ABSTRACT
The red light to the phone machine was blinking wildly. It was the 27th of September 1989, a Wednesday night. I pressed play. Robin, my sister, had left two messages, asking to call her as soon as I got these messages, for “It was important.” She left the messages at 7:45 P.M. and nine o’clock. Marion, my stepmother, left a similar message around eight. It was now ten. Their tone was controlled, but urgent. I knew. I just knew. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked my sister when she picked up the phone. She asked me how did I know. “I don’t know, I just did,” I replied unemotionally. My sister wanted me to come over and be with her. There was no one with her from the immediate family or close friends to offer emotional support. My mother had left earlier. My sister’s husband, Artie, could do so much. Neither one of us felt close to Marion. She wanted me. But I did not want to drive to Queens. I told my sister I needed to be by myself and would come over tomorrow. She did not like this, and could not understand my thinking. “Didn’t I need to be with someone?” A damn good question in retrospect, but at the time all I could muster was “Sure, but not tonight. I don’t mean to be unkind, Rob, I just feel I need to be by myself. I can’t explain it. I promise I will be there tomorrow, okay?” We hung up. I slid down to the floor of my apartment, back to the wall, legs out, hands on lap staring blankly through the window of my bedroom into the Brooklyn night. The phone rang. My body jumped. It was Smitty. He wanted to know how I was doing. I said I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t feel anything. I was numb. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. I asked him how he was doing. He said he was feeling a void. His best friend for forty years was no longer around. We reminisced about all the high school basketball games my dad and Smitty saw me play in. My father never missed a game—home or away—for three years. I reminded Smitty how jny dad also saw many of my baseball and softball games right until I left home for college. I recalled how my dad and I never missed a James Bond opening at the Fresh Meadows movie-theater. Afterwards we always headed over to 6Janes Restaurant on Queens Blvd. for a vanilla banana split. We talked more, more about how my dad was always there for us when we needed help. He was always there. Even if he disagreed with what you were doing, if it was important to you, he supported it. He would call after major events in my life to see how things turned out, a ball game, a job interview, a business meeting, whatever. He was always there. After an hour I thanked Smitty for calling. I went back to staring out into the night. Slowly it dawned on me. I never saw it, not once in thirty-two years; the unconditional love my father had for his friends, Robin, and me. I grabbed my knees and pulled myself into a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth. Feeling very alone, anchorless. Crying. I too had just lost the best friend I ever had.
