1958.  Easter Sunday. We trooped into the main dining room in the Beverly Hills Hotel.  What a sight. Six Dudley girls, ages 18 to 3. My Mother. My father, Duke our fearless leader. And my mom’s teensy, tiny, red haired aunt, Ellie. MY favorite. A pixiesh jokester with glasses as big as Coke bottles.

My eyes feasted on an elegant, extra long table. Each place was set with glistening dishes featuring green trim like the leaves on the elegant walls, and tons of forks, knives and spoons so shiny they hurt my eyes. The flowers in the middle of the table were mostly lilies. ECHHHHHH…. I detest heavy perfume odors to this day.

“Ellie, I want to sit next to you!”  I raced to do just that so I could be as far away from Duke, who reigned at the table’s head. I was a fine target for his bullying. “Sit up straight Jennifer. You are knucklehead.” Once I snagged my place next to the my bestie, I was in Beverly Hills seventh heaven.

Ellie and I had much in common. At the time, we were about the same height – four foot nothing.  I peaked under the tablecloth. Not one of our feet reached the floor. We both were awash with freckles and our legs were skinny. Really, really skinny.  We had raspy low voices – hers more so due to her beloved cigarettes. Oh, I forgot to mention. Our hair was the same firey red color. With one exception. I didn’t wear a hair piece to cover up my bald spot!

What began as a nice Easter brunch quickly soured, due to Duke’s less-than-patient, angry disposition. Despite that, we managed to order with ease.  Natch, Duke shouted, “Jennifer make sure you eat everything.” Wonder of wonders, my rail thin body consumed gargantuan amounts. Still does. So his negatives were just another way to set me apart. I turned, hurt. Ellie tapped me on the thigh with reassurance. Always.

An hour went by.  No food. Another few minutes and I could feel the tension rising from my father.  Aunt Ellie called the waiter over.

“I’ll have a bloody mary,” she said. My mother, who never drank before 5pm, echoed the same. My father stopped binge drinking the year I was born ( significance? ), so he  sharply ordered tonic water with a side of, “BRING SOME BREAD!” The Maitre D’ came over and attempted to ally Duke’s anger. “Lunch will be here soon, the kitchen is backed up.”  No dice. His temperature kept rising.

By this time everyone, except the 3-year old who happily sat next to my mother, began to fidget. And, as if on cue, an accordion man appeared. Around and around the table he travelled with his happy dappy tunes. By this time, Aunt Ellie had consumed more than one bloody and a few dozens cigs, so when the music man arrived she could not hold her giggles.  Duke made it worse with his glare. Aunt Ellie leaned over to me and whispered, “I am corked,” (her slang for being drunk). She proceeded to wet her pants just as the head waiter arrived to say, “Luncheon served!”

Aunt Ellie headed to the ladies room to clean up. I followed. She managed to dry herself with some fancy BHH engraved towels,  and then she messily reapplied her red lipstick. Always messy. We hurriedly returned to our waiting meals. I inhaled mine, along with most of her leftovers.

As we exited, Ellie and I brought up the back of the train. I spotted a lot of money in front of my father’s now empty plate. “Boy that would fill my piggy bank!” I thought, as my rascally spirit reared its head. And so, with both hands, I picked it up and stashed it all in my ‘big person’s” purse.  

Half way home in my big sister’s car, I pulled out my wad and proudly shouted, “Look what I found on the table!” “

“JENNIFER that was the tip!  You have to take it back!” I threw a fit, but she u-turned on on Sunset, pulled right back into the hotel carport, and watched as I marched back inside with my black patents and frilly white dress.

On tiptoes, I handed the Captain at the desk all the bucks.

“My sister says I need to return the money I took off our Easter table.”  

He tried not to grin. “This will teach you a lesson. Never take what is not yours.”  

I never stole money again. But it was not my last act of thievery.