The godfather

As any good Italian-American will tell you, the role of the godfather is an important one in any good Italian-American family. Am I stating the obvious? This could be a truth universally acknowledged by anyone who has ever caught an episode of The Sopranos or reruns of The Godfather. I couldn’t say. This may be true for other families who practice the ritual of baptism. I couldn’t speak for them either. I only know my own experience.

Here is what I know. The road to Schenectady is a long and desolate one, through the barren wasteland that is the Massachusetts Turnpike in its final countdown to the New York state line. Exit 4: West Springfield. Exit 3: Westfield. Exit 2: Lee. Exit 1: West Stockbridge. One begins to anticipate the end of the road—a rock wall perhaps, a precipice for sure—around the next bend. Not this one, the next one. Or is it the next one? The road rises and falls, crossing the Catskills and the elusive Appalachian Trail, an intangible pursuit carved into the bedrock of the northeast. If a person didn’t know better, she might think she had reached the end of the known world upon sighting the You Are Now Leaving Massachusetts sign. Alas, the road continues. What once seemed dark and looming stretches out into a strange flat—a no man’s land—between the last waypoint and the next, the Welcome to New York sign.

From November to April the ground is frozen, frosted, and forbidding. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas a perpetual snow blankets the divided highway. Overpass May Be Icy signs, so easy to ignore in August, loom like a threat over the holiday season. And the overpasses themselves are unremarkable bridges, allowing wildlife to cross under the road unhindered, barely noticeable but for the warnings. There are exits for humans too. They are marked and signed. The signs marking the exits are the only signs of life. No lights. No cars. Snow on the grass. Black ice on the road. Snow on the radio. Nothing to do but wonder, What’s the bother? What’s the use of driving this road, this far, this time of year (or any time of year)?

For the godfather, that is why.

He summoned.

“Did you make plans for Thanksgiving yet?”

“Yes, I’m cooking for [him] and [them] and [her] too.”

A spreading silence at his end of the phone.

“I was really looking forward to seeing you.”

An almost imperceptible pause at her end.

“I’ll be there in the morning.”

She drove.

Why, you wonder? Why go all that way alone? Just because he asked?

Yes, just because he asked. He is the godfather. She needed no other reason. He taught her how to fish, how to play tennis. He vetted every boyfriend, threatened to break knee caps at every break-up. He stuffed cash in her pockets when she graduated from high school, from college, and when she got married. He paid for her post-wedding family brunch just because he wanted to, not because anyone asked. He called her a rat-fink traitor when she moved to Colorado. He said it was “about time” when she moved home three months later. He stuffed a basket full of wine and candy and bracelets and scratch tickets and socks when she moved into her own apartment at Easter. He made her run the Turkey Trot and watch bad AMC movies when she lost her job at Thanksgiving. He bought her more wine and scratch tickets and a new running jacket and warmer socks at Christmas when she signed the divorce papers.

So she drove.

She drove to his daughter’s (her cousin’s) wedding shower, to the family barbeques, to her cousin’s wedding. She drove to her cousin’s baby shower, to more family barbeques, and to more holiday dinners. She drove because he expected her to. Because it was the right thing to do.

He knew right from wrong. Not in a high-handed way. He was capable of moral relativism, but only where it applied to others. He held himself to a higher standard.

I’ll give you an example. It was about four years ago now, when his ex-wife became ill. She was diagnosed with lupus and something else chronic and fatal. They had split years ago. Not a few years. Like 20 years. And then the strokes started. Her health declined steadily. Her cognition slipped away. Her legs slipped out from under her. She was confined to a wheelchair first, then a nursing home. He took care of all of it all, in his uniquely superhuman and understated manner.

He handled it in a godfatherly way. Not in an overbearing, hefty Marlon Brando or James Gandolfini sort of way. He handled it in a modest, unprepossessing, Al Pacino sort of way. He was fit of frame, slight of build, his dark hair thinning in the front, his Italian beak of a nose suspended over a kind smile. (I bet you’ve never noticed that: Al Pacino, king of the fictional underworld, has an unassuming smile.)

Hmm, did you catch that? I almost missed it myself. I said “was.” He was fit. And then he wasn’t.

So she drove on Thanksgiving day, then again four days before Christmas, and then again two weeks later, for the last time.

It all happened too quickly for her. The pancreatic cancer had spread too quickly. But he handled it the way he handled everything—with strength and dignity and decisiveness. He decided when it was time. He told her at Thanksgiving that he was done. He told her he loved her. And he checked into the hospital after she left. He made all the arrangements and said all the goodbyes. And when there was nothing left to do, he waited for her that Friday before Christmas. He waited for her to complete the drive. And then, a few hours later, he was gone.

At Easter I caught myself musing about that drive. I was missing it—longing for it—in a way that seemed irrational at best. Then I heard it. “Duh, Sah,” he said.  (He had a way of diminishing my name to something childlike, his New York accent sinking the r. It always amazed me that an act of reduction could fill me with such love.)

“It’s not about the drive, sweetie.” I heard his voice in my head.

I keep hearing his voice in my head, over and over. And I keep wondering, What does it mean? I mean, really, What is it all about? It’s not about the drive. It’s not about the bike. It’s not about the nail. Please don’t tell me it’s about the hokey pokey, because I will just give up right now. And anyway, I thought it was about the drive, like in that, “it’s about the journey” kind of way. Well the drive really…the drive is kind of shit. I drove because he asked me to. He was my godfather, my moral compass, the one who always knew what to do, the one who always knew what to say. And now he’s gone.

I think what he meant (and yes, I do know the voice in my head was just me talking to myself), he meant there should always be at least one person in our lives for whom we will go to the ends of the earth and who will go to the ends of the earth (or Schenectady) for us. Without that person, everything seems pointless, directionless, and well…just less.