Okay, I do have some first cousins. Six in total. Two accounted for, two barely accounted for via the annual Christmas greeting, and two who have gone the way of Amelia Earhart and Kevin Spacey. Significant disappearances. But then again, I ain't looking for them. Here's the story.
That's them in the photo above with me on the hobby horse in the middle.
Patty and Bobby were the children of my mother’s loony sister who never met a can of Schaefer Beer that she couldn’t poptop open. They lived out in Suffolk County on Long Island. Bobby was pretty much my age, so a natural cohort in childhood. I’d spend a week every summer at their house. The backyard pool was a prime attraction. I even remember one late summer night when all the parents were having themselves a time poolside while the kids were allegedly sleeping. That night, I think everybody was swilling from the fount of St. Schaefer as one after another got tossed in the pool. All except my father who wanted none of the nonsense. He pulled the ladder from the above-ground pool and drove off with it. Fun times.
Nevertheless, as time passed, so did the merriment. My uncle dropped dead suddenly and the trips to Long Island became less frequent. Plus my aunt pretty much devoted the rest of her life working as an attendant in the local nut house, where she’d field marriage proposals from kooks who mistook her for Eleanor Parker. So, as is frequently the case, that part of the family pretty much disintegrated.
Decades later, my mother tried to stay touch with her sister. Partly out of nosiness, partly out of loneliness. And, for a few years, she and my aunt would arrange a visit on Veteran’s Day, for some bizarre reason. This played me into the equation as I needed to be off from work so I could play chauffeur. On one of those annual excursions, I reconnected with Bobby, who had become a local business entrepreneur. Translation: he owned the neighborhood bowling alley. In an odd way, we all enjoyed this little return to the past, even if it was for but one day a year.
Sure enough, like clockwork, another year passed and Veteran's Day was upon us one more time. My mom started planning the Long Island trip in early October. So, she started the ball rolling by trying to call my aunt to remind her about her annual sojourn to the bowels of Deer Park, New York. No answer. Every few days, Mom would dial the phone and...no answer. This was in the era just before cell phones. And, of course, that generation was still hard pressed to even consider voice mail or answering machines---the technological work of Satan.
Mom tried and tried and tried. Never a connection. She finally called me and expressed some worry.
”I think there’s something wrong with Aunt Anne.”
My suggestion, I thought, was pretty obvious.
”Call Patty and ask her.”
So, as was usually the case in our relationship in the later years, Mom did exactly what I told her to do. She called Patty. And pretty much threw my cousin for a loop. Patty, according to my mother, sounded very nervous and didn’t want to speak with her. But, before hanging up, she lowered the prophetic boom.
”Can I have Len’s phone number? I’ll call him.”
Huh, said my mother.
Huh, huh, huh, said I.
I pretty much told my mother that none of this sounded like Patty wanted to share her recipe for cheesecake. I tried to come up with some logical explanations for this bizarre scenario. Perhaps, my aunt had some delayed anger issues due to my father stealing their pool ladder. Nah. Prepare for some not-so-good news, Mother.
When Patty called me the next night, I couldn't even fathom what was to come. After some chitchat about her last trip to Aqueduct Raceway (Patty, I think, freelanced as a bookie), she suddenly broke down in incoherent sobs.
My aunt had died six weeks ago.
My jaw. Kitchen linoleum. Major collision.
In utter silence, I listened to the story as she told it. Apparently, my aunt had experienced a TV commercial moment. She had fallen and couldn't get up. Lying there on the cold floor, she developed one infected body sore after another until my cousins finally checked up on her. Six days later!
I was dumbfounded. As soon as my folks hit 55, I'd call each of them at least once every day. From wherever I was. And, if I didn't speak to them in a single day period, I would immediately try to go over there. Most times, I would discover that the TV had drowned out the ringing of their telephone. How do you not check in with an elderly parent for almost a week? My editorial comment. Now, back to our story...
Anyway, by the time my two idiot cousins got involved, it was way too late for my aunt. And, by the time I was having this phone conversation, she was already in the ground and meeting worms for the first time. I asked my cousin the obvious next question.
"Why didn't you call and tell us? When it happened."
My cousin sobbed some more.
"We didn't want to upset your mother."
My jaw. Kitchen linoleum. Major collision, the sequel.
I could say nothing as I contemplated this slap in the face, worthy of any Joan Crawford movie in the 40s. How could they not, at least, suck it up and tell their mother's only living blood relative about this? And let her go through whatever funeral or memorial there was. I had no clue what to say next.
"Is there anything I can do?"
My cousin slobbered some more. I pictured a continuous stream of mucus dripping from her nose.
"Well, can you tell your mother? Because we can't. We're all headed down to the Florida condo in the morning."
D'oh!
I hung up, almost wordlessly. And did what they themselves neglected to do. Their familial duty. What all children have to do eventually when their parents pass on. The hard stuff. Spread the sad news.
As fate would have it, my mother would pass away about a year or so later. In retrospect, my parents, along with most of my aunts and uncles, all pretty wiped out over a five year period. It was almost like they all had to go together. I wondered if this was somehow related to the ozone layer or Three Mile Island. But, answers were received once I looked at my father's Technicolor slides of family gatherings. He would take pictures of all the booze bottles on the kitchen table. And, in every picture, there's everybody---doing the cha cha cha with cigarettes aglow between their fingers. And there you are.
Of course, upon Mom's demise, I had the chance to be the better person with these two idiots on Long Island. I would be above board and tell them the latest news---something they couldn't do themselves.
On second, third, and fourth thought, nah. I said nothing. Instead, I waited almost eleven months. When it was time to write out my Christmas cards to these two fools.
"My mother died last January. Happy Holidays!!"
Sometimes, it feels damn good not to be the better person. We have not spoken since.
Dinner last night: Sausage and fennel pizza at Stella Barra.
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