Thirty Rooms To Hide In (32 page)

Mom’s July 11, 1966, letter to Grandpa

When I woke Sunday morning 10:00, I was sick. The room was whirling about me and when I stood on my feet I grew instantly nauseated, faint and broke out in a clammy sweat. I sent one of the boys for a Dramamine (seasickness pill) and went back to sleep. Later I realized my trouble, affirmed by Tony Bianco, that it was heat prostration. Rochester had had unrelieved temperatures in the low 90’s since the middle of June.

I had conscientiously pressed salt on the boys everyday – but had not taken any myself. I began licking salt that Sunday afternoon and by evening was relieved of all the distressing symptoms.

Mom, today

So I was in my bedroom when Mark Coventry arrived, and before I could even consider where? here? there? upstairs? downstairs? to receive him, he was sitting in the rocking chair at the foot of the bed. No matter. Whatever the reason for his being upstairs, there he sat: Mark Coventry, handsome, proper, head of the orthopedic section, probably long a believer that your father had been “driven to drink” by me. I knew he could have been there for no reason except as the bearer of bad news.

Jeff, today

The morning of July 3rd was dark – off and on rain. I had left the house early to go pick up my girlfriend Bonnie at about 9:30 a.m. When we came back to the Millstone around 1:00 or so, Dr. Mark Coventry’s car was in the driveway and he was coming out, carrying an open umbrella.

He was walking to his car as we came into the driveway. In a quiet voice, he told me to go talk to Mom.

Mom, today

The dread fear swept over me immediately, as it had so often with increasing frequency, that your father had, driving drunk, killed someone. Thank God, it wasn’t that. That much Fate had spared him. He had already sacrificed wife, children, job, reputation. For a man who truly intended to be a healer, killing someone so mindlessly would have shattered him.

My last remaining, barely perceptible shred of sympathy for him recognized that.

Mom’s July 11, 1966, letter to Grandpa

I was in bed when Luke called upstairs to say Dr. Coventry was here. He came up to my bedroom and I babbled along, apologizing for being in bed. I knew he was here to give me some grave news. I did not ask him and we sat silently for a few minutes.

Finally Mark said, so very gently, “There’s no easy way to say this, Myra. Roger died last night.” Despite the years of violence and anguish and torment, it was still hard to take. As Kip later said, it wasn’t a surprise or a shock so much as it was the wrap-up punch.

And so it was – the wrap-up punch. Kip and Jeff were sleeping in the basement because of the heat. Mark went down and woke up Kip and brought him up to my room – giving him the news in much the same way as he told me. I watched Kip. His eyes flickered – he swallowed hard – and then he looked at me. “You all right, Mom?”

Kip, today

I recall Dr. Coventry woke me up and asked me to come up and talk with Mom. She was sitting up in bed with the sheets covering her legs. Dr. Coventry got right to the point and said something like “Your father died last night.”

I think he said “passed away.” I don’t recall much of my immediate reaction. My recollection is I was relieved. Eventually I did experience a lot of anger toward Dad; several years later – when I discovered that old letter from him actually – I finally cried hard about him. But that morning I don’t think I felt that stuff – not consciously anyway.

Mom’s July 11, 1966 letter continues

Mark left then. He would have told the other boys – as would Kip – but it seemed right for me to do that. So Kip woke Jeff and I told him. Then one by one, I told the other boys. It wasn’t easy and I hope I did it in the right way.

Jeff, today

I found Mom lying in bed, covers pulled up, Kip was standing on the far side of the bed. Kip said it simply – something like, “Dad died last night.” I remember going downstairs and joining Bonnie on the porch swing. Her reaction surprised me because she responded with a gush of how sorry she was. I didn’t feel anything. It seemed to me that she was saying what you’re “supposed” to say when someone learned 90 seconds ago that their father had died.

Kip’s 1966 diary

Jeff came in bedroom. I told him. Both of us reacted in same way – no change in expression but heart jumped. Just for a second I couldn’t speak easily. I think I almost felt like crying for a minute. I went in to wake up Chris, followed him into Mom’s room. He took it kinda hard. Eyes widened, mouth hung. He turned away from Mom, then said “God!” and left crying.

Chris, today

Kip retrieved me from my room on that Sunday morning. He told me Mom wanted to see me in her room. He preceded me down the hallway and sat by the bedroom fireplace. I stood at the front of her bed.

I have a recollection of having my right leg up on the bed when Mom told me “Your father died last night.” I do not remember if those were the exact words but I distinctly remember having a falling sensation combined with the feeling of getting punched in my solar plexus. The floor beneath me exploded and I said “Oh, God.”

I could see Mom had been crying but Kip seemed undisturbed. I do not remember crying then. The first moment I can remember crying was at the funeral.

Chris’s 1966 diary

God Mom called me into her room this mourning [sic] and told me Dad had died. I think he died of pneumonia. It was around 1 or 2 last night. I was really struck down at first. After I thought about it for awhile, I thought it was best. He would never have gotten another job. He is going to be cremated and buried in Ohio by his mother and father. Uncle Jimmy is here tonite. I think he will stay for a couple days. I hope we get enough insurance for us to go to college.

Kip’s 1966 diary

Danny and Luke were brought in next. (Mom feeling dizzy all morning.) They didn’t believe it at first. Then they both left, crying.

Dan, today

I was at the side of Mom’s bed and I remember making a conscious effort to react “properly.” I did an obligatory cry and then went to my room. Instead of grief, I felt shock. Sitting in there, I could hear people talking and crying and I was moved by the magnitude of the events.

But I didn’t feel grief. In fact, I wondered how these events would effect my standing in the eyes of my eighth-grade peers. I had always thought it was pretty cool to come from an abnormal, dysfunctional family.

What I remember

I saw Dr. Coventry go upstairs and then after he left, somebody called me upstairs, just as I was pouring Cheerio’s into a little metal bowl. Up in Mom’s room I stood in the sunlight, spoon in hand, chasing one of those little tan-colored O’s around in the warming milk, knowing what I was about to hear, and then hearing it. There is a jump in the film and the next memory is buying a couple of cigarettes from Jeff and smoking one down in the Low Forty. I was not worried about being seen or caught or punished
.

Kip’s 1966 diary

I smoked like mad. Collin just sat there with a gloomy, sad look and when Mom said “Go ahead and cry,” Collin just said “It’s not that important.”

Collin, today

I was in my room playing with a little radio that had an alligator clip on an antenna wire. I was looking for something to clip the antenna to when someone, I think it was Kip, invited me into Mom’s room. When I came in, Mom was lying on the bed looking quite somber, Kip was sitting at her side, facing the fireplace.

I don’t recall word for word how Mom told me Dad was dead. She said something like “He’s not coming back.”

Mom’s July 11, 1966 letter

I don’t have a very clear recollection of the rest of that day. Kip and Jeff stayed with the little ones, keeping them busy and under their eyes. Jeff’s girlfriend Bonnie took care of everything – cleaned up the house, fed us all, answered the phone, and generally made the day easier for all of us. Mark had called Tony Bianco who was at a luncheon party. He came right over, shortly after Mark left, but did not tell JoAnn till after the party was over. She was here for me for the rest of the day, with Tony coming in and out as the affairs of the day demanded his attention. As usual, they both carried me through tough times I could hardly have done alone.

The moment Mark left I phoned my brother. As I reported to you earlier, his simple answer to my “Jimmy, can you come help me?” was “I’ll be right there.” He phoned back within half an hour to give me his arrival time – and from that moment a huge load slid away from my shoulders.

Chris, today

The pain was dulled for me on that first day, except for one particular moment. Which came not long after lunch. We had a lot of visitors that Sunday and Mom received most of them on the screen porch. At least two people were already there when still more arrived. I was walking behind these new visitors – it may have been the Biancos – and they preceded me onto the porch. Mom stood up and embraced the woman, laid her head on the woman’s right shoulder so that I could see part of Mom’s face from my position at the door to the kitchen. The arrival of her friend sprang Mom’s tears again. Seeing her pain released a great swelling of pain in me, one that has been so familiar to me for as long as I can remember.

Jeff, today

Kip and I picked up Uncle Jim at the airport. We came home in the blue Falcon, taking the back way home. Just like Bonnie, Uncle Jim seemed to feel obliged to say things that would make me feel better. I have a vivid memory of him describing the body as a “shell that contains the soul.”

And even though the shell has died, the soul lives on. I was already a raging atheist by then, but didn’t choose to argue the point with him just then.

Kip’s 1966 diary

Picked up Uncle Jim at airport 9:00. Mom cried when he slipped in front door and hugged her. Jim got to work on papers, tried to make guesstimates of insurance. . . Today, it looks like insurance payout of $155,000 + V.A. benefits + Social Security.