The gathering at the grave was respectfully silent as the rabbi read passages in English and Hebrew. They joined him in saying the Kaddish, but my father would not have recited the part of the Kaddish that translates to “blessed is the righteous judge.” For him, this would have been a lie. He never saw the senseless death of his little girl as anything righteous. In fact, his faith was shaken to its core.
I follow my vision of the day through. As Donna’s pine box was lowered into the ground, my father made no attempt to wipe away his tears. His sisters, Sylvia and Ruth, flanked him and each took an arm. He was the first to place a stone on the grave— Jewish tradition to leave behind a marker to show the deceased is not forgotten by family and friends.
Most of the crowd then made their way to their cars, but my father’s sisters stayed with him until the last shovel of dirt was tamped down.
Afterward, the family gathered at my Aunt Sylvia’s house. Each person stopped to wash their hands from the pitcher of water at the doorway to purify themselves after close proximity to the dead. Inside, mirrors were covered with black cloth.
My father knew he couldn’t be away from my mother and Linda during the entire shiva period. At the end of the day, he found a bit of dirt from the garden outside Sylvia’s home and placed it inside his shoe, so as not to forget his mourning state, and returned to the hospital.
I PUT ASIDE the news clipping that placed me so squarely at my sister’s funeral.
chapter forty
JANUARY 22, 1952 (DAY OF THE CRASH)
3:21 PM
FLIGHT 6780 WAS over Patterson, New Jersey. The plane was expected to land at 3:40 PM in Newark, where the weather was still foggy with a light rain and visibility of three-quarters of a mile. In Elizabeth, my family’s schedule was being adjusted by the cold, rainy day.
chapter forty-one
1964—1972
THE FIVE-YEAR AGE difference between Linda and me was a chasm until I was twenty.
In her high school years, Linda chose a rougher group of friends than my parents would have liked. She started smoking and bleaching her hair. I was too young to know what else might have been happening, but I often heard the worried conversations through my parents’ bedroom wall whenever Linda stayed out too late or had a date with a boy my parents didn’t like.
“We can’t run her life for her, Al,” my mother would say.
“But that guy is just no good; I can tell. There must be some reason he keeps hanging around,” my father would counter.
They never watched me as carefully and were never as invested in my daily life. I was pretty much a free agent.
When I was old enough, around seventeen, and she was young enough, about twenty-two, we joined forces at times, plotting together to break away from the confining walls of our safe life. I’m sure now that, even though we didn’t discuss it, we were both experimenting with sex as the validation we sought from boys, if for different reasons.
One weekend when my parents were away and Linda was home from college and left in charge, she conspired with me to have a forbidden party.
Before the guests arrived, she poured most of the bottle of Smirnoff she had bought into our punch bowl. “Don’t put too much in there,” I told her.
“Oh, you won’t even taste it,” she promised. We emptied containers of orange juice and cranberry juice into the bowl, then added four trays of ice.
I told ten friends about the party, but when word got around town, the cars just kept coming. Pretty soon, there were kids I didn’t recognize all over the house. Of course, after a few glasses of punch, I didn’t really notice.
We had the stereo turned all the way up. Crosby, Stills, and Nash harmonized, “Our house is a very, very, very fine house . . . ” and Rod Stewart wailed, “Spread your wings and let me come inside . . . ”
When the party really started to get going, Linda left with her girlfriend for their own party at a friend’s house.
Just then, my boyfriend, Mike, pulled up in his blue Mustang convertible and threw his car door closed, his metallic black hair sweeping into his eyes. Since football season ended, he’d grown it nearly to his shoulders. He had on the beige shirt that hugged his chest, showing off his workouts.
Mike was a junior to my senior status, and I’d be going off to college in a few months. He was the first boy I was serious about and really cared for, and I didn’t want to lose him. So we talked about it, and that night was indeed the night. I didn’t have a burning desire to have sex, just the need for this boy to prove to me that I could be attractive and wanted. Mostly, I wanted to keep him around and waiting for me while I was away.
I had on my new denim halter top, hip-hugger bell-bottoms, and a wide leather belt engraved with daisies and held with a chunky brass buckle. No jewelry, no shoes. My hair was straight and loose down my back.
Mike grabbed my bare waist and kissed me, slid his hand inside the back of my halter.
“Punch?” I offered.
“Sure.” He took a gulp of the fruity stuff.
I swigged down the rest of my cup and took hold of his hand.
Gently touching my cheek, Mike turned my face to him, looked me in the eye, and said, “Are you sure about this?”
Nodding a yes, I led him up the stairs to my room. I had drunk three big cups of the vodka juice, more liquor than the total I had ever consumed. I couldn’t feel my feet hit the floor.
When we got to my room, I locked the door. The noise from the party downstairs faded, and I could imagine we were alone. My idea of this moment was scripted by the movies. Romeo and Juliet, Love Story, Bonnie and Clyde. A confounding mix of images and noninformation. What exactly do you do? Sex ed class only told us what not to do. I wanted romance, violins, the scent of roses.
I was pretty sure that I should not undress myself, but I didn’t have to worry about that for long. We started kissing and Mike had me out of my top in about three seconds. Somehow, the rest of my clothes came off. “This will be great; you’ll see,” he said.
I unbuttoned Mike’s shirt methodically down his chest as I’d seen Jane Fonda do with Robert Redford in Barefoot in the Park. Mike fumbled with his own pants, shoes, and socks—no movie covered that—while I scurried under the covers, shivering.
When he held me, I caught my breath at the feel of his skin, the hard tightness of him against me, the smell of Brut cologne. I could have stopped there and been satisfied—or possibly passed out cold.
Mike held me still to calm me. He lifted my face to his, surprising me with his tenderness, kissing first my eyes, my cheek, and then grazing each lip separately. He had watched his own movies. The haze of vodka let me get lost in his kisses as his hands tripped down my sides, breasts, and thighs, igniting new sensations. Still, my head was too blurry to register any ultimate pleasure. When Mike rolled on top of me, I was mostly confused. And, then, quickly, it was over.
“Is that it?” I asked him after.
“It gets better,” he said.
BEFORE MY PARENTS got home on Sunday, I had scoured the house of any remnant of the party. Nevertheless, I missed something.
“Gidget, what is that you have in your mouth?” I heard my mother say to our French poodle.
I could hear them through my bedroom wall.
“Al, look at this!”
I stood completely still to hear.
Whispers. Foot stomping down the stairs to the living room.
“JUDY, COME DOWN HERE!” My father yelled. “NOW!”
I tiptoed in, trying to assess the situation by their faces. It was not good.
“Sit!”
Gidget and I both sat.
My father threw a red square metal packet on the coffee table. My mouth fell open, saliva dried in my throat, sweat dampened my neck.
“It’s a condom,” he confirmed.
Gidget nosed under my hand, seeking forgiveness.
“So it is,” I ventured.
“It’s not our brand,” my mother said.
My mother arched her right eyebrow and lowered her left. My father’s upper lip disappeared into his lower one.
“Well, can you explain it then?”
“It must be Eileen’s. I’m sorry, but I let her and her boyfriend use your room the other night when you were away.”
This was absolutely true, too. I used my own room.
“Oh my God!” My mother walked out of the room.
“See Flurry, I knew there would be an explanation,” my father said calmly.
chapter forty-two
2006
ALL SUMMER WE’VE been getting ready for Justin to go off to college, planning what he’ll need for his dorm room and what clothes he’ll have to pack. Today we are taking him up to school in New York, to Sarah Lawrence College. It’s a complicated affair to move him in. Justin’s father and his girlfriend will follow David and me up there to see him off. Bob and I get along well enough, although our interactions are awkward, and I’m afraid we’ll both be vying to set up Justin’s room and make up his bed. I’m fighting the feeling that this is my boy alone, and I vow to make the day as easy as I can.
While he’s packing, I reason that it might be easier to concentrate on the past than the present, so I find the folder with my mother’s notes and bring it out to the porch where I can look out on the backyard. The trees and grass out there are still summer green.
For many years, my mother clipped news articles of larger settlements for what she deemed less devastating accidents or injury, and her file folder is stuffed full of them. It didn’t seem to matter if the cases held any similarity to theirs or not.
My mother’s notes about the court settlement with the airline are specific, and Linda and my father also fleshed out the details for me about how the court case went.
Sometime in 1953, when Linda was well enough to go to court with them, their case against American Airlines was called. She was three.
My parents had spoken with their attorney and showed him the bills from the hospital. They explained the situation and why it was imperative that they settle the case against American Airlines quickly but with enough funds for the care Linda would need in the months and years ahead.
Like most people of that time, they had no health insurance, but skin grafts couldn’t wait, and the hospital had notified them that Linda could not receive any more care until the current bill was paid. The initial bill was staggering—over $5,000. More than my father made in a year then.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we had a real trial—with a jury?” my father had asked the lawyer. “Wouldn’t their sympathy help us?”
“Possibly, but that would take months more. I don’t think you want to postpone Linda’s care that long, do you?”
The family followed their attorney into the cavernous quiet of the Union County courtroom, a hush falling as Linda walked in ahead of her parents.
Four dapper young attorneys from the airline aimed their battalion of matching black leather portfolios at the judge. My father tucked his cardboard file under his seat.
In the middle of his opening remarks, without warning, the attorney picked Linda up under her arms and stood her up on the wooden table at the front of the courtroom. Linda remembers that she looked to my mother, and my mother grasped her hand. Meanwhile, the attorney was talking fast, pointing to the scars on Linda’s arms and legs, pulling back her hair to reveal her missing ears, lifting up her sleeves and the hem of her dress to show the judge the extent of her injuries.
My father sat helpless, unable to stop the hurt in Linda’s eyes.
After showcasing Linda’s injuries, the attorney talked about the extent of the medical care she would need. He related the essence of the New Jersey aviation statute that held that the owner of aircraft operated over land or waters of the state is absolutely liable for injuries to persons or property on land or water beneath, caused by ascent, descent, or flight of aircraft.
He submitted photos of Donna and Linda before the plane crash.
Predictably, the defense noted that the Civil Aeronautics investigation was inconclusive: Nothing was found wrong with the navigational gear or landing equipment; everything was functioning correctly. Captain Reid, too, was cleared of any negligence, and the criminal investigation turned up no determination of wrongdoing from the airline.
Their argument went a long way in reducing the financial award to $250,000. After attorney fees, the net to the family was $125,000.
Wrongful death awards typically take into account the potential earning power of the deceased for the family. The earning power of a seven-year-old didn’t amount to much.
“It’s still a lot of money,” their attorney told them. “It should be plenty to take care of Linda. You’ll see the money very quickly now, and it will all be settled.”
In fact, the award was in line with others of the time. Some wrongful death suits yielded under $150,000. Catastrophic injuries could come in under $50,000. The $250,000 award was the equivalent of about $2 million in today’s money.
Of course, the settlement didn’t account for inflation, or medical expenses over Linda’s lifetime. In the long run, it was not even close to enough, since the care she needed extended throughout her life.
The settlement was a hard kernel of resentment between my parents. My mother blamed my father for settling too quickly and not choosing the right lawyer. My father would say nothing when she brought it up time and again. He would just walk away.
I urged her many times to let it go, to give up on this particular frustration.
THE CAR IS jam-packed with Justin’s stuff: his electric piano and amp, his laptop and speakers, bedding and towels, clothes stuffed into duffle bags and plastic garbage bags, a couple of milk crates full of books. He is a big reader, and he says he “needs” his books with him. I smile when I hear that. But by taking all this with him, it looks like he will never need to come home again, and I already feel myself tearing up. I fight the urge and keep moving to get us on the road.
The day goes pretty smoothly. We find his dorm and battle the crowds of parents moving their freshmen into their rooms. His roommates seem nice enough, although it is cramped for three boys in the one room. At the orientation session, they firmly tell the parents to leave at 5:00 PM. The rest of the evening is for the students.
I try to make quick work of saying good-bye, and I pull away from Justin’s hug before I know I’ll break down. He looks confused, and I give him another quick hug and tell him to call me soon. I get in my car and try not to look back. When I do look back, he has gone inside.
David and I have driven up in separate cars since there was so much to bring along, but we stay in contact on our cell phones. After we find our way to the highway, I call him and tell him I need to stop. He can tell I’m already crying and asks me if I’m okay. When we find a strip mall just off the road, I pull over and give in to my tears. David climbs into my car and leans over to hug me. Letting go of my little boy is harder than I ever imagined.
chapter forty-three
JANUARY 22, 1952 (DAY OF THE CRASH)
3:37 PM
“OKAY, I THINK that’s enough practice—you will all do fine tonight,” my mother told the girls. “Why don’t you start for home, and I’ll get ready for Donna to come home.”
The girls gathered their belongings and left the apartment.
At the mention of her big sister, Linda was perched at the window. It was the highlight of her day, only trumped by my father’s arrival at dinnertime.
“Donna, Donna!” Linda pointed down the block. A moment later, Donna and Sheila were clumping noisily up the steep stairs to the apartment, chatting and shedding their heavy coats. Donna was careful to lock the door behind her as she had been taught.
&nb
sp; My mother looked at her watch. Donna was home a full hour earlier than expected.
chapter forty-four
1967—1972
WHEN I WAS in high school, Linda was away at college. My life was filled with a new sort of drama: a flurry of boyfriends, finding the right bell-bottom jeans and pea jacket to keep up with my girlfriends, ironing my hair without burning it, and trying to stay out of the serious trouble some kids were getting into with drugs and sex.
One friend of mine was pregnant at sixteen, and another had such a bad acid trip that he was never the same afterward. There were a couple of car accidents, related to driving under some influence or other. I realized that some of my parents’ fears were, in fact, well-founded. It was a time of such upheaval, I felt like my parents were from a different planet, not just a different generation.
I kept most of this kind of information firmly away from my parents. They were already so fearful that I was worried if I shared any of what was really going on at school and with friends, they might never let me out of the house again. Whereas they had always tried to protect me from the truth of their own tragedy, now it was my turn to protect them from the truth of my reality as a teenager growing up in the ’60s.
It seemed some kind of miracle that they let me do half of the things I talked them into. Like going to Woodstock in ’69, even though we got turned away and never made it into the festival. Or going with a friend to the May Day demonstration against the Vietnam war in 1970 when we brought our sleeping bags and slept in the park by the Washington Monument. But my rebellion was mild in comparison with some. I didn’t run to Haight-Ashbury or do drugs. My crowd experimented with Harvey Wallbangers at one friend’s house, and a little grass when it came our way.
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