What started out as a breathtaking memoir soured over the hundreds of pages that didn’t quite live up to the beginning, which had been so good that I read it aloud to a bemused hearer who feigned interest. The beginning paints a picture of a sunny day when death is the furthest thing from his mind, then leads you down a false trail where you think that the narrator’s son has died in an automobile accident with his 90-year-old grandmother at the wheel. But no, while death is in the air, it comes in the form of a phone call announcing the writer’s father’s death:
“We had been drinking rum… My wife’s brother-in-law John was called to the telephone… John returned to the terrace… I walked down that terrace to learn which of my boys was dead… John said: ‘Your father is dead.’ And I said: ‘Thank God.'”
The rest of the book purports to explain this reaction, to soften the blow. We learn that Duke, the father, was a con man, lying his way through decades of life, making up a Yale education, pretending not to be Jewish, scamming merchants and frequently fleeing town with creditors at his heels. Very Catch Me If You Can, but instead of feigning to be a doctor or pilot he became an aerospace engineer and worked on the bombing planes that delivered the end of WWII. These Duke-focused tales are actually quite good, but the author insists on his own position in the story, inserts himself. I yawned at his extended descriptions of boarding school and racing boats. Only when the end was nigh did my attention get re-engaged, when Duke is jailed in California and the author sending checks back.
Intriguingly, he mentions his father having a wooden suitcase that when unfolded became a boat that he paddled around the harbor in Martha’s Vineyard.