elevate the mood.
In spite of it all, she threw together a pretty good meal.
A paella of chicken, sausage, and shrimp on a bed of yellow rice. I bought a local sauvignon blanc from a store called Scolari’s Market.
“What the hell,” Gabriella chortled, pouring a glass for herself as well. “I think tonight God will forgive me if I drink a little too.”
We ate and polished off the wine, and despite all that was going on, the mood managed to stay upbeat and light. We talked about Kathy and my kids. How adult they had become. I always tried not to build them up too much. Sophie and Max, who took AP courses, played on the lacrosse and field hockey teams, volunteered at food banks, went to the Bahamas on spring break. Even in their most ordinary moments, they had more to show than Evan had accomplished in his life.
Sooner or later, as it always did, the conversation came around to our dad.
You never quite knew which one you would get.
No one could charm a room like my father. No one could be warmer or more captivating.
And no one could cast you out as quickly when he suddenly felt betrayed.
He always surrounded himself with a constantly shifting circle of wealthy, influential people: models, Wall Streeters, retail executives, movie producers, not to mention his inner circle of rakes and hangers-on, who eventually sucked him dry.
Dad’s charisma was boundless, but his temper was even larger. And it always seemed to rear up after a couple of scotches. He would elevate brand-new acquaintances as his closest friends in the world-true geniuses, movers and shakers, even those who it was clear only wanted something from him.
The same people down the line who when the tide eventually turned-and it always did-were banished from his sight.
His biggest customers-not just lowly buyers but upper management, even store presidents-loudly thrown out of his showroom and told to never come back. His panicked salesmen scurrying after them, feverishly apologizing. They even came up with a brand that poked fun at his legendary outbursts: Lenny Didn’t Mean It, it was called.
He would introduce me to his pals as the “Remarkable Dr. Jay,” even as a kid. And I had to admit it always made me feel like the most important person in the world. Growing up, he would take me out for dinners with his drop-dead girlfriends at Gino’s or to sit at the bar with his Irish bookies at PJ Clarke’s.
Then he wouldn’t call for weeks, completely forget important events. Disappoint me terribly.
I never understood what was behind my father’s rage. The truth was, if he were diagnosed today, maybe we would know. He ran away from Brooklyn in the forties and headed out to Hollywood, where he took up with starlets and ingenues and managed to become the right-hand man of Louis B. Mayer, the head of MGM. His homes were always filled with bikinied beauties in the pool and glamorous people dropping by. Opera blasted over the beach on the stereo.
He made millions over the years-and gave back every penny.
At the end, his business partners grew shadier and shadier, as the glamour crowd wanted nothing to do with him. The Wall Street honchos became shiftier and the retail bigwigs turned into low-priced discounters.
There was the suspicious fire in his warehouse in Brooklyn. The SEC was on his back over cash that had disappeared from the firm, as well as the IRS over back taxes.
He became sort of a sad figure, driving around in his ten-year-old Mercedes, scrounging around the city’s flea markets, arriving unexpectedly at the house with some bizarre new “find”: paintings no one wanted or retro board games for the kids missing the key pieces. “
We managed to become close in those years.
Ten years ago, he downed his usual two Rob Roys at a local watering hole in the Hamptons, where he still had a small house near the beach. The bartender remembered him going on about some new idea. A couple of women were at the bar, but they didn’t want to be bothered by him. He threw a twenty on the table and waved good- bye.
The next morning they found his car at the bottom of Shinnecock Bay.
After dinner, we sat around the living room, Charlie strumming on the guitar. “Evan was getting pretty good himself,” he said with pride. “Even better than me!” He picked through versions of “Get Back” by the Beatles, the Byrds’ “Mr. Tambourine Man,” “White Room” by Cream, Rod Stewart’s “Maggie Mae.”
I did recognize it. It was the song he had recorded back in L.A. More than thirty years ago. “One Last Thing.”
He always played the same two verses. Only them. To this day, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard the whole thing through.
Charlie cooed, happily. “
He put down his guitar. “You know it got to number twenty-nine on the charts,” he said with his ground-down grin. “In 1973. Of course I was crazy as a loon back then. Not to mention I was popping LSD like vitamins. I got to thinking my record company was trying to screw me. Hell, I thought
He laughed, “I was so deluded on acid I told them I would burn down their fucking building if they didn’t send me out on tour. And you know what they did?
“But you know what, Jay? Maybe if I hadn’t been off my rocker back then, you might be sitting here with Rod Stewart.
He opened the album and pushed it over to me, a soft smile lighting his eyes.
It was a clipping from an old
I noticed the date: October 1973.
At number one was “Angie” by the Rolling Stones. Midway down, I saw a red, drawn-in arrow marking number twenty-nine:
“One Last Thing.” Charlie Earl.
Charlie winked. “Not bad from your loony older brother, huh?” Then his grin seemed to wane. “Hell, who’s kidding who, right? Biggest moment of my life, and I fucked up the whole damn thing. Guess that’s where all our similarities end, right, Jay?”
He picked up his guitar again.
“Charlie, what do you want me to do?” I asked him. I came over and sat across from him. “About Evan. You want me to find you a lawyer? You want to try and make a case against the hospital? You know I’m going to have to go back in a couple of days.”
