In 1985, I was married with a 16 month old daughter.  We lived in an apartment on the bottom floor of my In-Laws’ house out on Long Island New York.  We were throwing our first big party since we moved in - a backyard barbecue for my wife’s family and some friends.

As most of the guests had arrived and everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand and the barbecue coals were bright red, I went inside the kitchen to get the meat for the barbecue.  I opened the refrigerator to grab the big plate of burgers, hot dogs, and sausage when I heard my wife’s voice through the window asking me to grab the two liter bottles of soda, if I could manage.

So now there I am, a giant plate of barbecue meat and two, 2-liter bottles of soda, heading back out the door to the backyard when the phone rings.  I didn’t want to answer it because it was just too much of a hassle at that point. 

“FUCK.”

I put the two big bottles down and lifted the phone off the cradle and put it to my ear.

“Yeah, hello.”

“Duane, daddy collapsed and is lying on the floor of the kitchen.”  It was the voice of my youngest brother.  “I can’t tell if he’s breathing.”

“Call an ambulance!”

“Mommy called, they’re on their way.”  Just then, I heard the sound of sirens over the phone.  “They’re here, I gotta go.”

CLICK.

I will never forget how I slowly replaced the phone on the cradle and stood in the kitchen.  The bright sun and perfectly blue sky could be seen through the window over the sink.  The sound of people talking and children laughing came wafting in.  I walked towards the window and put my hands on the edge of the sink and looked out at all the people gathered there.  Thoughts of my father, laying on the floor of my parents’ kitchen 75 miles away, were swimming through my head.  I could not put these two completely incongruous events together in my head.

My wife came in.  “Come on.  What are you doing?  Everybody’s waiting.”

I couldn’t move.  I do remember hearing myself say something like, “My brother just called.  My dad collapsed and is unconscious.  An ambulance got there just as we hung up.”

Her hand moved to my shoulders and she rubbed my back.

“We have to go right now,” I said.

“I’ll go tell everyone.”

She went out to the backyard and I didn’t hear what she said but I do remember her aunt saying, “Oh no.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Driving from the North Shore of Long Island to North Central New Jersey can be challenging on even the slowest days.  Manhattan is situated between those two points.  But this was the 4th of July and with all the parades and fireworks over the Hudson River, it took us almost three hours to get there.  In the days before cell phones, I was completely in the dark about what was going on. 

We hardly talked in the car.  Staying focused on my driving and trying to remain calm in the most frustrating traffic, was enough of a challenge.  It was the most excruciating three hours of my life up to that point.  I kept thinking that he was too young (55) for anything bad to happen.  But the thought of...  it was just too much for me to fathom.

When I pulled up to the house, my sister was walking out the front door towards us.  She was crying.  “He’s gone, Duane.  He’s gone.”

I remember seeing my wife look over at me for a reaction.  There was none.  By the time I got to the door, my mother was there.  She looked into my eyes and said, “He’s dead.  What am I going to do now?”

I hugged her and told her that I would take care of everything.  She cried in my arms and as I looked around, everyone else was also crying.  In a strange twist, my daughter, a renowned crier, was perfectly calm watching them cry.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

 We sat in the house in various states of sadness throughout the day.  We were all still assimilating this sudden and tragic event.  No one ate, no one talked much, and every once in a while someone would just burst out crying—everyone but me.  In between her sobs, my mother would sporadically say, “He was too young to die,” and “What am I going to do now?”

My job was to call family and friends.  It was surreal, to say the least.  “Hi, Aunt Mary?  It’s Duane.  Yeah, it’s good to hear you too.  Listen, I have some sad news…”  The list was long and towards the end, I got more efficient.

“Yes it is a shock.”
“No, we don’t know why.”
“Fifty-five.”
“He just came in the house and said he didn’t feel well and…” 

That night, after everyone fell asleep—even my mother, I finally sat down on the edge of the bed to try to fall asleep myself.  I heard fireworks going off in the background and realized it was still the 4th of July.  I had still not cried.  I knew I had to be strong and show everyone that someone was in charge here.  The family was not about to just fall apart – not while I was here.

Over by the closet door, I saw his shoes on the floor, as if he had just taken them off and left them there.  They were his “work shoes.”  Not really work shoes at all, just an old pair of his brown dress shoes.  He wore those shoes with black socks and shorts every summer when he was futzing around the house repairing everything with rubber bands and paper clips.  I remember hoping my friends from school never caught him dressed like that.  I had polished those shoes many times when they still were his dress shoes.  It was one of my jobs.

That was when I cried – uncontrollably, in the dark, sitting on the edge of the bed, with 4th of July fireworks going off in the sky somewhere nearby. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

 Since then, on the night of the Fourth, I will be lying in bed and sometimes I will hear fireworks going off somewhere nearby.  I will think of him, and his shoes, and how much I miss him but I will never “celebrate” the 4th of July again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *