The Old Man in the Club (11 page)

“I didn't ask you to try to protect them,” Lucy said. “I have said all along to tell them the truth about why we got divorced. They deserve that. It's been
you
that has insisted they don't know.”

“That's not why I called you,” he said. “I called to see if you had any idea how I could make some headway with
our
kids.”

“Don't date their friends,” Lucy said. “That's one way.”

Understanding she would provide little help, Elliott said, “Okay, thanks. Take care,” and hung up.

He had learned how to deal with anger over the years, which was hard to do coming out of prison when he should not have been there. He developed his own method, which required him sitting back with his eyes closed and praying. He thanked God for protecting him and sparing him and asked for patience.

After that call with Lucy, he put down his drink. He leaned back
in the chair, clasped his hands together on his lap and closed his eyes.

“God, bring calm over me now,” he prayed. “Protect me from myself, from my past, from my flaws. Deliver me to a place of peace. Quiet the noise in me. Settle my emotions…”

He remained in that posture for several minutes. It was only broken by his need to go to the bathroom. But he had unburdened himself. Praying always worked for him. He stopped praying for what he called “big things” after he was freed from prison. “God has done more than enough for me,” he told Danette. “I used up my ‘big things,' and that's all right. It would seem selfish to ask for big things after he protected me in that place and got me out.”

He quickly learned that the “little things” are needed more often than the “big things,” and so calling on God was a frequent thing. This prayer made him feel more at ease, more focused.

He was eager to get to Dr. Nottingham for some advice on how to proceed. He had an appointment in two days, Tuesday, so after he had some time to mull it all over, Elliott decided to go with his original plan: To have them over for dinner before they went back to college to let them know how important it was to be a family and for them to communicate better and more frequently.

Elliott knew he could handle that part of an evening with his children. But as soon as one of them asked, “Are you dating Tamara?” the potential for reconciliation would evaporate like rain under an incendiary sun.

He had to prepare an answer that was not a lie, but one that also did not portray him as an old man hanging out in clubs seeking young women. He was good with words and had a good mind—he read more than two hundred books while in prison. He called his boy, Henry, who deceived the mother of his young son for years
before finally telling her the truth of his multiple affairs, which ended their relationship.

“You have experience with crisis management and deception—I'm sorry, I can't think of another word right now,” Elliott said. “How do I bring my kids back into my life without getting into dating younger women? Is that even possible?”

“You're asking the wrong guy,” Henry said. “I was the guy, remember, who came clean, who aired all my laundry to get that burden off of me. It cost me my marriage, but that's what I needed to stop feeling like a hypocrite—and to do right by my wife.”

“Well, I just thought that because you deceived her for so long you could help me with that,” Elliott said. He knew it sounded crazy seconds after he said it.

“Let me back up,” he said, trying to clean it up. “I need you to help me figure out the best way to get my relationship with my kids back on course.”

“You don't want to hear this, but the best bet probably is to tell them what they want to know—the truth about why you got divorced,” Henry said. “You said that's what your son continues to harp on. Maybe if you came clean, they would accept things and move on.”

“That might be the answer,” Elliott said, “or it might cause more problems. They might start asking for specifics and that opens up more wounds.”

“Your kids are twenty; they aren't eight,” Henry said. “At some point you have to trust that they will deal with stuff as adults. Maybe they'll say, ‘Thanks, Dad,' hug you and move on. Think about me being up front with you and how you received that.”

Henry gave Elliott something to consider. He had given up on worrying after his long prison stint and instead focused on the beauty of life, the beauty of freedom. But he worried about his
kids and his relationship with them. The longer the rift went on, the wider the gap would grow.

Elliott called his daughter. She was upset with him, but she also held a soft spot for her daddy. She could be the key in a reconciliation. But she did not answer her phone, so he left a message:

“Danielle, sweetheart, it's your dad. Please call me as soon as you get this message. It's important.”

A few minutes later, he received a text message from his son, Daniel. It read: “Do us a favor and leave us alone.”

Elliott's heart sunk. But then he got angry. He called Daniel. “Let me tell you something, boy, I don't care how angry you think you are at me, that'd better be the last time you get out of line with me.”

“I wasn't out of line,” Daniel said. “I was just saying what we want.”

“I didn't text you; I called your sister,” Elliott said. “If you want to be that way, then be that way. But don't corrupt your sister. She can think for herself.”

“You broke up our family,” Daniel said. “She knows that much and she's not happy about it.”

“So you're her spokesperson now?” Elliott said. “Son, there's no way you can go on with all this anger in your heart. It's not healthy and it's not right. I love our family more than you can know—”

“So why did you mess it up by cheating?” Daniel asked.

“There's so much I want to say right now, but it is all beside the real point,” Elliott said. “Here's the real point: I love you. I raised you and we were close. To be as we are now does not make sense. You know my story. You know what I overcame. Life is short. Do you want to spend it mad at your father?”

“You're giving me answers, Dad, but they aren't the answers we need,” Daniel said.

“I want to see you two before you go back to school,” Elliott said. “We have to talk.”

“We'll see,” Daniel said.

“No, you won't see,” Elliott said. “It's happening. And I will let you know when. The kid gloves are off. I've tried to ease my way around this with you. No more. I'm the father and I don't care how old you are, you do what I say.”

“That sounds good in theory,” Daniel responded. “But you can't make me do anything anymore. The day you walked out of our house was the day you ended that privilege.”

“I didn't stop being your father, so it didn't end and it will never end,” Elliott said. “You talk this trash, but you're certainly taking my money for room and board and my money that's in your pockets. So, I don't want to hear you talking like you're this grown, independent person because if I pulled the plug on your housing and money, what would you do then?”

Daniel didn't respond.

“See you and Danielle at my house this Saturday at eight o'clock,” Elliott said. “Come hungry because I'm cooking.”

Then he hung up the phone and smiled to himself.

E
lliott regained his energy over the course of a few days and was excited about going out to Del Frisco's Grill in Buckhead for drinks on Thursday. He'd learned through the many e-mail promotions he subscribed to that there would be an event there featuring one of the
Real Housewives of Atlanta
.

He found the show to be silly and mind-numbing, but he knew the event would attract a crowd. He counted that he had been dealing consistently with four women and sleeping with two (Tamara and a thirty-two-year-old named Rita) but decided he had room for more. He always sought more.

Elliott called one of his peers, fifty-eight-year-old Vincent, a mechanic originally from outside of Birmingham, to join him at the event. “Man, I told you I'm not messing with those young girls,” he said. “All they looking for is someone to buy them dinner and drinks. I ain't got it like that.”

“I'll pay for the drinks,” Elliott said. “Just come out and do something different.”

“You tryna turn me into you?” Vincent said. “Ain't but one you, that I know of. When you want to go to Ellery's or some place like that, you let me know. I'm all in.”

Ellery's was a down-home place in Southwest Atlanta where folks had a good time and did not wear airs. They were real and
fun and most of them dropped the sophistication at the door, if they had it at all. Elliott was a regular there years back, but when his interest turned to younger women, he needed to be somewhere else.

So, Elliott went to Del Frisco's alone. He executed his plan ideally: got there early enough to commandeer a seat at the head of the downstairs bar, which would give him a view of both sides of the room and everyone who entered the restaurant. Also, there was an area where most people gathered to talk near the bar, and he was right there, too.

He gave up heavy drinking decades before, so he took to the wine list and decided on an Oregon Pinot Noir called Alexana. By heavy drinking, he meant consuming so much that he was sloppy drunk and unable to remember much of the night. He'd have an occasional Scotch, but turned to wine on most occasions.

Elliott watched as the people came in, one-by-one, and he was in total bliss. He truly loved to people-watch. Although he had been released from prison twenty-nine years earlier, remnants of it remained in him, in one fashion or another, and he fought to counter them.

In this case, one of the ways to affirm his freedom was to sit back and watch people function as free people. For twelve years, he watched people move and do as they were told. “Those kinds of limitations stick with you,” he told his therapist. “So I have to do things that take me away from that time and place.”

His bar seat was the place to be that night. The crowd flowed like late-night traffic, and Elliott was in the middle of it all. He had his eyes on the hostess, a tall and sexy woman named Mary. They chatted briefly on a few occasions, and her sophistication and genuine nature attracted him. It did help, too, that she had a
captivating body that worked well with her short-short natural haircut and infectious smile.

But Mary was working, so his attention spanned the room. Television cameras and photographers came in and captured the so-called celebrities that came through. The crowd had to shift to make room for that scene, which pushed Stacy literally up against Elliott.

“I'm sorry,” she said as she bumped into him. “It got crowded in here so fast.”

“It's okay,” Elliott said. In a nanosecond he surveyed her body. That's all it took. He learned in prison that staring was not a good thing, so he taught himself to process whatever was in front of him in an instant, almost like speed reading.

Stacy had dark eyes and a smile that spoke to you. It said, “I'm here.” Her breasts were plump and round in the deep-cut top she wore, and the large dangling earrings accentuated her roundish face and short hair with streaks of blond that indicated she was bold and daring.

“Your smile woke me up,” Elliott told her. “I wasn't actually falling asleep. But it gave me energy.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stacy said. “Well, what can I say? Energy is my middle name. My first name is Stacy.”

“I'm Elliott,” he said, extending his hand. “I bet you like margaritas, Stacy, and mojitos. And martinis. I see you on a beach, with sunglasses on, relaxing with something cold and refreshing in your hand.”

“I like how you see things,” she said.

“I'm ordering another glass of wine,” he said. “What can I get you?”

Before she could answer, Elliott rose from his seat.

“You should have a seat,” he said.

“Being a gentleman can get you places,” she said.

“That's a good thing,” he said.

He ordered their drinks and a flatbread. As the crowd loudly socialized around them, Elliott and Stacy shared in their own world.

“You remind me of someone,” Stacy said.

“Please don't say your father or your uncle,” Elliott said.

“Why not? They're good men,” she responded.

“You think that about me and you put me in a box,” he answered. “A box that limits where I can go with you.”

“Well, I was going to say you remind me of a politician or CEO,” she said. “You have a presence.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” he said. “I'm the CEO of me, that's for sure.”

“I hear you,” she said. “What brings you out here tonight? This doesn't look like your crowd.”

“No, it's my crowd,” he said. “Any crowd where people are out, enjoying each other and life is my kind of crowd.”

“How old are you?” Stacy asked, and Elliott liked that. His position was: You want to know, ask.

“I'll be sixty-two in a few months,” he said. “Was that what you were thinking?”

“Honestly, I didn't know, but I felt around fifty or so,” Stacy said. “You've taken good care of yourself.”

“If I don't, who will?” he said. “But thank you. I get my cardio in and try to eat right. I want to enjoy my life as a healthy man, not someone limited because I didn't do what was right for me.”

Before Stacy could respond, her friend, Sophia, emerged from the crowd. She was the anti-Stacy—attractive but pompous, self-centered and demanding.

Stacy introduced them. Sophia said, “Hi,” to Elliott and turned her back to him.

“Come here, Stace,” she said.

Stacy turned around in her barstool. “What's up?”

“Why are you wasting your time talking to this grandfather?” Sophia asked.