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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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The Bill
From My Father by Bernard Cooper |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Approval All children look to parents for
approval, and most receive it. Bernard Cooper’s father, Edward, was a
different kind of father. In his memoir, The Bill
From My Father, Cooper tells his family stories, and readers become
involved in lives that are unusual, to say the least. Thanks to Cooper’s fine
writing, the underlying pain in the book becomes tempered. Bernard never
stops loving his father, and in many ways, never stops looking for approval,
despite Edward’s frustrating behavior. One comes away wondering how Edward
would have written the story. Here’s an excerpt, from the beginning of the
chapter titled, “Winner Take Nothing,” pp. 121-127: When I received word
informing me that my first book had been chosen for the PEN Ernest Hemingway
Award, I held the letter in trembling hands while the following thoughts, in
precisely this order, shot through my head: 1. I won the Ernest
Hemingway Award! 2. I don’t deserve it. 3. My father’s heard of
Ernest Hemingway! I ran a couple of laps
around the house, elated not just because of the letter, but because I
remembered seeing a hardback volume of The
Snows of Kilimanjaro and Other Stories on the shelves in my father’s
upstairs hail. Perhaps the book had belonged to one of my brothers, or was
left behind by Anna. In any case, a book by the award’s namesake was shelved
right there in Dad’s very own home library, which would, as far as he was
concerned, lend credence to the whole affair. I had to admit that my
father had managed perfectly well without literature for the past eighty—six
years, and I had no illusions that writing, especially mine, could enrich his
life. He sometimes read Consumer
Reports, but largely, I think, to sustain through retirement the image he
had of himself as a citizen with buying power. His primary reading material
was TV Guide, a map by which he and
Betty navigated nights in front of the Sony console, watching Wheel of Fortune, followed by the
healings of Reverend Benny Hinn. In the few
instances I told him I’d had something published in a magazine or literary
review, the first question he asked was, “How much they pay you?” I suppose
he thought “they” were a faceless jury, twelve arbiters of taste. Imagine
telling a man who keeps his cash in a gold money clip shaped like a dollar
sign that, after working on a piece of writing for months, you’ve been
compensated with a complimentary copy of the publication. “You’re kidding,”
he’d say, shaking his head as if I’d been duped in a shell game. Over time, I’d cultivated a certain temperance when sharing literary news with my
father. I’d come to consider it unfortunate, but not devastating, that he was
unable to recognize the arc—or was it the bump?—of my career. Still, I ached
to have him slap me on the back, wanted to hear his unstinting praise, and in
it the honeyed pronouncement: son. Toward this end, I’d once
given him something of mine to read. I chose a brief reminiscence about my
mother, who had once dreamed of writing a book into which she’d pack every
anecdote she could recall, starting with her immigration from Days went by. Weeks.
Months. In all the times we saw each other or spoke on the phone, he never
mentioned reading it, and pride prevented me from coming right out and
asking. If it hadn’t been for a chokingly potent vodka tonic I drank when we
met for dinner one night at the Brass Pan, I may not have asked him to this
day. “Hey, Dad. You’ve never
mentioned the essay I wrote about Mom.” He peered at me over his bifocals. In
the dim light of the restaurant, he looked anything but adversarial. “Well,”
he sighed, “what can I tell you? You wrote down your opinion.” I stirred the booze with a
swizzle stick and took another swig. My father wasn’t the first
person I called about the award (I reached Brian during his break between
clients, and then made short work of my address book), but when I dialed
Dad’s number and told him the news, his “Oh” was as round and buoyant as a
bubble. In my excitement, however,
I’d overlooked one crucial hitch: now that it had been deemed worthy by a
panel of judges, my father might decide to read the book—specifically the
passage where I mentioned his affairs while married to my mother. If only I’d
used a pseudonym or the putty nose of fiction, but the man was unmistakable,
the ink completely dry. Sure enough, once my father
learned of the award, he phoned several local bookstores and, to my relief,
was told that my book, which had been in print for several months, had sold
out. Little did he know that the bookstores had ordered only a couple of
copies in the first place, one or both of which had been bought by my
friends. I wasn’t about to disabuse him of the idea that my fame was a wave that
swept through the city, washing my work from the shelves. I told him the
publisher was planning another print run that would be available after the PEN ceremony in A few days later my father
and I were talking on the phone about my plan to buy a suit for the big
night, and though it usually made me bristle when he gave unsolicited advice,
I listened with pleasure to his description of the dress code that prevailed
in the courtroom, and to his suggestion that I try a men’s store downtown I
was sure had long ago gone out of business. “Listen,” he said, “we’ll fly to I didn’t know what to say.
Without Betty there to monitor his diet and medications, the responsibility
for his well-being would fall to me, and I didn’t want to be encumbered. Not
on this trip. Besides, Brian had booked our flights and hotel room weeks ago. “Nothing could make me
happier than knowing you’re proud of me,” I told him, “but I’m only going to
be in After I stopped talking, I
gave my little speech high marks; it had been a good mixture of respect and
autonomy. But the longer he remained silent, the more aware I became of the
telephone’s static, a sound growing vast, oceanic. “Dad?” “Fine,” he said. “If that’s
what you want.” Brian gave me his window
seat as soon as we reached cruising altitude. I thought that looking out the
window might make me less claustrophobic, but no matter where I sat, the
plane seemed to stay aloft solely because of my death grip on the armrests.
When panic finally gave way to the Valium I’d taken twenty minutes before
takeoff, my hands and feet grew rubbery, the view of earth abstract. Once we were inside the
terminal at JFK, it finally dawned on me that I’d survived the flight to
receive an award. Luggage spilled onto a carousel. Sunlight burned through a
bank of windows and warmed the glaring terrazzo floor. Outside, people
swarmed toward a fleet of cabs and were whisked away to meetings and
reunions. Possibility charged the air, dense, electric. In my happiness I turned
to Brian and faced my father. At first I thought I might
be drugged or dreaming, though by then, only the mildest trace of Valium
remained in my system. I looked at him and couldn’t speak. The entire busy
terminal contracted to a point the size of his face. Was he omnipresent like
Santa Claus or God? Dad looked back and blithely smiled. “Surprise,” he said. “How . . . ?“ I sputtered. “Your plane. I went first
class.” Suddenly I understood that
all the questions he’d asked about the details of my trip—time of departure,
name of the airline— questions I’d interpreted as paternal concern, were part
of a perfectly executed plan. Brian, who at first had
been as stunned as I, rushed in to fill the conspicuous silence. He shook my
father’s hand. “Are you staying at our hotel?” he asked. I recalled with a start
that Brian had booked rooms at a gay bed-and-breakfast. “I’m at the “Bernard!” shouted Brian,
dashing after me. “Share a ride?” my father shouted. I didn’t look back. The cab rattled like an
earthquake, the driver barely missing other vehicles as he swerved from lane
to lane. If this Caddy had another coat
of paint, my father liked to say after a close call, we would have been in an accident! He could be funny my father,
which made me a heel for leaving him at the airport. But he’d gone ahead and
followed me to Once we settled into our
hotel room, with the faux hominess of its antique furniture and
antimacassars, I took a shower and tried to gather my thoughts. Pelted by hot
water, I returned to what was left of my senses and began to worry that I’d
acted rashly Had I been a different person, I might have poked my father in
the ribs and teased him for being a stubborn coot. But in order to be a
different person I’d have to have been raised by a different dad. The one I
had was an old Jewish genie who materialized wherever he willed and granted
any wish—as long as it was his. After changing into fresh
clothes, I called the “We’d better have a talk,
Dad.” “It’s your dime.” “I thought you understood
that I wanted to do this on my own.” “Fine. I’ll pack up my
goddamn bags and go home.” “No. I want you to stay now that you’re here. I’m just trying to explain
why I reacted the way I did at the airport.” “So now you explained it.
Is that what you wanted to talk about?” There had to be more. In
the shower, I’d rehearsed ways to tell him that his surprise was an intrusion
disguised as kindness, a success usurped. But now, I couldn’t recall what
I’d wanted to say, or why each of us always found it so important to win the
other’s capitulation. After all was said and done, my father had come here
because he was proud of me. “We’ll have lunch
tomorrow,” he said. The title of The Bill
From My Father refers to an itemized statement that Bernard received from
his father billing him for his upbringing, at a cost of two million dollars. No
matter what relationship you have had with your father, The Bill
From My Father will tell you about unusual lives and extraordinary
behavior that would never be believed in a novel. Steve Hopkins,
March 23, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the April 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Bill From My Father.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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