Thirty Rooms To Hide In

by Sullivan, Luke

  Roger’s body was, in fact, now back in Rochester, delivered from Georgia in the cold cargo hold of a jet. Brother Jeff drove out to Rochester’s small airport to watch the plane land. “It took quite a while to unload cargo onto a train of three or four wagons,” he remembers. “The people got off. The luggage was picked up. Finally I saw what was clearly a casket being lowered from the cargo door with two guys in the plane’s hold and two on the ground.”

  With the arrival of the body came more details of how Roger had actually died. Kip wrote in his diary that Uncle Jim had confided some details: “Vomited (flu), evidently fell (bruise on forehead) unconscious, choked to death.” This information was passed down to the rest of us and as the day approached to view our father’s body at the funeral home, our group anger curdled into a shared sense of anxiety.

  That night, Kip and Uncle Jimmy dressed to make the trip downtown for the viewing, Kip bearing Mom’s wedding ring and her instructions to slip it into the pocket of Roger’s blue suit. “The poor dear man – who was so afraid of being alone – took something precious with him to the grave,” Myra wrote to her parents. “For no logical reason, it makes me feel he didn’t make the journey alone.”

  Dan and I, seeing these tribal elders dressed in suit and tie, guessed where they were going and, in Mom’s words, “put up a clamor to go along. And so Jim and I found ourselves faced with a truly big decision.”

  From Mom’s July 16, 1966 letter

  My first response was “No!” as was Jim’s. I could see Jim was ready to explain it to Luke so I walked out of the room. But I realized that I was refusing Luke the last chance to see his father and that perhaps I hadn’t that right. I went back toward my library and met Jim on his way to me. “Let’s consider this, Jimmy. We’re dealing with a finality here and we mustn’t make a mistake.” My dear brother stood before me with tears running down his face. “I’ve already decided,’” Jim said, “I asked Luke why he wanted to go and his answer was, ‘Because I can’t believe my Daddy is dead’.”

  My 1966 diary

  See Dad dead.

  * * *

  That was my last entry in my diary for the year 1966 – three unemotional words: “See Dad dead.” – a diary I’d begun on my February trip with Dad to his mother’s funeral in St. Petersburg. I have no memory of writing the three words, but there they are in #2 pencil.

  I don’t remember the ride downtown to the funeral home either. I don’t remember wearing a suit, what words were said in the car. I do remember that when we walked into the funeral home someone over my shoulder quietly said, “He’s right in here.”

  I went around a corner and entered a dimly lit room. The walls were green. It took a minute for the image to come together, to understand that the box over there with the curved top was a coffin, that half of the box was open and that only the top half of my father was visible. There was no anger now – only awe. And a wondering: What happened? What sort of trouble did you run into, Dad? You were just at home the other day. And now … look at us.

  The perspective in this memory is from a low angle, it being the summer after my sixth grade. The left side of my father’s face is at eye level. I can see he’s banged his head on something, a small wound the mortician’s make-up can’t hide. I stand with my hands at my sides and wonder: Should I touch him? Shouldn’t I? What if I do and it’s only out of “Wow, a dead guy. What’s that feel like?” It’s bad to think that, isn’t it? If I touch him I might get nightmares too, right? But in a few minutes I’ll never see him again. This is it. So if I don’t touch him, won’t I get nightmares about that? What if I turn around and walk out of this green room without touching my father ever again, what about that?

  I reach out, up a little, over the edge of the casket and touch his … his cheek? his hand? I don’t remember. I do remember a feeling of cool. The suppleness of skin was gone. There was a hardness that the living have only at kneecaps or where the bone rides under flesh.

  The reaching out, that touch of cool, and then nothing. The film stops. No memory of turning my back on my father forever, no image of sidewalk under my dress shoes, no feeling of the hot summer night, no sound of car doors slamming. Just the goodbye hand reaching over the suit, the cool, then nothing.

  My father’s grave in DeGraff, Ohio.

  SUNLIGHT STREAMS DOWN THROUGH A HIGH WINDOW

  JULY 6, 1966, WEDNESDAY

  Mom’s long July 16, 1966 letter to her parents

  After days of oppressively hot weather, Wednesday, July 6th dawned clear and cool. I wore a plain black dress, with ¾-length sleeves – white cuffs and a wide white horse-collar which I had pinned up from its low line – it was a favorite dress of Roger’s. I had no hat but I wore that black lace mantilla that Mother gave me and white gloves. And as I dressed I knew I was dressing for Roger for the last time. At 9:30 the Towey Funeral Home limousine came.

  Kip’s 1966 diary

  Jeff, Chris, Dan and I rode down in family car behind Mom, Jim, Col and Luke in funeral place’s car. At bottom of Institute Road, we were crying with laughter; actually had to hang back from their lead car so they couldn’t see us.

  We were led into the Fireside Room. All of us were just convulsing inside. Led as a group into a pew up front: Jim, Mom, Col, Jeff, Chris, Dan, Luke, me. Chris let part of a laugh escape within a minute after sitting down (big crowd right behind us). Jeff and Dan said later they were in same boat.

  Kip, today

  Somehow we got into a hysterical, laughing mood just before driving to the church. I think all the jokes were about ridiculous events that might happen at the church. In our car, the one I was driving, the four of us were laughing so hard that by the time we passed Bianco’s we had tears running down our faces. On the county road, I slowed the car down to put some distance between us and the front car. I was worried about how we would behave in the church. We were so off the deep end.

  Chris, today

  As we pulled into the parking lot, Jeff observed there was “quite a turn-out,” as if for a party or a celebration rather than a funeral.

  A renewed fury of laughter come over us. We convened again in a small lounge, all dressed in our jackets and ties. There was a strong conspiratorial sense in our little group. I remember feeling very separate from the crowd – even from Mom and Uncle Jimmy. In the car and in the lounge, I felt a bubble around the six of us. We brothers who had gone through so much, we six had a common experience. It was just us six, and beyond that the bonds stopped.

  Kip, today

  As we sat in the waiting room, I tried not to look at other brothers, one or two of who were trying to get us going again. As we sat in the pew I thought I was going to bust. Someone made a slight noise by barely shifting the movable foot rest in front of us. I thought that was going to get us all going again. Linda Wooner or someone later said she saw our shoulders convulsing and thought we were crying. My God. Emotionally, I was hammered. I lost 25 pounds that summer.

  Jeff, today

  We all cracked up and everyone behind us saw our shoulders shaking. The story we’ve all been tellin’ since then – that the crowd behind us thought we were sobbing – I doubt that now. At least the people directly behind us, they probably knew we weren’t sobbing.

  Chris, today

  Dan put his foot up on the kneeling bar at our feet and it creaked. That’s what set it all off. Just that noise. It seemed as if there had been no sound before that one noise and everyone in the silent audience had been straining to hear some indication of where these six boys were emotionally. And now Dan announced to the whole crowd, as if with words through a bullhorn, “We are so indifferent to the death of this beloved ogre that I am casual at his funeral and I am about to put my feet up as if I were watching a football game on TV.” The footrest creaked as if it could not circulate this piece of gossip fast enough, as if to condemn us for our casual attitude.

  From the perspective of all these years later, I can see the hysterical laughter was a w
ild release from a severely tense family situation mixed with anxiety about the future and a whole lot of grief from our father’s death. But at the time, laughter was laughter and I was scared Mom would see our laughter as scoffing at her pain.

  My immediate response to the creak was to burst out laughing.

  The burst I could not control. But the church environment provided me with the motivation to overcome the laughter. There was a surge of terror through the six of us that we were just going to lose it and all break into gales of laughter.

  Then I saw the casket. I hadn’t been aware of it for the first half of the ritual. I had chosen not to go to the viewing the night before and the sight of the casket in its faintly humanoid dimension was the first real moment when I felt in my throat that my father’s death was real. All of the hysterics drained out of me in that moment. I was no longer in danger of laughing. I felt only loss.

  Dan, today

  The only moment of grief I felt was at the end of Dad’s funeral, when his coffin was wheeled down the aisle. The magnitude and finality of the event finally caught up with me at that moment.

  The end of Mom’s long July 16, 1966 letter to her parents

  Standing there listening, I knew I’d not get through the ceremony without a crutch of some sort because I was already beginning to cry. I cast about – nearly frantic – for something to pin my mind on. The Greek alphabet saved me. I silently recited the Greek alphabet, saying the letters one by one. I cannot tell you what people thought of my conduct during the next half-hour. But it would have made little difference for I could only do as I did.

  I cannot tell you how we sat. I know only that as we walked in, Jimmy went first, I second, Collin behind me, and Kip at the end. I never in my life stood straighter or taller or held my head higher. I wanted everyone in that church to know I was proud of Roger, regardless of whatever else they might have thought I felt. The moment we sat down Jimmy took my hand and never let it go till we rose to leave. I looked at nothing except that magnificent stained glass window which kept my head high and my eyes away from the casket. I cannot tell you what was first said by the minister, I did not listen to the prayer. I did not listen to his reading of the 23rd Psalm (Jimmy’s choice), I only looked at that great window and went over and over the Greek alphabet. If that sounds callous, you must remember it was done only because I was feeling too much, too deeply to yield to it.

  But I did listen attentively to his words about Roger. Jimmy will have reported to you that he spoke beautifully and said nothing untrue of Roger. When he was finished, the organist played Bach’s “Come Sweet Death” and while it played, the sun came out and streamed gloriously down through the church windows. I had to go back to the alphabet. The minister then made his final benedictory remarks and farewell.

  Till that moment I had not looked full upon the casket – but I watched as the ushers came up, rolled it into position and moved it up the aisle. I saw it disappear behind Jimmy’s shoulder. At that moment the organ began the opening refrain, with bells only, of “Eternal Father.” We walked out but I held Jim back just outside the door to hear the last notes. It was done. I had gone through it despite the fear I couldn’t. When we arrived home, there were many good friends here – but I simply went to my room, swallowed that last Seconal and went to bed.

  Grandpa, written at the hour of the funeral

  I am with you, this moment, in the First Methodist Church, Rochester, Minnesota – you, the six boys, and he whom you often called “Lil’ brother.” He does for you now what your far-away parents are unable to do.

  It is hard to believe all those years of penury and intellectual achievement were to no avail. I refuse to believe they were. Perhaps only Roger knows now, more than we can on this side of eternity. I wonder if he is not there with you at this moment, weeping over his possession by devils.

  One era in our lives has ended. What will be our future – your future and that of six boys? And what of the remaining time which shall be vouchsafed to me and your mother? How shall we continue our lives after this act of Providence? Shall we continue our Blue Books, with all the trivialities with which I load them? Shall we institute a new process of communication? And if so, what type? After this break in our common life, can we gather up the pieces and proceed again as once we were? I do not know. I shall be guided by your sentiments in this matter. It will probably never be as once it was.

  Can it be richer and more full of understanding and empathy? Perhaps only succeeding weeks and months can tell. In the meantime, you know that we love you and are sorry only that we can do nothing to help you recover from the ravages of recent years. We stand in awe at your courage and indomitable spirit. I am persuaded there is indeed a force which shapes our ends.

  Thus, for you, I anticipate a renewed devotion to things of the spirit – books, if you please – and ships and seas and birds and butterflies – and most of all the care and culture of guiding the growth of six boys – whose father was Phi Beta Kappa and whose mother is his equal, if not superior, in mind and spirit. Now the service is over. I had better pause, consider, and re-write.

  Your loving Father.

  I Believe In God Briefly

  Oh how I wish there was a God, I think, sitting in a church.

  And if there ever is one, I want it to be Grandpa Longstreet’s God, not Grandma Rock’s. I’d want a sunny god, with deep laughter like Grandpa’s, a god who comes in at the last minute and makes everything right and tells me that if I look up into the dark rafters right now I’d see my dad’s faint outline floating there like a firefly, friendly and clear, and then Dad would come down to me. As he descends to our pew he’d see my smile – my eyes like landing lights and he’d know right away all was forgiven, everything – the gun, the axe, the BOOM! on the library door – don’t you see? none of it will count if you can just pull off this one trick and come down to talk to me one last time.

  As Mom whispers her Greek alphabet and Uncle Jimmy squeezes her hand, the sun angles down from the high stained glass windows like a banister and down the stairs Dad comes, slowly, as if doubtful all he’s done can be wiped clean with one fantastic appearance in a church but it is, Dad, it is, and he floats closer and I see he’s skinny again and his eyes, oh they’re so focused and clear and they’re full of fierce love and then of tears as he surrounds me, the soft crackle of starched white shirt, the smell of Old Spice and a whispering, I’m sorry, so sorry for everything. I love you, I’ve always loved you, and he looks down the pew at a line of six little boys he once kissed on the head one by one in a sunny dining room long ago and finally he sees the beautiful Florida girl at the end, no longer in her black funeral dress but in the bright citrus colors of her Momma’s homemade clothes, sees her big white pearly button earrings and remembers how brightly “The Gypsy” stood out on that drab Midwestern campus of 1942.

  He whispers, tell your momma I love her. And tell all your brothers, each one, I love them all. Tell them I’m sorry, for everything.

  And presently the scratch of his cheek eases and he’s up the sun stairs again, waving, says he’s going back.

  “Back to a place I know where the sand is white, the sun is hot, the palm trees whisper and the Gulf of Mexico is green and clear. Your mother and I went swimming there 30 years ago. I might even dig up a fishing pole.”

  You tell them now, don’t forget, tell them, okay?

  In the dining room sometime right before Dad died.

  Clockwise from front: Colly, Chris, Kip, Jeff and Luke

  THE BIG BAD WORLD

  Mom, July 31, 1966

  Dearest Mother and Father: Four weeks have passed – and it’s still July. I’ll be glad to be rid of this month. 1966 is more than half over and has not turned out to be the year we expected it to be. The long struggle is over (for both Roger and me). And my problems have been reduced to two – one an old one, one new. The new one is to learn to live on much less money; selling this wonderful old house will help with that. The ol
d one is the harder – to raise to manhood six boys whose lives have been full of violence, uncertainty, hate and neglect. It won’t be easy.

  Being twelve years old in Rochester, Minnesota, in the summer of ‘66 was a good thing. There had been family trauma for nearly ten years, yeah, but nobody’d died. Well, not counting my dad, but the point is we were all alive, the seven of us – the ten actually, if you count Pagan and my hamsters.