good night, we recited what we always said to each other: “I love you to the moon and stars and back again, I love you to the moon and stars and back again”—knowing that tomorrow my sister would be gone.

  Peanut Butter Love—The Best Flourless Blondies

  Yield: 12 squares

  16 ounces natural, no-sugar-added peanut butter

  1⁄2 cup pure maple syrup

  1⁄2 cup original soy milk or nondairy milk of choice (I use ones that have about 7 grams of sugar per serving)

  1 ripe banana, mashed

  2 eggs, beaten

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  1⁄2 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  3⁄4 cup dark, semisweet chocolate chips

  Butter or oil, for greasing the pan

  Prehe
at oven to 325 degrees. In a bowl, mix the peanut butter, maple syrup, milk, and mashed banana. Mush it all up and combine well. Then mix in the beaten eggs, vanilla, salt, and baking soda. Mix together until well blended and smooth. Stir in half the chocolate chips. Pour the batter into a well-greased 8-inch-square Pyrex dish. Scatter the remaining chips on top.

  Bake for 55 minutes, checking after 15 minutes to make sure the edges do not get too brown. If the top looks very brown, cover with foil and bake for the remaining 40 minutes. Cool and serve.

  Rice Krispie Treats with a Chocolate Drizzle

  Yield: 12 squares

  3⁄4 cup creamy natural peanut butter (the only ingredient should be peanuts), softened

  1 cup maple syrup

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  31⁄2 cups brown Rice Krispies cereal

  1 cup chocolate chips or carob chips (1⁄2 cup melted for drizzle)

  1⁄3 cup unsweetened coconut, for garnish

  Oil, for greasing the pan

  Mix the softened peanut butter with the maple syrup over low heat in a saucepan. Remove from heat. Add in the vanilla and Rice Krispies cereal and stir, then add in half the chocolate chips. Press into a greased 8-inch-square baking pan and refrigerate for a half hour. In the meantime, melt the remaining chips in the top of a double boiler and drizzle on top. At this point, you can also sprinkle on the coconut. Return to refrigerator until the bars are solid. Cut and serve.

  PART THREE

  13

  Home with My Dad

  Sunday Gravy with Meatballs, Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

  April was going to be a real Annie orphan—touring for a whole year in the First National Company of the Broadway hit. My mom would accompany her, and I would stay home with my dad. I had never spent a whole day, a whole week, let alone a whole year with him.

  The morning they left, I hid my face as the limousine pulled away. I tried not to let either of them see how distraught I was. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for all of us. April was going to be a star, my mom loved exploring new cities, and my dad seemed like he was really interested in bonding with me. “This will be our special time,” he assured me. I was going to miss my mother a lot and especially April, but I was also kind of excited to have my dad all to myself and make him proud of me.

  I had cooked for my dad often, making it my business to be up on all his latest diets—even praying beside him while he read I Prayed Myself Slim, and I ate seven to ten apples a day while he was on the “Israeli Army Diet.” But I never made him homemade meals seven days a week, twice a day. “We will have breakfast and dinner together every day,” he promised.

  Sitting next to him on the blue silk couch, I watched him smoke one cigarette after another blowing smoke rings, thinking with my mom and sister gone how quiet the house would be. It would be my dad and me for an entire year. Making food with fresh ingredients using Beauty’s recipe cards—and now many of my own creations—was how I learned to show my love, first to my sister and now to my dad. I decided, since I no longer had April to fuss over, I could focus all my energies on him. If I helped him lose weight once and for all, I was certain that he would be grateful and love me more.

  My dad was no longer morbidly obese like he was before he went to Duke University, but he was still heavy and still looking for that magic diet where he could indulge in sweets, cocktails, and fatty foods, and still stay thin. While he had not gained back the full 175 pounds he had lost during his six-month stay at the Fat Farm a couple of years earlier, eighty pounds had managed to creep back on him.

  I was determined to show him that he did not need a divine intervention, a special soap that promised to melt fat, or a handful of pills to suppress his appetite, just some practical advice and healthy home-cooked meals on a consistent basis. I had been studying macrobiotics and vegetarian cooking. I knew that brown rice had more fiber than white rice; beans, tempeh, and seitan were good substitutes for meat, with no saturated fat; and eating green vegetables was very important to detoxify your body. I was sure my dad would be transformed by my culinary expertise and reach a healthy weight with my encouragement and healthy recipes. I even had a bunch of dessert recipes that I thought would inspire him.

  During the first few weeks that my mother and sister were on tour, my dad and I spent a lot of time together. We even went shopping at my favorite health food store, Brownies, near Union Square. Unlike my mom, who had a real aversion to grocery shopping and trying new foods, my dad loved both. I could throw anything in the basket—miso paste, udon noodles, Brazil nuts, seaweed—and he didn’t make a face, or study the price.

  “What is this awful stuff you are cooking?” my mom used to sigh, refusing to taste anything I ever made. But my dad tried everything I cooked: broiled tofu with ginger, vegetarian nut loaf with red peppers, and soybean tortillas with rice cheese and nutritional yeast. For dessert: aduki bean mousse, carrot cookies, and a strawberry kanten. We were eating more than healthy food, we were eating happiness.

  Some nights my dad even suggested dressing up and dining out—letting me pick my favorite restaurant, Au Naturel. I could never get my mom to go there. She much preferred a hot dog on the run. I suggested the millet with steamed vegetables and the avocado and alfalfa sprout salad. My dad said he really enjoyed the meal—even noticing that he felt satisfied.

  “Rabbit food is not as tasteless as I anticipated. I feel full but kind of energetic like a little Easter bunny,” he said, jutting his teeth out like a rabbit and pretending to hop up and down. I began cracking up at how silly my dad could sometimes be.

  But as the weeks went on, our dinners together became less frequent. My dad spent more and more time at work. Some nights he came home; more often, he didn’t. Even so, I never stopped cooking and experimenting with recipes, always making sure there was a little something new for my dad to try. When he was around, he was always very complimentary, noticing how creative I was, but signing up to be home every night was more difficult than he’d anticipated. He had obligations in town, out of town—even out of the country. Feeling guilty about some of his prolonged absences, he would sometimes invite me to come to a production stage where he was filming, letting me watch the commercial through the director’s monitor. He even finagled a couple guest passes to the Atrium Club, the luxurious social club and spa at Fifty-Seventh and Park Avenue, so I could swim and shower there after school—even though the members were mostly business executives, and I was probably the only person under the age of sixty. And one day, he even let me use his charge card to go to Bloomingdale’s and buy a navy tweed wool blazer that I needed for school and some emerald stud earrings, since I’d recently had my ears pierced without my mother’s consent. But most days I was alone, sickened with a gut-wrenching emptiness.

  Walking partly dazed down Third Avenue on my way home from school one afternoon, I tripped and twisted my ankle on a stupid crack in the sidewalk. With blood rushing down my knee, I remembered April always saying, “Fall on a crack and you break your mama’s back.” Unable to move and totally embarrassed, I noticed a man sitting on the sidewalk a couple feet away from me. He kept staring at me, trying to make eye contact. When I finally looked up to acknowledge him, I smiled.

  “Is that a happy smile?” he asked.

  “I suppose,” I responded.

  “It’s not. I can tell. I know you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Sure I do. You pass by here at three-fifteen every day. You go to private school. You don’t have many friends.”

  “That’s not true. I have tons of friends!”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I have to go. My mother worries if I’m late.”

  “Nobody worries about you!”

  I felt my face turning red and my voice starting to get really high-pitched and stuttery. “Why would you say that?”

  “I see what I see. Comes wi
th the job.”

  What job? I thought to myself. But he continued to intrigue me with his insights.

  “See that woman who just passed in the black pumps? She has a boyfriend now. For the past year, she was pretty miserable; but now she’s found love. See the guy in the gray suit? He just lost his job, but he has not told his wife yet and is still pretending to go to work. Anyway, my little angel, you are very lonely. I see it in your eyes. As a matter of fact, you have some of the saddest eyes I have ever seen.”

  “I just fell. And my knee hurts,” I protested, defending my position and flashing him my normal cheery grin.

  “Okay,” the man said as he kept studying me. “But I see through that smile.”

  The strange man was wearing a red-and-black-checkered lumber jacket and a New York Yankees baseball cap. He was seated next to a cart loaded with a few leather suitcases and several hardcover books. He looked like he was in his late sixties, with straight but yellow-stained teeth and big bushy eyebrows. His clothes were worn, but not particularly raggedy. He kept looking me up and down in a caring kind of way. Then he asked, “Why are your heels so worn down? And why were you walking so slowly, like you were lost, before you tripped?”

  Who was this guy and why did he care? Just as I was about to walk away, he asked me to stay for a bit. Somewhat curious, I agreed. As he continued to question me, I noticed his language was particularly articulate and he was relatively handsome—even resembling my Papa a little bit. But clearly, he wasn’t just sitting on the dirty sidewalk to take a coffee break. I thought it was impolite to ask, but he was obviously a hobo. I had met many when I went to school in the West Village, most of them Viet Nam vets missing a limb or suffering some kind of posttraumatic stress; but this guy was different. There was something really wise about him. We sat quietly for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure if I should stay, but I knew I didn’t want to leave. All around me, kids and grown-ups were rushing by. I wondered why this man had asked me to sit with him.