RONALD'S ALICE

"He never stopped looking for rabbit holes to fall into and explore."

My cousin Ronald and I grew up in the same apartment building in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. He was five years older than me, and like a big brother. He teased me. He babysat me. He went with me to summer day camp, the Saturday-morning bowling league, double-feature movies and, as we got older, to Broadway musicals and our first ballet. He always had my back. He knew that my ex-husband was not for me and even though we did not speak for the seven years I was married, he was there for me when I called to tell him about the divorce. We picked up where we’d left off. 

When Ronald died, at 69, in June 2018, I was the executor of his estate. Among other things, this meant going to his basement to open his large standing safe, to look for the original copy of his will. Inside the safe, sitting front and center on the top shelf, was this figurine of Alice in Wonderland and the White Rabbit, with the rabbit showing her his pocket watch while she gave him a silent “shhh.” Though the safe held the title to Ronald’s car and other important papers, I didn’t find the will that day, but I’ve thought a lot about Alice’s significance in my cousin’s life ever since.

For starters, she represented Disney. Ronald loved all things Disney. Like Peter Pan, he never outgrew his attachment to magical thinking. He also never stopped looking for rabbit holes to fall into and explore. His fascination with apes and monkeys led him to Rwanda to see gorillas. His love of American history took him on a riverboat cruise that followed the route of Lewis and Clark. When he got interested in showing his two Basenjis, he traveled the dog-show circuit until one of them, Belle, became champion in her class. Though he didn’t always know where his passions would lead, he dove in anyway.

Sometimes, like Alice, Ronald felt lost or dismayed or afraid. As a gay man, he experienced homophobia. He suffered through a major depression. His partner of 22 years died. He was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma. But even when his life took detours, he, like Alice, was resilient. Until the day he went to sleep and never woke up, he treated life as an adventure. I think that’s why he was always winning raffles and door prizes, and why, if he went to a casino, he’d win. You can’t win if you don’t play, they say. Ronald believed in playing.

While Ronald was alive, I didn’t share the whimsical perspective that allowed him to embrace Alice; her story was always confusing and nonsensical to me. All my life, I’ve been serious and studious. I pursued higher education. I did research and published scientific papers. I worked six days a week.

I think Ronald placed Alice so prominently in his safe because he wanted his sense of humor to be with me when he expired. But she’s more than that. I keep her on my dining-room table as a reminder to take another look at what I may have been missing in my life. A reminder to live more like Ronald. Be ready for the journey, wherever it takes you. You may not be in control, but go for the ride. Have some fun when things don’t make sense. It’s okay to go down the rabbit hole. You’ll survive.

Alice’s shhh-ing also reminds me that Ronald was discreet. He wasn’t in the closet, but he never spoke openly about his partner to anyone who wasn’t in his inner circle. Neither did he brag about the lifestyle that his wise investments and his hard work—he was a payroll supervisor for Con Ed—afforded him. His favorite saying was “Little said is well said.” But I don’t think he’d mind my sharing the story of his Alice and the good advice she gives me now that he’s no longer here to say the words himself. 

—Nadine Revheim

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Nadine Revheim is a licensed psychologist in private practice after years of clinical practice with the seriously mentally ill. Her memoir, Woven Together: Finding Me in Memories of You (Cape House Books), about  Ronald and the adventures that took place during the four years his will was in probate, is due out later this year.