An inheritance of cake

Wed, 04 Aug 2010 19:05:00 +0000

When my godfather, Herb, learned that he was finally dying for real this time, he threw a party. "Like in 'The Cherry Orchard,'" I said wryly. In college, I had once played Lyubov Ranevskaya, the matriarch of Chekhov's obsolescent Russian aristocrats.

"Or the musicians on the Titanic, going down playing 'Nearer My God to Thee.' Have you seen 'A Night to Remember'? 1958" The cancer had made his voice thin and whispery. He could no longer drop it down to basso, as he did when quivering out his Katharine Hepburn impersonation ("…th-hen I met James Ty-RO-HUN and fell in LUH-HUV and was so HAP-peh--for a TIIME...") or recounting the story of the time he met "Miss Ahhnngelou."

Radiation had failed, and chemo was not recommended. He could have opted for surgery to remove the larynx and learned to talk again through a mechanical device. The Ranevskayas could have saved themselves from ruin by razing their beloved cherry orchard.

So: a party. Champagne and slices of his famous saffron spice cake, the one that had taken second prize in the Maui County Fair. The toast was given by the guest of honor: "At least I won't die of AIDS!" he crowed, triumphant as his feathery voice allowed.

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An inheritance of cake