Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [99]
But the real headliner that day, Sid remembers, was the rabbi, who told a joke that still makes Sid laugh. —M.T.
There were mice running all over the synagogue, and everyone was in a panic. Women were terrified, kids were hiding and the men didn’t know what to do.
“Don’t worry,” the rabbi announced. “I’ll take care of it.”
Sure enough, the next day all the mice were gone. The people in the shul were astonished! An older gentleman stood and asked, “Rabbi, how did you do it? How did you get rid of all the mice?”
“Easy,” the rabbi answered. “I Bar Mitzvahed them. And as everyone knows, once they’re Bar Mitzvahed, they never come back.”
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