Saturday and Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend 1983 – my father’s wake was held at Charles Peter Nagel Funeral Home on East 87th Street in Manhattan…
This funeral home had served our family and friends for generations. Unfortunately, I can remember many, many beloved family members who had been laid out at this location, and my last memories of all of them were the sight of them lying in their caskets. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my father that way, and relayed as much to my mother. I even suggested that the coffin be closed. My mother, astute as ever even in her unimaginable grief, said “We can’t do that. There are too many people who want to see your father one last time, even if it’s like this.”
My brother, who had just become separated and was living alone, had left his former place of residence with basically almost nothing but the clothes on his back. He was making his way down to the city from the town he lived in, four hours away. He had no clothes suitable for a wake and funeral. He was traveling by bus, and somehow we connected with our cousin Patricia who picked him up from the bus station and brought him to her apartment in Queens. Tricia had recently become separated from her husband and was in the process of getting divorced as well. Some of her husband’s clothes were still in the closet at the apartment, including a suit that she thought my brother could fit into.
My brother had been estranged from our family for almost 9 years, and he hadn’t seen any of his cousins, aunts and uncles or neighborhood friends of our family in many years. And now – he was coming home to his father’s funeral.
It was like a scene out of a movie when my brother arrived at the funeral home. Tricia had driven in with him in her car, and when they got there, I met them outside. I remember taking my brother’s arm and leading him inside. You could hear a pin drop as we walked down the middle aisle between the dozens of friends and family members who were seated there. We made our way to the front where our mother was, and – as has been told to us over the years by various people who were in attendance – there wasn’t a dry eye in the house as my mother, brother and I embraced and walked up to my father’s casket.
If I am remembering correctly, the last time we had seen my brother was Memorial Day weekend 1978 – five years prior. There was about a year and a half between that time and the funeral when my brother and I were not communicating. I had gotten a nasty letter from his wife whom he was now in the process of divorcing, and I reached out to my brother separately asking if what she was telling me was true – that he no longer wanted to be in touch with me, because I wasn’t including her in my correspondence with him. If this was true, I wanted to hear it from his own mouth. When she indicated that she would get the mail and not give it to him, I sent him a certified letter, which he had to sign for. That letter was returned to me – unopened.
Without going into too much detail, the situation involving her had been tenuous from the start. Our parents did not want to see her or speak to her. She had been belligerent and threatening with us as soon as she found out that our parents did not approve of the relationship – which had been secretive at best – and mainly because my brother was just 18 years old at the time, and literally just fresh out of high school.
It took the death of one of our other older cousins earlier that year, in March of 1983, to prompt me to finally reach out again. It was his cousin too, and I thought he had the right to know. It was after that, three months later in June, when I got the letter from my brother, saying he would come to see us as soon as he could.
And now, standing in front of our father’s coffin at his wake – with my mother and I on either side with our arms around him – my brother looked down at him and said simply, “I’m sorry Dad”…
I cannot comprehend how incredibly difficult and painful that must have been for him. I remember telling him later after our farher was buried that I was there for him any time he might be ready to talk about it. We never discussed it.
There was one other observation and recollection from that weekend of our father’s wake that certain people will talk about to this day. My best friend’s sister-in-law swore that my father’s face showed the slightest indication of a small smile that wasn’t there before my brother arrived. She had been by the casket prior to my brother getting there and then went back up after the three of us walked away and sat down. “Andy’s smiling,” she said, with as much conviction as anyone could muster. She swore to the last that my father had a smile on his face that hadn’t been there before. And she believed it with her whole heart, mind, and soul.
My father was happy in Heaven – because his son had finally, indeed, come home…
Oddly Enough 