After Seth's Murder
t's four in the morning on Christmas/Chanukah eve. I'm ten, the only one up,
and I'm excited. I mean, how can anyone sleep on Christmas/Chanukah eve? I grab
my flashlight and slip down the stairs. There they are, in front of the fireplace, piles
of presents. There's one with my name on it, a long skinny one. There's another, a
small box. Here's another ... no that's for Keith. And this one is for ... Phyllis.
Where's the rest of my pile? What's going on here? They have huge piles of
presents.
I know, I'll bet my two are really really good.
I tear off the wrapping paper on the big one. A fishing pole. The box - a Penn reel. Put 'em together, one crummy fishing rod. I can't believe it. One crummy fishing rod. I'm going to look through the piles again. I must have missed something.
I searched the piles again. That was it, all right.
Okay, so maybe I wasn't an angel. What was the big deal about punching Keith ? Everyone knows younger brothers are annoying. Besides, he's an actor. He didn't have to cry so loud. I didn't hurt him that bad. No bones were broken.
Yeah, maybe there were a few other little nit-picky things. I mean, what kid doesn't curse under his breath, so nobody can hear him except maybe Superman, cause he has super-sonic hearing. Mom wasn't supposed to hear me. And why am I the only one who has to put out the trash, anyway? Look, I'm better in school than they are, and I was good today, almost perfect. I cleaned up my room. That has to count for something, doesn't it?
Yeah, it counts all right. Counts for one crummy fishing rod. It's not fair.
You know, it's ten years later, and I still remember that lousy Christmas/Chanukah. The memory stays fresh because five months later, I felt even lousier about that crummy fishing rod, something I didn't think was possible. It happened when my Aunt's family came for a Sunday visit to our home in Long Island.
Around noon they pulled into the driveway, my Aunt Gladys, Uncle Bill, and cousins Seth, Eileen, and Janet. First out of the car, my Aunt, Mom's pretty older sister. She eyed our family for any new competitive advantages. Next out, Uncle Bill. He stretched and then smiled his shy, warm, fortyish smile. Cousin Seth climbed out on his Dad's side, the only son, 14, a copy of his father. Janet was next. She was my age, and getting prettier every day. Last out, Eileen, 12, probably the sweetest and most considerate girl in the world, or at least she seemed so compared to her sister and brother.
The families kissed and hugged. Then the "guys" watched baseball on tv, while the "girls" toured our house, searching for new areas of comparison.
After a while, my Uncle Bill suggested it was too nice a spring day to waste in front of a tv set, and why didn't we take a drive in our Desoto convertible. My Dad agreed. My Aunt made a face. Seth liked the idea, my brother didn't, and I was neutral.
While we were inside the garage putting the top down, my Dad glanced at our fishing poles. Change in plans. Final destination, Jones Beach, for a fishing expedition. We would share the fishing rods. Uncle Bill nodded okay. My Dad put his old surfcasting rod and my crappy fishing rod in the trunk.
We stopped at the bait and tackle store by the parkway entrance ramp. Uncle Bill suggested he should rent fishing tackle, so we could all fish at the same time. My Dad said he didn't think they rented stuff out. I was now bored by the whole idea, so I remained in the car, waiting.
My father left the store first, holding a small paper bag, too small for the box of frozen squid that stuck out. He was shaking his head in disbelief over something. Cousin Seth and Uncle Bill walked out next. Seth was clutching a 12 foot custom-made surf rod with line guides the size of basketball hoops. There was a large spinning reel attached to it. The price tag read $200, a working man's weekly salary.
I stared at this magnificent surf-casting machine with awe. My father suggested they take it apart to fit it in the trunk, but Seth didn't want to let go of it. So Seth sat in the back seat, by himself, holding the rod as it extended over the trunk. I sat up front, between my father and Uncle. Every so often, I turned around, examined the rod, got awed, and then turn back. I mean, it wasn't even Christmas/Chanukah, and my uncle spent $200 just to see his son smile. And smile Seth did, all the way to the beach.
While my crummy fishing rod lay shame-faced in the trunk.
When we arrived at the beach, Seth, with my Uncle instructing him, reared back and whipped a baited hook toward the far continents. My Dad and I watched mesmerized as the line sailed across the waves into the deep water. Then I reared back with my crappy little four foot rod. A measly ten feet of line peeled off before the reel overspun and the line became a tangled mess of spaghetti. For the next hour, I untied knots, while Seth and Uncle Bill took turns, rearing back and flinging their hook across the ocean. My Dad was casting okay, but no where near as far as Uncle Bill and Seth.
Just as I got my line untangled, my cousin Seth felt a tug, jerked back on his monster rod, and reeled in a flounder the size of a door mat. I threw my rod on the sand, disgusted, and walked away in a huff.
One of the requirements of walking away in a huff is that your audience knows you are doing this. My audience ignored me because they were fixated on Seth's leviathan flapping in the air as it hung from the hook. When I was about a hundred feet away, and no one was shouting at me to come back, I turned around. The distance enabled me, for the first time, to stand outside my family, as a spectator.
I watched a father put his arm around his son. The son looked up at his father, the father looked down at his son. They both smiled the same satisfied smile. A once-in-a-lifetime magical moment was created.
I looked over at the other man. He had an empty look on his face. I wondered if his son would ever know a magical moment like that.
I mentioned the second fishing incident because I thought alot about Seth when I was twenty and Seth was 24.
When I thought about Seth, I remembered the night he drove his friend John home to the West Village. John lived in a low rent, rough New York City neighborhood, the kind you locked your car doors when you drove through. John got out of the car in front of his apartment building. Seth waited until John was safely inside.
Two local gang members pounced on the car. They jerked open the now unlocked passenger door, leaped inside, and put a knife to Seth's throat. They demanded his wallet. Seth complied. Then they stabbed him six times, and disappeared back into the night.
Seth drove himself to Bellevue Hospital, while most of his blood poured out onto the car seat, and then onto the floor. He lingered between life and death for three days, receiving 80 pints of blood from friends and family. No matter how much blood went in, it leaked back out.
Seth died.
Both families met back at my Aunt and Uncle's house after the funeral. Everyone was talking and eating, and doing everything they could to distance themselves from the horror we were forced to share. At one point, there was an uneasy silence. During that silence, I caught Uncle Bill staring in my direction, with an unfocused look. He gave a start when he became aware I was watching him. He then smiled shyly, then the smile slowly disappeared. He looked away, and then wiped his eyes.
When I was 36, I wrote a play that was produced off-off Broadway. It was a comedy called the Unemployment Line. The day before the first performance, the New York City building department closed the theater because of code violations. Panicked and desperate, we moved the set to another theater, and true to the cliche, the show went on.
It was a terrible play. Sometimes I joke about it, saying my first play was so bad, they didn't just stop the production, they shut down the theater permanently.
My Uncle Bill loved my play. His pleasure at watching it was as unbounded as it was puzzling. He was a very intelligent man. Didn't he know it was a stinker? According to him, I was Neil Simon and Tennessee Williams rolled up into one. He was my greatest, and only, fan. When I had every reason to quit writing, Uncle Bill was always there with the encouragement I needed to persevere.
I discovered later Seth was an aspiring playwright before he was murdered.
I'm now almost 50. My Uncle Bill died a year ago. It is customary in the Jewish religion, during the first year after a father's death, that his sons say Kaddish for him. Kaddish is a special prayer recited standing, and out loud, during services. My Uncle Bill had no sons to do this for him.
I asked our Rabbi if I could say Kaddish for my Uncle Bill. He said yes, provided I had the permission of my parents, who were both still alive (thank God). I received their permission.
During this past year, I stood in front of our congregation and said Kaddish for Uncle Bill. I felt honored to do it. He was a man who loved his son, and knew how to show it. I felt connected to that love each time I said Kaddish.
And that crummy fishing rod? I still have it. It sits rusting and corroded in the back of my shed. Every time I try to throw it out, something stops me.
