Let Love Rule - Lenny Kravitz Page 0,60

the girl’s college tuition, her rent on a Westwood apartment, and the monthly note on her Mercedes. The “girl” was a young Black woman in her early twenties who, ironically, worked at their bank.

When Mom mentioned the Concorde tickets to Paris, she completely lost it. She screamed that he’d been promising to take her to Paris for years, only to learn he had taken a secret trip there with his girlfriend. She was beyond furious.

Instead of begging forgiveness, Dad, in shock, was stone-cold silent. No explanation, no apology, no remorse, no nothing. He was paralyzed.

* * *

Mom stayed strong throughout the ordeal.

Being as private as she was, she told only a couple of friends, who gave her some comfort and support. Regardless of how hurt and mortified she was, her intention had been to somehow still make the marriage work. For Roxie Roker, through love, there was always a solution.

Then she learned something that took that possibility away.

She received an ominous phone call from someone in Las Vegas concerning a large sum of money owed by Dad. Knowing that Dad liked hanging around wiseguys, she reasoned that it was time to cut all ties with him. She was frightened that Dad had possibly put the family in danger. She wanted nothing to do with his gambling debts or anyone looking to collect. She filed for divorce. She wanted distance between him and us. She wanted him out.

She wanted him out so badly, in fact, that as she was saying all this to me, he was in the bedroom packing. When he came into the living room, suitcases in hand, she asked if he had anything to tell his son. Meanwhile, this man still didn’t know that I was the one who’d given Mom the information that had led us to this moment. It was her final hope that he might say something redeeming, an apology. That he would let me know how wrong he had been, so that I, in turn, might learn from his tragic mistakes.

Silence.

At least thirty seconds ticked by. Dad looked away from me. I had no idea what he would say. What could he say? My heart was beating. My throat was dry. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he raised his head and looked me dead in the eyes before saying the words that would haunt me for the rest of my life:

“You’ll do it, too.”

“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO TURN DOWN A DEAL LIKE THIS?”

Before discovering that Dad was cheating, I had viewed his relationship with Mom as good. I was naïve. For all my problems with my father, I never saw him as deceitful. Just as Mom had been undyingly loyal to him, I had presumed he was loyal to her. Their bond seemed indestructible. I never saw the cracks in the façade. So, when the façade crumbled, I realized I had been ignoring the warning signs.

I should have put two and two together when Jewel told me her pimp thought she could use me to meet Dad. Obviously, Dad had a reputation. But I wasn’t thinking about Dad back then. I was thinking about helping Jewel. Proof of that reputation came when Phineas Newborn and Joey Collins learned that my parents had split up. They weren’t surprised. They had once seen Dad out with another woman.

Why hadn’t they told me?

Because they didn’t want to hurt me. Or hurt Mom.

* * *

In the aftermath of the divorce, I was willing to stay at Cloverdale, but Mom knew there was no turning back the clock. I had to move on with my life. She helped by paying the security deposit on a small place in the Hollywood Hills. My roommate was Christopher Enuke, a Nigerian educated in England whom I had met through Eliza Steinberg’s mom, Lenny. Christopher had flair. Four years older than me, he was a star student at Otis Art Institute of Parsons School of Design.

We rented an old Hollywood Hills two-bedroom house. The thing stood on stilts and offered a gorgeous view of the city. Because the rent sapped all our money, we had no furniture other than mattresses. We didn’t even have a car, and we had to trek down the hill for thirty minutes just to get to the grocery store. Our meals were sparse: roasted potatoes glazed with honey, white Japanese rice with seaweed.

I had my instruments; Christopher had his drafting table—and for a while, that was enough. We spent our days and