by Christopher Robin Smith

When Aaron Friedman, legendary hit-maker of the ’50s and ’60s, died last month, he left an estate worth an estimated $73 million. A confirmed bachelor, Aaron was survived by his five children, all born of different mothers, all born out of wedlock, and all the heirs apparent to his fortune.

Two days ago, I received a letter from Aaron’s lawyer. Taped to the letter was a key to a safe deposit box. The message from the lawyer contained far fewer words than the firm’s letterhead. It said simply, “There is something inside. Aaron wanted you to have it.”

As a music critic for a third-string daily in New York, I’ve been trying to find the time to write a book and someday retire on my royalties. Well, I’ve never found the time, so I’ve never written the book. At that moment, I hoped that the key Aaron left me would unlock a treasure trove of personal papers I could use to finally write that book.

I met Aaron in the fall about 20 years ago. Somebody put together a retrospective of his songs at The Bottom Line in the Village. Everybody was there to perform their favorite Friedman tune. I won’t bother to name the artists as the evening was captured on film by a Pennebaker-wanna-be, a film nominated for an Academy Award. I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I can’t bring myself to even type the film’s name, and I cannot speak about it in public without noticeably wincing. That film could have made my career. But as my interview was cut from the final edit, it didn’t.

Since I was doing a piece for my paper, I was seated with Friedman at the concert. My editor said Friedman had asked for me. It was a thrill. Since I got my first guitar, I’ve strummed rhythm and sung his tunes. That night, to sit next to him and see his eyes light up as the opening chords of hit after hit came booming from the stage was a rock and roll fantasy. And every artist thanked him for giving them the hit that made their career.

That night was the last time Little Pearl Macon performed in public. By then, her body was ravaged by the illness that would claim her life, but when she sang her Friedman hit, “Nobody’s Bother,” she sounded like she was twenty again. I watched Friedman hold back the tears, trying not to show that he knew Little Pearl was not long for this world. The following month, he was one of the pallbearers at her funeral.

Friedman invited me to tag along with him after the concert. I already had enough material for my story, but who was I to say no to Aaron Friedman? We went backstage, and I got the chance to meet my heroes. And Friedman introduced me to them all as “my dear friend, Bill Waitley.” Now, I’ve been sweet-talked by sleazy managers, garage bands, and even aging, faded rock stars but never the likes of Friedman. He certainly wasn’t trying to suck up to me because I was a critic. A review in my rag would’ve had little or no impact, positive or negative, on the career of Aaron Friedman. I didn’t know why we hit it off so well. I thought he just liked me. And I liked him.

I met all five of his kids that night, three girls and two boys. They ranged in age from 25 to, I’d say, early 40s. Though they all had a father in common, none of them seemed very close to each other or him. They were tolerant of their father and all his adoring fans, but they were bored. They stayed, politely listened, applauded, and then fought over who would hail his cab. I suspected they did it all for one simple reason—the money.

After that night, Friedman and I saw each other every week. Sometimes I’d meet him at his townhouse, and sometimes we’d meet at The Palm. We never met at my apartment, where I grew up with my parents. He asked once if we could. I warned him that it was a walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, that I lived on the fourth floor and that the toilet was in the hall. He asked for the address and then called to say he couldn’t meet me there because “Hell’s Kitchen is no place for an old Jew like me.” I still think it was the stairs.

If I went back and added up all the time Friedman and I talked, it would be in the thousands of hours. We would sometimes go until 6 or 7 in the morning. Once he was on a roll, no one could stop him, and I never wanted to anyway.

He told me about his parents—his father was a writer who was blacklisted in the fifties. On the other hand, his mother had been blacklisted in college because of her repeated loss of virginity. He seemed to love them, and it sounded like they loved him. They never wanted him to go into music. They wouldn’t pay for lessons, even after he’d scored higher on a musical aptitude test than any other kid in the five boroughs. His father was a writer who’d been screwed by his turncoat contemporaries, and he didn’t want the same thing to happen to his son.

He asked about my parents, and I told him all about them. My dad worked for 47 years in the neighborhood hardware store. He didn’t own it. He didn’t manage it. He just worked there. The perks? As a kid, I never wanted for nails or batteries. I suppose both helped me get into music. I’d listen to my battery-powered transistor radio, pounding nails into any wood surface to the beat of the trebly tunes.

My mother, on the other hand, excelled way past her potential. Raised by a cop whose gun “accidentally” went off, killing her mother when my mother was only 5, she could never relax around her father. She dropped out of high school and ran away from home, moving in with my aunt on the next block. There she learned to sew, and that became her lifelong profession. She wasn’t just a seamstress; she was the “Seamstress to the Stars.” She made dresses for just about every female Broadway legend–and few of the men, though she never named names. When she died, they dimmed the lights on Broadway in her honor. That’s how much she meant to all of them. My dad retired the year after she died and lived in the same apartment alone until he died three years later.

Friedman loved to hear me talk about my family, and after I’d finished telling him a story, he’d make me tell it to him again. And if I forgot a part, he’d interrupt me. “What about that dog? Last time you said the neighbor’s dog ran in from the rain.” And I’d go back and add the dog, the stolen pan of baklava, the sailor who would whistle through his ears or any other colorful details I’d left out.

I took the key the lawyer sent and went down to the Chase Manhattan on 6th Avenue near Herald’s Square. Some little man who looked like he used to be a boxer or a dancer led me to a little room lined with safe deposit boxes. I’d only ever seen places like that in the movies. I never had anything that needed keeping in a safe deposit box. The boxer or dancer took my key and unlocked my box. He took me to another room with a table and chair and told me to take my time.

I must have sat staring at that box for all of ten minutes. When I opened it, there was a handwritten letter from Friedman. I opened it.

“Dear Jimbo,

“Sorry I couldn’t stick around and chat. You know how it is. I hope my funeral went well and that you’re okay. Me, I never felt better.

“I’m reminded of a story that I never told you. Many years ago, I met a young girl. She was sweeter than she was beautiful, but I fell for her just the same. She was the inspiration for ‘Loretta,’ my first big hit.”

I’ve never seen a girl like you
You’ve got class, you’ve got charm, you’ve got style.
I know you know just what you do
With that hair, with those eyes, with your smile.
Loretta, my sweet little Loretta.

“Loretta wasn’t her name. I got the name from a girl I knew in high school. But I called that sweet young girl Loretta. Anyway, we saw each other for a while. I asked her to marry me, but she was already engaged and wouldn’t leave the guy. I always wondered what happened to my sweet Loretta, and then, one day, I ran into her. I hadn’t seen her for at least 25 years. It was at Lindy’s right off Shubert Alley. I told her I’d never stopped loving her. She blushed.”

You’re just so sweet, that’s what you are,
When you blush, and your cheeks go all red.
Remember the night we rode in my car
We were close and in love, and I said,
Loretta, my sweet Loretta.

“I asked her if she knew the song was about her. She looked down and started playing with her cheesecake with a fork. I asked her if she ever thought of me. She put down the fork and looked me in the eye. She told me she did. Every day. She said something happened that one night we spent together. Seven months after she married the other guy, she had a baby. She said her husband never asked any questions. Anyway, she told me the kid grew up to be a handsome young man, that I’d probably be proud of him, and that he was in the music business—a critic.

“She made me promise never to tell you. I guess she didn’t want to hurt your father. So, I never did. She never told me I couldn’t get to know you, so I did—the son I always had. She’s gone, your dad’s gone, I’m gone, and now you know.

“That brings me to the subject of inheritance. I know if I leave you the whole bundle, which I would do in a heartbeat, your five half-brothers and sisters would haul your ass to court until they blew every dime on lawyers. So, even though they don’t deserve a damn penny, I’m giving each of them a substantial piece of the pie, mostly just to keep them quiet.

“You? You get ‘Loretta.’ She was my first and only love. She was my first big hit. She was your mother. The royalties should take care of you pretty good. Why don’t you take some time off and write a book? Maybe a biography of a songwriter?

“Love, Aaron”

I sat in that little room for an hour, rereading the letter. That’s the story of how I came to write this book. I’m anxious for you to get to know Aaron Friedman, my father, as well as I got to know him.

Right now, I’m lost in your eyes.
Where’s my breath, where’s my heart, where’s my soul?
My love is as big as the sky.
Hold me tight, hold me close, don’t let go.
Loretta, my sweet little Loretta.