Around this time, my parents visited Beverly Hills. This was rare, as my mother did not like to fly. Usually I visited them in New York. The trip was therefore a big deal, a chance to show off what I had accomplished. I picked them up at LAX in my chauffer-driven Rolls-Royce. My mother slid in slowly, beaming, but my father looked skeptical. He stared out the window as we drove, now and then asking things like, "How long have you had this car, Jerry?" "What's the miles per gallon?" We finally reached the house, the mansion in Beverly Hills, with the swimming pool and tennis court and gardens and flowers. We sat in the living room. Out came the champagne. Out came the caviar. My mother was enjoying every minute. My father was reserved, pensive. He was a warm and beautiful man. I handed him a Cuban cigar, a Cohiba, his favorite. He puffed at it, looking at the smoke.

"Go get ready," I said. "I have a dinner planned. I am taking you to the best place in town, where the stars hang out."

This went on for a few days-me giving my parents the business, ushering them to the front of lines, through crowds, to the best tables and shows, and so on-until my father finally said, "Okay, listen, Jerry, I want to talk to you. Let's go outside."

Before we got halfway down the front steps, he tapped my chest with his finger and said, "I want to ask you a question, and I want you to tell me the truth, no bullshit from you. Are you in the Mafia? How did you get all this? You were never that smart.' "

I stammered. "Uh, no, Dad, I'm creative. I did it."

"Well, where's your inventory?" he asked. "How can you have this much money and not have an inventory? It doesn't make sense to me."

I laughed and pointed at my head. "It's up here," I said. "All the inventory is right up here."

Then he laughed, too, saying, "Well, I guess there was always a lot of space for it, anyway."

That trip was mostly about impressing my mother, showing her a good time, thanking her. It was my mother who instilled the confidence and belief that made my success possible. My mother had two great passions in her life (other than her family, I mean): Cary Grant and horse races. So one afternoon, a week into the trip, I tell her to get ready, we're going somewhere-I won't say where. Thirty minutes later, the Rolls drops us off at the Hollywood Park Race Track. As we're getting out, who does she spot but Cary Grant, elegant as always, standing in front of the ticket window. "Oh, my," says my mother, grabbing my sleeve. "Look who it is." Before she can get his name out, Cary hurries over and slips his hand through my mother's arm and says, "Hello, Rose, will you be my date this afternoon?"

By then, Cary and I had become friends. I must have told my parents this on the phone, but they probably did not believe me. My mother was walking on air. They sat together in the clubhouse, reading through the racing form. Cary made her bets. They watched the ponies through binoculars.

I threw a dinner party that night at the house. I was sitting at the bar, having a drink with my mother, when Sinatra came in. There was always a stir, a happy little party, whenever Frank entered a room. He threw off his coat and came up, smiling, with his arms outstretched. "Hi ya, Rose," he said, "I heard you had a great date for lunch today."

"Yes, I did," she told him-and this part chokes me up, because my parents, well, that was a real love affair, "but I like my Sammy better."

My mother, as I said, was one of those ladies you would see weeping in a dark theater on the Grand Concourse. She loved the movies. In 1986, I actually had a chance to take her out of the seats and put her up on screen. My parents had come to visit me in Florida, where I was making a movie called Happy New Year with Peter Falk, Tom Courtenay, and Charles Durning.

After the director, John Avildsen, met my mother, he said, "Hey, Jerry, why don't you put her in the movie?"

The picture was about a jewelry store robbery, and I built the store on set. Avildsen thought I should have her in the scene in which Falk cases the joint. She would be a customer, walking by with Courtenay, the store manager.

"Not a good idea," I told Avildsen.

"Why?"

"It's my mother," I said. "Believe me. It's not a good idea."

"Come on, Jerry, she'll enjoy herself."

Falk and Avildsen kidded me into it.

So I went over and said, "Mom, do you want to be in the scene, you could be an extra."

"No," she said. "I'm no actress."

"Okay," I said, "understood." And I walked away.

A minute later, she called me back.

"What is it, Ma?

"Jerry," she said, "if you need me, I'll do it."

(She was a real Jewish mother.)

I said, "No, no, it's okay."

She said, "Just look at you. I can tell you need me. Fine. I'll do it. But I don't have a dress, look at what I'm wearing. And my hair…"

I said, "Ma, I got a wardrobe truck, I got hairdressers, I got makeup people. You'll be fine."

"Oh, you're going to do all that?"

Yes.

She said, "All right, I'll do it for you."

So she goes in, is treated like a queen, like she's Julia Roberts or Marilyn Monroe. The hairdresser, the makeup people, they're all working on her. Now comes time for her scene. She comes out in the background and is supposed to walk out the door. So Avildsen says to me, "Why don't you direct it? It's your mother."

I said, "No, don't be crazy."

He said, "What do you have to do? Say 'action'? Say 'cut'? Everything is set up, don't worry. It'll be fun for her."

I said, "Okay, okay."

Then: "Action!"

My mother and Tom Courtenay start walking. She's supposed to go from here to there. But as she passes, she turns to Courtenay and says, "I don't like that piece of jewelry."

I yelled, "Cut! Cut! Cut!"

I said, "Ma, what are you doing? There's no lines. You just walk."

"Well that's stupid," she said. "If your father was showing some jewelry to somebody and she didn't like it, she'd tell him."

"Well, in this case, you don't tell him anything," I said. "You just walk."

"It's stupid," she told me. "I wouldn't do it that way."

"But it's not about you, Ma. It's about Peter Falk."

Meanwhile, Peter Falk and John Avildsen, and all the Teamsters, are standing around, watching me, laughing their asses off.

So I went back, and said, "Okay, let's do it again. Action."

She started walking, then, just as she passed the camera, she turned, looked right into the lens, and smiled like a bandit.

"Cut! Cut! Cut!"

"What's the matter now?" she asked.

I said, "Ma, you're embarrassing me."

I'm talking quietly because I don't want everybody to hear. They are all looking, and they know I'm screwed. No way I'm getting out of this without pain.

I said, "Ma, listen to me, please. I feel like I'm back in sixth grade. You're killing me. I'm supposed to be in charge and you're making me a child. My mother, standing on the set, telling me I'm stupid, telling me what to do. You can't do that."

She said, "Well, it doesn't make sense."

I said, "Ma, do me a favor, please? Just walk from there to there. Don't look at the camera, don't say anything, just walk."

"Fine," she said, "I was doing this for you but it's not right.

We finally finished. I was exhausted. It took all day. We got back to the hotel. Jane said, "You know, you should invite your mom to the dailies."

"No, not a good idea."

"Oh, come on," said Jane. "Let her see herself. It will be a thrill."

So I called. "Ma, do you want to watch the dailies in the morning?"

"What's dailies?"

"It's everything we shot today," I told her. "We take a look at it. Your film will be on the screen. You want to see it?"

"You want me to come to dailies?" she said. "No. I don't want to see myself, I don't care about that, it's silly."