About this time last year, we lost  Godfather Jack. It was an inevitable surprise. When a death like this and your baby’s birth get you to a milestone holiday, just thinking of Thanksgiving wears you out.

While walking the dog the morning after Thanksgiving, my cell phone rang.  Nicole was calling to tell me Godfather Jack died the night before.

Nicole was Jack’s guardian, appointed by the City of New York. Jack needed a guardian because his mind slipped. He’d given away his money in scams, though he was sure the money was coming back. A judge determined Jack was a very nice elderly man who needed help. And that’s when he became a ward of Nicole, who paid his bills and checked in on him. But he wouldn’t let her in the apartment and wouldn’t return her calls. They shared a madness. 

A while later, Jack fell in the street and went to the hospital. He didn’t go home. Instead, he was assigned to the Isabella Nursing Home way up in northern Manhattan.

Isabella is a tall building with a commanding view of the Harlem River and Yankee Stadium. But Jack didn’t look out the window much, I don’t think. He didn’t know why he was there and didn’t realize he wasn’t going home.

And that’s where Jack died, at age 90. 

Thinking about it now, I’m so relieved he died back then: Before the pandemic swept through New York City and nursing homes, like a colossal bowling ball bouncing through a hallway of doddering oldsters marooned in wheelchairs. 

By the time the dog and I returned to the rental house, I was in no mood to drive to Penn State. Grace asked if we were going to cancel the trip and I said, no. No. We’re going. We need to go.

Last summer, a flood swept through our neighborhood, totaling seven cars (including mine) and destroying one home (ours). Two months later, I got really sick and landed in the hospital with pancreatitis. I was lucky; I lived. But I can’t drink again.

So, no, we weren’t going to cancel this trip. This was another chapter in a miserable year. We needed joy. We were going to Penn State, and Grace was going to drive. She was all of 16 years old. 

Grace rolled up I-270 to the Pennsylvania Turnpike and on to 99. And she was doing all right. In the passenger seat, I was miserable with my Moleskine, pen, cell phone, and cell phone charger. 

I was on the phone with a funeral home in the Bronx, that cemetery in Westchester, and family around the country. I polled them: When can we bury Jack? Can we have the mass at the cemetery church, that place in Westchester? No, I think all the expenses are covered.

And, do you think they’ll bury Uncle Buddy, too? 

Uncle Buddy was my mom’s brother. He spent his life going his own way. He was proud that he’d never paid taxes and lived far away in Florida.

The last time I saw him was in that cemetery in Westchester when we were burying his other sister, Sheila. He didn’t remember me, but he remembered my mom. 

I asked how he was, and he told me how he wanted to go when it was his time to go. He wanted to be cremated and have his ashes spread by his girlfriend atop this particular mountain in Switzerland they really liked. Really, I said, I’ve been to Switzerland. Which particular mountain? He looked at me and sneered, Don’t you worry about it.  So I didn’t.

Later, the girlfriend was gone and Buddy was living in a group home in Florida. He called his cousin – my Godfather Jack – and said, Could I be buried w/ you in your plot, alongside your mom? Up at that place in Westchester? Sure, said Jack. But you call the cemetery and you pay them whatever they want. I want nothing to do with it. Sure, said Buddy. 

But Buddy didn’t call the cemetery and he didn’t pay anybody and he died and was cremated and ended up in an urn under the kitchen table in Cousin Kenny’s house in the Poconos. And now Cousin Steve was saying, do you think we can bury Buddy w/ Jack? 

Pull in here, Gracie, I said. This is our hotel. We’re here. Happy Valley. Let’s go out.

I soon realized every restaurant I knew was long gone. I also realized I didn’t eat in restaurants when I was a student. I ate slices and cheesesteaks and lived in libraries and bars. And while some of the bars were still there, I couldn’t go in with my 16-year-old daughter.

The lady who sold us sweatshirts told us about a restaurant, and we got a table, and I asked the waitress for a birthday treat for Grace. It was her birthday weekend. Oh, and a double Jamesons, please. 

Grace stared. That’s alcohol, isn’t it? Yup. 

I’d been sober for 30 days or so. The doctors told me if I drank alcohol again, I’d surely die a painful, quick death. Grace was worried. She knew Daddy could use a drink.

That’s not for you, is it? Oh no, I said. I’m not drinking it, said Grace. No, you’re not, I said. Grace, it’s a tribute for Jack. It’s a drink to his memory. And for the first time that day, I broke into a wide smile.

Oh no, she said. nononoNONO. No!

You’re NOT going to start parading around this restaurant, making new friends, telling old stories. You’re not going to embarrass me. Oh nonononono.

She was right. I’d already scanned the bar like Jason Bourne without a weapon. And I had two targets. 

Ok, I said. I promise: I won’t leave the table.

The waitress brought the cocktail and I touched her arm and said, Look: Godfather Jack just died and I can’t drink this, but someone has to drink this, and I’m sure you can’t drink this at work, and can you help me out? 

And my daughter watched as two professional drinkers worked together instinctually; empathetic strangers. I stood up, and the waitress dropped to a knee, like she’d dropped a pen on the floor, took the glass, threw back the double, and, while standing up, dropped the empty on her tray. 

Thank you, I said. You’re welcome, she said. And I tipped her $50.

The next morning, I talked again with the funeral director. Well, he said, I guess I can put Buddy’s urn inside Jack’s coffin, if that’s what you want. That’s what I want, I said.

The football game was just OK, and Gracie drove us home.

We buried Jack the following weekend at that cemetery in Westchester. My family is just like your family: At their best, they’re OK. At their worst, they’re a shit show. This was a bit of a shit show.

What was different, what was very…adult…about this family funeral was I could leave when the mishigas started. The luncheon lurched and heaved (and me sober!), so I…left. I’d made my peace with Jack. I got him home. 

I drove alone back to the city in the pouring rain. Alone, but away from family madness. I left the radio off; a quiet car in a monsoon. The hail hit the car, sounding like baseballs. 

The day before, I knew I was going to be banged up by now, so I planned ahead. I rented the car near the Museum of Modern Art. I returned the car, crossed the street, and for two hours, I walked the museum halls and galleries alone: Grieving, tears behind sunglasses, and living my best life. As a kid, I imagined what it was like to be an adult in New York City; walking through the museums all alone would be a dream.

And around a corner, I walked into a human exhibit: Two gifted boys, singing to another while they walked across different rocks. It made no sense at all. It was beautiful. It was touching. It was. Perfect. 

Be in peace, Jack. And thanks for believing in me.

By Tom Sakell