Mother’s stationery, bright yellow with coral lettering, brightened the mail. Her letters stood out from the others like a goldfinch amidst the sparrows.
Packed for California, ready to go, I picked up the mail that had dropped through the mail slot, carefully removing it from underneath Baby Jesus, who craved paper. If you put a postage sump in an empty concert hall she’d sit on the postage stamp.
I opened Mom’s letter first. An obituary fell out for James Gordon Venable, world-class weight lifter and part of the Bob Hoffman team at York Barbell in Pennsylvania.
Mother wrote, “He went to his grave with a secret. This was your father.” She declined to elaborate. I had known she knew who he was all along.
The Venable name, one of the great names of Virginia, sounded lovely even if I couldn’t claim it legitimately. Like all southerners, I knew the great family names: Custis, Valentine and Byrd, to name a few. Nathaniel Venable founded Hampden-Sydney College and Colonel Charles Venable, aide-de-camp to Robert E. Lee, stood by his side at Appomattox. After the war he became a mathematics professor at the University of Virginia. It’s a family with a history of service.
My natural father’s wife survived him, as did a son.
I called York Barbell and talked to John Terpak, an Olympian from 1936 who had worked with Gordon, as he was called. He said everyone had adored Gordon. He was a great guy with a drinking problem. In the end it killed him. His liver gave out. Mr. Terpak wasn’t surprised when I told him I was Gordon’s natural daughter. He remembered Gordon’s troubles in the mid-1940s and he said that’s when his drinking increased. Mr. Terpak said I could drive up and meet him at work.
John Terpak himself was in his seventies. Fit, energetic and handsome, he looked better than most men in their forties. Another great one from that time and group was John Grimek, also a sensational-looking guy who hits the iron just like he did in the old days.
Bob Hoffman was dead by then, as were many of my father’s cronies. Mr. Terpak recalled the days when they all built York Barbell in the depths of the Depression. Gordon, a gifted athlete, boxed, lifted weights and missed the 1936 Olympics by a few pounds. He peaked during the war and by the time the Olympics were reinstituted he was over the hill. Until 1943 he was heavyweight lifting champion of North America.
After his competitive career was over, Gordon edited magazines, notably Strength and Health.
He had wondrous hand-eye coordination. At the risk of bragging, so do I. I come by it honestly.
“You look like Gord” was all that Mr. Terpak said to me.
My father had betrayed his wife and then abandoned my mother. He deserved no credit for either. However physically strong he was, he was weak.
I guess if you’re going to hate people for being weak you’re going to hate most of the world because we’re all weak in some fashion or another, at one time or another.
I prayed for his soul.
I never met my paternal half brother. He and his mother, if she’s still alive, probably don’t know I exist. I suppose if they read this book they’ll know but we’re all too far down the road for it to make much difference.
Mother should have been hit upside the head for her thirty years of lying to me, but her fear that I would ditch her overwhelmed her usual good judgment on the larger emotional issues.
The funny thing is, you’d think I would be the one to fear being ditched. I called Mother and told her what I’d learned.
“He was thirty. Juliann was eighteen. He should have known better.”
“Did anyone talk to her?”
“You try talking to someone in love. Nothing you can do but let them learn the hard way.”
“Guess they both did.”
“He got off scot-free.”
“Who knows, Mom? Maybe he suffered inside. People cover up pretty good.”
I heard a suspicious puff. “Yeah.”
“Mother, are you smoking again?”
“No” came the not very convincing reply.
“I smoke Montecristos when I can get my hands on them. I can’t say anything.”
“Oh boy, Cuban cigars. Your father loved those cigars.”
“Romeo and Juliet, and when he couldn’t buy a good cigar he contented himself with White Owl.”
“I didn’t like those.” She paused. “You have anything else to tell me?”
“No. Done is done.”
“Yeah, that’s how I look at it.” Another puff. “You got a girlfriend yet?”
“Nope.”
“You aren’t very successful as a gay person, are you?”
“Mother, I haven’t had time.”
“Before it used to be ‘I haven’t the money.’ ”
“Right. I don’t think I can live off love. I’m not getting involved unless I have resources.”
“Got some now.”
“Yeah, but I need the time to establish my career.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
This was a shock. Mother never did anything wrong and if she did she never admitted it.
“I can’t afford to talk on the phone that long.”
“Ha. Ha,” she drily replied.
“I’m not ready.”
“Think all this stuff about Gordon and Juliann set you back? You sure shy away from settling down.”
“No. Anyway, how could it? I didn’t know about Gordon.”
“I don’t want to die and have you alone in the world.”
“You’re too mean to die. I’ve always been alone.”
“You need someone to take care of you.”
“Mother, for God’s sake, that’s the last thing I need. And with my luck, I’ll wind up taking care of someone else. I can’t do that. I have to write.”
“I got those release forms you sent me.”
Harper and Row, my publishers in hardback for Six of One, insisted that Mother and Aunt Mimi sign release forms before they published the book because they feared lawsuits.
I told my editor, Harvey Ginsburg, “Where I come from we don’t use lawyers, we use guns.”
He laughed but insisted the papers must be signed.
“Sign them and send them to Harper and Row,” I told Mother.
“You’d better come down here and we can talk about it.”