Then it is Solomon, Simon, and me. Where is Daddy, they ask. We go to a room to see his body—not to see him, to see his body, for when we go in, it is his body but not him, in a hospital gown, under covers. We touch and hug and weep over the body that no longer houses him. It is somehow not frightening to see this body. In these moments it still belongs to us. The body is no longer warm. Our wails are one wail. We know when we want to leave the room.
I reach my brother by telephone. He doesn’t understand what I am saying but then he understands enough to say he is getting in the car in New Jersey and driving to Connecticut. Everyone in the emergency room is crying as I make that call, the boys my sentries.
Tracey has called Alondra in New York, who is coming, and she and Mark talk to each other from their cars as they both roar up the highway.
Tracey has called Emilie, who is a reverend, and I have called Lisa, my therapist. They are at the house when we return. Tracey has brought lavender tea. The tomato sauce she began to make for when we came home with Ficre—something practical, something to do with her hands—is in a pot on the stove, reduced to sticky sweetness.
Over and over I dial 202-544-8223, my parents’ phone number for over forty years, but they are out late for dinner in Washington, DC. Finally I reach them. He is their son, and he is dead.
I call his eldest sibling, Tadu, who has just arrived in New York en route to the planned extended Easter celebration. I tell her plainly, Ficre has died, and then I tell her daughter, our niece, to be sure it is understood across our language barrier, and because it makes no sense and needs to be repeated to be true.
I somehow get the boys to bed, together. Alondra and Mark make me take a pill. I fall into a black sleep without images.