On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I waited for Dad on the sidewalk across the street from the Highlander. When he pulled up in his old Ford LTD, with its FCT vanity plate, I slid into the passenger seat. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and he looked terrible. He’d missed a spot shaving, and his skin had the pallor of somebody who was seriously ill.
The last time I’d been to the House, Dad told me that Donald had agreed to let us have my birthday party in one of the small ballrooms at the Grand Hyatt. (This had been my mother’s idea.) The Hyatt was a new hotel in midtown the success of which was being attributed—by Donald, his father, and a gullible New York media—to Donald, even though the only reasons it had been possible in the first place were my grandfather’s deep pockets and even deeper connections to New York politicos.
I was shocked not only by Dad’s appearance but also by how nervous he seemed. I knew he was there to give me my birthday present, but I didn’t understand why he’d made this special trip, or why I had to meet him in the car like this. I was going to see him at the party, which was less than a week away, but he said he’d come to me and it wouldn’t take long.
At the time, I was just starting to get into photography. I’d bought an Olympus OM-2 a few months earlier. I had asked my mother for an Olympus telephoto lens for my birthday, but I hadn’t gotten it and assumed that was the end of it. The party was my big present.
Somehow, Dad knew better than to put my gift in a brown paper bag this time. He simply reached behind my seat and handed me the box. Here was the lens I had asked for, but a different brand. I’d done my research, so I knew one difference was the price—the one he gave me was significantly cheaper.
Before I could say anything, Dad tried to make his case. “Your mom told me you wanted the Olympus lens. I went to the camera store to ask about it, and they told me that that’s a great lens, but they also recommended this one.” He glanced over at me to get my reaction, but I looked down at my hands and didn’t respond.
“The other one is like a BMW and this one is a Mercedes. They’re both equally good.” He lit a cigarette and his hand shook. He sounded desperate, and I hated him for it. I opened the car door and said, “Sure, Dad. Thanks for this.” I waved the box sarcastically at him as I left the car and slammed the door.
My ability to be kind had finally short-circuited. I abandoned all expectations, becoming impervious to disappointment. When Dad didn’t show up, I was relieved. As his moods got darker and more dangerous, I didn’t flinch. When he seemed hopeless and beyond everything, I didn’t care. I was ashamed of him and hoped he’d stay away. If he humiliated or scared me, I laughed it off.
I became cold and hard and utterly unlike myself.
Dad was wearing his madras blazer. His white shirt was crisp, and his black tie perfectly straight. There was a small cluster of round tables around the dance floor of the small Grand Hyatt party room, and he sat at one of them by himself, his legs crossed, smoking cigarette after cigarette, a check made out to Donald for renting us the space sitting on the table in front of him. Donald walked in, expansive about his new hotel, crowing about the fixtures to a roomful of teenagers who couldn’t have cared less. He swanned around as if it were his grand opening, as if he were the host.
I paid no attention. It was the best birthday party I’d ever had. I didn’t even notice when Dad left.