Friday, October 23, 2020

What Will We Do?

Candles are lit and dinner is ready: grilled eggplant and lemon, rice pilaf, and sautéed zucchini. Dave has set Pandora to the 70’s channel and The Band is singing “The Weight.” It is such a Stevie song, one I’ve heard him sing countless times, with Red and Phil at Trinity; with Dave in our basement; and with his sons, Christopher and Trevor, at Old Post Tavern and FTC. Although I’ve been fine all day, I'm weepy and snuffling into a tissue when Dave joins me at the table. 

That’s how it’s been since Steve passed. To our amazement, we’re mostly okay, and then something will strike a chord, triggering a prickle in my nose and a flow of tears. Mostly, I don’t think our hearts are letting us feel fully what we’ve lost. For, from the time Steve was diagnosed with prostate cancer 15 years ago, I’ve worried who will Dave be without his brother?


 

In the early years of our marriage, Dave would sometimes retreat, face closed, his response to my inquiries always an unsatisfying, “I’m fine.” Casey has recently defined that as “Feelings Inside, Not Expressed,” and when I was younger, it made me crazy trying to figure out what was wrong. Once, I called Steve and asked, “Can you come play guitars with your brother, or take him out or something?  I don’t know what’s up with him.”

 

“Is he pouting?” Steve said. “He always has.”

 

Wait. What? Dave has been declared a saint by many, and this was an insight I seized on with relief.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve said. “Just the way he gets sometimes.” 

 

It wasn’t my fault! Such a burden lifted! I still wanted Steve to divert him, but I felt better. So there’s that too: what will I do without Steve?    

 

As required of older brothers, when the boys were children, Steve tormented Dave, staking him out in the backyard, the unwilling cowboy captive to Steve’s victorious Indian. Unmoved by Dave’s wails of “Maaaaaa!” Steve would sit on his chest and say in a voice annoyingly calm, “Why are you crying? All you have to do is eat a spoonful of peanut butter, and I’ll let you go.” 

 

Needless to say, Dave hated peanut butter. 

 

But Steve was also his best friend and protector. “Do you have any idea how many fights I got into because of you?” he once said. Dave spoke with a stutter from the time he was four, a target for the mean kids who pounced on anyone with a frailty; Steve was three years older, and bound to defend him. As much as Steve-n’-Deb became one word, from the time Dave was born, so was Steve-n’-Dave.


 

When Steve and Deb started dating in their teens, they welcomed Dave as the third in their trio. Dave chuckles in recalling a beach picnic with the three of them and Steve Larrabee.  “Deb had to go to the bathroom, so we built a sand toilet for her.  ‘Don’t look!’ she said. So, nearby, we drew the outline of a door with a huge keyhole in the sand, and we boys stood, eyes peering down, hooting as if we were watching. Silly stuff.”

 

“I followed Steve everywhere,” Dave has said as we cuddle together with our memories, stories, and tears. “To the same high school, on dates with Deb, to Trinity, and to Eagle Hill.” 

 

What will Dave do without his brother?


    

 

When first I met Steve, it was a wintry night in 1972. My roommates and I had borrowed trays from the Trinity cafeteria to use as sleds, and headed to a snowy slope on campus where a group had already gathered.  Back then, Steve’s nickname was Sly, and with his confident air, piratical look, long hair, mustache, and high cheekbones, he was cool enough to carry it. As a recent graduate from 12 years of girls’ schools, I was giddy with my newfound freedom and easy proximity to boys, and euphoric that a fun, flirty senior like Sly would be nice to me. 


 

In the spring, he asked if I wanted to go with him to watch his little brother play baseball. I jumped at the plan, and when I met Dave after the game, I discovered he was quite nice too, nice enough to marry as it turned out.  Soon after Steve died, Deb told me, “You were his hand-picked sister.”

 

Around Fairfield, Steve and Deb were fixtures, renowned for their welcoming warmth, genuine interest in others, athletic prowess, and participation in community events. Both turned heads, Deb with her flowing blond hair, Steve with his mane of white, so recognizable as they zipped around town in the red Miata. And prized though it was, when our son Tucker graduated from high school having never driven a standard shift car, Steve tossed him the keys to the Miata and said, “Hey, congratulations!  Let’s go for a spin!” 

 


 

Since his diagnosis in 2005, there have been years of worry, treatments tried, tests taken, results awaited with agonizing fear, all trials bravely hidden by Steve and Deb.  In truth, none of us know how long we have, but it’s a fact we happily suppress. We didn’t have that luxury with Steve, and because we knew time was limited, we created opportunities, and nothing was taken for granted. 

 

We had years of work together at Eagle Hill-Southport, reunions on Block Island, travel, drinks, dinners and guitars at Old Post Tavern. Steve gained a cherished daughter in Trevor’s wife, Lisa, and more recently, we’ve had grandchildren to share: the blessing and balance for worry.  All along, Steve and Deb were stoic in facing together the indignities and hardship of the disease while maintaining those sunny public faces. What courage and energy that must have taken.  





 

It was Christmas, 2015, when my daughter Casey and her fiancé PJ asked Steve to perform their wedding ceremony.  Oh the hugs, laughter, and happy tears… but Deb had just told Dave and me that a recent scan had revealed the spread of Steve’s cancer to his bones. I worried: should I tell Casey to have a Plan B? I said nothing, hoping my brother-in-law - athletic, competitive, handsome Steve –would beat the odds and pull it off.


 

In September of 2016, Steve and I stood arm-in-arm on the steps at the Inn at Longshore, waiting to be introduced as the mother-of-the-bride and wedding officiant. I gestured to all the beloved faces smiling in our direction and whispered to Steve, “None of this would be happening if it weren’t for us.”

 

He looked at me, puzzled, and I said, “If we hadn’t met on the hill, traying at Trinity!” We hugged each other tight and walked down the stairs.

 

My mother always said her one regret was not giving me a big brother, but the Universe had other plans, and gave me Steve.  




 

 

 

 

 

13 comments:

gail m said...

What a wonderful, wonderful tribute. I never knew Steve -- but boy, they both shared the GREAT HAIR gene! I am so sorry for your loss, Lea and Dave, and all you dears in his extended family. You certainly all travelled TOGETHER a long, long while. Peace be with you. xox

Claire said...

Hi Lea, wow what a nice entry! I am so sorry, please give Dave my best. I will get a note off soon. Much love to you both. The pictures are wonderful:)
Lots of love, claire

Janmc said...

Lea this is such a beautiful tribute. I’m so very sorry for Dave and your family’s loss. Definitely agree they both shared the ‘great hair’ gene. I was especially drawn to the words you shared just before Casey’s wedding. That says it all. May your family find peace in the days ahead.

Gail said...

Just beautiful. Made me weep for all the joys you shared. Not everyone is so lucky. It was a very special relationship, very multidimensional and full of love. Thanks for sharing it.

Lise Gescheidt said...

So many memories we share, Lea, of Trinity, the boys, the love and the loss. Sly was a great guy, and I remember him well from our glory days. As kind and fun as he was handsome, I grieve for his wife who I never met. I share the same sense of emptiness when you lose the love of your life. Russ had prostate cancer first, before he got leukemia and lymphoma. The roller coaster ride of cancer is a long and bumpy ride. We used to call it the cancer trifecta. Both had lives well lived and loved; and not everyone gets to say that in this crazy world in which we reside. Your writing is so real, so raw, and down to earth, just like you. It rings my bell whatever the subject. I hope you all can come to grips with this, and continue to be sustained by our wonderful memories of laughter, youth, loyalty, devotion and hope. Love you and Dave to pieces.

Tricia said...

Dear Lea! This is very beautiful. What riches and love -- I can only imagine the painful gap with the loss of such a brother, friend, human. I pored over the pictures - these handsome, joyful guys. (and your beauty, always) What love! Rare and sweet. I send you hugs and love. xxx Tricia

Unknown said...

So beautifully written about such an amazing person. This brought tears to eyes while my heart felt that almost indescribable pit of pain. It was Steve’s quick and great sense of wit, humor, and wisdom that highlighted many days for us all at EHS. Then on those truly memorable Wednesday mornings, there were TWO Sylvestros taking the floor with their ritual bread toss, entertaining the entire community. What you all have in the Sylvestro Clan is rare and inspiring. To an outsider, the love, compassion, and strength you all seem to radiate is magnetic and transforming. Steve, Dave, and YOU have touched the lives of so many more than you could possibly know.

I know that time does not heal all wounds; we just learn to live a different life from what we once knew it to be. Please know that even though Steve may not physically be in your presence, we all have a little bit of him in our soul, making his presence spread out here, there, and just about everywhere...I am beyond grateful our paths crossed in life.
You have my love, and I am keeping you all close to my heart. Sara McC

Lea said...

Dearest friends, so many thoughtful, loving reflections and memories of Steve. Thank you. Lise, you know too well what Deb has been through. What an ordeal you endured with Russ. Sara, I wasn't there for those morning meeting bagel tosses, so I forgot about them! Thank you for reminding me! The present - which holds too many layers of anguish - is so much with me, and it brings a teary smile to be reminded of those bits and pieces that made up our time together. Hugs to you all. XO

Unknown said...

Absolutely beautiful, thanks so much for sharing these wonderful memories, I could just see the scenes!
I send so much love to you and Dave, I miss you guys very much, hopefully we can get together at some point, though who knows when??
You are a beautifully gifted writer, Lea! I always get such vivid visuals from your writings.

Laurie Stone said...

Lea, So beautiful and how Steve will be missed. What an incredible man and couple. I'm so sorry for your loss. I was smiling, seeing you also have a musical family. Couldn't help wondering if your guys happened to pass my bass player Randy at some local gig. You never know. By the way, judging by your last picture, you never age! Always lovely.

Janine said...

Lea, this is such beautifully written tribute to a brave, loving, wonderful man. I'm so very grateful that it was Steve that started Casey and PJ on their journey together. Best wedding ceremony ever! I'm sending you huge hugs and lots of love.

Lea said...

Thanks Janine! It really was the best ceremony ever....with an unexpected opening, "So, a girl walks into a bar..." and then, the story of Casey and PJ's first meeting...Casey taking a tumble! So many wonderful memories of that day... the wedding, that is....and gratefully, no tumbles then! XO

Janice said...

This is such a beautiful portrayal of how all of you loved Steve and how Steve loved all of you. The vignettes are so poignant and reflect the love, laughter, joy and sometimes sorrow of being a Sylvestro. Thank you for sharing and it's amazing how you can paint a picture with words. xoxo