Dear Father, Dear Son

by Larry Elder

  “You may think so,” I told him, “I don’t.”

  “At least I would have liked to try.”

  “What were you going to do? Beat him? Take away his television set? Make him work at the restaurant? Tell him to do his homework? Put him in drug rehab? He wouldn’t go. Mom arranged for counseling. How could you have run the restaurant and baby-sat him at the same time? That would have been a fulltime job. He had to make his own mistakes. It’s not your fault.”

  I pointed out to him that Kirk and I had the same parents, the same circumstances, and the same issues. We ate the same food and slept in the same house. We turned out one way, Dennis another. Was Dennis caught in the middle of Mom and Dad’s cold war? Was he collateral damage or just a bad seed?

  “He cleaned himself up enough to go in the Army. And even the Army couldn’t straighten him out. He came out as directionless as he went in. Dennis was Dennis.”

  Dad stood up and stretched. He looked at the clock.

  “Good, Lord. Need to clean up around here before Sanitation comes by and locks me up.”

  “Do you need some help?”

  “You remember how?”

  “Just let me in the back to change. I’ll show you, sir, how it’s done.”

  It was 10:30.

  It had been eight hours.

  But it took a lifetime.

  PART THREE

  POSTSCRIPT

  22

  DÉTENTE

  Hi Son:

  It’s so wonderful to find after all these years, I have a son that loves and understands me. Thanks. For now I feel like a father for the first time in my life. You are a comfort and strength to me.

  You are spoiling me. So what the hell? We love being spoiled by the ones we love.

  Dad

  Every time we ended a phone call, I told Dad I loved him. He was unnerved a little at first, but I kept doing it. Pretty soon, he said it back, sometimes beating me to it.

  “You guys are sickening,” Mom said.

  Tough lady, my mother.

  In 1979, Iranian thugs took Americans hostage and ended up holding them for 444 days. At my Cleveland law firm, young associates gathered in my office—the town hall of the floor—and kicked around possible American responses.

  “Diplomacy,” offered one.

  “Freeze Iranian bank accounts in American banks,” said another.

  “Encourage other countries in the ‘world community’ to impose an international trade embargo,” suggested another.

  “I know what my mother would do,” I said.

  “What?”

  “She’d give them forty-eight hours to set the hostages free. After that, start bombing.”

  They laughed.

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “That’s exactly what she would do.”

  “Oh, come on. Nobody’s mother would say that.”

  “Mine would.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Watch.”

  I picked up the phone and called her in L.A.

  “Mom, what would you do about this hostage thing? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I see. Okay, Mom. Thanks. Talk later.”

  “Well, did she say she’d give them forty-eight hours?”

  “No, she didn’t,” I said.

  “Hah! Thought so.”

  “She’s mellowing. She said she’d give them seventy-two.”

  Mom complained about Dad.

  “He’s in the way when I vacuum.” “Stays home all the time.” “We can’t agree on what to watch on television.” “I try to get him to talk, and he won’t.”

  Dad complained about Mom.

  “She vacuums when I’m watchin’ television.” “She doesn’t know how loud she talks when she’s on the phone.” “As soon as I get up, she makes up the bed. I can make up my own bed. She just does it to try and make me not go back to sleep. Sometimes, I want to go back to sleep.”

  I umpired.

  But after The Talk, Mom said I “switched sides.”

  “Your father is a poor businessman,” Mom said.

  “Mom, that’s a heavy thing to say about someone who’s kept the door open all these years in something as competitive as the restaurant business.”

  “He hasn’t made much money.”

  “He’s paid the house note, the car notes, helped keep the house fixed up, and helped put food on the table. That’s a lot. And for a guy who quit school at thirteen, it’s pretty impressive.”

  “You sound like his defense attorney. Is that what you learned when I sent you to law school?”

  I considered buying a house in L.A. I brought Mom to take a look.

  “It’s a great house. You should buy it.”

  I told her I worried about the debt.

  “Sit down.”

  She told me that our Haas Avenue house was not her choice. She wanted to move into a bigger house in a more upscale neighborhood.

  “We could have afforded it. The neighborhood was better. But no-o-o-o, your father wouldn’t go for it.”

  As Mom predicted, the values in the other neighborhood went up at a much faster rate, and now the neighborhood is too pricey for the working class. She and Dad would have had lots of equity, and the mortgage, small by today’s terms, would have been long paid off.

  “Your father thought small. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Oh, here you go again. Defending him.”

  “He’s not Donald Trump.”

  “He was a wimp,” she said.

  “Wimps don’t survive on their own starting at thirteen years old. Wimps don’t go back to school in their forties and sit next to teenagers. Thurman wanted to go back to school, but admitted he didn’t have the nerve. A wimp doesn’t quit his jobs and start a restaurant at forty-seven.”

  Nothing.

  “He wanted to build the restaurant—that’s a big dream—and was saving for it. Dad had a small margin of error. What if something went wrong? What if somebody got sick? The money he saved by not buying a bigger house might have been the difference between a restaurant and no restaurant.”

  Silence.

  “And if things had gone a certain way, nothing was stopping you and Dad from moving into a bigger house later.”

  “Well, we never did.”

  “Hindsight’s 20/20. I’m not saying Dad was right not to reach a little higher, I just want you to try and understand why he didn’t.”

  She stood up. “Let’s go.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders. “Mother, just because my relationship with Dad is better, it doesn’t mean ours is any less. It’s not two against one.”

  “Hm-mm. So, are you going to buy this place or not?”

  Mom soon figured out how to use my new relationship with Dad to her advantage. She got him to do things he didn’t want to do.

  “Your father needs a new suit. He won’t go shopping.”

  “Put him on the phone,” I said.

  “Randolph! Larry. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Dad, you’re going shopping, okay? It’s no big deal.”

  “I really don’t feel like goin’.”

  “Do it for me, Dad. It won’t hurt.”

  He sighed. “All right.”

  “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back. Now give the phone back to Mom. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Okay, Mom, he’s good to go.”

  “Putting your father on the phone” also worked for things like dental appointments, eye examinations, and regular check-ups. I even got him to take Mom out to a couple of movies.

  “You’re the only one he listens to,” Mom said.

  “Your father won’t eat,” Mom said. “I make him something. He just picks at it.”

  “Put him on the line…. Dad, I’m going to pick you up on Sunday afternoon about 5 o’clock. Wear your blue jacket.”

  We went to an upscale restaurant.

  “Dad, have you ever had crab legs?”


  “Does it have bones?”

  Before I was born, Dad got a fish bone stuck in his throat. It stayed stuck for several days. He vowed never to eat fish again. Whenever Mom fried fish, she also prepared something separate for him.

  “No bones.”

  He loved the crab legs. Then he ate all of the huge side dishes—the asparagus, the baked potato, an oversized slice of bread—and even bummed me out of one of my crab legs. The man ate like a horse.

  I soon discovered the problem.

  “Mom cooks just about the same thing every day,” he said on the way home. “Guess it’s easier for her. She gets mad if I complain. So I don’t say anythin’, but I get tired of the same thing.”

  I told Mom.

  “All he has to do is tell me what he wants.”

  “He’s afraid to say anything.”

  “He’s afraid of me?”

  “It isn’t his appetite, Mom. It’s the menu.”

  “Well, I’ll say.”

  I found out that Dad and Mom watched “Jeopardy” every night, so I decided to come over one evening and watch it with them.

  Dad sat in his chair, Mom on the couch, and me in a chair in the middle.

  “Who is Will Mays?” I said.

  “What is Lake Eerie?” I blurted.

  “What is Tibet?!” I exclaimed, triumphantly.

  I looked around. I swear, I heard crickets chirping.

  “Don’t you guys ever shout out the answers?”

  They shook their heads, no.

  “Why?”

  Nothing.

  “Why? Sometimes you know the answers, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Or you think you might know them, right?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then why don’t you shout them out?”

  Nothing.

  “Jesus, that’s what makes the thing fun. You see how you do against the contestants and see how you do against each other. You just sit here like stumps?”

  Nothing.

  I turned off the television.

  “I get it. Dad, you don’t really know the answers. Not your fault. Mom, I know you know a lot of them.”

  Nothing.

  “Dad, if Mom shouts out answers and gets them right, you’ll think she’s showing off to make you feel stupid, won’t you?”

  Nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Mom, you don’t shout them out because you think Dad’ll get pissed that you’re showing off, even though you’re not. And if you get them wrong, you think Dad’ll be happy because he thinks that you think you’re a know-it-all. Do I have this about right?”

  Nothing.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Nothing.

  “Now. Dad, does it bother you when I shout them out?”

  “No.”

  “And I’ve gotten quite a few wrong. Does that make you feel good?”

  “No.”

  “Would it bother you if Mom shouted them out?”

  Nothing.

  “Would you be happy if she kept getting them wrong?”

  Nothing.

  “What are you trying to start?” Mom was getting angry.

  “I’m trying to stop you two from acting so silly! You … are … not … at … war! It’s not High Noon. It’s just a game, and if you stopped trying to psychoanalyze each other, you might be able to have a little fun.”

  The next time we watched “Jeopardy” together, Mom and I shouted out answers. And Dad didn’t get mad. In fact, he bet me $10 I would blow the Final Jeopardy question.

  “You got so damn many wrong, I think I have a good shot,” he said.

  I lost the bet. Mom laughed.

  The Cold War between Mom and Dad did not end, but détente started.

  Dear Father,

  Enclosed are two round-trip tickets from Los Angeles to Cleveland. One is for you, and the other for Mom. The tickets are non-refundable.

  You will be staying with me for eight days. I know you hate to shut down the restaurant to take vacation. But I also know you hate even more the thought of my losing the money I paid for the tickets.

  See you next month on the 7th. Bring your blue suit. Have Mom pick out a tie.

  Did I mention that the tickets are non-refundable?

  Love,

  Your son.

  I knew that if I mailed them two round-trip tickets to Cleveland, Mom and Dad would come—as long as the tickets were non-refundable.

  Oh, Dad moaned about how he couldn’t take off from the restaurant, and Mom made a bunch of excuses because she really didn’t want to travel with him. But they came. I knew they would.

  The city is beautiful in the fall. Cleveland sunsets overlooking Lake Erie are spectacular. Every color is painted in the sky—deep red, purple, orange, yellow, green, and all the in-betweens—as if an artist were mad at his canvas. Yes, it’s cool to knock the city. But as a friend and native Clevelander put it, it’s a “whelming” city—not underwhelming, not overwhelming, but “whelming.”

  I took Mom and Dad to the Cleveland Museum. We watched the Cleveland Indians lose. They met my friends. They visited Thurman.

  “Hey, partner,” Dad said.

  “Got a light?” Thurman said. He told his wife and my mom about having stolen and lost Dad’s cigarette case and holder all those years ago.

  As my mom and aunt talked in the kitchen, Dad and Thurman talked for hours in the living room. They talked about Chattanooga and Uncle Eddie. They laughed about how Dad pretended to be “the telephone man,” and made Uncle Eddie set the phone down, back away six feet, and yell. Dad, relaxed and loose, acted just like Mom with Aunt Dorothy and her other friends.

  That night, I took Mom and Dad to Benihana’s. I knew Dad would get a kick out of the knife tossing and the cooking theatrics. They ordered shrimp, lobster, and steak—to Dad this was dining at its finest.

  “You know, I figured out why your marriage had so much friction.”

  They stopped eating and looked up.

  “Dad, you wanted a woman just like Aunt Juanita, didn’t you?”

  He paused. “Probably.”

  “And Mom, you wanted a man like—Dirty Harry.”

  They roared.

  “No, Larry,” she said, “Dirty Harry is a wimp.”

  I have a photo from that night. I keep it on my desk, right next to the little black-and-white one of the café. And next to them, the note that Dad sent me after The Talk.

  That week in Cleveland, Mom and Dad slept in my bed. As I got up one morning to get them coffee, I thought I heard something—something strange. They were in bed, awake, sitting up. Talking.

  23

  KIRK AND DAD

  I called Kirk. “Are you up for dinner? I’m buying.”

  Kirk and I never spent time together as adults. He joined the Navy when he was eighteen. I was fifteen. He was assigned to the Sixth Fleet. I went off to college, and didn’t return to L.A. for years. When he got out, he went back to L.A. and tried to work with Dad.

  It had been twenty-five years since Kirk and I lived under the same roof or even in the same city. Lots of things had happened in that period of time, and we were awkwardly beginning to get into a kind of sync. We always got along growing up, about as well as brothers can with a three-and-a-half year age gap.

  Kirk was a bad-ass athlete back in those days. He was big and strong, with amazing hand-eye coordination. When we played on playgrounds or in pick-up games with neighborhood kids, Kirk excelled.

  In Little League, Kirk pitched for a team called the Dodgers. I played for the Cubs. My first year of Little League, the Dodgers and Cubs were scheduled to play each other twice, late in the season.

  Kirk was the Dodgers’ starting pitcher, and had won all his games so far that season. This would be our first time facing each other for real, in a game that mattered. We were washing dishes the night before. I was dreading our face-off. David had better odds against Goliath. I figure
d Kirk would fire the ball, and I’d wave my bat three times—if I was lucky—and it would be back to the bench. Couldn’t Kirk ease up on the fastball just a little so I wouldn’t embarrass myself?

  “I don’t know about that,” he said.

  “I can’t hit and you know it. I just don’t want to look stupid.”

  Kirk knew I was an easy out, and allowing me to at least make contact wouldn’t really hurt his team. But he felt uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t we ask Dad?” he said.

  Dad? We never asked Dad anything. Not advice on how to deal with bullies. Not advice on what to do when we liked a girl. Not advice on homework. Dad came home angry, sat down angry, ate dinner angry, and watched television angry. Then we cleared a path for him when he walked down the hall to go to bed.

  I wasn’t sure Dad cared or even knew much about baseball—other than he thought going to the ballpark was a pain.

  “I don’t know about asking him.”

  “Yeah,” Kirk said, “me neither.”

  “Do you guys want somethin’?” Dad had overheard us. We thought he’d been sleeping in his green chair. “Well, what is it?”

  Kirk explained our dilemma—that I couldn’t hit his pitches, but he didn’t want to make me look stupid. At least, not too stupid.

  “Let me tell you somethin’.” Dad turned off the television. “Kirk, your job is to blow that ball right by him. You won’t be doin’ him any favors by slackin’ off. Your job, Larry, is to try and tear the cover off the ball. You won’t get any better if you don’t. And whatever happens, happens. You got to be prepared in life. If you’re not prepared, one of two things will happen. Do you know what they are?”

  “No.”

  “You goin’ to get your ass kicked, or your feelin’s hurt.”

  The next morning, Saturday, Dad went to his first—and last—Little League game. I ripped Kirk—a triple, a double, and two singles. The Cubs beat the Dodgers 13–6. The second game that season was the same result. I hit three doubles and the Cubs defeated the Dodgers 12–5.

  Kirk and I laughed about those games while we ate dinner.

  “You need to fix things with Dad,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Just sit down with him and hear him out.”