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 SAN DIEGO—Peter Robinson has died.
I have no idea of any contributions that he made to society, except possibly his peacetime Naval service to the country. He never married. He never created anything. He never had a profession or a career. He left no mark on this earth. His passing is mired in mystery. He was a sad and lonely figure.
And yet, I feel a great remorse for this lost soul.
Peter was my first cousin. As children, we were very close and spent a great deal of time with each other. He lived with his parents, Morris and Shirley, in Connecticut. He was the eldest of three boys. He was exceptionally smart, but seemingly not motivated, not worldly, not outgoing. I was six or seven months older. He had the higher I-Q. I clearly remember his Bar Mitzvah and the funny ceremony when his maternal grandmother remarried. We spent the summer together in San Diego with our aunt. We enjoyed each other’s company until, in his high school years, Peter fell in with the wrong crowd.
He took up smoking. His grades plummeted. He began prevaricating. Extremely well read, his speech deteriorated to the slang of a young hood. He wanted to be a 1950's tough guy; greased back hair, cigarette package rolled into his sleeve. Slight of build, he studied Karate.
After some particularly egregious, but un-talked about act, his parents pulled him out of the local high school and sent him off to a Connecticut boys’ prep school. He hated the Academy and would ask to spend the weekends with my family in West Hartford, about an hour’s ride from his boarding school. My parents always said yes. I would fix him up with girls I knew. We would double date.
Peter always looked sad, particularly when I had to drive him back to the Academy.
One weekend he came to our house for a visit, but we had a family affair out of town. Peter opted to stay in our house alone. When we came home late that Saturday night, my father’s car was pulled halfway into the garage. Peter had taken it out for a spin without benefit of permission or a driver’s license. My Dad was not thrilled with its dented right fender and hanging front bumper.
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My mother talked to her brother about his son, but seemingly to no avail. Peter evidently had crossed the line in Norwalk. There was no way for him to go back.
Then Uncle Morris and Aunt Shirley moved to Los Angeles with their two younger sons. Peter stayed at the Academy until he graduated. I don’t remember attending any ceremony. Thereafter, he left for California and joined the Navy.
I happened to be visiting in San Diego when he completed his tour of duty. I remember picking him up at the gates of what is now Liberty Station. Peter was very full of himself and his real or imagined achievements in the Navy. We pal-ed around for a bit, but our relationship was lifeless and could never be rekindled. We didn’t speak the same language anymore.
We saw each other occasionally over the next 40 some odd years at a few family events, memorial services and a random dinner or two. Belatedly, Peter helped his elderly widowed father and began to handle his father’s affairs. We saw each other when his middle brother suddenly passed away. I received a brief note or call from him now and then, but no word from him when his father, my last living uncle, died.
And then last week a fax arrived from one of my late uncle’s business associates seeking word of a missed payment of sorts from Peter. The note reported having just heard that Peter had passed away. There was no word of how or when this had occurred. A telephone call did nothing to clarify the facts. For the last few years, Peter had no permanent address and no real friends.
It took a few days to find the whereabouts of his youngest brother. Peter, it seems had been found unconscious in a motel where he had been living for a few months. He was hospitalized in intensive care for two weeks. His condition was terminal. He slipped away.
In short, there is nothing left of Peter or his time on this earth.
There is only a profound sense of loss for what might have been, for the things he might have done, for the contributions he might have made, for the life he might have lived. Somehow, Peter was allowed to fail and, I am left with the feeling that we, too, all let Peter down.
His was a 66 year life unfulfilled and essentially un-lived. Yet the emptiness persists.
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