Evan Hunter - Streets of Gold

2. My mother, the indomitable Stella.

3. My oldest son, Andrew, who at the age of fourteen had taken to announcing each of his intentions to fart or belch. “I have to fart,” he would say, and invariably would do so.

4. My mother-in-law, Sophie, who while babysitting with the children during the long trip Rebecca and I took to Europe in the spring of 1962 caught Michael innocently examining his penis and told him about a woman named Sheine, who used to live on the lower East Side, and whom everyone called the Crooked Lady. “Sheine used to abuse her genitals,” Sophie told him. When we got back in June, Michael asked me what his “generous” was.

5. The aforementioned Michael, who, at the age of twelve, was seeing a psychoanalyst in nearby Greenwich three times a week. Rebecca refused to believe that her mother’s story about Sheine the Crooked, Lady had only aggravated Michael’s problem. “Your mother is a cunt,” I told Rebecca.

6. Me, the thirty-seven-year-old birthday boy, my staunchest admirer, sitting in sartorial splendor (Rebecca supervised the tailoring of all my clothes) at the end of the table opposite my grandfather, shades covering my dead baby blues.

7. My grandmother, Tess, on my left. She was eighty years old, and complained constantly of arthritic pains. She also complained about there being thirteen people at the table; thirteen, she said, was a hoodoo jinx of a number. She walked with a cane these days. Welcome to the club, Grandma.

8. My youngest son, David, ten years old. David was the star pitcher of the town’s Little League baseball team. When I told him my brother Tony had been a very good ballplayer, he said, “Is he the one got killed in Korea, Daddy?” Wrong war, son. Close, but no cigar.

9. Seth Lewis, Davina’s husband, the noted certified public accountant, the least loyal of all my subjects, though certainly the most vociferous. He had predictably complained about the long drive up from Central Park West, where he and the fair Davina now lived, still childless. “That Merritt Parkway is a bitch,” he said, the moment he stepped into the house. And belatedly, “Happy birthday, Isadore.” He called me Isadore as a joke.

10. My father-in-law, Honest Abe, who, though never devoutly Orthodox or Reform, had come a long way toward becoming reformed — in his fashion.

11. Rebecca Baumgarten Di Palermo Jamison, my bride of fifteen summers. Our anniversary would fall on a Tuesday this year, and we had already decided to take a long weekend away together, perhaps go back to Mount Pocono, where we’d spent our honeymoon — provided I was not playing in Nome, Alaska, or Kalamazoo, Michigan. She was wearing a green dress, too. I knew because when she took it from the closet she asked if she should wear the green. “The wearin’ of the green will be fine, m’dear,” I’d said in what I thought was a perfect Irish brogue. Rebecca had not laughed. She had not laughed when Davina came through the door wearing green, either. Rebecca did not laugh much lately. Had she seen the pictures, after all? Or were they only in her head — as they were in mine?

12. My father, Jimmy Di Palermo, who now stood up and banged on his glass. I knew it was my father, and I knew what was coming.

13. Francesco Luigi Di Lorenzo, my grandfather.

Three more than a minyan .

An all-American minyan , at that.

My father cleared his throat. “I have a little poem,” he said.

“He always has a little poem,” my mother said, and sighed.

“In honor of Ike’s birthday,” he said, unfazed.

“Read it fast, Pop,” Rebecca said. “The roast is almost done.”

“I like Jimmy’s poems,” Sophie said. “You write good poems, Jimmy.”

“You do, Jimmy,” Abe said. “Your poems are very interesting.”

“ What has he got?” my grandmother asked. In addition to the arthritis, she was going deaf in one ear. I put my hand gently on her arm and said into her good ear, “A poem , Grandma. He’s going to read us a poem.”

“Oh, good,” she said, almost childishly.

My father’s poems were always acrostics, the first letter of each word on every line combining vertically to spell out a message or a name. He tapped his glass for silence again, and then began reading:

“Happy birthday, son,” he said, and handed me the shirt cardboard upon which he had hand-lettered the poem. I could not see the ornate lettering, but I knew he had probably worked on it for weeks.

“Thank you, Pop,” I said.

“That was a good one, Jimmy,” Abe said. “I think it was one of your best.”

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘relatives alike,’ ” my mother said. “What’s a family, if not relatives?”

“I had to make it rhyme, Stella,” my father said.

“Yeah, but that’s stupid,” my mother said. “Relatives are the family. Isn’t that right, Seth?”

“Well, he had to make it rhyme,” Seth said.

“Pop, do you want to help me carve the roast?” Rebecca asked, rescuing my father.

“He tries to make it rhyme sometimes,” my mother said, “and he don’t make any sense.”

“The artwork is so beautiful, though,” Sophie said.

“Well, he used to design crochet beading, don’t forget,” my mother said.

“Do you need any help in the kitchen?” Davina asked.

“Wouldn’t you know the shvartzeh would get sick on Ike’s birthday?” Abe said.

“No, we’re fine here,” Rebecca called.

“Grandpa, would you open the wine?” I said.

“What?” my grandfather said, and I suddenly realized he had been silent for quite a long time.

“Open the wine, Papa,” my mother said.

After dinner, they brought in the cake, turning out the lights first, even though the effect was lost on me. I beamed embarrassed approval while they sang to me, and then Rebecca put the cake on the table, and moved my hand toward the rim of the plate, helping me to locate it. I had already felt the warmth of the burning candles, and knew exactly where it was.

“Make a wish,” Davina said.

“I already have.”

My fingertips touching the edge of the plate, I positioned myself over the cake and let out my breath.

“A little to the right,” Rebecca prompted, and they all burst into applause when I blew out the candles.

“What did you wish, Daddy?” Michael asked.

“That’s a secret,” I said.

“Tell us,” Davina said.

“He’s not allowed to,” little David said. “Otherwise it won’t come true. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

“That’s right, son.”

“I have to fart,” Andrew said.

“Andrew!” my mother said sharply, and burst into laughter.

I felt arms encircling me from behind. A kiss touched my cheek. I thought at first it was Rebecca. “Happy birthday, Ike,” Davina whispered. “What did you wish?”

“Can’t tell,” I said.

I had wished we could go again to Pass-A-Grille, and walk again in Rebecca’s magic garden, and sit again in sunshine on a white sand beach while she read Peter Pan aloud to the children.