Chaper 9 Continued
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As she and I stood there together in our fragile state, I felt as if we were two pebbles on the beach at Normandy during the D-Day invasion. People came in one after the other, and after an initial greeting, flowed past us to other parts of the house. It seemed so wrong that Bob wasn’t with us and I could feel my anger rising even though I knew he couldn’t help being sick. A combination of anger and fear that I might lose another loved one, poked at me. During the planning for this evening, I hadn’t expected to do this thing alone. We, both mother and father, were to be in this together, united, a fortress against the storm of grief. I prayed feverishly and silently to God for strength. And Beth and I did remain steadfast, at first holding hands for moral support as the people came in, welcoming friends, neighbors, co-workers, mourning anew with them, accepting their condolences and sending them on into the dining room to mingle with the other guests, to share in the wine and snacks that had been set out for them. When Susan and Mike arrived, delayed by a late baby sitter, we were more than grateful to see them.
A week later the time came for the final walk with our son’s remains for his burial. Leslie, her sister Susan, Robb’s friend Paul, Bob’s brother Frank and his wife Joan, and Bob’s sister Wanda, would stay with us at our home. Leslie’s parents, Don and Cathy, would stay with relatives in Dearborn. Leslie asked if it would be all right if some of those extended family members joined us for the burial. “Yes, of course,” I told her. This was their last chance to say goodbye as well as ours and it seemed right for them to come. Because of all this, I made my first appointment at the beauty shop—my first foray out alone to a place where I’d have to deal with people who did not know. I walked into the shop feeling like shattered glass, as if pieces of my mind and body were missing or had been scattered about and I needed to gather them up and hold onto them tightly. The slightest noise or unusual behavior jarred me. I wished only to be alone, or curled up in bed clutching Bob or my pillow. But the people in the beauty parlor were kind and I made it through, quickly retreating to the safety and silence of my home.
Another beautiful morning greeted us the day Robb was laid to rest. I thought it should be raining and storming, lightening flashing. As we walked down the hillside, Leslie whispered to me that we had found the perfect spot. Susan and Beth joined Paul and Susan’s husband Mike and two men from the funeral home as pall bearers. I’d learned that the girls had wanted to help carry the casket at the funeral in Arlington so I was glad for them. I watched my daughters, relatively small women in physical size but giants in spirit, take hold of the casket’s railing, lift and walk along with the men, setting it into place on the stand. The rest of us sat or stood in the area provided under a canopy while Monsignor Milewski spoke the words that needed to be said for my son’s Catholic burial service. I sat staring at the purple, white and yellow arrangement of irises and other flowers on top of the shiny wooden casket.
When Monsignor had finished and gone away, the funeral director invited us to stay if we’d like. He told us we could help with the actual burial if we wanted to. Unsure, we looked around at each other. Then, remembering an earlier conversation I’d had with one of the funeral directors about how it could be a healing experience for the family to help with burying a loved one, I said, “Yes, I think we would like to do that.” At this point Leslie and her parents walked up onto the pathway above the site where we’d all been sitting, unable to endure this moment so closely. The rest of our group moved toward the open grave, watching as the casket was lowered into the vault. One of the funeral directors stepped forward and extended a shovel to us. I wasn’t surprised when Uncle Frank, one of Bob’s older brothers and a man in his mid-seventies, volunteered first. Frank was usually the first person in the Rauth clan to help in times of need. A slight man, quick in his movements with thinning gray hair, he’d served in the Navy on the U.S.S. Yorktown during World War II. Taking hold of the shovel, he began scooping up spadefuls of loose dirt, tossing them down onto the vault. I knew then by the determined and rapid strokes he was making as well as by the tears streaming down his face, that he had indeed loved our son. Suddenly I walked forward and tossed in two handfuls of soil, thinking what a puny effort it was, wishing I could do something more to commemorate my son’s death, yet knowing that for the time being that was all I could do. Susan moved away from Michael where she’d been standing and made the same gesture, reaching her hand out to me as she passed. Michael came next, walking over in two large strides, tossing the dirt down, then walking back toward his wife, his head bent, his eyes red. Bob went to the side of the grave next, looked down and threw in some dirt, then walked back to me. Wanda, a chatty, warm, sweet soul who had just one year before lost her husband Eddie, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. I looked down at Beth, “Boo Boo” to Robb, who was sitting half crumpled on the ground near the head of the grave, weeping. Uncle Frank continued to shovel dirt into the grave. His wife Joan, a slim quiet woman, stood across from us watching, probably fearful that her husband was working too hard for too long. Just when I was beginning to seriously worry about Frank myself—his face was sweaty and turning red—Paul said, “Let me take over.” He stepped up to the grave—all six foot four inches of him—and took hold of the shovel with his large hands. I felt relieved. I had wanted someone to come to Uncle Frank’s aid, and Bob was seemingly unable to take over, paralyzed by his grief. I was also gladdened by Paul’s action because he had come to mean so much to us over the years, joining us for various events. He had gone with us to the Rose Bowl when Northwestern had made its run in 1995, and he had taken charge of Robb’s memorial service during the wake. And here he was now, leaning over the spade, his head bent intently, his black hair tousled, doing the last thing he would be able to do for his friend.
Back home, we walked slowly through our garage and into the kitchen. It was deathly still. I hated the tomblike silence, the stagnant air, the hopelessness of the day, the final ending. Then the doorbell rang and we walked into the foyer to greet the Pietrzyks. Leslie’s grandmother, Wanda, her aunts Sylvia and Doris, her cousins Cynthia and Carol. Soon the air was filled with voices saying hello and expressing their sorrow over Robb’s death, explaining that they hadn’t come to the cemetery because the hillside would have been too difficult to maneuver with Rose’s wheelchair. Introductions were made and somehow, as it always seems to happen, we ended up gathering in the kitchen, standing around our large island in the middle of the room: the Rauths, the Pietrzyks, and Paul. Light poured in through the window box over the sink and through the sliding glass doors. At first, no one seemed to know what to say—we hadn’t been in each other’s company for many years and the silence felt cumbersome. Then Bob broke the silence: “What do you think if we have a toast to Robb?”
Almost everyone enthusiastically nodded or spoke in agreement. I remember saying, “yes,” rather emphatically. After the toast Aunt Joan said, “Bash la bash,” and we all seemed to loosen up a bit and start talking. One of the aunts remembered when she’d first met Robb, when Leslie had first brought him over to meet them, how they’d all looked forward to Robb and Leslie’s subsequent visits. It went on like that for some hours, the talking and the eating of lunch which had been prepared by some very dear old friends and left in our kitchen while we’d been at the cemetery.
The moment of the afternoon I’ll always remember was when Leslie’s Aunt Sylvia, a large woman—robust in height, girth, and voice—held me by the shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “I just want you to know how much I loved your son.” Then she crushed me to her bosom, whispering into my ear again about how she’d loved Robb and how much she’d miss his visits.
END OF CHAPTER 9 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7