by Marlo Thomas
Chapter 49
The Elm House
It’s very odd when someone dies suddenly. Your brain can’t compute it. It’s like they’ve been kidnapped, plucked out of your life. They were here yesterday. Now they’re not.
Dad had been on the road promoting his new book, Make Room for Danny. And he was having a ball—big crowds, the book was selling well. He seemed healthy and very happy. You could hear it in his voice.
Then the call from the doctor at 1:30 in the morning. I dropped the phone and screamed. My father had died of heart failure. I fell to the floor and began rocking back and forth—like I was davening, I think, which I’d never done in my life. It must be primal. Phil climbed over me to get to the phone and I heard him saying, “Who died? . . . Oh no!”
It was February 6, 1991. Daddy was 79.
I got on the plane to L.A. and cried all the way. Phil stayed behind to dedicate a Donahue show in remembrance of Dad. So I was alone. My pal Kathie Berlin wanted to fly with me, but I couldn’t wait—I had to get there. She took the next plane. The flight attendants were dear—hovering with Kleenex and water. I was inconsolable. An open faucet of tears. Then cocktail napkins started being passed over my shoulder, with notes written on them.
“I loved your father.”
“He was like a father to me.”
“I grew up on your Dad.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
They were my first condolence notes. It was so sweet, it made me cry more. Something I didn’t realize till much later was that, when we landed, though I was sitting in the front row and the door was at the center of the plane, there wasn’t a line. I walked right off. The attendants must have asked the passengers to let me off first. And they did. What a kind thing for all of those people to do.
I walked dazed off the plane, to where Terre and Tony were waiting for me. We drove to the house, which was filled with people, and all I could think of was What do I drink to make this pain go away? No one ever tells you that grief is physical. I felt like I’d been hit with a plank. I’m not much of a drinker, so Father Pat, our family priest since we were small—and a pretty good drinker—introduced me to mixed drinks. Scotch—too bitter. Vodka—too hot going down. Same with gin. We settled on Seagram’s 7 and ginger ale. I remembered that from college—a kid’s drink, but I could get it down. I got a few down. It wasn’t yet noon.
My best pal since childhood, Camille, was already there, passing food, making drinks. Of course Camille would be there. We’d shared so much growing up. And now her presence brought some kind of normalcy to this otherworldly tableau.
Dad’s comic pals started coming in, red-eyed, telling stories, forcing a laugh. But it was too soon.
Thank God for Terre. She was taking care of Mom, walking her around the courtyard. Mom had the stunned look of a boxer who had hit the mat, and Terre was trying to keep her on her feet. Tony and I went to Good Shepherd Church and began to arrange the flowers. So many flowers had arrived, it looked and smelled like a florist shop. Or a funeral parlor. We put all the white ones, for resurrection, on the altar. We sent out for white ribbon to arrange bows on the ends of all the pews. We had a piano brought in so Roger Williams could play Dad’s favorite song, “Autumn Leaves.”
Then we made a list of the speakers. Tony looked at me.
“You know what we’re doing, Mugs, don’t you?” he said.
“No,” I said. “What?”
“We’re producing Dad’s last show.”
Yes, I guess we were. We hugged each other tight and continued producing. Then we got a call from the archbishop’s office and were pleased to learn that he would attend the service. That was nice—Dad would have liked that. But they informed us that, for this honor, only one person would be allowed to speak other than the archbishop. Guess he had a busy day.
“Thanks, anyway,” we said, “but we have a couple of presidents and several comedy legends who will be speaking on behalf of their friend, so we understand if this makes it impossible for the archbishop to attend.”
Presidents Reagan and Ford spoke. So did the archbishop (yes, he came anyway). So did Bob Hope and Milton Berle.
Phil emceed—beautifully. If ever a man was put in a spot to fail, this was it—taking on the role of speaking on behalf of a family’s adored patriarch. But it was as if he had reached into our hearts. He expressed it for all of us. I’ll always remember him saying, “He made us believe that he would live forever. But two days ago he proved us wrong and broke our hearts.”
The first speaker Phil called on was Milton, who walked up to the pulpit and said, “Thanks, Geraldo.” Good ol’ Uncle Miltie. He knew what to do. Everyone laughed. They needed to.
There were a lot of laughs that day from the comics. Bob Hope said that Dad was so religious he had stained glass windows in his car. There was also a memorable laugh that did not come from the pulpit. It started when Mother’s lipstick fell out of her purse, hitting the ground with a noisy clack, then began rolling across the floor. Terre, Tony and I watched it roll and started to giggle. As it made its way past the grandkids—first Dionne, Jason and Tracy, then Kristina and Kate—they started to giggle, too. And trying as hard as we could, none of us could stop, until we were all laughing hysterically. It was terrible. Our bodies were shaking, tears of laughter streaming down our faces. We must have looked crazy. We were.
For hours and hours, day after day, friends came to offer their condolences, eat heartily and make us laugh. And what good friends—Elaine, Herbie, Chuck, Julian, Barry, Kathie all came from New York to be with me. After a while, Terre, Tony and I decided to duck out and take a drive to the old Elm house. We just had a need to see it again. It had been, what, thirty years, since we had all left and Mom and Dad had built their big beautiful dream house on the hill, atop Beverly Hills, overlooking the city.
We drove to the corner of Elm and Elevado and parked across the street. I could see my old bedroom windows that faced the street. How many times I had watched from that window as a boyfriend rode away on his bike. It looked smaller. Does everybody’s childhood home look smaller when they’re all grown up?
We got out of the car. Let’s knock on the door. Maybe the owner will let us go inside. No, that’s crazy. We don’t even know these people.
We walked to the door and knocked. A nice-looking blond woman opened it.
“We’re the Thomas kids,” we said. “We grew up in this house. We just lost our dad and we felt a very strong urge to visit this house.”
The nice lady smiled. “I was wondering when you’d come,” she said.
“What do you mean? You were expecting us?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Your father used to drop by all the time, and he’d sit in the den and have a vodka with us, and talk about the old days. He loved this house.”
We were floored. We should have known. Dear, sweet, sentimental Daddy.
We entered the house.
“We’ll go outside,” the woman said. “Feel free to walk around.”
So we sort of meandered. I walked into the den first, where on Friday nights we had watched all the Capra, Sturges, Chaplin and Three Stooges movies. I remembered how I used to run the projector. Because I was the oldest, Dad had taught me how to work it, so when he was on the road, we could still watch movies.
Then the living room, with the big black piano that held Grandma’s picture as a fortune-teller on top of it, and where all the pianists and singers would sit on the bench and perform after dinner, and where the comics would tell stories and make everyone laugh. At the far end of the room, in front of the glass doors, was where we put our Christmas tree each year—with the mountain of gifts from family, friends and Dad’s colleagues.
Then the dining room, which faced the street, with the windows that let in such a pretty light through the panes. I could almost see the U-shaped table, built that way so that no one sat with their back to the huge, wall-to-wall carving of the Last Supper that hung there. Me always
on Dad’s right. On Sunday after Mass, we’d have to close the drapery so the movie guide buses wouldn’t look in at us having our brunch. “Monkeys in a cage,” Dad would say.
I walked up the stairs and remembered Mom sitting on the top step, holding baby Tony in her arms that Christmas, just two weeks after he was born, so he could be a part of our Christmas morning.
I went into my parents’ bedroom. It didn’t look like it did on all those school mornings when I’d go in for my allowance, or something extra to go to the movies with Camille and Moya, or to negotiate staying out later than they wanted me to. But the bed was in the same place as it was when we used to climb into it to keep Mom company when Dad was away.
What I hadn’t expected was the burst of emotion I felt when I walked into Dad’s bathroom–dressing room, where I used to sit on the edge of the tub, watching him shave and listening to his stories about being on the road, or telling him how I felt about something that no one else seemed to understand. It was the room most untouched by the new owners—the “oatmeal”-colored tile (Mom called it that), the big glass shower with the tile bench inside, the pane-glass window overlooking the street, where I would glance at our circle driveway and the brick house across from ours. Oh, how many times I had sat there transfixed and laughing and happy to be with him. Dad’s bathroom. How funny that it was this room that held the sweetest memories of my childhood home.
I couldn’t stop weeping, but I was glad I had come. Because for those few moments, the flowers, the eulogies, the box that held him were washed away, and I was transported, and as close to him again as I could get.
I went downstairs, and Terre and Tony looked as I must have. Drained. But it was good. We had made a visit to relive, not just to bury, our father. We were ready to go back and finish the ritual at home.
Chapter 50
Mother and Marge
After my father died, I brought my mother to New York to stay with me and Phil for a while. She didn’t want to sleep alone in a room, so we thought it would be good for her to invite her old friend, Marge Durante, to come along with her.
Jimmy Durante, the legendary comedian, had left Marge widowed many years before. She and my mother had always been close friends, and now Marge was a great comfort to Mom.
We took walks in Central Park, Mother and Marge in their boxy mink coats, looking every bit like that other era they came from. We even took a carriage ride. They loved it, but Mom felt sorry for the horses.
One day, they disappeared from our apartment for a few hours, and I became worried. When they finally got back, I asked them where they had been.
“We walked over to the Copa, just to take a look at it from the outside,” Mom told me. I was very touched by that.
“Did it look like it used to?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Mother said. “Back then, we only saw it at night.”
A few days later, Phil invited Mother and Marge to a taping of his show. He said he’d also like to introduce them in the audience. Mother was against the idea. She didn’t want a fuss—she just didn’t feel up to it. Phil tried to persuade her by telling her that people would love to see her and Marge—they had been married to men who many people remembered with great affection.
Mother remained reluctant, so I told Phil not to push her. She’d been doing pretty well, and I didn’t want her to get upset. Phil agreed, and off they all went to 30 Rock. I was working, so I wasn’t able to go with them, but I heard all about it when I got home later. Phil told me that once they got to the studio, and Mom and Marge felt all the excitement of the audience, they decided that it was all right for Phil to introduce them. I was delighted.
“How was it?” I asked my mother.
“They stood!” she said, proudly.
You can take the girl out of the club . . .
Not long after that, I decided it would be a good idea to take Mom to the movies, as another distraction. I scoured the paper for a film that wouldn’t bring up any sad memories for her. No love stories, no showbiz stories, no family stories. I finally found a lightweight comedy that I thought she might get a laugh or two out of; and even if it wasn’t any good, at least it would be harmless, and not anything that would make her emotional.
We bought our tickets, settled into our seats and the movie began. Just as I had hoped, the film was pretty bland, and I was feeling good about my choice.
Then suddenly, Mother burst into tears. I was dumbfounded.
“Mother, Mother, what is it?” I frantically whispered.
“These people are so untalented,” Mother wailed, “and Daddy’s dead!”
Chapter 51
The Only Jew in the Neighborhood—Jon Stewart
He’s got wit, charm, savvy and bottomless smarts. But there’s one thing Jon Stewart doesn’t have: a fourth wall. He’s removed it. He looks right at us, rolls his eyes, shakes his fists and plays the joke directly to us, as if we were sitting across the desk from him. And because of this rapport, we feel we can trust him. We know he’ll call the game the way he sees it. His Daily Show fan base has come to depend on him for their nightcap of laughter, whether he’s cracking wise or expressing outrage. But he’s also a comedy guy who is taken very seriously, often hailed as a dominant voice in 21st century America. But he sure doesn’t take himself seriously. From our first “Hello,” I felt I was talking to an old friend. One who can always make me laugh.
—M.T.
Marlo: Do you have any idea how many comedy addicts adore The Daily Show?
Jon: Actually, we try to keep ourselves in as much of a bubble as possible. If I start feeling like, Oh my God—people like me!, I’ll start screwing up for sure.
Marlo: Most comedians found their comic voice in their childhood, some of the older ones in their immigrant neighborhoods. What about you?
Jon: My childhood was different from the days of the old comics. I grew up in the suburban Seventies, and the stories about it are so banal. In the old days, there was much more romance. More character. People spoke with old world accents; there was more of a connection to our roots.
Marlo: I know, my grandma used to spit on my head when people said I had beautiful eyes.
Jon: See, I never got that! Why wouldn’t anyone spit on my head?
Marlo: Clearly you were deprived.
Jon: Exactly.
Marlo: Was there anyone in your childhood who could make you laugh?
Jon: My grandfather possessed this really dry sense of humor. Everybody has two weird sides of their family. One is the loud, screaming, Lower East Side family; the other is your stereotypical, newspaper-reading, quiet side. It’s sort of like the two Jews—the Sephardic and Ashkenazic, you know?
Marlo: Right. So you made your grandfather laugh?
Jon: I tried desperately. But I think it was him who made me laugh. Billy Crystal always talks about how he used to perform in front of his family, but I think the suburbs were a more isolating existence. For me, there wasn’t this sense of the family hearth, with everybody sitting around, and Aunt Sylvia flapping her arms and telling stories. That was much more of a traditional Billy Crystal–Sid Caesar way to grow up.
I grew up more as an outsider. I was the only Jew in the neighborhood, as opposed to, you know, living in a family of people who got chased out of their homeland by the pogrom and were now living in Massapequa. I guess it’s a generational thing.
Marlo: Still, being the only Jew in the neighborhood had to help make you funny.
Jon: Well, being small and Jewish is a good recipe for developing a wit. Most of my laughs came from my classmates.
Marlo: So you were the class clown.
Jon: Actually, my friend was voted class clown. I was voted best sense of humor. And I take great pride in that distinction.
Marlo: You should.
Jon: I did. My fart humor back then was very sophisticated. I did top-notch stuff. But what passes as wit when you’re younger is really just obnoxiousness. Then you slowly learn the differe
nce between something that will make people laugh and something that will get your ass kicked. There’s a very fine line there.
But, yeah, the stories of my childhood lack any real magic. I was very much like a bad ABC Afterschool Special. Latchkey kid, basically unsupervised, most of the time thinking up ways to entertain my friends. It all feels so clichéd. Even the way my family got divorced. My dad got laid off and then had an affair with a secretary. It was Philip Roth, you know?
Marlo: Conan O’Brien told me that he spent his entire childhood making fun of himself so nobody else would.
Jon: That’s exactly right. If you had the best Jew joke in town, or the best short joke in town, at a certain point nobody wanted to compete with you. I mean, my last name is Leibowitz. Just about every fun curse word for a little kid rhymes with that. “Tits.” “Shits.” So unless you could top the other kids material-wise, they’d be relentless.
Marlo: Did you have a couple of standard lines that you defended yourself with?
Jon: No, it was all situational. We didn’t write stuff back then. It wasn’t the Orpheum Circuit. But you did have to be quick on your feet. In some respects, that was good training for stand-up comedy, because it’s all in the moment. You’re just trying to deflect things.
Marlo: You do that a lot on your show.
Jon: Yeah. In some ways I think you’re always the kid you were when puberty first destroyed your life. That sense of esteem you were searching for is always a part of you, no matter what happens. I remember my life before I got on television, and how much harder it was to get laid then. So believe me, I have a decent sense of my own self-worth.
Marlo: Maybe you weren’t getting laid, but you were always getting laughs.
Jon: Yeah, well I gotta tell you, getting laughs was cold comfort to getting laid. The one thing I can remember from high school was that being the funny guy got you access to the party, but typically in some sort of advisory or service role.
Marlo: Meaning?
Jon: Meaning, the first time I got to second base with a girl, I was actually driving and watching my friend do it.