I lit a candle last night for my cousin Denny. He'd be amused by that - with his signature sardonic grin, a sarcastic remark. He was pretty sure he'd end up in Hell, if there was such a thing. Most people would have agreed with him.
We came from a large family of close-knit cousins, aunts and uncles and shared a childhood. Denny was just a month younger than I, we were practically siblings. Denny was fearless and careless and burned the candle at both ends, all of those cliches. He was a shameless huckster and went through money, wives and friends as if there were no tomorrow. And now there's not.
Who wants to re-live the bad times? One story, I cannot omit: for reasons best left to speculation, he and his best friend got in a fist fight one night in his buddy's front yard. Rumor has it a wife was involved, and tempers were high. Denny ended up biting off a piece of Jason's ear, and in the confusion, the family cat ran off under the porch with the ear. My favorite Bad Denny moment.
Denny was always good to me, generous always. He shared his toys, his amazing train set (the staged wrecks were legendary), his time. We went to the movies, to the swimming pool, to Mrs. Gregory's little store across Chicago Avenue. We spent countless nights on the Corey porch, counting the time between the thunder and the lightning flashes over the river, trains rolling heavy down in the switchyard. We went up the river with his Grandpa Corey on the houseboat. When my Mom was dying, he drove into Chicago to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the middle of the night.
Those memories are the ones I choose to keep. I'll miss that wicked grin, the latest crazy scheme. He had big ideas, lived as large as he could, and died the way he lived. He died in Nicaragua, living the life with the latest young wife, far from disappointment and heartache he'd never admit.
See ya, Denny.
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