Walking Through Walls Read Online Free PDF Page A

annoying and unanswerable questions such as “Where’s Poppa?” Mom did her best, inventing countless explanations as to why my father wasn’t around. I was beginning to get used to the idea that I was now a fatherless child.
    Under the watchful eyes of armed guards, Pop made Mrs. Magloire the most splendid palace imaginable. Marble and mahogany, silk and brocade were flown in from all over the world, thanks to an unlimited budget that magically appeared in the poorest country of the Western hemisphere. The palace renovation was a testament to the critical importance of American foreign aid. Rest assured that our tax dollars purchased the finest-quality draperies and silk ottomans that money can buy.
    Finally, when every inch of that palace had the divine Lew Smith touch, the president shook my father’s hand, gave him a glass paperweight containing his official portrait as full and final payment for services rendered, and sent him back home.
    Having secured his freedom from decorator detention, Pop returned to his daily routine of satisfying the needs and fantasies of the mega-rich. I was content growing up in my own private jungle, chasing wild rabbits in the backyard. Life, for the very last time, was completely normal.

two
War on Sanpaku
    Fast-forward to October 1962—the height of the Cuban missile crisis. I was ten, listening to the air-raid sirens screaming war from the roof of the Loews Riviera movie theater, which was over two miles away. Mom was in the kitchen making meat loaf for what she imagined might be our last supper. She had rushed home from work at my father’s design studio to the terrifying accompaniment of piercing air-raid sirens that filled the city. Talks between the superpowers and Fidel had not gone well that day. With all the sirens going off, I was convinced that the world was about to end, and we were all going to die.
    My favorite radio station, WFUN-AM, was broadcasting nothing but a single piercing tone followed by a recorded message: “This is an alert from your emergency broadcast station. Stay tuned for further instructions.” Of course, there were no further instructions, because there was nowhere else to go. Unlike most of the country, Miami did not have real bomb shelters. The water table was too high. If you dug down a couple feet, you hit brackish green-gray water, despite the fact that Miami was the Seminole word for “sweet water.” Because of this elevated ground water, there are no cemeteries on Miami Beach. The bodies would quickly contaminate the water, and what would all the tourists drink? As a result of our unfortunate proximity to ground water, we had no place to hide in an underground bomb shelter and enjoy canned peas and powdered milk like the rest of the country.
    Usually Mom liked me to talk to her while she made dinner. As soon as she came home, she would find me in my bedroom looking at picture books of archaeology or modern art and say, “Come talk to me in the kitchen.” That night was different. Instead of seeking me out, Mom just opened the front door, threw her pocketbook on the black-and-white zebra-patterned lounge, and went right into the kitchen. After a while I wandered in, a bit perturbed that she had not issued her usual invitation.
    The big pink Philco refrigerator was humming noisily as she squished meat, eggs, and crumbled Saltine crackers in a large Pyrex bowl. Just as I was about to announce my presence, the sirens wailed again. They seemed to be either louder or coming closer. I was now officially scared. Having spent several years in school perfecting my “duck-and-cover” routine that would protect me in the event of nuclear war, I quickly climbed into the cabinet under the sink, huddled next to the Ajax, and waited for the war to start while Mom chopped onions.
    Soon Pop arrived, looking sharp in his gray suit. He wore his usual Rooster tie with its horizontal stripes in muted tones, held