I find her door mysteriously locked. I knock softly. Emmy greets me with tears streaming down her eyes and moon-shaped face.
“Emmy,” I immediately ask, “why are you crying?”
“Oh, honey,” she says, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, “it’s a terrible day.”
“What? Why?”
Sobbing, Emmy sinks into her armchair in her bedroom. On the black-and-white television in her room, a television news anchor is describing the action as a horse-drawn flag-draped casket proceeds reverently down the streets of Washington, D.C. It is the memorial service honoring President John F. Kennedy, assassinated three days earlier.
“A great man was shot,” Emmy says, misty-eyed, “and he’s going to be laid to rest today.”
I climb into Emmy’s lap. We sit there mesmerized for hours watching the funeral procession on television, just the two of us. Throughout the sad day, she reflects on what a great man and humanitarian the president was. It was a day the two of us, Emmy and I, grew even closer.
Despite Emmy being there to tend to my daily needs, what I lack is my mom’s love and attention. Her absence truly saddens me anytime she whisks out of town on business and I begin to feel angry and resentful about her constant absences. Much later, as a mature adult who works his entire career to put bread on the table and is absent, sometimes for long periods, to earn a living, I come to realize Mom was just doing the same. However, back then as a six-year-old child, I fail to fully understand the sacrifices she is making and why. One day, just after Mom returns from a trip and the suitcase rack in her bedroom cradles her still-unpacked suitcase and she still holds her purse in her hand, I walk into her room and announce, “I want a ball and want you to take me to the store.”
“Honey, I can’t. Mommy is really busy,” Mom says, turning her back on me. “Mommy is always busy.”
It is not what I want to hear. Dressed in black boots with red tips, I get so mad I haul off and kick her right in the shin. Mom stands there wailing in pain. Emmy, who sees the whole thing, comes running into her bedroom.
“Lorenzo Fernando Lamas,” Emmy bellows, “what did I see you do?”
I think, “Uh-oh, Emmy caught me. The wrath of God is going to land on me.” Breaking into tears, I immediately beg for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, Mommy, I’m sorry.”
Mom, still crying in pain, manages between sobs to ask, “Lorenzo, why did you kick me?”
I look at her. “I don’t know. I just got angry.”
Emmy grabs me, takes me out of the room, and says sternly, “Lorenzo, you go outside and find the biggest switch you can and bring it back to me. Right now!”
Now I am really sobbing. “All right, Emmy.” Sniff, sniff. “I’ll go.”
I walk out crying crocodile-sized tears, go straight to the hickory tree, peel off about a three- or four-foot-long switch, and bring it back in to Emmy. She swats my ass with four or five of the hardest lashings I have ever received, and I cry my heart out with each whipping. I can assure you, I never did anything like that to my mom—or anyone else—again.
Despite the geographical distance between us, my father is never far from my mind. I often wonder if I will ever see him again and if he ever thinks of me. In 1962, I get a big surprise: He flies me to Italy to see him. It marks the first time we see each other since my parents’ divorce and his leaving the country with Esther.
Because I am underage, Lola Leighter, a close friend of my father’s and someone who is like a grandmother to me, accompanies me on the TWA flight to visit him. I cannot express how much that trip and seeing him means to me. We pick up right where we left off: He drives me around in his Alfa Romeo convertible to the ancient city of Rome and the harbor and beaches of nearby Ostia and spends every minute of every day with me. I am this chubby-faced, scrawny kid but he makes me feel very special. Despite everything, he is still my hero. I know the love is there. I know for certain he loves me and I love him.
Father captures every moment with his Brownie camera. He shoots countless black-and-white photos of me that he then turns into little handmade storybooks, complete with handwritten captions with each photo describing in a charming, funny way where we are and what we’re doing. Although their pages have yellowed and frayed over the years, those simple storybooks have not dimmed with age. They tell about the special bond between a father and son.
One of my favorites is one he titles The International Sheriff, featuring photos from our day trip to Rome, including outside of St. Peter’s Cathedral. In it, I star as the macho, gun-slinging sheriff (as “a stand-in for Mr. Lamas . . . his father”) who comes face-to-face with a vicious Indian (played by yours truly in a dual role).
“Where is he?” I ask in one caption, with a scowl on my face. “I got to find him.”
“Looking for me, Sheriff?” It is him—I mean, me, the Indian.
“Draw, you dirty Indian! I got you. I’m tough . . . I’m Lorenzo Lamas!”
It’s as if my father was already laying the seeds for my acting career without me even knowing it. Little do I realize that the renegade in me is starting to surface. I starting to come out of my shell—thanks to a little nudge from my father.
In the storybook titled La Dolce Vita, I play this swinging bachelor much too busy reading my Pinocchio comic book to talk. Finally, I instruct my chauffeur, “To my cabin on the beach, Perkins, and don’t bother me, I’m reading!” In no time, I am spending the day at Ostia Beach (in a small storybook, it is amazing how fast time flies!), walking the sand and swimming nude as if I am some kind of ladies’ man: “This is the life! No clothes, my beach house, my boat and a few girls. Hah!”—my father’s words!
Father goes to great lengths to show his love for me on that trip, as evidenced in The Two Guys, the third and final storybook he does for me. Inside are panels of old two-by-three-inch photographs of us lovingly cobbled together—“two happy guys”—on Ostia Beach and “two not-so-happy guys” in front of his classic Alfa Romeo convertible at Fiumicino Airport moments before my flight back to the States. The final captions on the last page in Dad’s handwriting say it all about the bond between us, as well as his deepest regrets over our separation:
“I’ll see you soon, Daddy!”
“Be a good boy, eh?”
“NO ENDING!”
Our actual final minutes together are bittersweet. Tears well up in my eyes when I say goodbye to Dad as Lola and I board the plane. It is so hard, not knowing when I will ever see him again, that my heart aches just thinking about it.
“Daddy, Daddy,” I say, running into his arms, sniffling, “please come with us, Daddy.”
“Someday, Lorenzo, someday,” he says. We lovingly embrace. “Promise.”
One last embrace, then Lola pulls me away with “Lorenzo, we need to board.”
For a moment, I see real emotion in my dad’s eyes. He feels the same pain, the same turmoil, the same tug-of-war with his feelings I do, even though he does not outwardly show it like I do.
“Goodbye, Son!”
At that, Lola and I walk off. Lola tugs me along as I keep glancing over my shoulder. Father is still standing where we left him. He is watching my every step. I pause a second and wave. Dad smiles broadly and returns the favor as Lola and I make our way to the plane. Then I suddenly lose sight of him and he disappears into the mass of humanity moving about.
Every day I hold on to that promise that I will see my father again. In 1963, it comes true when Dad and Esther move back to Los Angeles. The news makes me the happiest boy on the face of the planet. It means my father and I can see each other any time we want. Earlier, when I said I prayed the same prayer every night, it was that my father and I would be together again. Finally, we are.
Dad