I follow the pallbearers down the aisle and sit silently in the pew at the front of the church.
We scatter Anthony’s ashes in the ocean from the beach in front of his mother’s house. I stay for two days and then go home. The doorman gives me a package of Anthony’s things from the hospital: his sneakers, his Swiss Army watch, his gold wedding band.
He was handsome and serious, bent over scripts in a hotel room, and then he stood and reached for my hand.
Fortune
And another regrettable thing about death is the ceasing of your own brand of magic, which took a whole life to develop and market—the quips, the witticisms, the slant adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage…
—JOHN UPDIKE, “Perfection Wasted”
Christmas 1998
We’re late but not very, and it doesn’t matter, because it’s Christmas and we’ve all been to church and the city smells of pine and I’m happy because we’ll all be together tonight. They are driving from Carolyn’s mother’s house in Connecticut, and we’re on our way from Suffern. It’s one of those moments when I open the door and they are there, like racing to the top of the hill and you’ve earned the chance to stop and catch your breath.
Our tradition. We are starting it this year. “We need our own tradition, don’t you think?” she said. I like the idea that we will all come back to something. It is Christmas, you are supposed to let the rest go for a bit. Suspend reality.
“Merry Christmas!” John shouts, and the quiet apartment is scattered with noise. He unbuttons his coat and drops it on a chair. Beneath it, corduroy pants and sweater; Carolyn, a black turtleneck, like mine, and skirt. Traces of Egyptian musk follow her in. I will smell it on my clothes after she leaves, on Anthony’s sweater.
“Merry Christmas, Lamb,” she says, and kisses me, putting her coat on a hanger. I pick John’s up off the chair, and he puts his arm around me and motions to the shopping bag in his hand. “I need to borrow wrapping paper,” he says, and I laugh, because of course he does. Anthony helps Marta unload bags of groceries. She sets to work right away, chopping and measuring. Rack of lamb—from Lobel’s with tiny parachutes—is already marinating in the refrigerator.
I take John into the bedroom and hand him paper and scissors and tape, and then take them back and wrap the gifts myself. I add his to the small pile under the tree.
I have Christmas carols on—Bing Crosby—and John makes a face. He changes to a jazz station and Chet Baker floats in over our heads like a cloud. I have stockings hung by the fireplace, one for each of us, with our names in sparkles.
Anthony pours vodka tonic for himself, a beer for John. I open a bottle of champagne for me and Carolyn. It is five o’clock and the city is already dark, but it feels like a lazy afternoon.
Marta comes out to set the table, and Carolyn and I shoo her away. We love this part. We are intent. We get out the good china, the Baccarat crystal, the special Cartier salt and pepper shakers that were a wedding gift and only come out on days like this. Carolyn sets the silver candelabra down carefully.
I hear John’s voice in the other room, Anthony’s laugh.
In the living room I hand out gifts. For Anthony there is a thick pullover fleece from John and an engraved silver bell. “So you can summon the servants, Principe,” he says in his best British accent. This running joke between them: Anthony, the prince, the proper English boy, John the mischievous scamp. Anthony and I give them breakfast trays, because Carolyn loves to eat in bed. They give me a gold band engraved AMOR.
Over dinner we talk about trips. “Let’s go to Cuba next year,” John says. “I’ll fly us.”
“I’ll risk commercial,” Anthony says, not missing a beat.
John moves past it. “We’ll go in November; it’s the best time of year.”
Out loud we imagine sunbathing on the white sand, strolling along the Malecon, by the sea, smoking Cuban cigars with Castro—this gets a laugh. “And let’s go to Greece in the summer,” John says. “Wouldn’t it be fun, Anthony, to go back to Skorpios? I’d love to see it again. We’ll show the girls what they missed working at Caldor.” Anthony smiles. Carolyn and I roll our eyes.
“You have to charter it now,” I say, referring to Christina, the Onassis yacht. “You better call early.”
John is serious. “Maybe I could arrange to stay in the pink house, on the island.”
We use the word tradition over and over. Our new tradition, Carolyn says. We’ll do this every year. And we talk breezily, brazenly, about the years ahead, our futures and where they’ll take us. Anthony wants to build a log cabin in Alaska. John offers to cut down the trees. These are the sorts of things you talk about when one year is ending, another waiting to begin.
After dinner we sit in the living room for a little while before they leave. John on the tiger-print couch, Carolyn snuggled drowsily on his lap. I squeeze next to Anthony on his chair and he kisses my cheek. I could stay here like this forever, but we’re all leaving in the morning to get on planes and so we stand and stretch and start the motions of ending the night.
“It was nice, wasn’t it?” she whispers in my ear as I help her with her coat. “We should do it again next year, shouldn’t we?”
“Yes, we will,” I say.
Acknowledgments
Where to start is the problem.
This book would not exist without the encouragement and love of the incomparable Teresa DiFalco, my closest friend and sister-in-law, who had the temerity to marry into my family and who taught me that families are all pretty much the same; who was trapped with me on a small island off the Canadian coast and persuaded me to write my story; and whose guidance nurtured words on paper into a coherent narrative. And I thank her for keeping this author’s faith alive when it so often flickered.
Also I want to thank my brothers and sisters for sharing their memories, and in some cases, allowing me to steal them, especially my brother Anthony, who let me live with him in Oregon while I wrote this book; he rescued me during the blizzard of ’04 and never complained when Teresa and I stayed up nights laughing and “being geniuses together.”
My love and gratitude to my father for his wry sense of humor; to my mother, who nudged me past the town-limits sign and taught me to be an independent woman. Endless thanks to all my assorted aunts and uncles for the late, late show, and whose laughter I can still hear.
A heartfelt thanks to my Oregon reading group, especially Janis Bozarth, who not only read the early drafts but transcribed the twenty hours of audiotape that formed the framework for this memoir, and to Melanie Kaufman and Sridhar Venkatapuram, whose thoughtful early reads of the manuscript and notes were invaluable. A very special thanks to Dave at Coffee a la Carte, my Oregon “office,” for the unlimited cups of coffee, BLTs, and free internet access.
Thank you to Steven at Prince Street Copy, who printed out countless versions of my manuscript and gave me breaks on copying and never complained when it was always a rush job; the entire staff at 12 Chairs Café, who kept me fed and allowed me to use their space as my New York “office.”
Many thanks to Bill Whitworth, the “Nijinsky” of editors, whose endless wise counsel kept me focused and sane; who introduced me to the jazz trumpet, the perfect hard-boiled egg, and the power of a well-placed comma. And who made me feel like one of the “big boys,” if only for a moment.
Special thanks to my agent, Lynn Nesbit, for her extraordinary belief in my story. And her uberefficient and lovely assistant, Tina Simms.
And to Nan Graham for shepherding me through the publishing process; though I could never quite summon the proper appreciation for “pagination,” I did appreciate her patience and guidance and great judgment. To Alexis Gargagliano, for her meticulous eye and for keeping everything moving forward, and the rest of the dedicated team at Scribner: Erin Cox, Suzanne Balaban, Erica Gelbard, Mia Crowley-Hald, Anna deVries, Kyoko Watanabe, and John Fulbrook.
I am enormously grateful to my frie
nds who were brave enough to agree to read a very early draft: Alison Hockenberry, who started at ABC News with me and who lived through it all, twice. Bryan Lourd, whose insight never failed to inspire. I gave Mike Nichols the first thirty pages and then he gave me the confidence to “just keep writing.” Diane Sawyer, whose guidance in life, love, and writing I treasure. Meredith White, whose unflinching and honest eye made me a believer.
I am indebted to my friends Christiane Amanpour, Lisa Heiden, Charles O’Byrne, Holly Peterson, Narciso Rodriguez, Michael Rourke, Jamie Rubin, who gave the manuscript thoughtful reads and whose friendship never wavered.
I will always admire Lee Radziwill for her courage and her steadfast faith during difficult times. And Hamilton South, whose humor kept us all laughing against the bleak backdrop and whose unfailing generosity of spirit and friendship I will always cherish.
To Tina Radziwill, Marta Sgubin, Marc Burstein, Joan Ganz Cooney, Sheila Nevins, Pete Peterson, Richard Plepler, and Mark Robertson, whose love, affection, and friendship helped us survive every day.
I will be forever grateful to Dr. Steven Rosenberg and his entire staff at the NIH for giving Anthony and me more time than we ever thought possible.
About the Author
Carole Radziwill worked as an award-winning journalist with ABC News for fifteen years. She is writing a novel and lives in New York City.
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