Dreams (12 page)

Arlen had his driver in his hand and was all teed up when he heard his cell phone tinkling
Happy Days Are Here Again,
the old FDR-era Democratic campaign song. He muttered, "Cell phone," opened the flip, and read the incoming ID. "Clarissa," he told his partner. "Hold a sec."

To his wife he said, "What, Norm and I are on the fifth. What's the matter?"

Arlen listened, nodded, said, "Okay," and closed the phone. He slipped it back into his pocket. To his golfing partner he said, "You'll never guess." There was a smile on his face.

Norm said, "Okay, I'll never guess. What?"

"We won."

"Really?"

"Really."

"We never win. We've been buying raffle tickets ever since we've been neighbors. What, thirty, thirty-five years? I always thought you were a Jonah."

Arlen laughed. "Not this time. Come on, I don't feel like playing golf."

They climbed into the electric cart and headed back to the clubhouse. They had a couple of drinks, over-tipped the bartender, and headed for the parking lot. As they climbed into Norm's blue-and-cream Acura Norm said, "Wait. I'd better call Nettie."

Arlen said, "No need of that. You can be sure Clarissa called her as soon as she found out. Probably before she called me."

Norm's cell phone chimed. "Yes. Arlen told me. We're on our way now." He nodded to Arlen. The grin on Arlen's face threatened to crack it wide open.

The four of them celebrated with dinner at Sorrento, their favorite restaurant. At the end of the meal, Norm raised a glass of Chianti and proposed a toast. "To a super vacation. The ladies can even get new wardrobes for the trip, as far as I'm concerned."

Arlen said, "Hear, hear!"

Clarissa and Nettie exchanged smiles.

***

The big Boeing landed at Miami International and they were met at the luggage carousel by a gray-uniformed chauffeur holding a cardboard sign. In big computer-generated letters it said,
Hirsch–Gennario Party.
A limousine whisked them over the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach and up Collins Avenue to the Fontainebleau. They were met by a concierge and checked into a Versailles Suite on the thirty-seventh floor.

Once they'd tipped the bellman they separated into plush bedrooms and agreed to meet in an hour. Arlen lowered himself onto the huge bed and sighed.

Clarissa had opened her makeup carrier and was picking through its contents. She turned to her husband. "Well, what do you think?"

"I'm thinking about the last time I was in this hotel. A fraternity party. That was—"

"Let me guess. Forty years ago."

"Would you believe, closer to fifty? Ahh, we are so old, sweetheart, so old."

She shook her head. "Never mind. We have our health. Our children are grown up and married, our grandchildren . . . And not one of them was ever a drug addict or a gangster. Arlen, we're very lucky. And we're here to have fun. Let's just have fun."

After a conference with the Gennarios they phoned downstairs to the Gotham Steakhouse for reservations. They were tired from the day's travel. Staying in the Fontainebleau for dinner seemed a good idea. Dressed to the nines they rode the elevator to the restaurant. The food was splendid. The wine was delicious. Best of all, they could ignore the prices. They'd won the raffle and their vacation was on the cosmetics chain that sponsored the raffle each year.

Arlen enjoyed the best night's sleep he'd had in years.

In the morning they ordered breakfast from room service. Clarissa asked for a cup of tea and toast. Arlen indulged himself: half a grapefruit, eggs sunny side up, an English muffin with butter and orange marmalade, coffee. Clarissa clucked at him but he said it was their vacation, he was entitled to eat what he wanted.

The Versailles Suite included a terrace where they sat enjoying the morning sun.

Breakfast arrived accompanied by a neatly folded copy of the Miami
Herald
. They sat at a table overlooking the ocean. Arlen leafed through the paper, then stopped and read an item in the local news section. He shook his head.

Clarissa asked what was the matter.

"They're tearing it down."

She waited for him to continue.

He read,
The oldest movie theater in Miami Beach, the venerable Cairo Cinema, will be demolished in a matter of days. Efforts by neighborhood preservation groups were rejected by State Superior Court Judge Marisol Gil-Martinez on grounds that the plaintiffs lacked standing and that they had failed to prove any compelling government interest in the preservation of the building.

Arlen sliced a triangle of egg and swallowed it with a gulp of fresh coffee. He sighed and shook his head, then continued,
Constructed in the late 1920s, the Cairo featured a mixture of faux Egyptian and Art Deco artistic styles. The building survived the transition to sound and other technological developments over the decades, but declining attendance caused its conversion to other uses in recent years. The building was purchased by Timothy Torrance III, great-grandson of the theater's architect, who attempted to convert the Cairo into a repertory art-film venue, but failed to do so.

"That's it?" Clarissa asked.

Arlen laid the paper on the table. "I loved that theater."

"I never knew."

"I grew up in that neighborhood, a block away from the Cairo. My parents used to take me there. They had great kid shows on Saturday afternoons. A western with Johnny Mack Brown or Rod Cameron, a comedy with Abbott and Costello or the Bowery Boys, cartoons . . . Mighty Mouse or Bugs Bunny or a Fleisher Superman . . . and two chapters of a serial.
The Purple Monster Strikes, Secret of Treasure Island, Buck Rogers."

He spread marmalade on half the muffin, chewed and swallowed. "When I got older I worked there."

Clarissa said, "That you've told me."

"I was an usher. You should have seen me, sweetheart. What a uniform they gave me! Royal blue jacket with brass buttons and military epaulets. Black trousers with a gold stripe down the side. I wore a cardboard dickey and a clip-on bow tie. Oh, was I ever something!"

He shook his head.

"No more, eh?" He picked up the
Herald
and stared at the story about the pending demolition of the Cairo. He read it again as if that could make it say something different, but it didn't.

The sliding door moved silently on its track. Norm and Nettie joined Arlen and Clarissa on the terrace. Norm said, "I see you've already got your food. We just ordered ours."

Arlen handed the
Herald
to Norm, who opened it to the sports section. "Greyhounds running at Flagler." He folded the newspaper to an ad. "Want to go?"

Nettie was enthusiastic. "We can spend the morning at the pool, have a bite downstairs and see the action."

Clarissa looked dubious. "Isn't it cruel? Don't they chase a rabbit or something?"

Norm laughed. "It's a mechanical rabbit. It isn't alive."

"Still, I've heard they kill the dogs when they get too old to race."

"People adopt them. You know the McKees over on Chestnut Avenue? They adopted a couple of greyhounds. They say they're wonderful pets. They love to sit on the couch and watch television.
Lassie
and
Scooby-Doo.
"

Arlen said, "You go ahead. Clar, sweetheart, you go ahead with Nettie and Norm. I'll meet you back here and we'll go out tonight."

Clarissa frowned. "Don't you want to go, Arlen?"

"I don't think so. I think I'm going to . . ." He let the sentence trail away.

Norm said, "Going to what, Arlen? Come on, spill."

"Nothing important. You'd just be bored."

"Maybe not. What?"

Arlen picked up the
Herald.
"I thought I'd take a ride uptown. I used to live there."

"Understand," Norm nodded. "You want to stroll around the old neighborhood. I got it."

Room service arrived with the Gennarios' breakfast.

Later, Nettie and Norm and Clarissa picked up a rental Toyota and pulled into Collins Avenue and headed for the causeway and the Flagler dog track. Arlen waved them away, then walked to the corner and waited for a northbound bus. He was surprised at how expensive the fare was. He was relieved when the driver pointed to a sign that indicated Arlen was entitled to a senior discount. He always drove his car at home, an '04 Oldsmobile Alero. It was the last Olds model ever built. His father had once owned a '61 DeSoto, the last of its breed, and Arlen had vowed to keep the Alero going for the rest of his life.

He got off the bus, waited for the light to change and crossed Collins Avenue.

There was the Cairo Cinema. The paint, once a vivid ocean blue and Egyptian gold, was faded and peeling. Most of the lights on the vertical sign were broken. Lettering on the marquee spelled out a message,
GOOD-BYE FROM THE CAIRO WELL MISS YOU.
The letters were mismatched, there was no apostrophe, one of the E's was a backwards three and the L's were inverted sevens.

The front doors were covered with heavy plywood and the glass cashier's box was boarded up. To the right of the Cairo he could see Kaplan's Kandy Kastle. He grinned. To the left where a children's shoe store had once operated was a franchise hardware establishment. Pedestrians in light clothing, broad-brimmed straw hats, colorful shirts and shorts passed him.

He stood looking at the Cairo for a few minutes, then entered Kaplan's Kandy Kastle. Once upon a time he'd spent most of his allowance at Kaplan's. Ice cream cones were a nickel for a single scoop, eight cents for a double. He used to ask for strawberry and chocolate,
Strawberry on top,
please,
and Mrs. Kaplan used to make it that way to oblige a favorite customer. He bought his comic books at Kaplan's. Fat, exciting issues featuring Airboy and his bat-winged airplane, Green Lantern with his power ring.
In brightest day, in darkest night . . .

The Kaplans had two daughters, Irma and Akiva. Irma was a year older than Arlen. Akiva was three years older than Irma. Akiva, he knew, had gone to college in Oregon, married, and settled permanently on the West Coast. Irma, even though she was older than Arlen, had taken a liking to him. They played together as children and had been sweethearts of a sort during their teens.

Irma worked at Kaplan's while Arlen ushered at the Cairo. On their days off they would often go to the Cairo or to the Suez, the movie house opposite the Cairo on Collins Avenue. By this time the theaters belonged to the same chain and free admission to either was a perk for employees.

There were two females on the staff of the Cairo, Mildred and Sally. The rest of the staff was male: Tim Torrance was the manager. Jack Corelli, Marty Wollner, and Arlen were ushers. Mr. Hopkinson was the projectionist. He ruled his private domain up a flight of stairs at the rear of the auditorium. Everyone else was on first-name terms but he was always Mr. Hopkinson.

And there was Mr. Isaacs, the doorman. Customers would buy their tickets from Mildred or Sally. The two girls alternated selling tickets and operating the candy counter. Nobody knew how old Mr. Isaacs was. There were legends about him. General belief was that he was a retired widower with a fortune in investments and that he worked only because he was bored.

When the Suez showed
The Black Widow
, a thriller with Ginger Rogers, Gene Tierney, and Van Heflin, Arlen and Irma crossed the avenue and found seats in the rear of the auditorium. They were kissing furiously when Arlen got up the courage to sneak his hand over Irma's shoulder, inside her blouse, inside her bra. The thrill of her breast in his hand, the silky warmth of her skin, the rigid nipple in his palm, had never left him.

A year later she left town to attend an Ivy League college. Arlen stayed behind, attended the local university, was drafted into the service, and found himself on an army post near Indianapolis. He managed to pull a cushy assignment. He had most Friday nights off and attended the local synagogue. He met Clarissa there. They married, and when he got his discharge he went to work in her father's business.

From his own parents in Florida he learned that Irma had moved to Israel. She sent him a picture postcard written in Hebrew and English, a rider on a camel with a pyramid in the background. She wrote,
Remember the Cairo! Love, Irma!
A year later, riding in a jeep, she had been killed by a sniper's bullet.

He pushed open the door of Kaplan's Kandy Kastle. The store was filled with straw hats, souvenir tee-shirts with
Kaplan's Kandy Kastle
silk-screened on them in incandescent ink, baseball caps with cartoon characters embroidered on them, bathing trunks, beach towels, plaster fish mounted on plaques blazoned with comic sayings, playing cards, souvenir pens, key chains.

"I used to live here," he said to no one in particular.

A dark-skinned woman wearing an Indian sari behind the counter walked over to face him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I used to come in here all the time."

She smiled encouragingly.

"Is Mr. Kaplan here? Mrs. Kaplan?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. She turned aside and called a name. At least Arlen thought it was a name.
Nadisu,
or something like that. A dark-skinned man wearing a black silk suit, white shirt, and midnight blue tie, appeared from somewhere. He had glossy, wavy, black hair. The woman had worn a head scarf.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"The Kaplans," Arlen managed.

"I do not know them."

"This store is called Kaplan's. I used to buy comic books here. And ice cream cones."