Holding the Line
It seems like it was just last week that I was sitting on my couch when I got a phone call from my niece that began with the words, “I have terrible news.”
I couldn’t begin to imagine what the problem was, and then she said, “My father passed.”
“Peter?” I shouted, jumping off the couch, as if I were hoping it would be somebody else.
But it wasn’t. My brother was gone.
My God, what a terrible day that was. I started making phone calls, and then my sister and I went to Manhattan to tell our aunt what had happened, because there was no way we were going to tell her that terrible news over the phone.
I still miss his daily calls. I keep hoping I’ll see his name flash across my iPhone, even though I know that’s never going to happen.
I later learned that Peter had been very unhappy, and I feel so badly that I didn’t pick up on that while he was still in this world.
He wasn’t going to open up to me, of course, but when I think about how we spoke on the phone nearly every single day, I’m disappointed that I didn’t see the pain beneath the chatter.
Last week a bunch of people from our old street held a big dinner, and everybody was asking about Peter. It was great seeing all these people, whom I had not seen in years, and I only wish my brother could have joined us.
I wanted to do something to mark this first anniversary, so I decided I’d go back to Senator Street and visit our family house.
It’s within walking distance, but I have no reason to go over there since we sold the house 14 years ago, and, frankly, it’s painful seeing another family living there.
I was amazed at how much the neighborhood had changed.
All the stores I used to frequent are gone, largely replaced by Middle Eastern businesses, reflecting the shift in Bay Ridge’s demographics that sparked the nickname “Beirut.”
Long Time, No See
I was shocked to see that the pool hall where my brother used to hang out as a teenager had been demolished and replaced with some plexiglass structure.
It might be a restaurant, but don’t quote me.
My parents used to speak this way about their old neighborhoods, but it never occurred to me that someday I would be walking down the same path.
I turned the corner onto Senator Street and walked down to our family’s home. I remembered the good times we had there — the birthday parties, the holiday dinners.
The new owners have nice shiny numbers next to the door, and it’s shocking to think that address is no longer mine.
I didn’t want to linger outside for fear of spooking these people, so I did an about face to leave when I ran into two former neighbors.
An elderly Chinese lady used to live there, and I loved her so dearly. I feared the worst, but the young man told me that she was his grandmother and is now living with his cousin.
I was so happy to hear this, and I asked them to give her my best.
I walked up the block and recalled how Peter and I — and all the kids on the block — would walk to Our Lady of Angels grammar school on 74th Street, and later to the train station on Fourth Avenue so we could take the R train down to Brooklyn Tech.
This evening I found an old voicemail from Peter that was dated one week before he died.
“Hey dude, just me calling to say hi,” he said. “I'm taking a short drive today, then I’m going home. I’ve got shit to do. You're going out with that girl from Facebook, right? All right, enjoy your day and I'll talk to you tomorrow.”
It was so strange hearing his voice. I almost started crying. Such a mundane message at the time, but now it’s priceless.
Obviously, I didn’t know we’d have so little time left — that Peter would be gone before my next birthday. And for this birthday, I’d give anything to get one more of those phone calls.
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