by Rick Goeld
I’m a slow learner. I finally figured out that he was afraid of the water. He never told me as much; I think it just dawned on me, one of those summer afternoons out on the lake.
When I was eighteen, my father sold the boat. No use keeping it, he said, with me away at college.
*****
At Rutgers, I got my degree in journalism, and found the girl—the woman—who would become my wife. We got married and rented an apartment near the university. She got a job in advertising, and I worked in a bookstore. I was going to be a writer. We were happy. We had plans to move to the suburbs and raise a family. But things didn’t work out. We argued. We disagreed about big things and little things. One day, she asked me to move out, and I moved in with my brother, who had an apartment in Manhattan. A few weeks later, she filed for divorce, and I was treading water in a concrete jungle.
I was at work one day when my cell phone buzzed. It was my mother, and she could hardly speak. What happened, I asked, and alarms went off inside me. Your father had another heart attack, she said. An hour later, I was in a grey hospital, riding a cold elevator full of faceless people. I met my mother in the hallway, and we embraced. My father had been drifting in and out of consciousness, she said, but he wanted me to come in when I arrived. She sat back down and stared out the window.
I walked into the room and saw my father lying on a hospital bed, propped up with a few pillows. He was awake, but heavily sedated. He looked like he was a thousand years old. I embraced him, careful not to disturb the tubes taped to his arms.
“How are you feeling, Dad?” I asked.
“Like a pin-cushion,” he whispered, and his eyes danced, and I smiled, remembering all the times I had seen his face light up like that.
I tried to engage him in light conversation, but he did most of the talking.
He told me about his first heart attack, when I was just a kid. He told me about the hell my mother had gone through, worrying if her husband would survive.
The collapse of my marriage had hit him hard, he said, but he still thought Alison was a good person, with a good heart, who still loved me.
He talked about how my brother and I were so different, and yet, so similar. He was glad that my brother and I had become “close” again.
He wondered if he shouldn’t have pushed me harder, to make something more of myself. Then he said, no, that was wrong, strike that, that he shouldn’t doubt me, and that I shouldn’t doubt myself. I was doing all right, he said, and I would find my own way, eventually.
He told me how much he’d enjoyed our trips to the mountains, and the seashore, and yes, even fishing on the lake those few times.
When he stopped talking, I searched for something to say—something meaningful, something “profound.” But my mind was a blank. All I could think of was “Stay positive, Dad. It’s amazing what the doctors can do these days.”
He raised his arm and touched his chest. “This?” he said. “This is nothing. I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”
And I saw it, just then: the look in his eyes. It was recognition of the darkness that lay ahead, and an understanding of it, and, perhaps, even a hint of acceptance. But at the same time, I saw his determination, and his desire, and his willingness to carry on, no matter how he was feeling inside. I had seen that look once before, as he and I had walked up a rickety gangplank, one Sunday morning, a long time ago.
My father never got out of the hospital. He died that evening, in a room overlooking New York harbor. He had lived and died near lakes and streams and rivers and deep oceans, but he had died dreaming, I am sure, of mountains blanketed with green.
47
Tuesday, April 18, 2000
Lois Lane Smith stared out the office window overlooking West 47th Street and contemplated her next move. Go out and follow more story leads? Or finish the ones she’d already started?
The last couple of weeks had been a blur. She’d ended an affair with one married man, started an affair with another, and ended that one, too. She’d kept herself occupied by churning out handfuls of human interest stories. In the last few days she’d had lunch with her mother, dinner with her girlfriends, wandered along Fifth Avenue in search of something new to wear, and, in desperation, had gone to the movies by herself.
April is the cruelest month … and it’s not over yet.
Her cell phone buzzed. She glanced at the display. Why the fuck is he calling me?
“Hello.”
“Lois, it’s Phil. Don’t hang up.”
“What do you want, Phil?”
“You’re still mad at me.”
“Not mad, Phil. I’ve moved on. I just don’t care anymore.”
Silence. She assumed the message was finally sinking into Phil’s thick skull.
He finally replied: “I didn’t call you so we could get together again.”
Moved on to someone else, have you? “Why’d you call then?”
“Something I saw in Sunday’s Newark Star-Ledger.”
“What?” She spat the word out.
“Wasn’t your Steely Dan guy named Zittner?’
“Yeah, Eddie Zittner … why?”
“His father died last week … assuming it’s the same family. I have the obituary right here.”
Oh my god! “Read it to me.”
“Harold W. Zittner, of Saddle River, died of heart failure on Thursday, April 14th . . .”
“Family members? Does it list family members?”
“Survived by loving wife Elaine and sons Edward and Mark. Funeral services were held—”
“Phil, thanks, I’ve gotta go.” She disconnected, speed-dialed Eddie’s cell phone, and got an immediate message: “The number you dialed is currently unavailable.”
Where is he? She hurried to the pay phone that was just down the hall, opened the Manhattan White Pages, and quickly looked up the number of Borders on Second Avenue. She jotted it down in her day planner, and punched it into her cell phone as she walked back toward the window. It had started to rain, she noted. Someone answered on the third ring.
“Borders.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“This is the manager.”
I’m in luck. “My name is Lois Lane Smith. I’m a friend of Eddie Zittner. Is he at work today?”
“Did you hear that—”
“Yes, I heard about his father.”
“Sad … it hit Eddie very hard. I spoke to him yesterday.”
“Is he in New Jersey? Do you know how to reach him?”
“He said he was coming back last night; said he’d be at work today. He should be here at eleven.”
She glanced at her watch. Just over an hour from now. “Thank you very much,” she said, and disconnected.
Fifteen minutes later, she climbed out of a taxi, hurried across a rain-slick sidewalk, and pushed through the entryway of the Café Indulge. She spotted him sitting in the corner, the same corner where they’d argued last week—a week ago today.
She walked toward him. He was sipping coffee, and she saw a pecan danish lying untouched on a plate. He looked up as she approached, did a double take, and set the cup down on the table, spilling a few drops. Then he stood, and for a few seconds they just stared at each other. Finally, she said, “Eddie, I heard about your father. I’m so sorry . . .” She stepped around the table and embraced him.
He hesitated at first, but then gave her a polite hug back. “Thank you,” he mumbled as he disengaged. They stood, silent, staring at each other. “How’d you know I’d be here?” he asked.
“I called Borders. They said you were coming in at eleven. It was just a lucky guess.”
“I guess I’m a creature of habit.” A tiny smile wrinkled his face.
“Yeah,” she replied, “I guess you are.”
He gestured toward the empty chair. “Can you stay a while?”
“Sure.” She sat down. A waitress glided over and, without a word, poured her a cup of coffee.
She looked at him. �
��I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“How’s your mother doing?”
“She’s doing okay, better than last time. Her sister came to stay with her for a while.”
“Better than last time?”
“My father had his first heart attack, oh, fifteen years ago. No, longer than that, actually, almost twenty years ago. My mother kind of went crazy when it happened.”
“Oh.” Better to leave that alone. “How’s your brother doing?”
“About as well as I am. He went back to work today, too. We came back last night.”
It was quiet for a few seconds as they both sipped coffee.
She continued, “And how about you, Eddie? How are you?”
“Me? I’m fine. Eldest son, remember?” He forced a smile.
Putting up a good front, anyway. “What will you do now? I mean, with your life? God, that sounds stupid.
“Well, I got the divorce papers, finally, on Wednesday, the day before my father died.”
And the day after we argued, Lois thought. Argued about trust … right here at this very table. “What will you do? I mean, will you stay with your brother? Keep working at Borders?”
“I don’t know yet, exactly, but I know I need to get on with it, whatever ‘it’ turns out to be. I can’t be a clerk in a bookstore forever.”
“Where will you live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you stay in Manhattan?” Are you interested, Lois, or is this just the reporter in you?
He smiled again. “And continue my search for Steely Dan?”
She felt her face reddening. “That’s not what I meant.”
Raindrops were pelting the windows next to them. She watched as he turned and stared at luckless pedestrians caught in the downpour. Then he turned back to her. “I know that’s not what you meant, Lois.” He forced another smile. “I think I’m giving up my search for Steely Dan. There are more important things in life than getting someone’s autograph.”
She watched as his smile dissolved and his eyes began to fill. She watched as he picked up his napkin and wiped away the tears. And, at that very moment, Lois Lane Smith fell in love with Easy Eddie Zittner.
48
Wednesday, April 26, 2000
When Sheila had called him yesterday, she hadn’t been very specific about why Bernard Sterling wanted to meet with him again. “He has some new information” was all that she would say.
After work, Eddie had taken a taxi directly to the Rolling Stone offices on Avenue of the Americas, arriving just before his four-thirty appointment. Sheila was waiting at reception, and, after a polite greeting, escorted him down a hallway and through gleaming black doors into an opulent conference room. Left alone, Eddie sat in one of the butter-soft leather chairs, and whistled softly as he ran a hand across the polished mahogany table. Then he wandered around the room, first admiring the view of Midtown, and then inspecting framed photos of various luminaries that lined the walls. Then back to the comfort of the leather chair. A moment later, Bernard Sterling burst into the room.
“Hello, dear boy!” Sterling extended his hand as he strode toward him. “How are you?”
He jumped to his feet. “Fine, Mr. Sterling.” John Denver … in designer jeans and a gold silk shirt.
Sterling grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously. “Call me Nardo. We’re old friends, aren’t we?”
“I guess so … Nardo.”
Sterling beamed at him and released his grip. “Have a seat, have a seat.” Eddie eased himself back into his chair, and Sterling took the one next to him. “Can I have Sheila get you anything? A soft drink? Coffee? Jack Daniels?” Sterling rolled his eyes. “Just kidding about the whiskey, old boy, although, I must say, there were times today I could have used one … or two.”
“No thanks. Sheila already offered.”
“Great gal, isn’t she? I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Eddie wasn’t sure that required an answer, but mumbled “she’s very nice” to be on the safe side.
Sterling turned serious. “I spoke to Lois. She told me you’ve had a rough patch this month.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry about your father, Eddie.” Sterling looked solemn, and then sighed. “It’s difficult to lose a loved one.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Sterling busied himself shuffling through a stack of papers, and then turned his attention back to Eddie. “Sheila tells me you and Lois have become something of an ‘item.’”
Eddie didn’t know how much Lois had told Sheila, much less how much Sheila might have passed on to Sterling. “I don’t know if you could call us an ‘item,’ but we are seeing each other … again.” He smiled.
“Good, good,” Sterling replied. “And did you happen to see our article about the Dark Brothers?”
Eddie sat up in his chair. The first feature article about The Dan in how many years? “Yes, it was great … terrific … well written.”
“They’re finally getting their due,” Sterling said. “People in high places are whispering about Grammys and Hall of Fame membership.”
“It’s about time,” he replied, reflexively peeking at his watch. It was creeping up on five. He was still wondering why Sterling had wanted to see him.
Sterling picked up on Eddie’s impatience. “I’ll bet you’re wondering why I wanted to meet with you.”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I was,” he replied.
“Well, here at the magazine, we’re always developing all sorts of new ideas.”
New ideas. He nodded.
Sterling swiveled his chair toward the window. “Need to keep the magazine ‘fresh,’ as they say.”
Fresh. Yeah, I can relate to that.
“Follow all the newest trends.”
All the newest trends … got it.
“On the other hand,” Sterling swiveled back to face him, “We can’t ignore our roots now, can we?”
“No,” he replied, startled. “No, I guess not.”
“And that’s where you come in.”
“How?” Eddie looked puzzled.
“How, indeed.” Sterling leaned closer. “We need someone to write a series of articles about former celebrities who have fallen by the wayside—fallen on hard times, so to speak. Do you follow me?”
“Do you mean rock stars?”
“Not only rock stars,” Sterling replied. “They can be former movie stars, directors … even worn-out sitcom hacks.”
“People who’ve gone broke? Or just dropped out of sight?”
“Either,” Sterling replied.
“Like, for example,” he racked his brain, “Vanilla Ice?”
“Precisely! Good choice!”
Eddie felt himself getting excited, and reminded himself to remain cool and professional. He took a deep breath. “And what, exactly, are you looking for in the articles?”
“Where are they now?” Sterling boomed, raising his arms to the heavens. “What are they doing? How did they go bust? Or are they flush with cash, and hiding it under the mattress?”
Human interest! Eddie was dumbfounded.
Sterling rambled on: “And, most important: What about their fans? Do they yearn for a comeback? Do they still give a damn?”
Son-of-a-bitch! Human interest stories!
“It’s back pages stuff, Eddie, but if it catches on, it could, as they say, work its way to the front of the magazine.” Sterling looked pleased with himself.
Eddie took another deep breath. Unless I’m totally wrong, he’s offering me a job! “Would I be a member of the magazine staff?”
“Not yet, not yet,” Sterling cautioned. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You would start out as a free-lancer. Perhaps in time, if the series catches on … but it’s regular work, Eddie. And it won’t be a walk in the park. You’d have to produce an article for every issue. Deadlines, Eddie … they can be quite taxing.”
Taxing … Shit! I’ve got to get with Alison and file our tax returns.
“Well, son, what do you think?”
Eddie leaned back in his chair. “All the interviews would be in the city?”
“Heavens, no! New York might be the center of the universe, but fallen celebrities are everywhere.”
“So I’d be traveling?”
“Well,” Sterling thought for a moment, “we do have a budget. Let’s see … why not start out in the colonies, eh? Maine to Memphis! No, that’s not right … how about Maine to Monterey? That would cover the entire forty-eight!”
Eddie smiled. “And who would I be working for?”
“Me, of course. I’d have a couple of working editors assigned to help you along.” Now Sterling stole a peek at his watch, and glanced at the conference room door.
“I’m speechless, Mr. Sterling.”
“Please, call me Nardo.”
“Nardo … you’ve never even seen any of my writing.”
“Actually, I have. Lois sent me a copy of something you wrote.”
“No kidding.” What could Lois have given him?
“Yes. It was the beginning of a short story; something about two men on the subway.”
“Oh! And you thought it was good?”
“Good? Well, it showed promise, I’ll say that.” Sterling checked the door again.
“Well, Nardo, I’m still speechless.”
“What do you say, dear boy? Will you do it?”
Eddie remembered something his father always said: before you take the job, find out what it pays. Good advice. “Nardo, one more question: what will I be making?”