My father did not make it. Four days after he was brought to the hospital, so altered mentally he saw me as one of his captors rather than as his daughter, sedated, the broad spectrum of antibiotic drips poured into him to counter the pervasive sepsis that was making its sinister assault on his weakened system, he died. I hated, I hate, the anticlimax of that moment of passing between life and death, the world outside his room, the world outside the hospital, the world of Los Angeles, the world, going on as if nothing had happened. Then not.
The funeral and my faith restored the hope of the more, the Transcendent more, as it were, as did the rallying round of a cousin who knew him when we were children, and old friends whose kindness, up to and including going to the mortuary and cemetery, blew me away. I wish I had the homily/farewell given by my former pastor, in print. They were the words not only of a church's shepherd of souls, but of a friend. His friend. He knew my father in a way I had not realized. In lieu of that, I offer for the internet cosmos and those few readers I know of, my words of goodbye given on Tuesday, April 15, 2008.
My cousin and several of my friends here present were in my father’s apartment last week, sharing wine and reminiscing about him while looking through his photographs.
There were some photos of him with the child of a friend of his who had visited him some years ago. My father had often said to me over the years that he did not much like children. My friends agreed that indeed he had said so, to them, and so, my recollection was not faulty. I took him at his word. But one photo showed him playing the mandolin to which the then three or four year old danced. There was no missing the engagement of them both in that frozen moment. In another, he seemed, warmly at that, to be explaining the intricacies of the computer, and though she was happily clutching his arm, she was paying no attention to the lesson. In a third he toasted orangejuice with her. And my cousin, Carol, to whom Constantine was known as “Uncle Buddy”, insisted that those photographs told the true story of his feelings---feelings that he covered with contradictory words, for whatever the panoply of psychological reasons we all do such things.
We were not an overtly affectionate family, my mother, father and me. Yet, the truth is he would have thrown himself on railroad tracks for me.
In many ways, subtle circumstances assigned him the roles of both mother, and father, to me, while I was growing up in the Bronx. He reminded me of that a week or so before he died. It seemed important for him to remind me. I hadn’t forgotten, even though I sometimes acted as if I did in my particular quest for individuation. “I know you were” I said to him with an unease that we were coming to the end of a road together.
I have flashes of recollection. They have kept me awake this last nearly two weeks, providing solace, and sadness, both. There are so many. I regret I can only mention a few.
It was he who took me out and about as a child. When I was young, it was to the park on Mt. Eden Avenue, to swings and a certain to follow chocolate Good Humour Bar from the passing truck, or to the roof of our building, aka tar beach, where we would both cultivate a tan. Once I was in school, it was he who interacted with my teachers. It was he who discovered that I was so nearsighted that in the front of the classroom, I could not see anything on a blackboard. I remember him taking me home from a Saturday at his first office, a baby photography studio, where I watched the artists tint black and white photographs to color. Driving home on the FDR drive, he told me the story of Theseus and the Minotaur, that early sparked my interest in Greek mythology. It was he who arranged outings not only for me, but for four or five of my best little girlfriends, outings traditional, like an amusement park, or a boat trip to West Point, or Governor’s Island, and untraditional, a lunch at La Fonda del Sol in Manhattan where we watched the flamenco guitarists and dancers or renting a small ball room in the Concourse Plaza Hotel for an 8th birthday party for my entire 3rd grade class from Mount Saint Ursula, when he then really could not afford such an extravagance. A favorite memory is once coming home with him on the D train, I wanted him to carry me, so I pretended to be asleep.
By the time I was in college and my mother had died, all too young, he was catering New Year’s parties for me and my Fordham University friends complete with chafing dishes and sterno. He was mixing the drinks and joining the fun.
He came to California from New York, because I was here.
I believe my father became a Catholic, in large part, because of his love for me, and found a home in the faith and in this community’s expression of it. He’d stride down these very aisles as usher, looking not at all a man of his age. As long as he can do that, I thought, all is well.
Child of the depression, he was my personal Cassandra warning me against spendthrift habits, like our eating eggs and bacon after Church at a restaurant, when he could make them just as good for a lot less.
This was a deep man. A Renaissance man, with many interests, articulate and witty. He was an exceptional story writer, with a keen eye to context and people. He never realized it. Relighting his pipe, and taking a deep puff, he wondered why anybody would pay attention to him.
When he turned 90 a few weeks ago, a friend he had not seen in nearly 30 years came out to share the milestone. We went to Madeo on Beverly where he regaled the owner with his still beautifully accented Italian, honed in his year or more in Florence during WWII, living near the Palazzo Del Vecchio. He noted that the linguine with clams was wonderful, but he could have made it for a lot less than $25.00.
My effort to capture him with a few words is woeful, really. If you knew him, as so many of you did, you have your images. Remember him. Pray for him. He is probably asking God a few pointed questions over a nice glass of red wine.
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