Chapter 21 – All Is Loneliness

Without Jenny, I felt like lived through the Hiroshima blast. I questioned my own survival and reminded myself that it was instantly difficult for me to coexist not only with my life, but also with L.A. I felt like a solider still lingering on the battlefield after the conflict had ended. So many dead in Vietnam, one of which was my brother, my only sibling. And now Jenny, another gone from my life. The music was over. They all went away. Forever.

The following months after Jenny’s death are extremely hazy. I don’t recall phoning my boss or going back to work or really doing much. Perhaps my boss called me at Diane’s, hoping I’d come back. I don’t know except their sale went on without me. Perhaps I went to the bar every night and drank myself stupid. I really don’t know.

With both of her parents dead, I didn’t know who the next of kin was. The authorities tracked Jenny’s family down and her aunt made arrangements for Jenny’s body to be flown back home for burial. Once I got the date of Jenny’s funeral, I let Diane know and booked a flight. She did not attend, neither did Marion. I tried to call Jerry’s but no one ever answered. I am not certain if he even went to Jerry and Sissy’s funeral, which I didn’t either, but paid my respects to on a later date.

A somber, melancholy occasion took place on that Saturday the tenth. Jenny’s aunt didn’t say much to me. She had lost her sister, a brother-in-law, and now her niece. Regardless of how close or unclose they were, she rightfully seemed to be very troubled by all of it. In attendance were a few more of her family members, a few school friends who I sort of knew, and a long time buddy of mine Reg. I asked him to go with me because I couldn’t handle being there alone.

Surprisingly in attendance were my parents. Except for a canned “sorry,” they had nothing to say to me about Jenny’s death. Unlike the past few years, my mom had no vicious remarks, nor did my dad lecture me about chasing dreams. There was just awkward silence from the peanut gallery. I’m sure there was some genuine grief for Jenny, added to the relief that all their worries were ceased.

Reflective of the mood, a hot rain that fell the day Jenny was buried. All of the tears disappear on your face when coated with drops from heaven. Despite how I thought I was going to hold my composure in front of everyone, my face welled and turned red as they lowered my beautiful girl into the ground. What a ghastly symbol of finality. This was it. It was over and right there is when her death had sunk in. Such a sick loss in a sick fucking world. The failings of the young and eager and adventurous. No more will I be able to look into her sweet, lively eyes or hear her cute laughter as I tell another ridiculous joke. I cannot hold her hand or feel her next to me as I sleep. There is no passenger in my car. No one to talk about music or life with or head to the beach and dance in the sand. No one to share my intimate thoughts or say “I love you” to.

Reg led me away from the funeral, out of the rain, and took me to his place. He gave me a couch, some food, and my first of many drinks which was my broken road to whatever recovery there was to be obtained.

In the morning, without sleep, loaded with coffee to mask my hangover, I went to Jenny’s old home, which I assumed was either vacant or already sold. Instead, her aunt’s car was in the driveway. I wasn’t sure if stopping was a good idea, but after some hesitation, I parked behind her. Before I could knock, she opened the door to greet me.

“I was expecting you. Come on in.” It was an odd horror movie line I was not expecting, especially since she didn’t speak to me at the funeral. Extending her right hand, “Eric, my name is Janice.” The taller, thinner version of Mae asked me to sit and continued, “I’m truly sorry for not introducing myself to you yesterday. All of this has been very hard and in my weakness, coping has been a major problem.”

“I really thought the house would have been sold. Seeing you here is a little bit of a shock.”

“Yes. I’ve been living here since Mae passed away.” Looking around, it hit me that I hadn’t been in the home for quite a while. Strangely, nothing really had changed much other than Janice had done little redecorating. Once we talked for a few more moments, she invited me back to Jenny’s room. “I’ll leave you be. Please, I want you to take whatever of Jenny’s you'd like. Neither my sister nor myself has disturbed this room since Jenny moved.”

Her footsteps echoed away from me as I stood before all of her idols, drawings, and poems. The faces that seemed to look at me all had the saddest expression. There was an eerie coldness about, dust had settled on the flat surfaces, and Jenny’s bed was made, which she never did herself. The whole surround was hideously empty and void. Sitting on the comforter, I thought of all the rare times I had been in there with her. Lying back, I fought so gallantly not to cry. Getting a night bag from her closet, I meticulously took down all her posters, sketches, and poems from the walls. Faint traces of smoke stains stenciled the sky blue paint she hadn’t covered.

When I got to a drawer of knickknacks, I guess I got lost in sorting. Janice snuck up on me, making sure I was alright. She got another bag and helped me gather up any of the little things I wanted. Then I said goodbye to Jenny’s room, goodbye to the house, and to Janice.

“Everyone tells me how much you loved my niece.”

My tortured eyes welled up, “Deeply.”

“Jennifer phoned me once after my sister passed away. She told me of her love for you and what a wonderful person you are.” Janice, too, got emotional. “Thank you for showing her the love I know she deserved.”

I smiled and paused, “Are you going to sell the house?”

“No.”

Two days later I flew back to L.A. to get my and Jenny’s belongings and come home for good. My car was getting loaded down and I had to throw some things away. I tried to keep anything of Jenny’s that I could. Out of character but out of sympathy, Diane made me dinner on my last night. She asked how the funeral was and what my plans for the future were. Up until this point, I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Right now, I don’t know. Going back and facing my folks is almost as hard as losing Jenny.”

Holding my hand, “Eric, are you sure you don’t want to stay here?”

“I can’t do it without her. I just couldn’t take it.”

“I’m sorry it’s like that.” Diane turned away, looking out the kitchen window. Her voice broke ever so slightly, “I’m going to miss you, Eric. I’m going to miss Jenny, too.”

Putting my arms around her waist, “Thank you for all that you did for us.”

My heart went out to Diane, without her boy and now minus her friends. The last time I saw Diane, she gave me a hug and a long kiss and told me what a great guy I was. I penciled down my parents’ address and phone number and agreed to write as often as possible. I started with a letter I left on the longer sofa that Jenny and I used to make our second bed.

“Sweet Diane,

            I want to thank you for your hospitality and kindness. You welcomed us into your home and shared a friendship that meant so much to both of us. I want you to know that Jenny and I loved you like a sister. Like any siblings, I think we were all bonded by our youth, love, happiness, and pain.

            Sadly, and a bit too late, I’m taking your advice and going home. I know you’d like me to stay. Trust me, I wish I could but I can’t bring myself to do it. No matter where I am, I will always keep you in my thoughts. I’ll always remember waking up and hearing your feet across the hardwood, hearing you move around in the kitchen, smelling the greatest of all coffees, and joining you at the breakfast table. Those morning conversations were the core of our friendship and what I’ll cherish the most about us.

            Much love to you and your little Andy. May he one day know the same joys and memories with you as I’ve come to discover. You are wonderful and kind. I love you.

Your Dearest Friend,

Eric

As a reminder of our stay, I placed the porcelain statues of me and Jenny on top of the note. Like prior routines, I snuck out early and took a long car ride across the United States. In the passenger seat, Jenny’s seat, sat her record boxes, but it didn’t stop me from talking as though she were really there. I rode alone in painful silence except the sound of the V6. Eventually, after several days travel, I got to the first Holiday Inn we ever spent the night at. Maybe it was just as run down the first time we were there, and maybe at the time, we didn’t care. I’m sure the Holiday People were saddened by the news I broke to them. But just maybe they already knew.

Once I was home, I did minimal talking to Mom and Dad who asked just as little questions. Mainly, I stayed solemnly in my room unpacking my stuff first, then Jenny’s. For a bit, all of her clothes smelled like her. Like a weird mental case, I picked out an outfit of hers each night so I could lay down with it and pretend it was her. It strangely comforted me and helped me sleep. So did the alcohol I was constantly downing. But before I conked out, I read excerpts from her notebooks. One’s entries were from when she lived alone, as they were dark, extreme expressions of her struggling emotions with life.

As I made it further through the second book’s entries, I realized how happy I made her. During both the times I lived in California with her, her writing came to life in such amazing ways, I was taken aback. Probably too embarrassed to say in person, she retreated to her notebook to unfold a kinder reality onto paper. Though I was always aware of how much she loved me, this written account was a sensitive peek inside her mind. The most beautiful entry was written a few weeks before her death and is one I read the most:

“I can easily be a soul who is mistaken for a meaningless existence. To some, I am a beauty only at face value. They see nothing more than physical attributes for which generates an extra dollar to my tip money. But to Eric, I am so much more. He draws from me my strengths, my weaknesses, and my path for life. For without him, I’d have no direction, no kind words, no faith in my decisions, and would be a shell of who he’s allowed me to be.

When I grow in age and become an old lady, I hope that as I sit in our living room drinking a cup of coffee, he’s sitting there with me. I don’t care if he’s complaining about the Packers’ score or how bad my cooking is, I just want him there with me. He is the only one whoever cared and gave me a chance. He has sacrificed so much and asked so little in return. And if everything was to change, and somehow I was gone, I would hope he knows how much he means to me and how much I love him.”

Years later my wife found that entry bookmarked and chose to let those sections infiltrate her mind. How she even found the notebook, I don’t know. Her thoughts waned and failed to understand why it was so important to me. Like my parents, she couldn’t see how deep it all was. My failure was honestly expecting them to do so. Within a year of her validating discovery, she divorced me.

Beginning in fall of 1976, I spent enough time at home to work towards finishing my Bachelor’s. Just before Christmas that year, Brian Wilson did a bizarre interview on the Mike Douglas Show. Through the thick beard and bloated face, he spoke heavily out of the left side of his mouth (like a stroke victim) about his battle with drug abuse. It floored me to see him in such a state compared to his conservative, clean-cut image from the days of surf music. I suppose anyone is vulnerable, even more so with a $100 a day cocaine habit. If Jenny and I even had a $100 left between us, it had to last us between paychecks. I just can’t even imagine that much money going up your nose.

While I worked on my degree, there was a distance between me and my folks. Only once did my dad, who saw me up late drinking, come down to share a heart-felt talk with me. He shared with me what he and Mom went through when Sam died and that he was happy I didn’t get drafted to Vietnam or die in the car crash with Jenny. When I moved out in 1978, he shook my hand and wished me the best. From then on, I never really looked back to family for love. The best had already happened and couldn’t be repeated. Like Manson and Altamont killed the ‘60s, John Lennon’s murder killed the ‘70s and any and all existing hopes created in the past two decades were pierced and slain by Chapman’s bullet.

Now in their later years, my parents probably have as many regrets as me. When my brother and I were little kids, I’m sure my parents didn’t plan this train wreck. Just as in 1912, the British and Irish passengers of the Titanic didn’t think the unsinkable would become a legend due to tragedy.  My folks had high hopes for their boys. And who knows, maybe Mom wanted a girl? She was left with an only child who made her just another woman in his life.

“His damn mother hates me. I know she does. All I was doing was sitting in Eric’s room, studying for some stupid math test and she thought we were up there screwing. Maybe we were! Ha! She gave me some evil eye at dinner. She made sure that all the serving dishes she passed to me, she clinched for a moment before letting go. Just to aggravate me. I almost spilled the carrots because of her. And her cooking is terrible. Where did that woman learn to cook?”