Page 3 - FFG Chapter 1.pages
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CHAPTER ONE
hen the phone rang in the New Jersey abode that I shared with my cousin on that fateful day in late December 1987, I was filled with
apprehension and the kind of bewilderment that one experiences in a déjà vu moment. And, yet, I was somehow compelled to answer. On the other end of the line was my father, Malcolm Reybold, minor author and retired ad executive. He had called to ask me to come to visit him at the cottage he was renting at Frost Pond in Nassau County, Long Island.
I am sure that my nervousness and reluctance were notable in my voice as I tried to steer the conversation away in avoidance of accepting his offer. He was persistent, already chiding me, saying, “Surely, you don’t have anything better to do!”
And, in that tone, and in
that manner, laid bare the
dislike and the discomfort
that I had come to possess
for my father, building over the years.
become known as a “hot walker” -- a playboy focused on bilking rich widows out of their inheritances. He maintained friendships due mainly to his affability and gregariousness, his ability to spin yarns that seemed to captivate the unwary at social gatherings. I, however, knew the man beneath this glossy, sociopathic veneer.
“Alright, I’ll come for a short visit!” I was able to at least muster up the courage
to emphasize the word “short”. I didn’t want to be specific about the plans that I might have had -- real or fabricated -- for my father was noted for verbally shredding my life plans; he particularly seemed to enjoy doing so to my face. To me he was a bully, a pompous orator who belittled everything that I ever attempted in life. The last thing that I wanted to do was to spend time with him heralding in the new year, 1988.
In high society New York circles he had
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