Master of Ceremonies: A Memoir (8 page)

Friday-night services at the Westside Jewish Congregation were filled with professional upper-middle-class worshippers, mostly from the cold, windy Eastern cities, who six months earlier had turned the airy Protestant church into a conservative synagogue. The Brentwood congregation, which my family had joined, was nothing like the dark and serious Orthodox shul, Chabad Yerushalaim, in Cleveland where I was bar mitzvahed just days before our moving to LA.

The white stucco Spanish Colonial Revival building, surrounded by beds of bright-orange California poppies, was beautiful, but the real draw of the synagogue was Paul Gold, the charismatic twenty-five-year-old cantor, who captivated everyone. Even Mother, who was never particularly interested in anything Jewish, paid close attention as he cast a spell over the sanctuary while welcoming the Sabbath with a prayer that struck a peculiar combination of joy and melancholy.

After the service, everyone would crowd into the community room in the basement for kosher wine, challah, and rugelach. Reciting the blessings over the wine and bread, adoring members gathered around their cantor, who was tall, dark, handsome—and single. There wasn’t a woman in the room who hadn’t tried to set him up. Everyone agreed: A man who took his job seriously but was also accessible, funny, had killer good looks, was a catch, and then some.

Like everyone else at Westside, I was enthralled with Paul. So when after chatting with my folks for some time, he turned to me and said, “Your mother tells me
you
sing, too,” I felt my cheeks burn with a heady mixture of connection and disbelief. To have this good-looking, sought-after man single out me, some dopey sixteen-year-old, for attention was almost too much to take. My parents looked over at us, beaming over the fact that such a man was showing interest in their talented son!

“If I can ever help you with your singing,” he said, “I’m always here.”

It would have been rude not to take him up on his generous offer. A few days later I came by the WJC after school. He was just leaving but asked me if I’d like to go across the street to have a coffee. “Or is that too grown-up?” he said.

My cheeks started burning again. But over coffee, we talked and laughed with each other easily. He knew a lot about vocal technique and had majored in theater at college.

I stopped by the center for coffee a few times until once, after I walked him to his car, he said, “Get in. I’ll give you a lift.” When we got into the car, we sat there for what seemed like an eternity. I could feel him staring at me but for some reason was afraid to turn my head and meet his gaze. The electricity that had been turned on since the moment I caught his attention during kiddish in the basement of the synagogue was now kicking in. Before I grew uncomfortable, he smiled and put an easy arm around my shoulder. In that moment, when a romantic encounter with him went from a fantasy to a possibility, I became an equal player. Our attraction was mutual. I really wanted this, despite how taboo it was because of his position, age, and gender. And now I knew that he wanted it, too. With my excitement clear, Paul moved the seat that went across the entire front of the car back so that we had more room.

We started spending a lot of time together (slowly my “singing” improved). Despite the danger, we met several times a week, at his place or office, in the car, at the movies, anywhere anonymous or absolutely private. Of course, he always took top priority in my plans. I wanted to be with Paul all the time.

Naturally I kept all the details of our friendship secret; we had to be very careful. Whether a rite of passage in a young person’s growth toward independence or a necessity given the wrath that would be my punishment, I had learned earlier in my life to lie really well to my parents and others about where I was going and whom I was seeing. And so no one ever challenged me or suspected a thing.

I felt completely safe with Paul, so much so that even when he suggested that we go horseback riding at Will Rogers Park in the Santa Monica Mountains I wasn’t terribly concerned. My only experience with horses was being photographed seated on a pony, wearing a redand-white kerchief round my neck, at the age of five. I told Paul that I didn’t ride, but he was very reassuring, explaining that these horses were gentle and besides,
he
was very experienced. “Don’t worry,” he said. And I didn’t worry; I never worried with Paul. While I felt as much connection to Paul as I had with Walter, there was no comparison. Although Walter was older than I, he was still my contemporary. Paul, however, was a figure of authority and experience.

The 186 acres of land overlooking the Pacific Ocean had once been home to the much-loved humorist, vaudeville cowboy, newspaper columnist, and legendary actor but was left to the state by his widow. Paul rented horses for us from the stables, mounting his expertly. With a boost from one of the cowboys at the park, I soon sat tall on a big beautiful horse and pretended all was well, as I often did. I wasn’t exactly relaxed, but I was with Paul, and his confidence was not only reassuring, it boosted my own. After about a half hour, with Paul leading at only a slow trot, we left the trail and went into the more densely wooded area.

Being among the trees with no one else around was like being in a movie. I was starting to enjoy the ride. When we found ourselves in a clearing, we climbed down, and Paul tied the horses to a tree. We got right to setting up the blanket. Even as deep into the woods as we were, there was still the slight chance that we could be discovered. But the risk only heightened the moment. He had hidden a split of champagne in his jacket pocket. While he was tying the horses to a tree, I put my arms around him. Paul turned around and as he began to unbutton my shirt, I opened his belt. Naked atop the blanket, I thought,
So
this
was grown-up passion
, what caring and being cared for felt like.

Our relationship had to be a secret, but I never doubted that it was real. Although I was dating girls at school, Paul became my obsession. With him I was at my most. Not to say I didn’t experience pleasure with girls, but there were just so many more levels to the pleasure I had with Paul. In turn, he was attentive, passionate, and seemingly sincere. So when Linda, a friend from the temple, whispered in confidence to me during Friday-night services that she had a “crush” on Paul, I genuinely felt bad for her. Not that she wasn’t attractive, because she was. In fact, Linda had everything: looks, intelligence, and a wealthy family (her parents were big donors to the synagogue).

Although my dad had become more and more successful as a musician and comedian, you would never consider us well-to-do. During Dad’s lean periods, we moved a lot; all of us once crammed into a one-room apartment over a garage for a few weeks. But Dad finally saved enough for a down payment on a small, pale-green ranch house in the city’s Palms neighborhood. I loved that house on Malcolm Avenue where we had not only had a victory garden but also a fox terrier we named Lulu.

Still, it was nothing compared with Linda’s family and their Beverly Hills mansion. She would pick me up after school sometimes in her white Oldsmobile convertible—all the jocks whistling and shouting catcalls. Whenever the gorgeous nineteen-year-old arrived at the school with the top down, my stock at Hami went way up.

It never occurred to me, though, that Paul would be the least bit interested. She’d go on and on, mooning over him, and planning an attack to win his affections.

And then they started to date.

When I realized that it was really happening, I was stunned and promptly came down with the flu. I didn’t answer the dozens of calls from either of them. Linda thought it was because I was sick, but Paul knew. After a few weeks, I finally took his call; he assured me that nothing had changed. He still loved me—and he wanted to see me despite his new girlfriend. “Yes, I’m seeing her, but you are the most important person in my life,” he said. I understood what he was saying, because being with women was part of my life, too. It was the way of the world. You had to go out with girls to function in society. “Linda is also fond of you,” he added.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to stay away from him, and so our affair became ever more complicated and torturous. Knowing he was with Linda and lying to her, all the while still needing him, was hard. So this was grown-up love.

Their romance, which was the talk of West LA, quickly became serious.

“Paul and Linda. Aren’t they wonderful together!”

“She has money and beauty, and he’s so intelligent and inspiring.”

“And to think that they fell in love right before our eyes.”

While everyone congratulated themselves on the wonderful news, I was stunned—betrayed and confused. How was this possible? And yet, just as when I had left Walter behind in Cleveland, there was no one to turn to, no one to tell. The times, my age, Paul’s profession, and his own need to remain closeted all meant that I had to suffer in silence. To whom could I even tell such a thing? Isolation was a terrible by-product of keeping secrets. When they announced their wedding, slated to be a big social event of the season, I thought,
If they only knew
.

Not long after they were married, Linda called to ask if I would join them for dinner. At Musso & Frank in Hollywood, the three of us shared one of the booths in the restaurant’s dark wood interior. When we finished the meal, it was still early. Paul, excited about a new Horowitz recording, suggested that we all go back to their apartment to listen to it. At their place, he put on the record before disappearing into the kitchen. He reemerged with champagne to celebrate the three of us being together again. He toasted to how much we all loved one another, and we drank to being friends forever.

Paul was a little overly solicitous and exuberant, but I assumed it was discomfort over my being in the presence of his new wife. He lowered the lights. “A little mood lighting for Mr. Horowitz,” he said, sliding in between Linda and me on the couch and putting an arm around each of us.

It took about three sips for the champagne to go to my head. The notes of the Chopin etude tripped along warm air. This wasn’t so bad. Then, he turned his face toward mine and kissed me. Linda might have been as surprised as I was; I had no idea, because I stared straight ahead and didn’t dare look anywhere near her direction for a reaction. Then it was my turn to be surprised when Paul turned to kiss her. Paul, our cantor, her husband, my lover, started to undress Linda while I sat there and watched. The whole thing was so mixed up that it went way past shock. Paul, taking my hand and putting it on Linda’s breast, set into motion a scenario that I willingly went along with. The last thing I wanted to be around Paul was an unsophisticated kid. When it was all over, I realized I’d better get home. I had school the next day and hadn’t studied for a math test. Someone drove me home. I don’t remember who.

After that night I no longer saw or heard from Paul or Linda. I stopped going to services (whenever my parents asked if I was coming I found myself busy). The shame of what we had done together was too great for me to face, and I assumed that the same was true for them. About four months after our night together, though, Linda showed up at school. She still had the white convertible, but when she came this time the top was up. “I can’t any … more,” she told me, her eyes red from crying. “He’s started bringing guys home, strangers and … I just can’t.” While we were sitting in the car, Linda explained to me how she had told her parents everything; they wanted to get her an annulment and drive Paul out of town. I realized her position was not unlike mine. Having someone you love so much quickly become someone else is terrifying.

But then, behind the wheel of her Oldsmobile, Linda told me something that took my breath away. Her lawyer, who was acting quickly, spoke about naming me as a co-respondent. Hearing this was perhaps the most frightening moment of my life. My heart didn’t just sink; it plummeted. It was a problem I was not only far too young to handle, it was also something without precedent, something I couldn’t have imagined in my worst nightmares. One thing I knew for certain: My life was over. But the worst part was that I was going to take my family down with me. A story so sordid and sensational would surely be picked up by the press, and then the whole town would know that Mickey Katz, a rising and beloved star in the music scene, had raised a lowlife deviant. Everything Dad had worked so hard for, down the drain because of me. The Sisters had been right after all: I was bad.

Telling my parents was the last thing I wanted to do, but having them learn it in the press would have been even worse. After Linda dropped me off, I walked into the house and found Mom doing dishes and Dad practicing. I asked them to come into the living room—I needed to talk to them. By this time I was crying. I was in terrible trouble. I told them the truth about Paul and me, the night with Linda, and now the annulment.

The look that swept across my parents’ faces solidified my guilt into a giant mass pressing down upon my chest, making it hard for me to breathe. The three of us stood there for what seemed forever, stunned by the scope of all of it—this unthinkable, unimaginable nightmare that nevertheless we all were beginning to process as truth. Finally, my dad turned to look at my mom, then at me. But Mother’s eyes never strayed; they bore into me with cold contempt as I wept. I reached out for her, sobbing, “I’m sorry,” but she drew back.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she said. “You disgust me.”

She had hurt me many ways and many times before, but nothing she had ever done or said had even come close to this.

Once my father and I were alone, he put his arm around me without hesitation.

“Let’s go for a ride, sonny,” he said.

After driving around in silence for what seemed like a lifetime, Dad and I both staring straight ahead, he said, “She doesn’t mean it. She’s your mother, she loves you, I know she loves you.” But I knew in that moment life for my mother and I had been forever altered.

The affair fortunately never became public, and I didn’t have to testify. Linda got her annulment and moved on with her life, and Paul disappeared off the face of the Earth. Although I was still living in the same house, going to the same school, wearing the same clothes, my life was changed. My mother had shown me her last act of coldness, and I vowed never to need her again. I had to let her go.