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.
That evening was spent reminiscing. June's tears would not, could not, subside, as if they were cleansing a pain that would not leave her. As we talked, I was amazed at how hungry I was for information about Father, anything that would tell me more about the man as opposed to the myth. I realized that June was my only source. She alone knew the truth or truths. She alone could help me bridge the gap to intimacy with him
I felt our friendship, and our mutual need for emotional support, could possibly open the door that had been locked for over five decades. I knew that only June had the key to his heart, and I wanted it. Badly.
June was cautious. As we spoke about him and their shared lives over the decades, I could sense how tentative she was, as if she were trying to avoid a real conversation. I knew this wasn't her nature. I could feel she wanted to open up, share her innermost feelings. But the reluctance, foreign as it was to her personality, remained dominant, and I quickly got the impression that her responses to me were conditioned. As if she had been programmed not to speak about things personal and private. As she spoke, I could feel Dad's presence coming through her. She was hesitant, secret, aloof, and cautious with me. Was this an Asian cultural response to dealing with grief that kept mourners from sharing emotions? I'd never seen it before, particularly when as a P.I. I worked with my Japanese colleagues on criminal cases. Maybe it was only specific to widows. I didn't know, but I also sensed there was something deeper — and it didn't have anything to do with grief.
I walked to the corner of the living room with its wall of glass. It was almost midnight now, and the evening was clear and in sharp focus. The tall buildings below us shone, even with just a few of the many offices still lit. Behind the buildings the dark bay reflected the lights on the broad spans of the suspension bridges, and headlights still moved across them, hundreds of people going on with their lives as I tried to figure out what to ask June next.
I turned back to the room at the sound of June's footsteps across the carpet as she approached and handed me a small object I had not seen before. It was a tiny, palm-sized wood-bound photo album, with twelve golden fleurs-de-lys imprinted on the front. It appeared quite old; my guess was at least nineteenth-century. I hefted it, thinking how much heavier it was than it looked. The little book in my hand had a power to it, almost like a talisman. I took it over to a coffee table where I sat down and opened it and paused as my eyes fell upon a picture of Father and me. June saw me smile and looked away, allowing me a moment of privacy.
I was looking at a picture I had never seen before. I was two years old, sitting on my father's knee. The photograph would have been taken in Hollywood sometime in 1943 and had been cut from a larger photo to fit the small size of the page in the album. Across from it was another picture of my two brothers, Michael and Kelvin. It was the other half of the photograph of Father and me, and both Michael and Kelvin were sitting on our half-brother Duncan's knee. Duncan was a strikingly handsome young man of about seventeen then. He must have been down visiting us from San Francisco, where he was living with his mother and stepfather.
