It was 8 pm on Tuesday, February 11 , 2020. Harry Johnson treaded lightly, walking through the dim hallway that smelled an awful lot like lavender. Lavender was a smell that Harry associated with a clean house. While everyone else on the block used the classic lemon-scented Clorox wipes, his mother would wipe down every last table and shelf with her special lavender- scented ones. It wasn’t odd that the funeral home smelled like lavender that day. Harry’s mother was on the block committee, and she had cleaned the place for hours, almost as if her efforts would erase everyone’s grief.
Harry walked into the room and saw a sea of people, all dressed in black. He went to embrace the mourning widow, something that everyone else had already done. There was plenty of sniffling, and boxes of tissues were being passed around, but all Harry could do was shed a tear of sympathy. He had seen the Marsanico family sitting on their stoop as a child, but in all honesty, he couldn’t even remember their first names.
***
Walking up to the open casket, Harry stared at the first dead body he’d seen in all eighteen years of his life. In the casket was a military hat, a cross, a doll-like body dressed in a suit, and a sign that read VINCENT MARSANICO: JUNE 1, 1927 – FEBRUARY 9, 2020. So that was his name, Harry thought. Vincent Marsanico had a full head of hair in the picture. Harry decided that he grew up in the neighborhood, always doing small tasks. His first job was as a sanitation worker and he also joined the graffiti cleanup crew in Astoria. Vincent soon fell in love with a girl named Lucy who lived in the apartment building at the end of the block. Lucy was a shy girl and Vincent took her on only the classiest dates. They went to diners and walked along the boardwalk at Coney Island. He asked her to marry him in the simplest way, only saying, “It’s about time we got married, isn’t it?” Newlyweds Vincent and Lucy Marsanico bought a quaint house on 47th Street. It may have been small, but it was perfect for their future family as Lucy had just announced that she was pregnant. Their paradise was left a little broken when Vincent went off to serve in World War II. When he came back, he brought only his military hat. Things were different, but he still had Lucy, his daughter, and his faith. In the following years, they had many more children, and their children had children. The house was full, but as each year passed, their nest grew more and more empty. Everyone had moved away, and it was just down to Vincent and Lucy. It was rare for their kids to call, and so they sat on their stoop every day, hoping to fill their lives with the company of those on 47th Street. Harry decided that Vincent Marsanico had a full life, but all that was left in the casket was a military hat, a cross, a doll-like body dressed in a suit, and a sign.
***
The sounds of sniffling got louder, taking Harry’s attention away from the casket and toward the girl standing next to him. Tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t say a word. She was probably one of the only people he remembered from 47th Street. Her name was Lamia and she was a couple years younger than him. Harry remembered the playdates in her backyard, with water fights being the highlight of their childhood, or at least his childhood. He smiled at the thought of Lamia running after him with her water gun but not being able to catch up. Harry realized that he had changed quite a lot since then, and Lamia probably didn’t recognize him anymore. That two-year age gap between them had made a bigger difference than he thought.
Harry also found it odd that Lamia called them Grandma and Grandpa, but he knew that she was much closer to the Marsanicos than he had ever been. In fact, her entire family was connected to the Marsanicos, with her siblings spending every second of their summer evenings at what became the neighborhood stoop. There they played Tricky Triangle, ate cream puffs, drank apple cider, brought food from their barbecues, and shared what was going on in their lives. On days that Harry had played videogames in his room, he had heard laughter through the window as they would talk about everything from the peculiar smells on the block to what they’d eaten that morning. Lamia was always one to talk, and hearing nothing but silence from her might have been the most unusual thing Harry experienced that day, even more unusual than the doll-like body dressed in a suit.
“Are you okay?” Harry asked. That was a stupid question, he realized.
“You can’t just stay silent.” Harry waited for a response, or even just a mutter. He soon understood that it would take more than small talk to get a word out of Lamia.
“Come on,” Harry said. “Let’s go watch the home movie they made.” Without saying anything, Lamia looked up at Harry. She followed him to the center of the room, where a small TV told the true story of Vincent Marsanico.
The slideshow began with what sounded like a fanfare celebrating Vincent Marsanico’s life. His granddaughter Danielle went through each picture, explaining what was happening. She started with a funny story from a couple months ago. Her grandfather had climbed a ladder to his roof because he wanted to show his family that he wasn’t too old for everything. Danielle sniffled while telling the audience that his last words to her were, “Honey, make sure you hold the ladder!”
The stories made Harry smirk, but it seemed like they only made everyone else cry even more. Danielle was trying to lighten the mood, but after all, it was a funeral. Harry saw someone hand Lamia a tissue, and that’s when he heard a familiar voice. “Finally,” he muttered.
“There are a lot of funny stories,” Lamia managed to say. “But I think only one story can tell us who Grandpa really was.”
“It was my birthday and I think I turned four, maybe five years old. That’s not the important part. After school, I usually walked past Grandpa’s house to get home. He probably anticipated seeing me that day, but it was a particularly cold day and my dad had driven me home. Later that evening, I went to my front door to get the mail. Inside the mailbox was a pink package, filled with all my favorite stationery. On the front, it said ‘From Grandpa.’ I swear, I spent a few minutes so confused because the handwriting resembled that of a child!”
The audience laughed and cried. They all told their own stories, ones that were nostalgic, sad, hopeful, and inspiring. Harry heard about the themed birthday parties, the golden anniversary, the war jokes that only veterans would understand, and the countless nights spent at the hospital before the day that no one thought would arrive. Harry listened to them all, understanding that everyone told stories because it was easier than just sitting there. He understood that they didn’t have control over death, but at least they had control over who they believed to be Vincent Marsanico, the man dressed in a suit.
Reflection
To emulate Tim O’Brien's The Things They Carried on a smaller scale, I use lists of objects and memories. I emphasize the physical objects in the casket because while Grandpa was buried with only a few things, he was remembered for much more. These objects reappear in the story in one way or another because they represent Grandpa’s values and principles. On a larger scale, I show certain concepts without identifying the “happening truth.” By not saying which story (Harry’s story, Danielle’s story, Lamia’s story, home movie, etc.) actually represents Grandpa’s life, I force the reader to consider all stories and ultimately understand that no person can be fully understood through the stories told about them. Each storyteller paints Grandpa as the person that they want him to be, and it gives them a chance to hold onto a good memory. Additionally, every person who knew him had their own truth about him, and even put together, all the truths could not explain who he was. He meant a lot to me, and I realize that the only way I’ll be able to hold onto him is by telling as many stories as I possibly can. While the stories may not be 100% true, they each have a wisp of Vincent Marsanico’s persona.