14 Upstairs

Day 14 - February 2

Father asks, “Cher, could you please make some phone calls for me? There are people who should know.” Call by call, I create a structure to tell his friends and family. I’d like to think I didn’t miss anyone, but I know better.

“Let’s bake a Boston Cream Pie, Cher. Look, I saved out three recipes for you to choose from.” I’d like to say I jumped up, picked out a recipe and baked up a storm, but I know better.

We make our way through the day of discomfort and unspoken fears, needing oxygen or not, sleeping or not. By dinnertime I discover how to proceed, cooking veal cutlets with German curry gravy, red cabbage and dumplings. We settle in, enjoying delicacies that bring his years in Germany back to life.

Father’s sister, Aunt Mary, lived above her general store in Dupont, Pennsylvania. In the back, behind a curtained doorway, Uncle Joe sat next to the wood burning stove. Aunt Mary rolled out dough for her homemade pierogies on a table in the center of the heat-filled room. A screen door on the far wall opened onto a back porch overlooking Joe’s garden. As a child I skipped along the store’s dusty wood-planked floor, past the glass displays of Mary Janes and Jaw Breakers, around the shelves of toiletries and sundries, and then parting the curtains, stepped into that kitchen—a fluffy white cloud, filled with warm waves of pierogies and Polish.

A rear stairway led up to the rest of their home—a strange mystery land to me. The few times I ventured up the stairs, I felt like a spy or intruder. I did not know when, but life here happened behind the scenes. I only ever saw Mary and Joe downstairs in the kitchen or the store.

School children scurried through the front door for ice cream bars and candy. Adults found everything from cotton balls to plungers. Father’s favorites were the butterscotch Tastee Kakes. After visiting grandmother’s, we always stocked up on Tastee Kakes for the drive back to Rochester. Aunt Mary let us select penny candies as she carefully placed each one in a tiny brown treasure bag. The privilege was dizzying—anything I wanted and I wasn’t even a customer!

Mother’s cousin also lived in a secret world, in Buffalo, above his restaurant, “Hawkin’s.” I called him “Grandpa-father.” He reminded me of grandfather, but he wasn’t. Father and I twirled around on shiny red stools at the counter while "Grandpa-father" served us hot fudge sundaes and tea in green diner china. For special dinners after church on Sunday, we were served at a private table in the balcony. Upstairs, behind a locked door, "Grandpa-father" must have lounged in his leather recliner. I noticed cigar stubs in the ash tray with legs down to the floor. I spied, but couldn't wait to get back downstairs to the bustling booths and counters, the mosaic tile floor and the red flashing signs.

In a way, I grew up in father’s ministry's “restaurant and general store”—the place where he served others, the place where I looked up to him, the place where I made quick judgements—wildly positive or not, the place where I wanted to continue swirling on shiny stools at the counter.

Now, we linger at dinner over second servings of veal cutlet and I am in his “mystery land,” the upstairs behind-the-scenes life where he can truly be himself. He tells me a family secret, he wants me to know. Next, he wonders if he made the right decision to move back from Germany, he and mother were so happy there.

He talks on, and I am not a spy or intruder.

“Cher, I would really like a hot drink now.”

I get up to pour his “Postum.” I open the refrigerator door, reaching in for a box of butterscotch Tastee Kakes for father's dessert.