THE DAY OF the unveiling was the worst day of my life. The murder and the funeral hit with such unexpected speed that I remained in shock for weeks, still disbelieving that Castor could be dead. The saving release of chemicals in my brain refused to let me fall into catatonia or immediate clinical depression. Not so the unveiling, which lurked over each day, each week, clawed inside me for months. When it came, my body ached, my insides bled, my heart hurt. It was pure pain.
I wanted time to run faster or to stop. I wanted, like a child, to wail, “Go away!” Of course, time did not stop and the hellish visions did not end. During those few days before the ceremony, I ate but had no appetite. I slept but did not feel rested. I don’t remember checking out of the hotel and the car picking up Sarah and me. I don’t remember that Romey already sat in her fur coat and hat emotionless in the car when it arrived. I don’t remember the ride to the cemetery. I don’t remember the photographer hiding in a nondescript car across from Castor’s grave; I only remember that the photo showed up the next day in the tabloids. I don’t remember seeing Matt and the few friends and cousins whom Matt, with my permission, invited at the last minute. I do remember seeing Castor’s best friend, Drew, and Mary Sweedlow holding hands with other friends whose names I couldn’t recall. I remember Mary hugged Sarah and me and we hugged her as if she were our child.
I do, in some haze, remember the rabbi sermonizing about how we are god’s jewels on loan to this world and Castor, a unique jewel, was now returned to god. I remember his phrase “Life is only part of a longer, unknowable journey, and Castor’s journey on earth was cut short for a reason. As part of God’s unknowable plan.”
I remember glaring in disbelief at the headstone of my son: Barry Castor Downs.
I remember, against my will, picturing the four faces of those who killed my son, and wishing they were alive to suffer in life and not in death.
I remember I halted, knelt, and placed stones on the graves of my parents, Zohar and Bernie, and I felt a moment’s relief that they had not lived to bear this weight. As I tried to stand up, I felt my body lose all motor control, becoming woozy. I thought I heard my mother’s thunderous cadences, “I told you Not to send him to that school. But he’s safe with ME now so Act like a Man, a mensh, a husband to your wife like I raised you!” I almost laughed inside the dizzy pain at her ability to make me feel even guiltier from the grave, as if she could’ve saved Castor, and made me act correctly—all in two short phrases.
I remember Sarah and Matt held me up, as the hovering inner voice passed, and we bonded like a molecule of water, becoming one in a vapor of tears.
I don’t remember the car dropping us off at a new hotel on Lexington and 87th. I don’t remember Sarah and I checking into separate rooms. I remember ending up in her room, so exhausted we lay down on the bed. Fully clothed. Then we slept. I remember when I awoke I felt her hand on my cock, which yearned for her like it never wanted a woman before and I knew I was ready and would not fade. I remember fearing my words couldn’t promise what my heart couldn’t give, so I remained silent; still our needs transcended words and we fell into each other’s cavern of pain. She needed my tender touch of love as I dreamed her whisper of hope as truth. With eyes closed and tongue tucked into my ear, she begged for what we both wanted so damn bad as we made love. With my tempered breathing, I released the acrid mix of the angry male exercising the vengeful power of the penis, the tangled intellectual guilt of accepting primitive lust and the love of a husband who wanted to please his wife.
In the inner quiets of my comings—feeling clean air, I exhaled and urged my seeds to answer her plea.