My fantasy was to go to college, but there was no money for that. My dream had been to become a writer. I had written dozens of short stories and sent them to Story magazine, Collier’s, and The Saturday Evening Post, and I had gotten back printed rejections. I had finally decided I couldn’t spend the rest of my life in this suffocating misery.
My father was talking to me. “. . . and there are so many beautiful places in the world you haven’t seen . . .”
I tuned him out. If he leaves tonight, I can go on with my plan.
“. . . you’d love Rome . . .”
If he tries to stop me now, I’ll do it when he leaves. I was busy with my thoughts, barely listening to what he was saying.
“Sidney, you told me that you wanted to be a writer more than anything in the world.”
He suddenly had my attention. “That was yesterday.”
“What about tomorrow?”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What?”
“You don’t know what can happen tomorrow. Life is like a novel, isn’t it? It’s filled with suspense. You have no idea what’s going to happen until you turn the page.”
“I know what’s going to happen. Nothing.”
“You don’t really know that, do you? Every day is a different page, Sidney, and they can be full of surprises. You’ll never know what’s next until you turn the page.”
I thought about that. He did have a point. Every tomorrow was like the next page of a novel.
We turned the corner and walked down a deserted street. “If you really want to commit suicide, Sidney, I understand. But I’d hate to see you close the book too soon and miss all the excitement that could happen to you on the next page—the page you’re going to write.”
Don’t close the book too soon . . . Was I closing it too soon? Something wonderful could happen tomorrow.
Either my father was a superb salesman or I wasn’t fully committed to ending my life, because by the end of the next block, I had decided to postpone my plan.
But I intended to keep my options open.
CHAPTER 2
I was born in Chicago, on a kitchen table that I made with my own hands. At least, my mother, Natalie, insisted it was so. Natalie was my North Star, my comforter, my protector. I was her first child and she never got over the miracle of birth. She could not talk about me without the aid of a thesaurus. I was brilliant, talented, handsome, and witty—and that was before I was six months old.
I never addressed my parents as “mother” and “father.” They preferred that I called them “Natalie” and “Otto,” possibly because it made them feel younger.
Natalie Marcus was born in Slavitka, Russia, near Odessa, during the reign of the czars. When she was ten years old, she escaped a Russian pogrom against Jews, and was brought to America by her mother, Anna.
Natalie was a beauty. She was five foot five tall, with soft brown hair, intelligent gray eyes, and lovely features. She had the soul of a romantic and a rich inner life. She had no formal education, but she had taught herself to read. She loved classical music and books. Her dream was to marry a prince and travel around the world.
Her prince turned out to be Otto Schechtel, a Chicago street fighter who had dropped out of school after the sixth grade. Otto was handsome and charming, and it was easy to see why Natalie had been attracted to him. They were both dreamers, but they had different dreams. Natalie dreamed of a romantic world, with castles in Spain and moonlit gondola rides in Venice, while Otto’s fantasies consisted of impractical get-rich-quick schemes. Someone said that all it took to be a successful writer was paper and a pen and a dysfunctional family. I was raised by two such families.
In this corner I would like to present the Marcus clan: two brothers, Sam and Al, and three sisters, Pauline, Natalie, and Fran.
And in the opposite corner, we have the Schechtels, five sisters and two brothers: Harry and Otto, and Rose, Bess, Emma, Mildred, and Tillie.
The Schechtels were extroverts, informal and street-smart. The Marcuses were introverted and reserved. The two families were not only dissimilar; they had absolutely nothing in common. And so, fate decided to amuse itself.
Harry Schechtel married Pauline Marcus. Otto Schechtel married Natalie Marcus. Tillie Schechtel married Al Marcus. And if that were not enough, Sam Marcus married Pauline’s best friend. It was a marital feeding frenzy.
Otto’s older brother, Harry, was the most formidable member of the Schechtel clan. He was five foot ten, muscular and powerful, with a commanding personality. If we had been Italian, he would have been the consigliere. He was the one that Otto and the others went to for advice. Harry and Pauline had four young boys—Seymour, Eddie, Howard, and Steve. Seymour was only six months older than I, but he always seemed older than his age.
In the Marcus family, Al was the charmer, good-looking and amusing, the family bon vivant. He liked to gamble and flirt. Sam Marcus was the solemn elder statesman who disapproved of the Schechtels’ lifestyle. Sam’s business was running checkroom concessions in various Chicago hotels.
Sometimes when my uncles got together, they would go into a corner and talk about a mysterious thing called sex. It sounded wonderful. I prayed that it wouldn’t go away before I grew up.
Otto was a spendthrift who enjoyed throwing money around, whether he had it or not. He would often invite a dozen guests to an expensive restaurant, and when the bill came, borrow the money from one of them to pay the tab.
Natalie could not stand borrowing or owing money. She had a strong sense of responsibility. As I grew older, I began to realize how totally unsuited they were for each other. My mother was miserable, married to a man she had no respect for, living an inner life that he could not understand. My father had married a fairytale princess, only to find himself bewildered when the honeymoon ended.