The Lost Boys of West Brighton
Over half a century later, the whereabouts of a friend still resonates
Through the quiet gloom of worn cedar blinds, my friend David Lipman and his younger brother Robert looked out of their living room window onto Abby Place, West Brighton, Staten Island, February 1965.
A sudden cold late afternoon wind rustles the bare hedges against the brown stucco house that they have lived in all their lives as they watch the yellow Checker cab carrying Aunt Louise pull away from the curb. Both boys, still in their dark suits, have just returned from their father Joseph’s funeral, and now, without an adult present, neither one knows what will happen next. Their hands awkwardly lower from waving goodbye to their aunt, who traveled all the way from River Forest, Illinois, to say goodbye to her older brother Joseph.
“You know, I always said to your Daddy that he should have gone into law instead of stationery sales. Not that he didn’t do well for himself; of course, he did and married your beautiful mother. It’s just that he would have been such a good lawyer. I would always tell him that. Do you recall my having worked for Judge Duke Dunne? I must have mentioned that I was the stenographer in his courtroom in Cooks County for over ten years. That’s a long time, ten years. I knew Duke when he was an end guard playing for the University of Michigan, and I was barely in my teens… now, that’s going back, isn’t it?”
Before Aunt Louise left, she teared up, and the rouge on her cheeks dripped down to her chin, which she dabbed away with a tissue. She adjusted her hat pin, then hugged the boys, leaving them with a box of Dutch butter cookies, promising to send for them as soon as she got back to River Forest, but Aunt Louise always said nice things that she had difficulty following through. The idea of her fetching her nephews from the pain of their loss seemed remote; the boys knew better; they were on their own. For a long moment, after Aunt Louise’s cab pulled away, David and Robert continued looking out the window, hoping to find answers in the empty street as to why these things happened.
Two years earlier, they had lost their kind, soft-spoken mother, Harriet, and now their father. Alone in a world both scary and familiar, now there was no one but David to look out for Robert, to take care of him, comfort him, and provide for him. Both boys looked through the blinds, hoping for some answer as to the events of the past two days.
Their father had returned from work with a bit of a headache and said he was walking over to Saint Vincent’s Hospital on Castleton Avenue to talk to a doctor. Barely a half hour later, the kitchen telephone rang on Abby Place, and David heard a doctor say that he was very sorry, but his father had had a heart attack and didn’t make it.
The wind outside the house was kicking up as the boys nibbled several of the butter cookies. Little Robert, just 12 years old, lowered his head. “David? I’m hungry.”
David nodded the same way as when he knew the answer to a difficult math problem.
“I’ll make hot dog eggs. Okay?”
Robert smiled and shook his head as David walked into the dark kitchen and looked over his shoulder at his little brother,
“Wash your hands. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”
Hot dog eggs was the one dish their father used to make for fun dinners, basically scrambled eggs and slices of hot dog cooked together, something he’d learned in the Service.
As David opened the refrigerator door, the light inside the refrigerator illuminated his face, and, at that moment, little Robert realized that his older brother had changed as much as their whole lives had. At that moment, Robert saw that his big brother David was all he had in the world. He ran to David’s side and hugged him around the waist, burying his head in David’s chest. Robert never loved his brother David more than in that one moment of realization. David patted his brother’s head, and, eyes welling, for the first time in days, was able to cry silently.
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