New York Echoes

by Warren Adler

  The idea was ghoulish and, while she had never thought about her father affectionately, she was insulted by the remark. No matter what, he’s still my father. Todd was on that same page.

  “He’s your blood.”

  “Fruit of his loins,” she said, being sarcastic.

  “There’s something to say for the genes,” Todd said. His father was a professor of mathematics at Columbia, and Todd was a whiz at math and working on derivatives for the company. He often expressed the idea that such talents are handed down in the DNA.

  “I think you should go down there and see what it’s all about,” Todd said. She knew he would give her that advice. He was a family man to the teeth, a beloved son, grandson, brother, and husband. Being taken in by Todd’s family had been a blessing for Cynthia, who had felt like a third wheel when her mother married Jack Nolan.

  “You’re such a family-values person. Don’t forget my father abandoned me when I was five years old. He was a real shit, never getting in touch with me.”

  “Apparently he had your name in his wallet.”

  “How the hell did he sniff that out?” she exclaimed, intrigued now.

  “Clinches it. It’s a mystery. You’ve got to go.”

  “And what will I do with the damned paintings. Apparently no one was ever interested in buying them. Feschetti said there are hundreds of them.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Todd said. He was logical, sensible, and practical. He always did know the math. Got that from his dad, she thought, thinking of her own artistic bent. One day, too, she secretly yearned to be a successful painter. But then, what commercial artist didn’t aspire to that.

  Leaving the baby with a sitter, she drove into the city and met Feschetti in front of the building on Mulberry Street. Feschetti was accurate. The building was a dump, a four-story walk-up with eight apartments, waiting for gentrification. Feschetti was a heavyset bald man, probably in his fifties, which was about the age of her father. She’d have to check his exact age on her birth certificate. But then, why would even that detail matter to her.

  The apartment was a mess. It reeked with paint and the stink of turpentine, which set off strange memories in her mind. The man lived as if he was homeless, sleeping on a crippled cot, with a paint-stained mattress. In fact everything about the place looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  “Okay,” Feschetti said. “He was a slob. Wore paint-stained overalls. The place is like a cyclone went through it. But you gotta understand, he cleaned the place halls real nice, kept the front clean, took out the garbage.”

  “How long did he live here?”

  “Jesus, twenty years at least, maybe twenty-five. Who knew? My mother made this deal with him. And when she died and I took over, I kept it going. Hell, it paid for itself. No mortgage.”

  “What kind of a man was he?” Despite herself, the crummy atmosphere in the apartment made her curious. What kind of a man could live in this squalor?

  “Actually, tell you the truth, he wasn’t a bad guy. He did a good job with the place and all he did was paint as far as I knew.”

  The paintings were piled in all the rooms, and in the back where the furnace was there were more paintings. There was a shack in the back that Feschetti said had even more paintings. They were piled flat, floor to ceiling. She pulled one from the top of the pile. Not bad, she thought. Apparently he was an experimenter. Impressionist pieces, many snow scenes depicting New York sites, cityscapes in all seasons, Central Park scenes with the trees in bloom and green grass, lots of images of what appeared to be Little Italy, the bridges, river scenes, street scenes, also abstracts, even drip paintings like Pollock. Portraits in different styles of people of all ages.

  “I guess he painted his life history.”

  “Looks like it,” Feschetti said. “I got six of his paintings around the neighborhood.”

  “And he never sold any?” she asked, baffled.

  “Can’t tell by me.” He looked around the apartment. “This look like he made a buck?”

  She moved through the apartment to a back room filled floor-to-ceiling with paintings. There were additional paintings placed upright against the wall near the furnace. Suddenly she stiffened and she felt her stomach lurch.

  It was her. Recent. She felt that she might faint. Feschetti was behind her.

  “That’s you,” he said.

  Her knees shook and she began to rifle through the other paintings. There she was again and again, painted in all ages.

  “I don’t believe this.” She could barely get the words out. “How?”

  Had he stalked her in some way? Photographed her? She rushed through the apartment, opening closets. One was filled with shoeboxes. Opening one, she found photographs of her from every age but never front-faced.

  Feeling faint again, she had to sit on the broken cot, baffled and deeply disturbed.

  “You OK?” Feschetti asked again. “You’re white as a sheet.”

  She nodded but couldn’t get the words out. She opened her purse and reached for her cell, wanting to call Todd, but her fingers shook too much and she put the phone back in her pocketbook.

  “Why?” she mumbled, looking up at the round face of Feschetti, who shrugged. She took a deep breath and stood up.

  “He could have made himself known to me. Why?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy,” Freshetti said. “I got kids.”

  She was slowly recovering, looking now around the room, trying to imagine what was going on in his mind.

  “He had this thing,” Freshetti said.

  “What thing?”

  “Painted all the time. I saw him lugging his stuff every day. Looks like he painted everything in sight.”

  “Even me,” Cynthia said.

  “Lots of you. That’s for sure. But then, you were his daughter.”

  “Big deal. Did he ever once come over to me, speak it me?” She felt herself turning angry now. “Crazy bastard.” She raised her voice. “Why didn’t he ever acknowledge me?” It wasn’t a question directed to Feschetti but he answered it anyway.

  “Hey lady. Didn’t acknowledge you? He painted you over and over. Means something. Doesn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer him, but agreed with the thought.

  “I’ll just have to deal with it,” Cynthia said. “All these paintings.”

  “They gotta go, lady. Can’t get away from that.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded, then she called Todd and explained what she had observed.

  “What shall I do?” she asked.

  “They’re yours.”

  “So?”

  “We’ll have them appraised. Make a market. That’s my business. We’ll put them in storage and go from there. Maybe . . . just maybe this is your lucky day, baby. One thing,” he said, before signing off. “He didn’t forget you?”

  That set her off and finally big sobs heaved up from her chest and tears rolled over her cheeks. For some reason she leaned against Feschetti, who embraced her.

  “Jesus,” Feschetti said. “It’s OK.”

  “Daddy,” she said, when she found words. “My Daddy.”

  After awhile she untangled herself from his embrace, reached into her pocketbook, pulled out some tissues and wiped her eyes and cheeks.

  “We’ll take everything off your hands. Everything. We’ll be making arrangements.”

  “That’s good. He wasn’t a bad guy. I guess he didn’t want anything to interfere with his painting.” He looked around the room. “This was his life. It takes all kinds.”

  “You have a point. He shut everything out but this.”

  She started to move out of the apartment, then stopped and turned to face Feschetti.

  “His ashes.”

  “Nearly forgot.” He looked under the bed and pulled out an urn. She took it from him.

  “He was my father,” she said.

  “My father, the painter,” he said, perhaps trying to get her to smile.


  She did.

  About the Author

  Warren Adler is the author of 28 critically acclaimed novels, including four short story collections. The film adaptations of two of his novels, The War of the Roses and Random Hearts continue to enjoy great popularity throughout the world. A previous short story collection, The Sunset Gang, became a successful trilogy on PBS. A forthcoming novel Funny Boys will be published this Spring by The Overlook Press.

  Mr. Adler is a native New Yorker and a graduate of NYU. He studied creative writing in the New School. His wife Sonia is the former editor and owner of the Washington Dossier. They have three sons and four grandchildren.

  Questions for Readers Group Discussions

  A collection of short stories makes for especially interesting readers group material since it ranges over a wide landscape that can make for lively debate and commentary. Here are some suggestive topics and questions that can provoke interest and inspire insightful discussion in connection with New York Echoes by Warren Adler.

  Does one get the sense after reading these stories that New York City is a land unto itself, circumscribed by its own mores, habits and attitude than the rest of the country?

  Of all the stories in the book, which one resonated the most to you?

  There are a number of stories that deal with parents and grandparents like “The Cherry Tree” and “Oral History” and the divide between the generations. Do you believe this divide is growing more so than in previous generations?

  A number of these stories like “My Father the Painter,” deal with the obsessive needs of the creative artist where the pursuit of one’s art trumps all human relationships. Is the artist justified in pursuing such a single-minded pursuit?

  Some of these stories like “Good Neighbors” and “The Mean Mrs. Dickstein” deal with coping with living in close proximity to others in a bustling, frenetic, high-energy city. How do you cope with this phenomenon in your daily life?

  As the story “The Obituary Reader” implies, guilt and shame for past actions magnifies itself as time goes on. Do you believe that time enhances or blunts such feelings?

  The pursuit of celebrity through show business is passion that apparently brooks no hardship. In the story “Actors” and “Better Than Donna Reed” one confronts the reality of this hardship. Is it worth the candle?

  The story “A Dad Forever” deals with the irrelevance of a parent to a grown child? Do you believe this is an accurate portrayal?

  Memories of young love and passion permeate a number of stories in this collection, as in “A Love Story.” Do you believe that such early experiences of love and sex are as endurable and powerful as portrayed,

  There are a number of stories like “A Birthday Party” that deal with loss and loneliness. Do you believe that living in a crowded city like New York enhances such feelings?

  Stories like “I Can Still Smell It” and “That Horrid Thing” deal with the trauma of 9/11 and how it continues to impact people’s lives. Although more than six years have passed since that traumatic event, does the anxiety and fear engendered by it still generate the same amount of anxiety and worry as it did immediately after the event?

  In the story “Epiphany” latent and hidden cultural anti-Semitism rears its ugly head in a divorce dispute. Do you think it will ever be possible to erase this hateful strain that afflicts the human psyche.

  In the “Dividing Line” and “Oral History” fading generational memory is explored. How much does historical memory really matter?

  Because the author is a father, it is natural that a number of the stories deal with fatherhood and its consequences. Do you think this has been a neglected topic in recent fiction?

  The short story, once a staple of reading formats, has experienced a decline in recent decades because of its elimination from magazine content. The Internet is now responsible for an upsurge in interest in short imaginative fiction. Do you believe the short story format is now on the upswing?

  Would you like to see another volume of short stories dealing with life in New York City?

  Chapter 1 of Warren Adler’s NEW book

  Funny Boys

  -1-

  The woman opened the door to Gorlick’s suite and two men emerged. The shorter one grabbed the woman’s buttocks and squeezed.

  “Is that a tush Pep or what?”

  “World class,” the taller man said.

  Mickey Fine, who had been waiting in the corridor puzzled over the men. The shorter one wore a brown pin stripe double-breasted suit with a red rose in its lapel and a beige fedora. His glance washed over Mickey like a spotlight in a prison movie, freezing him in its glare like a pinned insect.

  The other was taller, handsomer, dressed to the nines in a blue serge suit, matching satiny blue tie on a white on white shirt. He wore a pearl grey fedora and and his black shoes were spit shined in contrast to his shorter companion's scuffed browns. He was also handsome in a hard way and his lips wore a thin smile that was anything but warm.

  Mickey watched them both swagger toward the elevators. It was the tall one who looked back at Mickey, studying him briefly, as if trying to recall him from some previous occasion. Mickey had the same sensation.

  "Mr. Gawlick will see ya now," the woman said, dissolving his effort at remembering. She was tall, with a voluptuous figure and a low-cut dress that showed much fleshy cleavage. He followed her as she pranced into the suite on swivel hips that swung at an exaggerated wide angle. A tush like the Pied Piper, he thought confirming the earlier comment. Follow it anywhere. Does it come with that swing? he wanted to say, then thought better of it. But the idea did boost his energy level and chased the edginess that the appearance of the two men had brought on. He came into the suite with a theatrical bounce and a face-aching smile.

  Clouds of smoke layered the air in Sol Gorlick's suite. He was a short corpulent man with squinty eyes and thick lips. As Mickey entered he was just lighting a long expensive looking cigar. The jacket of his double-breasted suit was open, showing sweat puddles on his blue shirt. His pants were high belted over a balloon like stomach and his bald head appeared lacquered, reflecting the slanting rays of late afternoon sunlight.

  His complexion was waxy and although his face was round and fat, his skin did not hang in jowls. Greeting Mickey with a nod, he pointed with his cigar to a chair beside the coffee table.

  "Sit," he grunted.

  Mickey sat in an upholstered chair beside the coffee table, on which were a number of used highball glasses, a half emptied bottle of seltzer and nearly empty bottle of Johnny Walker. Salted peanuts were strewn around the table. There was also a silver pistol cigarette lighter and an ashtray filled with smashed cigarette and cigar butts.

  The woman who had shown him in sat opposite Mickey on a matching chair, crossing her legs, showing an expanse of pink flesh on either side of her black stocking suspenders.

  "This is Mickey Fine Mr. Gawlick," the woman said. Gorlick's big behind sank deeply into the soft cushions of the couch. He sat upright, his back stiff, his belly resting on his thighs. Mickey noted that he had star sapphire rings on pinkies of both hands.

  "Here I'm Fine," Mickey said. "But finer in Caroliner." Keep the one-liners coming, he urged himself. He prayed that his nervousness wouldn't erase his memory.

  Gorlick smiled thinly, nodded and picked up a paper from the coffee table. Mickey watched him as he puffed on his cigar, blowing thick smoke rings as he read. Mickey could see it was the letter he had sent outlining his experience. Not earth shaking. He had been a waiter and substitute tumler at Blumenkranz's in Lock Sheldrake for two summers. Before that for three summers he had been a bus boy at Grossingers and been in some of the weeknight shows.

  Off-season he played small club dates, mostly Jewish veterans and women's groups. Days he helped in his father's ladies underwear store on Sutter Avenue in Brownsville. Nights he went to CCNY.

  "It's short," Mickey said. "I ran out of lies."

  "Y
ou're twenty-two?" Gorlick said, inspecting him.

  "All year," Mickey replied.

  "He looks like a Jewish Tom Mix. Don't he Gloria?," Gorlick said, tossing his head toward the woman.

  "And here I thought I was passing for a goy. I know. You saw my horse Tony." Mickey turned toward the woman. "He's circumcised. How can you hide it?"

  Gloria made a sound like a Bronx cheer.

  "Sometimes I forget and say "Oi Oi Gold" instead of Hi Yo Silver."

  "That's the Lone Ranger," Gloria snickered.

  "You think he's not Jewish. Why do you think he travels with his tanta."

  Gorlick, not reacting, puffed a smoke ring into the air, then picked up a stray peanut from the cocktail table and popped it into the smoke cloud belching from his mouth.

  "Such a tumler," Gloria said winking. “He’s a real cutie pie. The girls would get a kick out of him.”

  Mickey felt her inspection, distracted by the swell of the upper part of her full breasts. But when he forced himself to shift his glance, he found himself watching that stretch of pink bare thigh.

  "What kind of a store your father got?" Mr. Gorlick asked looking over the paper again.

  "Foundation garments," Mickey said, not with a slight twinge of embarrassment. People always reacted with a snicker and Gorlick and Gloria were no exceptions.

  There was humor in it, he knew, but mostly to others, less to Mickey or his mother or father or sister. To them the store meant survival and they lived above it. To the Fines foundation garments were serious business, although Mickey had developed a repertoire of jokes about it.

  "Corsets, girdles, things like that?" Gorlick asked, smiling.

  "We fix flats, too," Mickey said, looking pointedly at Gloria, who needed none of his father's wares. As if to emphasize the obvious, Gloria straightened in her chair and flung out her chest.

  "Bet you seen plenty," Gorlick chuckled.