Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1) (20 page)

By late September, we were talking every night.

When the phone rang, I expected it to be Jeanne.
 

It was my father.
 

"Another letter came," he said.

I had thought it had ended. I had thought it was over. "From Ashland? From Jack?"

"From Jack. But not from Ashland. Come and see."
 

I saw the river rise up one more time, saw it carrying bodies, filling caverns.
 

I hung up and left.

The yellowed envelope had the two-cent Washington red and the green one-cent counterpart. It was postmarked Bucyrus, Ohio, December 23,1934. It was stationery from the Highway again, the same place as one of the first batch of letters that had arrived before my trip south.

"On the Nation's Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway."

My father handed me the letter that had been inside. It was dated the same as the postmark on the envelope.

Dear Margaret:

Sorry I haven't written for so long, but I've been more than a little busy. And I've always been a little careless, as you well know.

Things didn't work out in Ashland. You have no idea how I wish they had. It's kind of complicated, and a long story—but there was some trouble (nothing that you should worry about) and I figured it was certainly time to go.

Bucyrus is pretty. I'm doing lots of manual labor, and have discovered that shoveling manure here smells the same as it does everywhere else. Odd jobs are scarce, but so far I can make enough for food, a place to stay, and a pack of cigarettes. What more could a fella want?

How I got here—now there's a story. But I'll save it for another time. Your little brother has managed to get out of a tight scrape and land on his feet. I guess I'm learning to survive. Father would be proud of me.

I trust Father is well.

You know, Marg, I'm beginning to miss Toronto. There's lots of times when I sit here in my room and think back to Berkeley Street. It wasn't so bad, you know? And remember Margueretta Street? And High Park? Honest to God, I don't think I know what I'm looking for anymore, Marg. I guess I just came back to this place out of habit, cause it was a place I'd been before. Last time I was here, I complained that the town was dead and that nothing happened. This time it seems just fine for now. Maybe I'm gettin' old, and can sit on the park benches with the old-timers better now.

Actually, it's the fact that Xmas is only two days away that's got to me. I miss everyone dearly, and feel kind of alone right now. I wish I could see you again, but it isn't in the cards right now. Remember how we used to string the popcorn with Mother, while Father would sit and smile and smoke his cigar? Gee, I must be gettin' sentimental. That was a long time ago.

I'm coming back to Toronto someday, Marg. You can bet on it. I want to see everyone. I still want to make something of myself, cause I know I can.

Think of me Xmas morning, when you and Tommy and the kids are opening your presents.

I'm sending along a little something for everyone for Xmas. Buy something nice for yourself and for the kids. And I'd like to ask a favor. Could you send the enclosed to Teresa Matusik, c/o The Scott Hotel, Ashland, Kentucky? I don't want to send it myself, cause too many questions might be asked. So if you can keep it for a while till you get to Port Dover next summer and mail it from there. That way, it wouldn't have a Toronto postmark on it, and that's important to me. The whole thing is kind of private, if you know what I mean.

Speaking of Ashland, I met a friend of yours there. His name's Leo. Nice fella. Say hello to him for me.

And say hello to Tommy and Ronny and Anne and everyone else. And say "hello" to Father. I find myself thinking a lot about him. I think maybe I've been too hard on him. I guess he's had things happen to him I'm just beginning to understand.

I'll try to keep in touch better, but you know how a fellow slips up.

Lots of Love,

Jack

My father handed me two faded postal money orders, for twenty American dollars each.

I looked at them. One was made out to my mother. The other was made out to Teresa Matusik.

Beauty and mystery, I thought, sensing pinpoints of light in the darkness. The twin stars in all our night skies.

3

I stayed with my father that night. I slept in my old room, which neither he nor my mother had bothered to change much in twenty-odd years. The bookcase I had built was still there. The bunk beds in which my brother and I had slept had been disassembled, though, and one of them had undoubtedly drifted into the hands of someone in the family, along with the Hudson's Bay red-and-black trapper blanket that was an integral part of each unit. But the other one was still there, complete with its heavy woolen cover.

I lay beneath it, feeling its weight, its security, placed my hands behind my head and stared up into the darkness of a time gone by, waiting for the morning, waiting for whatever would happen next.

Squeezed out of the earth, I thought. The mud, the water, the tunnels. Jack was still out there. Somewhere. Moving across America.

It was true. I believed it.

The truth was beside me, on the night table: the money orders. The letter.

It was also inside me, moving in my own subterranean tunnels, flowing in the rivers, flooding me.

My father was good enough not to phone me at work until near the end of the day. Otherwise I'd never have been able to get anything done. But at four o'clock, the call came.

"Another one, Leo."

I didn't ask anything. "I'll be by on my way home."

It was from Toledo—the same address as before: 117—17th Street. It was dated April 30, 1935.

Dear Margaret:

This one's just a short note to keep in touch. I went out with a friend for a drink today because it was my birthday. You were the only one who ever remembered. Even Father used to forget. I'm 24 today, Marg. So how come I feel like I'm about 50 years older? I guess too many things have happened, and I seem to have lost so much.

The friend I went out with was Mac. Remember I told you about him, and his new baby? Well, things are pretty tough for them now, as he is now out of work. I feel real sorry for them. Some days I just don't know what any of us are "gonna" do.

Today's Tuesday. I went to Mass on Sunday. Been missing it too much. Next thing you know, I'll have to go to confession. Don't know where I'll start my list of "sins." The priest better cancel whatever he has planned for the rest of the day, that's for sure.

I'm keeping busy. Not much work here though.

I miss everybody.

I think I'll be here awhile. Maybe you could send me Father's address. I think I might write him, when I get a chance.

Lots of Love,
 

Jack

It took a week for the next one to arrive. It was, as I was beginning to suspect it might be, from the Vermont Hotel, on West Columbia, in Detroit.

Jack was coming north. He was coming home.

It was dated August 21, 1935.

Dear Margaret:

Happy Birthday! I realize this won't get to you till after your birthday, but better late than never, rights Sorry to have been out of touch for so long Gee, I always seem to be apologizing for not comin' up to snuff. I guess I'll never change.

I remember telling you how much I loved being here the last time I wrote, and how it would break my heart to have to go back to Toronto. How times change, eh? Even Hartican's gone out of business. Everybody seems to be in trouble, so I guess you could say I'm in good company.

I miss Toronto more and more. Don't be surprised if I show up on your doorstep sometime real soon, hat in hand. You wouldn't turn me away, would ya?

I feel real strange, Marg. I feel like I'm looking back on things, instead of seeing them straight on. I don't know how to describe it. I miss Ashland, too, you know. But I don't see how I can ever go back. By the way, I hope you sent that money order to Teresa, like I asked, maybe from Port Dover this summer. I miss her, too. But it wasn't "gonna" work. Sometimes I feel real bad about it all and how it ended. But that's another story.

I got something surprising to tell you. I got a letter from Father. I don't know how he found me, but he did. Said he'd like me to come home. He's a man of few words, and the letter must have been quite a strain to write. I was quite touched by it, and wrote him back. There are some bridges to mend there, but I'm "gonna" try. I know it's what you've always wanted for him and me, so I wanted to tell you. Think of it as my birthday present to you.

I still like to visit the Shrine here at Royal Oak. When I get to Toronto, I'll bring you a rose from the garden there.

Take care, Marg. And say "hello" to everybody.

Hope I see you soon.

Lots of Love
 

Your brother,
 

Jack

I placed the letter on the kitchen table. My father was sitting at the other end.

"Things have to be settled," he said.

I looked at him. I felt shaky. I had to sit down. "Or they never go away," I finished, my voice a whisper.

Then I closed my eyes and saw my mother's hand open on the hospital bed, saw her fingers unfold, saw the fresh red rose from the shrine at Royal Oak fall out, and heard her voice, an echo, thinly, again, always.
Jack was here. And my father.

Jack, I thought. Jack.

The river of images flowed through my brain.

I still did not open my eyes. I tried to think, tried to let what I was feeling crystallize into something hard and clear. Instead I saw ghosts, time warps, delusions, madness. Jack was as much here and now as he was there and then. As he had always been. As he would be tomorrow.

He had come home, however briefly, as he had said. As my mother had said.

I put my hand to my forehead. Finally, squeezing my eyes tighter, I saw, with perfect clarity, Jack and his father at Margaret's bedside, holding her hands, touching her face, smiling, seeing past the body that was dying, staring into the enduring heart of what she had once been and dreamed of being—of what we have all once been and dreamed of being, at that moment, that single moment, when our rose is in its full, vibrant bloom.
 

EIGHTEEN

Memory is a transcendental function. Its objects may be physical bodies, faces . . . but these are shot with luminosity ... So though we can't perceive 'soul' or 'spirit' firsthand it seems to me that this is precisely the phenomenon we summon back by way of an exercise of memory. And why the exercise of memory at certain times in our lives is almost too powerful to be borne.

—Joyce carol Oates

Facts, Visions, Mysteries: My Father, Frederic Oates

1

Canadian Thanksgiving, I explained to Jeanne over the phone, was celebrated earlier than the American one. In 1984, it fell on Monday, October 8.

There was no direct air passage from Toronto to Ashland. I booked a flight after work on USAir from Toronto to Huntington, West Virginia, Friday, October 5.

When I landed, I made two phone calls. One was to the Scott Hotel, the other was to Jeanne. I asked her if we could keep Saturday clear for the whole day, for something special. What? she asked. Adam is included, I said. We'll take a little trip.

The phone line crackled with anticipation at both ends.
 

Then I drove my rented car the fifteen miles or so along the Ohio to Ashland.

It was still light when I pulled up in front of the Scott Hotel.

Emma sat beside me on the wine-colored sofa with the needlepoint pillows at each end.

"I've got some things I think you should have." I handed her Jack's letters, all of them. Detroit, Toledo, Bucyrus. Ashland. And back again.

She held them in her hands, stared at them, set them down in her lap.

"One of them's got something in it for your mother." I pictured the money order. "But I think you should have it."

Her eyes became the eyes that I had seen in Jack's face when he had admitted to me the truth about his letters to his sister that day on the porch swing.

"I think we should leave Teresa and Stanley alone. Not stir up the ghost between them."