Genealogy: a novel

by Mae Wood

  Regardless of what path I take, what path I pick alone because you are not here to decide with me, Lewis has offered to sell me his Rambler. He’s got some story about how an oilman can’t be seen riding around on the back of a cart, but I am not tempted for me. I am tempted for you. A driver and an automobile to give you freedom. And on Sundays after church, we’d drive up to the club for luncheon, and the lazy afternoon would be our own. We can tie a canoe to the Rambler and you can pretend to teach me how to paddle. This time, instead of along a lake lined with dense evergreen, it will be along the sea, in bays governed by tall outcroppings of rock and gentled by soft sands.

  Then one day, glaciers and fjords and even the Nile. We’ll explore them together, Alice, on our grand adventure. And this war, and this separation, will be a footnote.

  So it is decided. A Standard Oil man I will be. I am heartened to hear that you are trying to learn Spanish. Though English is the official language of the place, Spanish is unavoidable and you will be more comfortable if you can navigate with other languages. Not only for life in Iloilo, but for whatever the future holds.

  In the meantime, sweet Alice, be safe and happy and try to find joy even in our further delayed separation. There are things we cannot change. This war is one of them. We cannot, and will not, let it change us. I will remain steadfast in my devotion.

  Love,

  Elliott

  Eight

  Elliott

  April 1918

  My dearest Alice,

  A year at war and it feels like a lifetime. April 1918. I try not to think of the time that has been taken away from us, and rather, I focus on keeping my own head above water.

  The shop continues to tick along under the manager I’ve hired. Revenues and profits are down, but business is steady and having it open continues to serve the community. My own work for Standard Vacuum has me traveling around the countryside, and on Sundays and one day every other week, I am on part of the city patrol. It’s far from being enlisted, but I am doing my duty with pride. We keep watchful eyes so that if we see any signs of German activity, we will send for help to Ft. McKinley. Joseph is in charge of the civil patrol, as part of his duties. Or shall I call him Corporal Carlisle? The sneaky dog was indeed here to keep us safe from things far more dangerous than soft ground at the edge of a lawn.

  In the meantime, he has become engaged to our friend Penny Powell, the sugar heiress. The wedding will be bittersweet for me. I am happy for my friends and will be happy to celebrate with them, but I will be sad that it isn’t us they are celebrating. I will wear a happy smile at all times and raise my glass in toast to them. They need all the luck in the world.

  Sometime soon Joseph’s battalion is being sent to France. Whether to Penny or to this ceaseless, hungry war, either way I’m losing my last roommate and I have half a mind to give up the house by the sea. While the company will continue to pay for it, it seems a little too large without anyone else. I live in hope that the war will end, and that we will find ourselves together, and then we will enjoy lazy afternoons on the veranda, sketching and chatting and reading, with the song of the sea as the score. I hear it crash against the sea wall now. The tide is high. It is a new moon. The stars are so bright that even the glow from the city’s electric lights cannot diminish God’s glorious world.

  That you exist at all, and continue in your faithful correspondence, is yet another sign of God’s grace. Now, before I get overly sentimental, I will make a confession to you so that you know how truly cherished you are. Your photograph accompanies me to bed, dear Alice. I keep you tucked away between the pages of whatever book I am reading, so that I may pull you out for a few moments before I fall asleep. Presently I’m reading some book on oil production. It’s as dry as it seems, but I do recognize that I need to learn more deeply about my business venture, so that I can more greatly ensure our success.

  This war cannot last forever. It simply cannot. And when it ends, I will be by your side. We will spend a week in Seattle, becoming reacquainted, and then fix our course together for a lifetime of grand adventures.

  Yours,

  Elliott

  The next morning after a breakfast of bread and honey and tea, Elliott mails the letter at the post office. The letter should arrive in Seattle before Alice leaves on her summer vacation. Worst case, it will be waiting for her when she returns for the new school year. And the best case? That this damn war ends and he will join her on the shores of Lake Michigan this summer.

  On his way out the door, he checks his post box. No ships with mail have arrived since he last checked two days ago, but it is his habit to check. He turns his key in the tiny lock and opens the door to reveal a letter. The handwriting he knows as well as his own. Mr. Elliott Keller, Post Office Box 327, Iloilo, Philippine Islands. Postmark of January third. He turns the envelope over and sees her name on the back. A. Hirshhorn, Astoria Hotel, Seattle, Washington, United States. He curses the world at war.

  His need for her is so great that he walks to his house rather than going to his office. Whatever letters and telegrams await him there are not as important as these words from her that have been withheld from him. And written months ago? His heart tightens as the illusion of their proximity shimmers and breaks. They are so far apart, both in space and time. The thousands of miles he swore to bridge with his letters, but how many of those never made it to her? How many of her letters never made it to him? Cursing the world again, he shoves the letter in his jacket pocket and tromps home, his foul mood gathering.

  At the house, he asks for a glass of ice water from the houseboy and, with the cool glass in hand, retreats to his bedroom. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he slips his thumb under the seam and wiggles the contents free.

  Dear Elliott,

  This is the dozenth time I’ve begun this letter to you and I’m determined I won’t write it again. If there are mistakes, they are mine. All mistakes are mine. I said I would always write to you until you asked me to stop. You haven’t asked me to stop, but it is time that I stop writing.

  I’m engaged and will marry when the school term ends. There is no gentle or kind way to put that. I tried. Oh, Elliott, how I tried. The stack of ink-smeared and crumpled paper in my wastebasket attests to that.

  All I can say is this—I am sorry, Elliott. I wish there was something I could write that would explain this, that would make this make sense. There isn’t, though. I’ve tried for weeks and I can’t try any more.

  You are beyond dear to me. You are a dream that I never expected to live. Grace when I most needed it. I hope I was the same to you.

  The world moved on from those five days we had, now nearly three years ago. We have both moved on even as we have fought to stay put. If only the world were different. If only I were different.

  I’ve wrestled with myself for months, holding on to hope that the world would right itself and we’d find each other again. As much as a dreamer and adventurer I am, Elliott, I am also a pragmatist at heart. I was old when we met and I am older now. I know that I didn’t share my age and once I realized that I was two years older than you, I didn’t dare. I’m thirty. I said there is no good way to explain this and so I will stop trying—and failing—yet again. Please know that I want nothing for you but happiness and fulfillment. For you to see Europe. For you to build your bank or ascend to the top of Standard Oil.

  But for me, I know what I want. I want a family. And I am seizing this opportunity, as it may be my last. Frederick is a good man and he makes me happy.

  Do not feel like you have to write me in reply. If I never cross your mind again, I accept that. I will treasure our few days together and your letters as a dragon hoards gold—close to my heart, always on my mind, and buried beneath the surface as I carry on my life. Please, dear Elliott, please carry on with your life and know that I am

  Forever yours,

  Alice

  He doesn’t know how long he sits there, stupefied, before he opens his door and calls out
to his houseboy for gin, tonic, a fresh glass, and lots of ice. Elliott reaches for the box under his bed where he has stashed her letters, intending to destroy them in his rage and hurt. Yet before he can locate matches, the houseboy knocks and presents him with a tray heavy with his request. Elliott takes the tray from him, sets it on his desk, and makes quick work. The first drink is mostly gin, a splash of tonic to fight off malaria, he reasons. A smirk forms on his lips. He feels so crazed that he doesn’t need any more madness. He paces in his quiet room, the crashing waves accompanying the beat his feet strike on the wooden floor.

  Drawing the shutters against the sun, Elliott makes another gin and tonic. He reclines against the side of his bed, seated on the floor with his legs stretched before him and Alice’s letters scattered around him. Sixty-seven of them. And he reads them all again, looking for clues and finding none. His thoughts vacillate between saying to hell with the world and getting back to Seattle as quick as he can, and trying to force his heart to harden against her.

  He knows neither will happen.

  If he left today, there are no assurances that he’ll make it before her wedding. And if he does, what can he offer her that he hasn’t already offered? His heart, his fidelity, his work. They were all for her. They all belonged to her. Heat sears through him that even the cool of the drink can’t beat back. His knuckles whiten as he squeezes his glass. He flings it into the wall, the glass bursting into shards and the smell of gin wafting through the salt air. Shame now joins the anger and hurt.

  He stands and slips on his shoes. At the door to the house, he grabs his hat and he calls to the houseboy to clean up the mess in his room, and he begins an aimless walk along the edge of the sea.

  Nine

  Ali

  August

  I folded up the last letter and placed it back in its envelope. It was from May 1918 and while Elliott’s resignation at Alice’s decision to marry someone else and his tepid wishes that she have a happy life made me sad, it was his closing that broke me. He asked her to keep him advised of her address always, so that he could write her, that they didn’t know what the gods had in store for them.

  She’d broken up with him and he still sent his love and clung to hope. My thoughts swirled, loud and heartbroken.

  The war was nearing its end, wasn’t it? A quick Google search on my phone gives me the answer: November 11, 1918. He’d written her the month before and nothing seemed amiss in that letter. Surely after so long she could have held out for a few more months? But of course I guess they had no way of knowing when the war would end. And she was engaged to someone else? To my great-grandfather? For how long before she told Elliott? Does that count as cheating? Because it feels like cheating to me.

  And poor Elliott! All the way in the Philippines, working away to build a life for her, stuck there by family duty, and then by war? Loving her for so long and writing these heartfelt letters. To be loved like that! What was she thinking?

  The bottle of wine that I’d opened while reading the second letter was nearly empty. The frozen French bread pizza was down to a scattering of tough, tomato-sauced crust. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes, urging them to focus on something more than two feet in front of me. The clock on my microwave came into view.

  Eight o’clock. My dry eyes wandered to the wall of windows in the living area. I’d just blown six hours and my day off with piles of old letters. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat so still for so long with something that wasn’t medical.

  As I halfheartedly cleaned away my plate and wineglass, I shoved the cork back into the bottle. The idea of finishing the last glass crossed my mind, but I was exhausted. My mind was with Elliott. Who was this man? He loved her. Three years. And it wasn’t his damn fault there was a world war. Only a few months more and the war would have been over.

  In comparison, Scott and California now didn’t seem so far away. A phone call. A video chat. A direct flight. I texted him to say hey. After a few minutes of willing a trail of dots to appear in response—a sign of life—I was still staring at a static screen. Nothing.

  Maybe he was in surgery. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was sleeping. And as silly as it seemed, I knew that if Elliott had gotten Alice’s text, he would have texted back. If he’d been in surgery, he’d have texted to let her know he was going in and for how long. He was hungry for her. I looked back at the date of our last phone call exchange. Two days. I’d initiated it. I couldn’t remember when he last called me. Was he hungry for me?

  Before I let my heart sink too far in holding Scott in comparison to some love letters, I called one of my favorite people.

  “Hello,” my mom answered.

  “Mom,” I exhaled. “You’re home?”

  “Yes, we got in a few hours ago and we’re still unpacking. Your dad’s out with the dogs, letting them run off some steam after being kenneled for so long.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep them.” I apologized for the millionth time, wishing the dogs could have stayed with me.

  “Ali, sweetie, you couldn’t keep a goldfish from floating belly up right now. It will get better soon. I promise. It’s easier to board them anyway.”

  There were people who rolled their eyes at the thought of the crazy life of a two-doctor couple. Friends of mine had parents who not-so-subtly suggested they might want to take a different path in life once they’d met their doctor spouse, but my mom the pediatrician was not one of them. And neither was my dad the ophthalmologist. Add in my older brother Patrick the oncologist and my sister Jessica, who had smartly gone to physical therapy school and lived in Texas, and their spouses and children. We were one happy family held together by string, tape, and an army of paid help.

  “Grammie is looking forward to you being home,” I said.

  “I talked with her every day and also talked with her sitters. There was one time that she didn’t remember that I was in Texas and was upset that I’d missed some dinner forty years ago, but it sounds like she’s doing well. Her blood pressure was good and her weight remained pretty steady.”

  “Yeah, I’d say she’s good. I spent some time over there while you were gone. Sorted through some more stuff. Got some awesome vintage shoes, and other than random old Seattle talk, she was alert and oriented. Her heart worries me more than anything. I noticed some edema in her ankles, but otherwise she looked good. But dear God, Mom. When you start to fall apart, we’re just going to set a torch to the house, okay? Because I’m not doing it again.”

  “Is that why you sent me that Times article on Swedish death cleaning?”

  “You know it. I’m not doing it again. Did you know that I found the receipt from your tonsillectomy? She kept that.”

  “So now isn’t the time to tell you that I’ve got the busted piñata from your seventh birthday in the basement somewhere, but when I hold it, it fills me with joy, so I keep it?”

  “Death cleaning or torch. Take your pick, but I’m not doing this again.”

  “I’m kidding, sweetie. Death cleaning, here we come. But let’s get Grammie settled before we find the matches, okay?”

  “Deal. Also, if you want her sideboard and dining room table, you are more than welcome to them, but you’d better come fast. She fobbed them off on me and they are on the curb.”

  “Those are heirlooms,” my mom said, the joy falling from her voice.

  “Kidding, kidding. I’m sitting at the table now. The moving guys are probably posting my Ikea specials on Craigslist. It’s all at my place, but if you want it at yours, just say the word.”

  “Were we not just talking about death cleaning?”

  “Fine,” I said, my gaze settling on the imposing sideboard, and thoughts of Elliott’s tucked-away letters filled my heart, causing it to ache. “Was Alice happy?”

  “Alice? My grandmother? Happy?” The words were out of her mouth in an array of confusion.

  “Yes, Alice, was she happy? With Great-Grandpa Frederick,” I said.

  �
��Fred,” she supplied. “He went by Fred. She seemed happy to me. Why do you ask?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about the letters I’d read. I wasn’t sure Mom knew and I didn’t want to ruin any visions she had of her grandparents. My mind spun for an excuse, but the wine kept me from finding anything that made sense. I forced the truth out. “Because helping Grammie clean out stuff, I found a bunch of her love letters.”

  “From Fred?”

  “No, that’s the thing. It’s some guy named Elliott who lived in the Philippines.”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “We found this box of love letters to Alice from this guy she met before she got married. It’s years, Mom. Years of him being in the Philippines for work and her being in Seattle teaching school. You’ve got to read them.”

  “You’re serious about this? I mean, I knew there was some old boyfriend she carried a torch for because Grandpa, your great-grandpa, would tease her from time to time about someone else and she’d laugh and kiss him in response.”

  “Do you think she was happy with Fred?”

  “I remember her being really easy with laughter and I remember sitting on her back porch in Seattle and shelling peas with her when I was little. I loved her a lot.”

  “Um, hi, you named your daughter after her,” I teased. “So I gathered that much.”

  “And she was a beautiful painter. Very talented. That platter with the holly and ivy on it that I use at the holidays? She painted that.”