ALSO BY BERNARD COOPER
Guess Again
Truth Serum
A Year of Rhymes
Maps to Anywhere
The Bill from My Father
A Memoir
BERNARD COOPER
Simon & Schuster
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SIMON & SCHUSTER
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Copyright © 2006 by Bernard Cooper
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Chapters of this book have appeared in the following publications: “First Words” and “The Bill from My Father” (under the title “Mine”) in Los Angeles magazine; “Winner Take Nothing” in GQ, The Best American Essays of 2002, edited by Stephen Jay Gould, and The Man I Might Become: Gay Men Write About Their Fathers, edited by Bruce Shenitz. The chapter entitled “The Bill from My Father” was performed on This American Life.
This is a work of nonfiction. However, certain names and details of the characters’ lives and physical appearances have been changed, and some events have been altered or combined for the sake of narrative continuity.
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cooper, Bernard.
The bill from my father : a memoir / Bernard Cooper.
p. cm.
1. Cooper, Bernard, 1951—Family.
2. Cooper, Bernard, 1951—Childhood and youth.
3. Authors, American—20th century—Family relationships.
4. Authors, American—20th century—Biography.
5. Gay men—United States—Biography.
6. Fathers and sons—United States.
I. Title.
PS3553.05798Z4625 2006
813′.54—dc22 2005044503
[B]
ISBN: 0-7432-9899-3
eISBN: 978-0-743-29899-5
Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Sloan Harris (who encouraged me to put it all together) and Margaret Marr at International Creative Magicians for their astonishing sleight of hand. Steady momentum for this project was provided by Geoff Kloske, one of the country’s largest exporters of midnight oil. Steven, Kathryn, and Eliza at the Steven Barclay Agency have been invaluable in allowing me to meet writers and readers I might not otherwise have had the pleasure to know.
Where would a writer be without trusted early readers? I was lucky enough to see this text through Jeff Hammond’s X-ray eyes. Tom Knechtel’s gently rustling pom-poms bolstered my spirit without disturbing the neighbors. Glen Gold and Alice Sebold were instructive and loving and just plain fun. Two chapters in this book were shaped with a set of precision tools belonging to Kit Rachlis at Los Angeles magazine. Amy Gerstler, amazing poet, turned the manuscript pages WITH THE POWER OF HER MIND ALONE! I could not have started, finished, or written the middle part of this book without Jill Ciment’s friendship and long distance calling plan, or without Atsuro Riley’s full-color diagrams of the universe.
My story only touches upon those of my sisters-in-law, Nancy and Sharleen, who have my deepest gratitude. Rabbi Bob Barruch performed a fact-checking mitzvah. Benjamin Weissman performed a high dive while lighted on fire. Other superhuman feats were performed by Michael Lowenthal, Kimberly Burns, and Laura Perciasepe.
This book was completed with generous support from the National Endowment for the Arts and from the Brian Miller Fellowship.
Contents
First Words
My Father’s Jumpsuit
Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed?
The Shortest Distance Between Two Points
One Art
Winner Take Nothing
D-L-R-O-W
This Side Up
The Bill from My Father
Afterlife
Rest in Peace
Last Words
The Bill from My Father
First Words
“I scratch,” said my father. “Itch it!”
I’d asked if he knew what his first words had been. Instead of ball or mama, he blurted his earliest misunderstanding, his voice so plaintive an imitation of his childhood self I almost leaped out of my chair and asked him where it scratched.
The two of us were sitting in the living room of his Mediterranean house in Hollywood, the house in which I grew up and where my father now lived alone. During my boyhood, the room had been used to receive my parents’ guests, a progressively rarer occurrence over the forty years of their marriage, and especially since my mother’s death. The pillows, as always, were plumped, if musty. Knickknacks lined the shelves of the breakfront. A broad mahogany coffee table gleamed at our knees. This was the largest room in the house, its acoustics muted by wall-to-wall shag, the once-white fiber aging into ivory.
Itch it. Eighty years had passed since he made that jumbled plea to his parents, but when he tilted his head in recollection, sunlight from the bay window glinted in his horn-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes lit with the expectation that his need was about to be relieved—all it would take was accommodating fingers. I could almost feel his prickling skin and see him arch his back like a cat.
“But what you’d meant to say was, ‘I itch, scratch it’?”
“Of course that’s what I meant to say! I was just a kid, for Christ’s sake. I got the words all turned around.”
A microphone was propped atop the coffee table, and I nudged it closer to where he sat. I couldn’t ask my father a question without his taking it as a challenge. He’d rightly have said the same of me. For as long as I could remember, our communication had been a series of defensive reflexes. No scholar could interpret a text with more care than we’d devoted to parsing each other’s remarks, searching for words that might be tinged with insult. I didn’t mean you look tired in a bad way. I heard you the first time. What’s with the face? Such was the idiom in which we spoke. Not surprising, we didn’t speak often, and when we did, it wasn’t for long.
I’d been raised to assume that my father’s history was a place forever out of bounds, a mythical city. His refusal to mention his past was as elemental as his olive skin, as inbred as his restlessness, as certain as his gloom at the first drops of rain. My father wouldn’t talk. Oh, he rambled all right, joked and cajoled, but talk it was not. He blustered about the price of gas. He rhapsodized about the steak he ate for dinner, where it fell on the spectrum from rare to well done. But for all his chatter, he remained aloof. It was almost as if he hadn’t existed before I was born, as if his history began the moment I perceived him, a blurry face floating above my crib and cooing musical nonsense. I’d lain there wide-eyed and made him happen, and so he was mine as much as I was his.
A tirelessly inquisitive kid, I’d often asked about his life before me. Where had he grown up? How had he met my mother? What did my three older brothers, Robert, Ronald, and Richard, do for fun when they were my age? He’d answer without elaboration—Atlantic City…. At a friend’s apartment…. Horse around—his terseness a warning that I’d have to content myself with whatever tidbits he parceled out. My father wasn’t evasive so much as skilled at the illusion of candor. You asked, he answered. He routinely used the fewest words. Further questions were impertinent.
Our current conversation was more of the same.
“What other things do you remember from when you were little?”
“Taffy.”
“Taffy?”
“Salt
water taffy.”
“Tell me more.”
His expression said, Taffy is taffy, for Christ’s sake. What’s to tell? He was dressed in a khaki polyester jumpsuit, the official uniform of his retirement. The zipper ran from neck to crotch, enabling him to slip in and out of it with a minimum of effort, like a quick-change artist who donned the same costume again and again. The position of the zipper served as a barometer of his mood. When tugged low, it exposed a gold chain nestled in his silver chest hair. My father had an eye for the ladies, and he, in turn, gave them something to see: a wedge of tanned and manly skin. When pulled high, the zipper signaled his wish to withdraw, to go about his business unnoticed, the khaki fabric a camouflage that allowed him to merge with the background. That day in his living room, the jumpsuit was zipped as high as it would go.
He leaned forward in the wing chair and cleared his throat. “It was delicious, that taffy. Sticky and sweet. I bought it on the Atlantic City boardwalk. They made it with ocean water, which they got right there from the beach. In buckets, or something. That’s why they called it ‘saltwater’ taffy. Now do you see?” He stared intently at the tape recorder while he spoke, as if the machine was not only recording the things he said but listening. When his hearing aid suddenly shrieked with feedback, he fiddled with its tiny dial until the sound sputtered and finally died. Then he blinked at me, speechless.
“Anything else?” I hadn’t quite figured out how to narrow down my questions, how to prod him on. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. What I didn’t know about my father could have filled a book.
The idea to write a book about him had been suggested a few days earlier by an editor at a publishing house in New York. She phoned me at home one afternoon, introduced herself, and said she’d come across an essay I’d written about my father in a small literary review, one of my first appearances in print. She asked if I’d read a recent best-selling memoir about a writer’s relationship with his father, and when I told her I had, she proposed I write a version of that book for her. “But with your dad,” she added as an afterthought, “instead of his.”
It worried me that this editor (I hadn’t yet published a book, and like a duckling that follows the first thing it sees, I’d begun to think of her as my editor) had such a definitive vision of the final product. Was what she really wanted this other author’s book, but typed by me? She sensed my hesitation and tried to entice me with her blithe tone. I’ll provide the front and back cover, she seemed to be saying. All you have to do is hand me the pages! Then came the flattery, which worked like a charm since I react to praise of any kind with a Pavlovian devotion to the person pouring it on. At some point money was mentioned—not all that much, but a larger sum than I’d ever dreamed of being able to earn from my writing and one that I pictured piled before me, a mound of cash.
I wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t sure whether I could coax from my father enough stories, anecdotes, hazy recollections, or random chat to carry on a dinner conversation, let alone fill an entire book. How could I write a book about a man whose mystery was ever-present, whose mystery confirmed his being as a shadow confirms the person who casts it? What if trying to write it only revealed how little I knew, less a biography than a chronicle of noncommunication? What if I began it but couldn’t finish? By saying yes, I’d probably end up proving to my father that his son was a bungler, undeserving of his trust all along. No wonder he hadn’t shared very much! Not knowing about him was my fault!
“Are we thinking it over?” the editor asked excitedly.
“Are we ever,” I said.
On the other hand, it would be foolish to refuse her offer because … well, because money was involved, but also because the rest of my family was gone forever and Dad was all I had left, though I wasn’t sure what constituted “all.” Or “Dad” for that matter. I knew so little about him that I wasn’t even sure what I didn’t know. It bothered me that I was more familiar with the personal history of a local TV station’s silver-haired newscaster after reading a profile about him in the Sunday paper (his parents came from Ireland and he majored in journalism at UC San Diego) than I was with the personal history of the man who raised me, ate at our table, paid our utility bills, and slept in the same bed as my mother. Were we father and son, I sometimes wondered, or merely strangers who answered to those terms? Writing the book would require us to spend time together for a series of interviews, and if I posed the questions just so, these forums for measured revelation, with their civil rules of back and forth, might be just what I needed to get to know him.
I told her I’d give it a try.
The next day I called my father and explained that a publisher in New York wanted me to write a book about him. Writing was a hobby as far as he was concerned, a fine if inexplicable pastime like jigsaw puzzles or model planes. He believed I’d someday give up my literary ambition and “find myself,” which is to say find myself working at a legitimate job. I’d been teaching freshman composition at a local college for five years, and when I first told him that my course load consisted of three classes a week, his eyebrows bunched together and he said, “You only work three days a week?” In fact, I had two classes on the same day, so I was on campus two days a week—a clarification I didn’t make. I considered explaining how much time I spent preparing lectures and grading stacks of exhaustingly foggy essays and how difficult it sometimes was to see the novels and poems and short stories I loved become little more than tributaries draining into the Mighty Syllabus. But there would have been no point in arguing. Nothing short of building a pyramid with my bare hands would have struck my father as a line of work more strenuous than his own. This might have been understandable had he worked on an assembly line or a construction crew and found his son’s bookishness lazy and effete, but we’re talking about a lawyer who’d glided downtown each weekday morning in a white Cadillac, his fingernails buffed to a high gloss, his briefcase embossed with interlocking letters, ESC, for Edward Samuel Cooper. My father worked hard, and I saw in our occupations a number of similarities—rows of books lining our shelves, hours spent presenting a story—whereas he saw none.
“The publisher might pay me good money,” I told him. I thought the financial angle would make a good impression, though the “might,” I realized at once, had been a strategic mistake, proof of my dubious business sense.
“When did you want to stop by?” he asked.
And that was that. Not, Who’s the publisher? or, Why a book about me, of all people? Not even, How much money do you think you might make? His sheer incuriousness could be infuriating, but I wasn’t about to alienate my subject by getting angry at him, at least not before I’d extracted a few anecdotes and cashed the check for my phantom advance. We made a date for the following day. Three P.M. sharp.
In all fairness to my father, I have to admit that I was also relieved by his lack of curiosity because it meant I didn’t have to tell him about my essay in the literary review. In it I’d mentioned—alluded to, really—his marital infidelities, and I didn’t think his anger would be appeased by my trying to explain that (1) I hadn’t written about him to air a grievance, or (2) I took it as a rule of human nature that sexual longing propels people in all sorts of unexpected, not to mention extramarital, directions, or (3) the tone in which I portrayed him was sympathetic and forgiving. He didn’t need my sympathy or my forgiveness, and I wasn’t up to an elaborate fan dance of self-justification.
The truth, or one sedimentary layer of it, was that my father didn’t know I knew about his various affairs. Worse, if he asked me how I’d found out about them, I’d either have to make up an excuse or tell him that I’d learned of them one day when I came home from high school. I stepped through the back door to find my mother standing in the middle of the kitchen, waving above her head what appeared to be a white flag. She muttered what sounded like, “He’s a heel,” or, “He’ll get his.” I set my schoolbooks on the counter and walked closer, resisting the impulse to touc
h her because she seemed too feral to be consoled. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, but she still wore the bathrobe she’d put on that morning, balls of Kleenex stuffed in a pocket. Without saying a word, she thrust toward me what I realized wasn’t a white flag after all but a pair of my father’s boxer shorts. I took them automatically, as if I’d been handed a glass of milk. Then she folded her arms across her chest. The bearer of a terrible patience, she waited to see what I’d say or do.
I rubbed my thumb across the cloth, assessing it by touch as I’d seen her do with bolts of fabric. The cotton had been thinned by frequent bleaching. The elastic waistband had lost its snap. With those observations, I’d pretty much exhausted every detail of my father’s boxers, except for the obvious blotch my mother alleged was lipstick. I finally forced myself to examine it while keeping my expression as blank as I could. The stain was reddish (though the popular shades of lipstick at the time were tropical pinks and orangy corals) and not so definitively kiss-shaped that it could be interpreted, beyond a doubt, as an imprint of lips. It streaked across the placket toward the crotch, a sight as otherworldly as a comet. I’d long ago realized that my parents must have had sex at least four times during their marriage because they gave birth to me and my three brothers, but I couldn’t bring myself to picture them doing the deed, which would have made it hard to look at them ever again without picturing it. I found it easier, relatively speaking, to imagine an unfamiliar woman performing oral sex on my father, because she’d be a faceless stranger instead of my mother, whose hazel eyes were bright with fury, her hot breath wafting toward me.
Studying my father’s underwear in her company seemed too odd and intimate an occurrence to actually be happening. Light seeped through the kitchen windows, dimming into that nameless phase between late afternoon and early dusk. The wall clock ticked. The refrigerator shuddered. Cotton spilled over my open hands. I felt as if I’d entered a dream—my mother’s or mine, it was hard to tell—in which a taboo had been dredged from the unconscious. I had to gather the will to speak, carefully, the way one gathers shattered glass. When I suggested, half in earnest and half to get the whole thing over with, that it might not be lipstick at all but strawberry jam, my mother kept repeating, “Strawberry jam?” She wanted someone—even her son—to verify the evidence and share her outrage.
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