And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) (52 page)

My mother, Nancy's only living grandparent, had to be told. Trouble was, she was visiting
her
father, who was ninety-six, at his senior citizens' home. I didn't want to phone her there for fear of upsetting him too much. Then I remembered that one of my cousins was with her. I arranged to have my cousin pulled aside and informed of the news. As soon as my mother had concluded her visit, she was given the news by my cousin, who then brought her by. She was shocked and confused by all the press outside the house. She'd been living in the Virgin Islands for the past ten years and was largely unaware of Nancy's collision with heroin, punk rock, and celebrity. We had protected her from Nancy's problems.

Frank was still on his way. It seemed to be taking him forever.

Details. So many details. I knew there would be a generous outpouring of gifts and flowers from our friends. In lieu of flowers, I felt there should be a place for money to be donated, someplace appropriate to Nancy's life. Frank's nephew Dean suggested the Eagleville Hospital, a nearby drug and alcohol rehabilitation center. A friend of Dean's worked there. Dean phoned him. His friend said no such fund existed at Eagleville at that time, but that he'd be happy to set one up to receive donations in Nancy's memory. I
gave him the go-ahead. I wanted to do something for the other Nancys. Now that she was dead, it was a priority to find a way to save someone else.

Fortunately this much was clear then. Within a few weeks I would not be capable of such rational thinking.

The man from the funeral parlor called. He said he had spoken to the medical examiner's office in New York. The body—that phrase again—would be released Saturday. He concurred with a Sunday morning funeral. He'd be able to meet us at the funeral home that night about nine thirty so we could make all of the arrangements.

Janet found a rabbi who was available for a Sunday funeral. He agreed to come by on Saturday to talk about Nancy. I thought it important that he know about her. For him to say something standard like “We mourn the loss of this beautiful child who gave all of us much” just wouldn't be appropriate. Nancy would have said, “Cut that bullshit out!” I wanted him to talk about Nancy as she was—in pain, incapable of living productively, incapable of returning our love. I wanted him to convey our own pain and sadness. I wanted her to know she was still loved.

I also thought something appropriate should be read. David and I began to search through the lyric sheets of all of the rock albums in the house, hoping to find one song that would somehow capture Nancy's life. We examined all of the Beatles albums in particular. I was especially fervent in my search. I guess I was hoping I'd find some words to explain the meaning of her short, unhappy life.

When our search yielded no such song, Dean asked if it would be okay if he wrote a poem for Nancy. I said “Of course.” He went into the den. Ten minutes later he returned with it. I read it. It was beautiful. Indeed, it captured Nancy's life in a few verses. I embraced Dean. I thanked him and said I would share it with the rabbi and ask him to read it at the funeral.

Then Frank came home. He stood in the open front doorway framed by the lights of the news minicams. He appeared calm in front of the reporters clamoring for attention on our front lawn. He waved them off, said “No comment” in a clear, controlled voice. Then he shut the door on them and reached out for David and me. We embraced in the foyer.

David put his arms around the two of us, adopting the role of the strong one, the protector who would shield us from further pain.

“I felt like it was my job to be there for you,” David later told me.
“Whatever I was going through, I knew it was ten times worse for you.”

In fact, this role also allowed him to bury his own powerful and conflicting emotions over Nancy's death. Later they would surface on their own.

Frank's emotional response was immediate. He began to cry standing there in the foyer. I'd never seen him cry before. He didn't stop. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, deep, gut-wrenching moans coming out of him along with the tears. It all came out at once for Frank—the twenty years of frustration and pain, the realization that what he'd wanted for our first child was never going to happen. He sobbed for twenty minutes. Never have I heard another man cry like that. It was the saddest crying I've ever heard.

I stood there holding him as his grief came out in a torrent. I envied his ability to let it loose. My eyes were moist, but I could not cry outwardly, not with all of those reporters on the other side of the door. I cried on the inside, filling within with tears. It hurt to cry like that. It made that ache in my chest even more intense.

Frank cried until there were no more tears in him. He dried his eyes and the three of us went into the living room to join our family and friends, many of whom were now sharing Frank's extraordinary outpouring of grief by shedding tears of their own.

Suzy came home about half a hour after Frank. She was upset and in tears, but also on guard.

“What are all these people doing here?” she demanded, indicating not the press but our family and friends in the living room. “Half of them don't even
know
Nancy. What do they want?”

“To be with us,” I said.

“What for?” she said.

“To share our loss. They care about us and—”

“How long are they going to be here?”

“The funeral is on Sunday,” I said. “We found a rabbi fortunately. Then we'll sit
shivah
for a few days.”

“Nancy wouldn't like this,” Suzy said angrily.

“What do you mean by ‘this'?” asked Frank.

“This
. This Jewish fuss.”

“She's not here anymore,” Frank pointed out.

“She'd want to be cremated,” Suzy insisted.

“She left no instructions,” I said.

“And she's not here anymore,” Frank repeated gently. “It's what
we
want.”

Today Suzy understands. “I realize now that it was for you guys
that those people were there,” she told me recently. “But at the time I resented it. Nancy wasn't a normal person and I didn't think she should be mourned like one.”

So Suzy went off to the living room, spoke to a couple of close relatives, then sat by herself, grumbling. Nancy's death had triggered a powerful emotional conflict in her, too. This was the first sign of problems that, like David's, would take a while to surface.

Someone made dinner. We sat around the dining table and had something to eat. The phone and doorbell rang constantly. Most of the time it was reporters. They simply would not quit. With each ring I was seized by that fear I'd felt earlier. Now it bordered on panic.

Suddenly I realized what was frightening me. Each ring was taking me further and further from the fantasy I'd written to desensitize myself to Nancy's inevitable death. As a result, I was moving further and further out onto an emotional high wire with no net under me. I could feel myself losing my balance. That's why I was afraid.

Mercifully, the reporters and cameramen had temporarily gone on to another story when Frank and I left for the funeral parlor. Frank drove slowly. We held hands, not talking for a while. It was the first chance we'd had to be alone. It felt good.

“You know,” Frank said, “when I was driving into New York this afternoon, I was actually thinking about going to that hotel and getting her away from there and that guy. Dragging her out of there over my shoulder if I had to. Bringing her home.”

“It wouldn't have made any difference,” I said. “She would have gone right back.”

“Yeah, that's what I figured. Still …”

“Don't do that to yourself.”

He shrugged. “Anyway,” he said, letting out a deep sigh, “I guess she made it.”

I knew what he meant. “She didn't see twenty-one,” I agreed. “She knew better than all of us. I still can't believe it happened this way, though.
Murder
. What happens now? What will they do to us tomorrow?”

“Whatever we have to do, we'll do. Don't be afraid. I'll be with you.”

“But then there'll be a
trial
.”

“So there'll be a trial. It doesn't matter. She's dead.”

“What if she's not?” I asked, suddenly clinging to her existence.

“Huh?”

“What if it's not her? What if it's someone else? It could all be a horrible mistake. It's happened.”

“It's her,” he said softly. “We'll see tomorrow.”

When we pulled into the funeral home parking lot, there was only one other car there. Inside it was dark and deserted. Rather eerie. Just the funeral director, us, and the dead. He took us into his office, offered his condolences, and got down to business.

The plot came first. We had no family plot. We arranged for one near where Frank's parents were buried. It cost about two thousand dollars. It all cost. It seemed there was a rule or regulation for everything, each one designed with the purpose of lining someone's pocket. We had to pay a fee to a New York mortician for securing the body from the medical examiner's office and releasing it to our mortician—the New York City ME's office would not release a body to an out-of-state mortician. We had to pay to transport Nancy to Pennsylvania. We had to pay a fee to open the gravesite. State law. So was paying for a concrete outer burial casing.

“For what?” I asked, in reference to the latter.

“To keep the wood from rotting,” he replied.

“Wood?” I asked, confused.

“The casket, Mrs. Spungen.”

I shuddered, decided to ask no more questions.

“Will you want it open or closed?” he asked.

“Closed,” Frank said.

“What will she wear?”

“Well, we don't have anything of hers,” Frank said. “I suppose we could buy her a dress.”

“No, wait,” I broke in. “We have her prom dress. The green one.”

“Shoes?” the man said. “Have any of her shoes?”

I shook my head.

“We can take care of that. She needn't wear any. We'll cover her feet.”

“The dress,” I pointed out. “It's rather, well, it has a bare midriff.”

“We'll arrange it,” he assured me. “The next item is flowers. White flowers? Fall flowers?”

“Fall flowers,” I said. “Those were her favorite.”

“Fine. We'll cover the casket with amber and copper mums. They look lovely. Then there's the matter of the announcement in the newspapers, the paid advertisement.”

“We've having some problems with the press,” Frank said. “This
is an unusual case. A murder. We don't want them there.”

“I can't keep them out,” he said. “But if you're concerned about your privacy—”

“We are,” Frank and I said.

“Then we can wait and put the announcement in on Monday, the day afterward. Of course, that means you'll have to personally contact anyone you wish to attend.”

“That's all right,” Frank said. “We'd prefer that. We just don't want this thing to end up a circus.”

“I understand. I hope you'll understand though that if people want to come, they'll come. A funeral home is open to the public.”

“Isn't there anything you can do?” I begged.

“Well, I can put you in a side room off the chapel before the service to protect your privacy. And then close off the six rows of the chapel immediately behind you so no one can bother you. How would that be?”

It seemed so unfair to have to be distanced from our friends and relatives like that. I wondered if anyone else had to take such a precaution.

We said that would be fine.

Then the funeral director went on down his checklist. He was trying to be as sympathetic and understanding as possible, but I found the whole business morbid and awful. Going over all of these details seemed so unnecessary. Frank was used to it. He'd done it before for his parents' funerals. I hadn't.

Then there was the matter of choosing a casket. He took us down a flight of stairs, flicked on a fluorescent light switch to illuminate an immense subterranean showroom filled with caskets—a macabre supermarket. Some were featured on individual pedestals. Some were raised to display the blue satin within. It was positively ghoulish.

I had never known a room like this existed outside of
The Twilight Zone
.

The director took us from one model to the next, explaining the relative merits, fingering the brass handles, running his hand lovingly over the fine satin wood just like the model on
Let's Make a Deal
would caress the smooth, shiny hardwood dining set behind door number two.

He opened and closed each one for us, then gave us the price. They ran in cost from $1,200 to $10,000. When he had shown us all of them, he waited courteously for our decision.

“Which one do you want?” Frank said.

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't care.”

“Do you think she'd want something plain? Fancy?”

“Maybe we should wait,” I said. “What if she's not dead? I mean, it's not like we have any real proof. Just somebody telling me on the phone. It's not like we've
seen
her.”

“I believe she's dead,” Frank said. Then he took my hand and took charge. He chose an $1,800 model of cherry wood. Then we went back up to the office and the director added up the list.

The total cost of Nancy's funeral was a little over $8,000. Frank told the man that would be fine. We didn't have nearly that much money in our savings account, though if we had a dollar for every newspaper article that referred to us as “affluent” we'd have just about covered it.

We would get the money somehow. Have to.

We got home just before eleven. The street was once again jammed with cars and vans. Our house looked as if it had been seized by enemy troops. Reporters, photographers, and cameramen were everywhere.