The summer after President Kennedy died, my dad and I flew from Los Angeles to New York to visit his sister, my Aunt Lil. Always happy and cheerful, she renewed my moody, preadolescent 9-year-old spirit. I absolutely loved visiting her in the same frozen-in-time apartment she had lived in for over 60 years: 405 East 54th Street, in the middle of New York City.
I thought the building was like a castle fit for a princess. When the taxi from La Guardia Airport dropped us off, and the doorman graciously greeted me by offering a white-gloved hand, I was sure.
The doormen reminded me of the royal guards I’d seen in magazines at Buckingham Palace, dressed in fancy long coats with gold braids sewn along the sides. Double rows of dazzling brass buttons held their jackets closed, while embroidered designs on their lapels and the brims of their splendiferous caps added elegance and flair.
My dad told me about the famous “luminaries” who lived in her building, including Georgia O’Keeffe, Alfred Stieglitz, and Van Johnson. This added to my wonderment despite my not knowing who they were. He explained that the building was a “1930s prewar architectural treasure notable for its unusual clinker brick facade, created by laying the bricks in a crazy-quilt pattern of odd shapes.”
Entering the historic building’s lobby was like walking into a holy place. It seemed sacred, and I instinctively whispered.
The lobby glimmered, forever unchanged, with its polished stone floors, dark wooden-beamed ceilings, stained-glass windows, and ornate metalwork.
The doorman would call for the elevator by pushing a shiny brass button. Once the doors opened, with a flourish of his gloved hand he’d press an even shinier brass button for the 15th floor. My heart thumped as the elevator moaned to a stop and the doors opened. I’d skitter down the hall to Apartment 15G.
Ringing the buzzer, I’d press my ear against the door and hear Aunt Lil softly pad to the door. My dad glanced at his watch, grumbling about the slow elevator and the heat.
“Who is it?” she’d ask, despite the doorman having already notified her.
“It’s me, Aunt Lil. It’s Steffie. Open the door!”
Checking the peephole, convinced it was us, she’d begin the lengthy task of unlocking the door. First, the top lock creaked, the middle lock groaned, and the bottom lock clicked. At last, she’d open it as far as the chain allowed and peek out to be extra sure before closing it again, unhooking the chain, and letting us in.
Aunt Lil and I’d jump around, hugging and kissing, overjoyed to be reunited, while my dad dragged our suitcases in. The teeny, familiar apartment was filled with a lifetime of paraphernalia from her illustrious past as a showgirl. Floor-to-ceiling stacks of magazines, newspaper clippings, black-and-white studio photos, Playbills from a million Broadway shows, and old, dusty books lined the entry hallway. Aunt Lil lived alone most of her life and never had children, pets, or even houseplants. She was married briefly to her showbiz dance partner, Lou. As a young woman, she performed on cruise ships and in the Catskills at Borscht Belt resorts like Grossinger’s, the Granit, and the Concord, where she hung out with comedians like Sid Caesar, Jackie Mason, and Henny Youngman.
The apartment was a studio but considered a one-bedroom by New York standards. The sleeping area held a single bed and doubled as a walkway to the kitchen and bathroom. Clothes hung on hangers from the shower curtain pole, mimicking a closet. The kitchen was so pocket-sized, if you stretched out your arms and twirled, you might touch all four walls. It reminded me of the play kitchen in my bedroom at home. Aunt Lil used the oven for storage since she never cooked, preferring takeout from one of the nearby grocery stores.
A cafe-style table in the living room was used for dining, playing cards, writing letters, paying bills, and anything else imaginable. Two uncomfortable twisted wire metal chairs flanked the table. The never-used brick fireplace, stuffed with suitcases, scrapbooks, and shopping bags filled with more shopping bags, created a kindling of memories.
The air-conditioner hummed loudly, churning out icy air to combat the steamy summer heat. When condensation gathered, everything became slightly moist. Nothing ever changed in her apartment except for more stuff piling up, which I found reassuring. I loved staying with her, even on the lumpy sofa bed.
Aunt Lil smelled like the lemon and lavender fragrance of Jean Nate perfume and Nivea cream. I’d watch her slather the lotion all over her face, neck, and decolletage each morning and evening. The ritual fascinated me; it always began with isometric exercises to “strengthen facial muscles and prevent droopy jowls and wrinkles.” She taught me the art of skin care, starting when I was 6.
“Always apply the cream upward, never pulling down on your skin,” she’d say as she flexed her neck and chin, stretching both to the ceiling. I’d mimic her closely, mesmerized by the strange contortions. After thoroughly moisturizing, she’d begin her calisthenics routine. I’d giggle the entire time as I tried to keep up.
Afternoons were spent playing games, shopping, and planning dinner, mainly takeout from the downstairs bodega. Later, she’d put on Latin music and dance, grabbing my hands, pushing and pulling me back and forth and spinning me until I was dizzy. “One, two — cha cha cha,” she’d sing joyfully. I loved dancing with her — the goddess of the cha-cha.
Sometimes, when my dad popped by between business appointments at department stores and was in a jovial mood, she’d play his favorite rumba record on her phonograph. He had been a great dancer, too, and in 1945, after the war, he was given the nickname “Freddy the Rumba King” by a Cuban band leader in Miami. I’d try to follow along, but the rumba was too complicated.
Aunt Lil lied about her age and fooled most people most of her life. As an adult, I discovered she had quietly removed an entire decade on paper. Once she retired, she had more time to do what she loved, like sunbathing and swimming. She swam daily at the local Y.M.C.A. for most of her life, stopping at 97 when she could no longer hoist herself out of the pool.
Another preferred pastime was hunting for bargains before returning it all the next day. She’d drag me to Alexander’s or Loehmann’s. Those stores were way less fun than Macy’s or Lord and Taylor, where the fancy clothes and beautiful displays were. Particularly at Christmastime, the store windows displayed bedazzling fairylands of fantastical extravaganzas, some of which my dad helped design.
Before my grandma left New York and moved to Florida, she’d join us. Grandma always carried a pocketbook and wore white gloves and a pillbox hat. After our expeditions, she took us to Schrafft’s, the sophisticated restaurant where “ladies lunched,” for a hot fudge sundae. It was the perfect way to end an exhausting day of shopping.
I visited Aunt Lil yearly. One summer, when I was 12, she bought me an “itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini,” which I adored. We’d don our bikinis, grab what we needed for our rooftop excursion, and trudge up the fire escape laden with beach towels, folding chairs, a transistor radio, a reflector, eye-protecting goggles, and, most important, a massive bottle of baby oil.
Sitting motionless, we craned our necks toward the sun like freshwater turtles, glistening as our skin sizzled and fried. I marveled at her sunburnt skin, which had a bronze patina like polished leather.
It’s been years since those carefree days. The last time I wore a bikini or danced the cha-cha, I was 12. I use sunscreen and Nivea cream daily. It still smells like lavender and lemon, nostalgic and comforting, like Aunt Lil.
Stephanie Blank’s writing has appeared in The Los Angeles Times and the collection “Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive, Live Happy.” She lives in East Quogue and Marina del Rey, Calif., and can be found on Instagram @StephanieBlankWriter.