Bobby died that night on Avon Mountain. It was one day after he called me.
I’ll never forget that day, August 16, 1979. It was hot and sultry, not uncommon for August in New England. I was at work at Pepperidge Farm in Clinton, Connecticut, going through a particularly grueling morning when, at 11:15, the receptionist buzzed me.
My brother, Bobby, was on the line calling me by my family name. “Ginge,” he said, his voice strained, “can we have lunch? I'm really upset.”
I cradled the phone in my neck, trying to sort through papers while I listened to my brother. My boss came into my office motioning that he needed me right away.
“Bobby,” I said, “I’m not even eating lunch today. It’s crazy around here.”
“But I need to see you,” he said. Ten years my junior, Bobby treated me like a second mother and often turned to me for help.
“How about next week? Can we meet then?” I repeated how impossible it would be to meet that day.
There was no next week.
