Even when he had begun to open up with me during his final years, what he said about his life was still very general, but it had taken a new direction. I took it to be more of an attitudinal change than specific information. Our time together was slower, softer, and gentler, in stark contrast to the brisk lunch meetings of earlier years, where my two brothers and I would receive a last-minute summons to meet him for lunch near L.A. airport, "between flights," where he would give each of us five minutes to "update him on our lives."
During those last years, when I tried to share my thoughts, feelings, and reflections on life with both my father and June, they seemed to appreciate my openness, but it was never fully reciprocated. Weren't Renaissance men like that — guardians of their secrets? At least that's what I thought. Now I guessed that probably no one ever knew the real George Hodel, not even his widow.
After consoling June, I returned to my San Francisco hotel room late that evening filled with an increased sense of loss. For most of the afternoon I'd been a homicide detective, dealing with someone else's grief. Now my own feelings moved to the forefront as I finally realized my father was gone. Whatever wars would have to be fought between father and son, whatever unresolved issues still lingered in the air, would remain. From this point forward I'd have to deal only with his memory and the unanswered questions in his life that would remain the province of ghosts. At that moment, I too felt the great sense of aloneness that I knew June was feeling. And as I stretched out on the bed in my hotel room, I was overcome with a melancholy sense of the passage of time, of lost opportunities, and above all the loss of my father.
All of us have our own special days in life, days that relate directly to the core of our being and have the same sign hanging on them, saying, "Private, Keep Out." We usually see such days only in retrospect; only later do we recognize them as turning points in life. May 18, 1999, would be just such a day for me.
On that day I returned to Dad and June's penthouse suite early in the morning, remarking to myself how beautiful the morning sun could be in San Francisco with its promise of a complete renewal. Standing there in the living room, looking eastward, I could see both the Oakland Bay and Golden Gate Bridges, appearing as if by magic through the early-morning fog hanging low over the bay as it was dissipated by the sun. It was a sight that for a moment dissipated our own sadness. But June's sobs as she went through my father's personal effects broke into my reverie.
She was still in a state of shock and emotional trauma. She still blamed herself, believing she could have done something to save him, torturing herself by asking, "What if I had checked on him sooner? What if I had taken him in for a checkup? What if he hadn't gone to have the arrhythmic procedure done? What if the paramedics had arrived sooner?" I had no words to console her. "It was his time, June," I repeated. "He lived a long and wonderful life. Ninety-one years filled with adventure and travel is much more than most men have. The thirty years you shared with him were much more than you could have expected. And they were only possible through your love and care."
But I saw my words gave her no comfort. She wasn't functioning, and I realized I would have to make all the arrangements. My first priority was to notify the rest of his children, my sibling and half-siblings. Father had had ten children from four marriages. Seven of his children were still living. His eldest son, Duncan, now seventy and semi-retired, lived a short distance away in a San Francisco suburb. His second-born was a daughter, Tamar, who was now living in Hawaii. Then there were the four children from my mother. Michael, my older full brother, had died in 1986.I was a twin, and my brother John had died a few weeks after he was born, his death ascribed to "failure to thrive." Kelvin, eleven months my junior, was living in Los Angeles. Then there were Dad's children from his marriage in the Philippines: Teresa, Diane, Ramon, and Mark. Ramon had died of AIDS at age forty, just four years earlier.
Each child was duly notified; still to be decided were the precise funeral arrangements. I asked June if my father had left any instructions; I found it hard to believe he had not. She looked at me blankly, then without saying a word handed me a paper she had pulled from her files. I read from the formally typed page on his attorney's letterhead:
FUNERAL AND BURIAL INSTRUCTIONS
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
I do not wish to have funeral services of any-kind. There is to be no meeting or speeches or music and no gravestone or tablet.
I direct that my physical remains be cremated and that my ashes be scattered over the ocean. There are several crematories in San Francisco which provide these services.
If I die in a foreign country, cremation and scattering of my ashes may be carried out in that country, or the ashes may be shipped to San Francisco for disposition, with the choice to be made by my wife JUNE, or if she is unavailable, as the executor of my will shall decide.
/s/ George Hill Hodel
DATED: June 16, 1993
"Well, June, there is certainly nothing vague about that," I said. "No funeral services of any kind, no meeting, no speeches or music, no gravestone or tablet." That said it all. My father and I had never discussed religion or philosophical matters, so I asked June, "Was Dad an atheist?" She didn't answer.
Dad's body had been transported to the mortuary, and his personal physician had already signed a death certificate indicating that the cause of death was "congestive heart failure due to ischemic cardiomyopathy." The cremation was scheduled for a few days later.
"I'll tell my brothers and sisters of his stated wishes," I said to June. "And there will be no funeral of any kind.I guess each of us can in our own way and in our own time say our goodbye to Father." Again June didn't answer. It was almost as if she had become a robot, running on some computer program. As I read his words, a shiver had gone down my spine: I swear I felt Dad's presence in the room. I thought to myself that, even after death, he was dictating and controlling the situation. His will be done.
Next on my list was to notify the various businesses: the banks, credit card companies, the Social Security Administration — all a part of the ritual of one's passing from this world. It didn't take me long to complete the notifications, at which point I turned to June again and asked, "What about notifying his personal friends? I will be happy to make those calls for you. I know you're not up to speaking to anyone right now." Her face remained blank as if, again, my words had not registered. "What personal friends need to be called?" I repeated.
She shook her head. There were none. Not one. They had no personal friends. Oh, there were business associates, many of them over the years, who would be sorry to hear the sad news. But personal friends, social friends: none. While June did not seem to be upset by this, the news pained me deeply. The man had lived a long and remarkable life. After a distinguished medical career, he had also been publicly recognized as one of the world's leading experts in his field of market research. If I was to believe June, there was not one personal friend to notify.
This was a revelation, underscoring the finality of the man's death. I realized that there would be no monument to his existence, no celebration of his life. No funeral, no family, no words, no gravestone, no shared remembrances, and no friends to give voice to the impact my father had had on their lives. Not even his children, separated by his serial marriages, by thousands of miles and a score of years, would ever share a moment of silence to respect the life of their father. Other than June, who had been all things to him — lover, friend, confidante, and caregiver — Dad had completely isolated himself from the world of human affection and emotion.
In life, George Hill Hodel had been raised to mythic proportions by all of his children. Therefore it stood to reason that there was a common, if unvoiced, speculation about his wealth. Perhaps it ranged from a low of several million, to vast amounts of monies secreted in offshore accounts and hidden holdings. While I had indulged in my own speculative accounting based on my observations of their lifestyle during my father's last years, I still didn't know the truth of their financial state. Then June handed me a copy of the will. I had overestimated. His worth would not exceed a million. Comfortable, but, alas, a secret coffer of treasure from his lifetime's work, bulging with bags of gold and jewels from the ancient Orient, did not exist. Father had left a small amount of inheritance to each of his living children in equal shares, and the rest of his estate was to go to June. Probate would be simple, handled by Dad's longtime San Francisco lawyer, who had been named executor. His office was just minutes away and I scheduled an appointment to meet him the following afternoon.