by Warren Adler
“Why mine?” she had asked, playing the innocent.
“It’s either a family thing, or it’s not.”
There it was again, the family thing, a good sign. She wondered if it meant that he had succumbed finally to the guilt of separation. She had hoped it might kick in again one day.
Many times, down on her luck and desperate, she had invoked family ties, but he had ceased to respond as Big Daddy with the checkbook, which had become her not-so-secret characterization. Often she had begged, cajoled, tried every arrow in her quiver of manipulation, but the string had run out finally in a conversation she had with her father at her mother’s funeral. That had been the breaking point—until now.
Her father’s reaction to her plea had struck her as an odd disconnect. He was a man to whom charity was gospel. Often he would help a homeless person, dropping paper money in his cup, and his list of contributions covered a large array of causes. In his lexicon of compassion, it meant “giving back,” a posture getting increasingly difficult for her to understand. His politics were liberal, and his feeling for others, she supposed, genuine. He was vocally against persecution, injustice, and unfairness in all its forms.
And yet, from her perspective he had become far less sanguine about “charity” for his children. She did acknowledge that it was an unfair presumption, since he had been tremendously supportive and generous to both his children in the past. But she saw herself now in her midthirties practically destitute. He had cut her off, her brother as well. For a man who bled for the underdog and thought of charity as “sharing,” she characterized his attitude toward her financial well-being as cruel and unjust, and she had dismissed him as a fucking hypocrite.
She knew, of course, that she was hardened by failure and disappointment, and there was some limit to parental supportiveness, but her dream of becoming a movie star was still as strong and obsessive as ever and permitted no surrender, no negativity, and a ruthlessness that she felt absolutely necessary.
By blood and tradition, she considered her father’s money her and her brother’s entitlement. She had grown up with the certainty that sooner or later it would be theirs. He and their mother had, in the days before her death and their estrangement, often reiterated that he had made arrangements to divide his estate between her brother and herself. Could he ever muster the will and endure the guilt of cutting them off from their inheritance? Hell, he had already cut off her enabling stipend, why not the other?
What she wanted was to get her hands on some of it now. Before their estrangement she had tried every trick in the book to get him to increase her stipend, to gift her more money, to settle a regular lifelong lavish income on her. Not to part with it in the hour of her greatest need was heartless, selfish, and mean-minded. Pursuing her dream needed nourishment and heavy maintenance, financially and emotionally. All right, she had not succeeded, not yet, but her dreams and ambitions were as fresh as ever. The spotlight and celebrity beckoned. She knew in her heart that they would come to pass.
Perhaps she was spoiled by memory. Once he had been proud of her choice, had encouraged her. Always the dutiful father, he had attended all her high school and college performances, fueled the dream, kept her going. In an odd way, she had long ago acknowledged that his and her mother’s cheerleading was partially responsible for enabling her pursuit of this obsession.
During her student days, she had played many of the Shakespearian female roles and had been heralded as a brilliant talent with an assured future. Her Lady Macbeth was dubbed “extraordinary” by a stringer from the New York Times who wrote a compendium of reviews of student productions. She had also gotten standing ovations for her Juliet and Desdemona. She knew in her gut she had the right stuff and was dead certain that one day she would grace the giant screens of moviedom. She deserved it.
Critics in her school newspapers and later reviewers of small live theatrical productions had lauded and lavishly praised her talent and beauty. By any standard she knew she was a beautiful well-made woman, tall, curvaceous, sexy, naturally curly-haired, with large hazel eyes peering at the world over high cheekbones.
If she had not achieved her rightful destiny, she reasoned, she simply needed more time for others to discover her. What she needed most was money to fund her enterprise.
Her father’s earlier support had been massive. A dozen years before, she and her then live-in boyfriend Hal Bender, whose moviemaking fantasies were as deep-seated as her own, put together an independent movie with her as the star, actually a horror-genre movie that was at that time a good calling card for career promotion.
Ruthless and predatory in hindsight, Hal had her manipulate her father into putting in the two-million-dollar financing to make the movie. Her father was still in thrall to her ambition, and it was not difficult to persuade his participation. They were, after all, a family of proven means, and although there was gratitude in his investment, there was no guilt in it. Hal assured him that he might triple his investment or more, but she knew that his real motivation was the help he would be giving his daughter.
He had bought her a two-bedroom condo in a good neighborhood in Santa Monica, which she had sold later to make up for the movie’s budget shortfall, a fact that she had withheld from her father at the time. But then she was under Hal’s spell, and her ambition had—as it would again and again—clouded any rational business judgment.
Unfortunately, the story line for the movie was too derivative and, as writer, director, and producer, Hal was both unskilled and feckless. Nevertheless, she had been reasonably satisfied with her performance, and in the private showing to their parents she had noted the tears in their eyes, signs that assured them that their little girl had made it to stardom. The picture was a monumental failure resulting in the loss of her father’s two million, her condo, and of course, Hal, who blamed it all on the powers that be in the business that didn’t know quality when they saw it.
They parted in anger, each convinced the other had destroyed the project. Hal had gone on to a brief career as a director of porno films, and a few years later had disappeared somewhere into oblivion, joining, she supposed, the vast army of failed film wannabes, dead certain of their massive talent but unable and unwilling to continue the struggle. Although totally convinced of her own talent, she refused to count herself among their ranks and took pride in her endurance.
Her father, although he eventually had forgiven her for foolishness in losing the condominium, did not replicate his financial contributions, which slowly dwindled as time went on, despite her appeals. She did manage some bit parts in television, but it was never enough to sustain a decent lifestyle, certainly not one she was used to as a child. Nevertheless she soldiered on, totally committed, suppressing any inhibition that stood in the path of her pursuit. So far, despite frequent humiliations, insults, and abuse, despite every wile she could muster, weathering depression and flirting with cocaine and alcohol as a typical show business enhancement to sociability, she slogged ahead, likening herself to a thoroughbred with blinkers that ran her best race as a mudder.
Nothing could thwart her belief in her superior talent, and she would brook no negativity on that score. Despite within hailing distance of forty, she had kept her body tight with hard exercise and could, with clever makeup, appear ten years younger. She was, of course, considering the surgeon’s scalpel, but that took money, and the lack thereof had become her secondary obsession.
In the years she had been cut off from her father’s largesse, she had taken temp jobs, modeled at convention shows, and waitressed to keep herself financially viable, although she had maxed out on all her credit cards. Occasionally, a last-minute plea to her father was answered, but his contribution was never enough, and as time went on she began to harbor dark thoughts about him.
She had long ago lost any daughterly devotion for him. She now hated him. Worse, all guilt about hating him had vanished. She wished him dead. That is if he had preserved the provisions he had promised.
She had eschewed any deep relationships with men, although she dated for jobs, meals, and sex, in that order. In the latter category she had mastered the art of speedy culmination or a faked orgasm, especially when the partner of the moment was undesirable, which was most of the time.
There were exceptions, but the conditions had to be right and required her to dredge up one particular image deep in memory. She didn’t need a man to get off on that one.
Her experience with Hal and his exploitation of her had made her cautious, and she had learned how to deaden any emerging hint of emotional attachment.
Unable to move her father to generosity, despite every form of persuasion and guilt trip she could muster, she could always eke out some money from her late mother when she was alive. She might come across, within limits, from her own cache of secret cash. But when her mother’s health had broken, and she retreated from guilt to self-interest and physical pain, she no longer responded to Courtney’s need.
Money, money, money. It was now her mantra. To pursue her dream, she needed the nourishment of money to support her increasingly heavy maintenance expenses. Over and over this drumbeat repeated itself in her thoughts. But her mother was dead now, and she had blown it at her mother’s funeral four years earlier, further opening the abyss between her and her father. They had not spoken since.
“Think of it as an adventure and an opportunity,” he told her on the phone, announcing the trek and avoiding any mention of their long silence. After all, he had been silent on his side as well. Although at the very beginning of their rift, he had made repeated contact attempts by phone and letter. She answered none of them. Let him wallow in his guilt. If he wants the trappings of his children’s love, let him pay for it.
Opportunity! The word was pregnant with optimism. Opportunity for what? For bonding, reevaluating, coming together after years of estrangement? Translated it meant he might reconsider his largesse, come to grips with his tight-fisted indifference to her plight. Scott, she was sure, had consented for these very same reasons. He had been sought out as well. His bottom-line agenda was the same as hers. Money! Every enterprise he had touched had failed.
“Maybe recapture the moment,” she had told him hopefully.
“Yes. I’d like that Courtney.”
“So would I,” she lied. Fuck the moment. It was all about money.
“I’m in,” she said.
“Great. I’ll send you all the details.”
“And don’t forget the airplane tickets, Dad,” she had added.
“Of course.”
“And some out of pocket. I’m stretched as usual.”
“I’ll do it.”
So matter of fact, she had thought, as if their angry words four years before had not been uttered. Since then, he had turned off the money spigot. She had been on her own, and a tough struggle it was.
In all that time she had remained hopeful that his sense of fatherhood might one day miraculously kick in, fueled by fond memories and gnawing guilt. Had it? She hoped so, and knew she was up for the role.
Chapter 2
Courtney hadn’t been exactly diplomatic to bring up the subject of money yet again on the day of her mother’s funeral. They had come back from the cemetery to the Riverside Drive apartment where she had grown up. Desperation does not always allow exquisite timing. Perhaps, she had reasoned, seeing her amid the trappings of her childhood would trigger in her father nostalgia and generosity and recall the loving nature of their early relationship.
All the relatives were there: aunts, uncles, cousins. She had tried her best to appear dutiful and affectionate, acting appropriately in her role as the grieving daughter of the deceased, demonstrating devotion, embracing her father during the service both in the chapel and at graveside. She felt certain she was making a dent, recounting sentimental memories of their early days together when she was “Daddy’s little girl.”
It was not an easy chore for her, since, by then, she had grown to resent bitterly his ungenerous attitude. Secretly, she supposed she hated him and had fervently wished that he, not her mother, had died first. This resentment of her mother’s having the gall to precede him in death was the real reason why she had not bothered to attend her mother’s bedside during her last days.
She had used the cover of “urgent business,” meaning she was up for a big part, as an excuse to keep her away. It was the language her father understood. Business was business. When nothing materialized, she deflected his disappointment by hitting the usual hot buttons of his fatherly yearning for her success. At this point, the ploy was considerably weakened by overuse, but it seemed to have placated him for the moment.
Observing her father in his grief, she realized that she had made a tactical mistake. She might have used the visit to her mother’s deathbed to show him, even in the face of his diminished generosity, her daughterly devotion. Realizing she would have to quickly change gears, she saw an opening in this new venue. Mourning was a time of vulnerability. In his pain, her father looked ripe for the plucking. Hell, she was an actress. She could play any part, especially the grief stricken. For an actress it was an essential instrument in her toolbox.
In that tight little group of family mourners she was a celebrity, a Hollywood star in their eyes. It made her stomach tighten to hear them voice their admiration, sprinkled with their pity and condolences offered at close proximity through herring-tinged breath.
A lavish spread from Zabar’s filled the dining room table, a nod to the Jewish after-death ritual, triggering memories of her grandparents’ demise. She had long ago tossed away any religious connotation in her life and rarely thought of her Semitic roots.
The memorial experience did bring back a rush of nostalgic thoughts of her mother, who she supposed she had once truly loved with a child’s nonjudgmental and naive sentiment. Her mother had been a quiet woman who worked with Courtney’s father in his jewelry salon, operating out of an office suite in the Diamond District. Her grandfather had started the business, and Courtney’s father had worked at it since high school, inheriting it on her grandfather’s death.
Her father had, she knew, other aspirations. He had majored in art at Columbia and was also devoted to the violin. Whatever youthful ambitions he had harbored were long repressed. Somehow he had rechanneled his ambition and made the decision to join his father, choosing money and comfort over art.
He had done exceptionally well financially. By her brother’s calculation, the man was worth in the neighborhood of thirty million dollars, with, give or take, about five million in gems and jewelry inventory, stocks, bonds, and the ownership of a large apartment overlooking the Hudson, a neighborhood that had emerged from decline and had reached a new phase of gentrification and value.
Their joint calculation also assumed that he had blown about five million on the failed careers of his progeny. He had invested in almost all of Scott’s abortive business ventures. Scott, of course, had blamed his failures on luck and timing. Courtney blamed her brother’s financial disasters on his easy manipulation and general incompetence as a businessman.
He could, of course, have solved his financial problems immediately by going into his father’s business. Courtney had always felt the reason for his refusal was stupid. It was pointless to linger over what they had done years ago. So they had stolen a few diamonds? Their father had never found out, and the money was desperately needed at the time. Long ago, she had closed that case.
She and her brother had helped in the salon during their teen years, mostly learning the intricacies of gemology. For herself, she was appalled at the way her parents bowed and scraped before their rich, pompous, and demanding customers. Once, after a particularly sickening exhibition of fawning, she confronted her mother and lashed out at such a disgusting display of kowtowing before their wealthy customers.
“Business, darling,” her mother had told her without rancor. “It is all about making the sale.”
“For them it’s all abo
ut showing off, using expensive jewelry to validate their self-appointed superiority. It makes me want to puke.”
“You puke,” her mother had snapped. “I’ll take their money.”
“It’s all part of the strategy,” her father had patiently explained, as if he quite understood how his daughter might interpret his sales performance. “There are insecure people who need others to validate their wealth and status. What better way than to hang a jeweled sign out and proclaim one’s riches?”
“But you look like such a phony, Dad.”
“How I look is only important to the customer. They are hungry for flattery, and what we sell here is not only for vanity but has wonderful esthetic value as well, like any piece of art. Gems are long lasting, immortal, and to many—as well as to me—quite beautiful. To recognize such enduring beauty requires an appreciative eye. People covet beautiful things, especially if they are rare and, as the slogan goes, ‘forever.’ So there are many components of their desire to possess and display gems on their person. You, my darling daughter, are looking through the wrong end of the telescope.”
She had hoped his explanation would be more fatuous and hollow and enhance her reasons for hating their attitude, but he was too crafty and intelligent for that. Selling jewels had, after all, been his final career choice, and she was convinced that he truly believed in the esthetic value of gems and, of course, their financial worth. She couldn’t be part of this business, whatever the potential rewards. She knew that was what her father wanted for Scott. Her participation was always optional.
“Not for me,” she confided to her mother. “I could never. Besides, I have a different career plan.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” her mother had told her.
When her father saw her display of talent in her school performances, any suggestion of her getting into the business became moot.
