Homecoming

Like a dystopian movie, the airport was desolate from COVID, store fronts closed, every gate empty except the one for my flight, and everyone in masks, standing apart and frightened. I was assigned the last seat on the plane. It seemed appropriate, but I was surprised that on a full flight there was no spacing or COVID protocols, other than no in-flight service. I was disappointed by that. I hadn’t had a glass of wine in eighteen months, and being nervous, I could’ve used one. It had been an old weakness, and I was already succumbing. 

It was a turbulent flight, but it arrived on time. Being last to deplane, I was the last passenger entering the airport and straggled last into the baggage area, my wife looking worried at the bottom of the escalator. A new straw hat, slimmer than I last saw her and still beautiful. A long embrace. There’s no relief like leaving prison. She was smiling, happy. It was still okay. 

Walking out of the terminal, just before midnight, it was a beautiful night of stars and half-moon, the sweet tropical scent of Florida and giant palm trees on the periphery of the carpark. We followed the warm flashing lights to a solo, smiling toll taker. The air was light. I was a free man.

*

My release order required a call to probation the following morning. A disturbing, ageless voice, in a mumbling monotone informed me that I was not yet a free man. 

“Home Incarceration,” he said, a condition added in small print on the court order releasing me, “is the most restrictive form of house arrest.”

“Will I be able to enter the community?”

“You can’t walk to the mailbox,” he said. 

For the next twenty minutes he described the terms of Home Incarceration, while I only answered with okays. At the end of the call, he told me to come to his office the following day.

“We’ll install the ankle monitor and give you a drug test. You have a pen?”

He was on speaker, my wife was listening, paused in still-frame, and searching for a pen. I was trembling, he was difficult to hear. I scribbled the address, but it was barely legible. 

Although it was jarring at first, I eventually recovered a few minutes after the call. I was home, my wife was making eggs, and coffee was brewing in a new Florida condo we were renting. Although not a big or fancy place, it lived large, and the sun was shining. Most importantly, we could afford it, as Social Security was my only income now. The prior evening, my first night home, had been a restful sleep in a soft bed—the sheets cool and scented. It was like a drowning man pulled from the water and breathing air. Nothing else mattered. After living in “fifty-four square feet with another guy”—as Jack, the seafood king described it—all was well.

*****

For the rest of the world, COVID was everything, but to me, still divorced from the rest of the world, it was a path out. That’s what prison does. There’s no connection to community anymore. I thought about Judge Bolden who told me at my sentencing hearing that I was not connected to humanity and disconnected from everything that makes life worthwhile. I learned about the things that make life worthwhile, I’m not sure I didn’t know them before. But I was more disconnected than ever, closer to myself. I can’t explain it. But in prison, exiled in its confusing rhythms and surrounded by chaos, you turn inward to survive, insulate yourself from others, become hardened, and estranged from the world at large. I was home, I had reentered the community, but I was still coldly detached.

*****

My return didn’t happen without notice. Exiled and remote in a northern prison, I forgot I was still the center of gravity for many others. Articles about my release appeared in Connecticut and Florida journals and a local Florida paper called me the day after I arrived.

“I’m writing an article about your release. Publishing tomorrow. Call me back if you’d like to make a comment,” was the message left in my Voice Mail.

Another blow. I hadn’t done well in the press. My lawyer told me not to defend myself. Best not to respond, he said. I chose the worst of both. I didn’t defend myself, but I spoke with the press, and it only made things worse. 

“Why do you need my address,” I told the reporter. Ray Adams, a journalist with a local journal had his own byline: “Ray’s World.” He sounded about fifty and acted friendly until I said that about the address.

“You got something to hide?” he said.

“No. Yes. Of course. I mean, I don’t see how my address is germane to your article.” I regretted saying germane. He published the comment. In retrospect it was stupid. I answered every question with a chip on my shoulder. I had an opportunity to sound grateful, remorseful, apologize, create a story about making amends. But I didn’t. I didn’t even think about it. But it’s hard not to be defensive. Three years earlier, another writer from the community in Connecticut where I lived had scalded me publicly.

Walter Casey, a resident of Darien, had a blog describing his grievances with the community. He was a mid-level manager who couldn’t really afford Darien. He was jealous of the many successful people that dominated the community and vented his frustration in letters to the editor of a local paper ever week. He ended every entry with “Stay Tuned.” His blog was “Stay Tuned Darien.” The blog surprisingly had some legs, and he referred to me as “Darien’s Madoff.” He loved the story. I’m sure it salved a lot of his wounds. A lot of my investors who lost money were the same people he ranted about every week. He wasn’t really a bad guy. I drove him home from a college alumni event one-night decades ago. He had a huge head, and black hair that looked like he never combed it. He never shut up the entire ride home. For forty-five minutes he complained about everything in Darien: the school board, the “asshole investment bankers,” the “country club elites” the biased youth sports programs. I think he perceived me as a friend. He gave me a peculiar, but grateful, look when I dropped him off.

“Heh. Thanks for the ride. I mean it. A lot of guys blew me off.”

“No problem.”

He paused and stared at me for a moment. Maybe this guy is a friend. But he didn’t say anything else, and I never spoke to him again.

Most of my investors, who lost money with me, lived in Darien and belonged to the clubs Casey couldn’t get in or afford. I was a launching pad for him. The phrase got legs. Another blogger, a third-tier residential broker from Greenwich—a neighboring wealthy community—used a similar description of me—Mini Madoff—when I was sentenced, and it traveled all the way to Vero Beach. I remember Mike Widland, an attorney in Stamford who I worked with on a charity board, told me that people enjoy the demise of successful people. Mike wasn’t a friend. Although contemporaries, I had been a pain in the ass for him, as a fellow board member on the Palace theatre board. A local theatre that housed the symphony and other artistic groups. He had been the Chairman of the Board for the past decade and resented my pressure to change management. But eventually, we achieved a truce and bonded after a while.

“I don’t know why that is, John,” he said. But I’ve seen it over the years. A fall from grace makes a lot of people feel good.”

Ray published his article. Though not kind─ nor should it have been─ it didn’t include the Madoff reference. 

More surprises were coming. I had been working with a local real estate developer before I was incarcerated. Dennis Witherow, a residential developer, was a Viet Nam vet from humble roots, a coal miner family in Western, PA. His father developed homes in the afternoons after his shift in the mines. Dennis said they ate dinner at 4:00 pm after the mines closed and right after dinner his father went to work building homes. Dennis worked in the mines for a short time, helped his father, and after a brief but intense boxing career, he started building homes himself. He was still in the middle of developing a new community and I thought I’d jump back in. When he called me, he’d been recently diagnosed with mesothelioma.

“Johnny D. Welcome home man. I thought you’d figure your way out of there,” his voice weak and shaky.

“It took a pandemic. Wasn’t easy.”

He started to laugh but it turned into a long cough. So long by the time he finished he forgot where our conversation was.

“Listen, Johnny D. Can you help my kids with the company. I’m not able to go in anymore. Place is a mess.” 

Apparently, due to his illness, his son and daughter-in-law were running the business. But they had little experience in that business.

“I hear you’ve got a lot of new homes to complete and need new financing,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah. But once they get beyond that, they’ll have a clean company.”

I promised to call them but told him that I was under Home Incarceration.

The following day my Probation Officer told me I couldn’t work in real estate and that ended doing anything with Dennis. It didn’t matter as Dennis died shortly after my conversation and his kids shuttered the company. I wasn’t allowed to attend his funeral.

*****

My family and others welcomed me. My daughter organized a Zoom call. Nieces, cousins, and siblings. It was nice. Except I saw myself for the first time. I didn’t see it in prison. I was drawn, wrinkled and skinny. Almost malnourished. And old. Really old. I’d lost thirty-five pounds in prison and all my clothes fell off me. I looked like the old men I’d seen hanging in the lobby of my mothers-in-law’s nursing home years before.

My wife spoiled me. The condo decorated like all our homes was cozy, comfortable and simple. We had moved eleven times before I left for prison. She moved twice more while I was away. Once, temporarily to a friend and then to this new condo in a gated community on the outskirts of Vero Beach. Vero is a city of great contrasts. East of US 1 on the “Island” are gated communities on the ocean where Americas wealthiest reside. West of US 1 are the Martin Luther King roadways and everything in between. Our new place was on the most western edge, in a quiet new community where it was easy to remain anonymous. And since I was confined to be inside for three years, other than an hour’s walk four days a week, no one would know I was there. I aspired to be a writer in college. I always thought there was still one in me somewhere. This was my chance. I’d been writing in prison. Mostly short pieces, prose poems, log verse and streaming narrative fragments. It was impossible for anything else: no library, freezing cold or oppressively hot in the dorm and no privacy. I had all of the time in the world now.

My first priority was my wife. She had managed my absence well. But it was obvious it had taken a toll. Our first conversation was about our financial future. My history was to try and deflect these conversations. 

“Where do we go if one of us gets sick?”

“We’ll figure it out. I’m still under Home Confinement.”

“That’s your answer?” she asked. “What can we afford?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered.

“If one of us dies tomorrow, we have no plans. I visited a funeral place in Vero. I’d be happy with that. A quiet service. You’re going to be eighty years old next month, you know. Do you know your brother still hasn’t buried Judy?” she said, referring to my brother’s wife. She was cremated and the ashes were still on his mantel in Boston. I don’t remember what I said but I deflected the conversation again. 

*****

Two years later, the end of Home Confinement is looming and I’m not looking forward to it. Actually, I’m afraid of it. The moment of release is a kind of fool’s gold: convictions to make amends, start over, re-build a life. But prison makes the trip home with you, the excruciating self-loathing never leaves you. I had hoped that release might provide a spiritual balm, seeds for growth, promise an epiphany. Though I’m not giving up, it hasn’t happened yet. I’m still trying to overcome the exile, relentless remorse and turning points that passed. 

*****

When my brother dropped me off at the airport, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. I’d be going back to Florida, still locked down there by COVID. He was eighty-five and diminishing. So, I told him that I want to be buried in Woodlawn, the cemetery in the Bronx where the family mausoleum resides. My grandfather’s legacy.  A marble tomb with enough plots around it to accommodate generations of DiMenna’s. The first time I saw it was at my grandfather’s burial. I recall approaching the gates of black steel, the stone gate house, two policemen on patrol, the line of limousines, the long slow drive through an entry steeped in Fiora and trees. The cortege then followed meandering narrow lanes through a steady stream of elaborate headstones and mausoleums on both sides of the lanes. There were many prominent ones of legends like Houdini and Mayor LaGuardia as we creeped slowly through crossing streets that were surprisingly hilly in parts. Eventually, the cortege came to a stop and my family’s mausoleum of stone and marble came into view almost out of nowhere. The name DI MENNA inscribed in tall letters on its entrance. The large crowd of people exited from the long train of limos at the same time, speaking in hushed tones as they exited their vehicles. There was something eerie about the beauty surrounding the grave sites: the willow trees in full bloom, azaleas, tall oaks, and right in front of the mausoleum, my grandfather’s casket, covered in roses. The door of the mausoleum was wide open, so I could see something like a chapel inside with a cross over a kneeling stand. At that time, I swore I would never be buried there. Now I believed I belonged there.

I’d probably die in Florida, and somebody would have to transport me. I thought my brother would understand that, as his commitment to the family lore was as strong as ever. Not that I know what he’ll do because he had lived in Massachusetts for the past twenty years and he doesn’t like to talk about those things. His wife, Judy, was cremated and wanted her ashes spread somewhere—which I can’t remember now—but he never did it and never talked about it. Her ashes were still in an urn on his mantle.

“Buried in Woodlawn?” he asked. 

“Yeah. Woodlawn,” I said.

“You don’t want to be cremated?”

“No. Do You?”

“I haven’t decided. But I want to end up in Woodlawn too.”

“Did you put Judy there yet?” 

“No. She’s still on my mantle.”

“Are you going to do it.”

“At some point.”

“I just can’t see you choosing cremation.”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Well, it’s getting to be time.” 

“What about your wife?” he asked.

“She wants to be cremated. She hates hearing about Woodlawn. Wants no part of it. So, what about Judy. Are you going to put her ashes in Woodlawn?”

“Eventually.”

I couldn’t tell if he would do it, but I assumed he’d probably leave it to his kids. I asked him to promise me that if I go first, he’ll get me to Woodlawn. I don’t know when I came to it– being buried—but I told my wife about it shortly after I was released. She doesn’t like to hear about Woodlawn and wants her ashes spread over Goodwives River near our first house, a charming carriage house on a beautiful, pristine hill that overlooked the river. We lived there for the first two years of our marriage, before we knew anything about what we were facing, as it was the beginning of our lives, really. But of course, we weren’t aware of it, as you never are when your young marrieds, and the last thing you’re thinking about is how you want to be buried. But I don’t want to be ashes and spread anywhere because I want to be put in a box and know the weight of me will be felt by some unknowns lowering me down. And it doesn’t matter that they don’t know me, but only that they know there’s somebody in there that was alive once. I’ll take comfort just knowing that. But please don’t make me ashes and spread me anywhere because no matter where you spread them, it’s really nowhere, and I was here once, and at least I’ll know that there’s a place that says I was here no matter what I was or wasn’t.