St. Patrick's Bed (Ashland, 3)

by Terence M. Green

  It was true. It was profound. She was a genius.

  Her finger called me twice more, like underwater sea grass, undulating.

  I think I salivated and panted. In fact, I'm sure I did.

  Then there was the time—earlier that summer—that she told me that she was a logistical genius—as well as a sexual one, of course.

  "I didn't know you knew the word 'logistical,' " I said.

  "I know a lot of words, smart guy."

  I nodded. "If I turn off the lights, will you whisper some of them in my ear?"

  "That's part of my sexual genius. This is different."

  I waited. "You have my full attention."

  "Adam's car ran out of gas this morning on his way to work."

  Adam had a 1990 Toyota Tercel. It functioned for him much the way my 1960 Chev Impala had for me at his age.

  "He had to leave it on Logan, near Gerrard. He phoned and told me about it after he finally got to work— late—said he couldn't get away from the store. Asked me if I'd do him a favor—take my car and get some gas, put it in his car, because he didn't have a gas can and it was too far to carry it even if he did have one."

  I was trying hard to follow.

  "So I did. Got his spare keys from his room, got a can of gas from the corner. They made me leave a twenty-dollar deposit on the damn thing. Poured the gas into his car, then got to thinking."

  I frowned.

  She smiled slyly.

  "This is where the genius part comes in." I folded my hands.

  "Pure genius," she said.

  "I'm hanging on your every word."

  "So I started thinking," she said, "about how pleased and surprised he'd be if I could get his car to him so that he'd have it right after work. Have it sitting there in the parking lot behind the store."

  "The perfect mother."

  "And wife."

  "And wife. Of course."

  "But I had my own car with me."

  I listened. Smiled. Patient. No idea where this was going.

  "I couldn't drive two cars at the same time."

  "Can't see how," I said.

  "And I didn't want to leave my own car there."

  I sat back then, bemused, crossed my arms.

  "So I drove my car for two blocks, got out, locked it, went back to Adam's, drove it two blocks ahead of mine, got out, locked it, walked back to my car, drove it two blocks ahead of Adam's . . ."

  "You didn't."

  "I did."

  I laughed.

  She beamed. "Took me half an hour."

  "All the way to The Book Cellar."

  "That's right. Put it in the lot behind the store. Went in and told Adam. He told everyone in the store that his mother was a logistical genius."

  "That's where you heard it."

  "From my very own son. One genius begets another."

  "I'm the luckiest guy in town. Surrounded by geniuses." I raised my arms expansively.

  "I know another big word too." She leaned over me, whispered it in my ear.

  She had my full attention again. I was indeed low maintenance. She was incredible.

  The leapfrogging car story was a good example of how she'd do anything for her son.

  He was my son too.

  The Bobby Swiss thing was something we were having trouble with, though. Lots of trouble. Jeanne was like I had been originally—hoping it would all go away by itself, afraid to mention it.

  And although we didn't talk about it much, we thought about it a lot. I could see it in her eyes—something new, mixed with something old. There were moments of silence when I'd glance at her. We both knew.

  The more I thought about it—doing dishes in the evening, in the shower in the morning—a strange plan was beginning to form in my head. And unlike Jeanne, I was no genius, so maybe my idea was crazy.

  Images and people collided: my father. Jeanne. Adam. Bobby Swiss.

  Dayton, Ohio.

  II

  TV families can confuse us. They show kids talking with their parents candidly, discussing problems, relationships, everyone learning valuable life lessons.

  It wasn't like that with my parents. My brother and I told them only what they wanted to hear. It took a monumental incident to break down those barriers, to open up with honesty, seek true advice, to pay attention.

  In reverse, Mom was better at it than Dad. She liked to talk, to tell us stories of the past. I learned things from her that he would never even allude to. She'd tell us about her mother, her father, her brother, Jack, who disappeared down into the States back in the thirties, the places they lived, family secrets. Details. It was wonderful. Always stories. I couldn't get enough.

  "You're special," she'd tell me.

  I wanted to be special. I wanted her to tell me why. Often, in the kitchen at Maxwell Avenue, barely old enough to tie my own shoes, I'd coax the same story out of her.

  "You've got the Radey blood flowing in your veins. My father told me how the Radeys see things others don't, how they're special."

  "Are you special?" I'd ask.

  "I must be," she'd say. "I'm a Radey."

  "Is Dennis special?"

  "Yes."

  "Is everyone in the family special?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Why are we special?"

  The pause. The dreamy look. "My father told me that Great-Grampa Radey, who came over from Ireland, had the gift. He said that he could see the past and the future together sometimes."

  I loved the dreamy look. It made me feel warm, safe. "Did he see me then?"

  She'd meet my eye. "Yes," she'd say. "He saw you. It made him happy."

  "Do you see the past and the future together?"

  "Not yet," she'd say. "But I will, someday."

  I'd wait. I could feel her trying to see it.

  "We all will. Someday."

  It was in ways like this that her life became an open book, and as I got older, when I became an adult, I saw many of her tales differently, saw how much more she deserved out of life than she ever got.

  Dad was a different case. He was tougher. The armor slipped occasionally—like that day his mother was buried. I remember another rare glimpse. I'd seen a name and dates on one of the two family tombstones in Mount Hope—one of many carved there. But this one I didn't recognize.

  ANNIE BERTHA NOLAN

  BORN JULY 11,1909—DIED NOVEMBER 29,1909

  I had taken him to the cemetery for a visit. He had asked me to drive him—the kind of day that I usually put off until I ran out of excuses. Standing beside him, I read the inscription. "Who is that?"

  "My baby sister."

  I knew nothing of this.

  "She died when she was four months old." A beat. Another. "It was three days before my fifth birthday."

  I turned, watched him stare at the marble monument, his gaze fixed.

  "I remember going into my mother's bedroom, seeing her sitting in a chair with the baby in a blanket on her lap. 'She's dead, Tommy,' she said to me."

  He stopped suddenly. Neither of us said anything. A few seconds later, we shuffled our feet in the grass, dug our hands deeper into our pockets.

  The moment passed. It was like our brief talk about Bampi. He never spoke of it again. And I never asked. I never heard the story from anyone else in the family.

  My cousin, Jacquie, though, did tell me a similar story. It came from her mother, Berna—my father's sister. Jacquie said that her mother told her about a stillborn baby in 1917—eight years after Annie Bertha—whom they kept in a shoebox on the mantle until it was time for burial. This was in the old family house at 222 Berkeley Street, before everyone moved to Maxwell Avenue.

  Both these stories came to me after Dad's mother— my grandmother—Nanny, had died. They were details that made me revise how I saw her. Everything we learn helps us revise how we see people.

  Fathers and sons.

  Like my father and me, Adam and I were mostly quiet around each other too.

  When
I drove him to the Bloor subway line in the morning during school term, we'd talk. A bit. Pretty superficial stuff. Morning's tough to get conversation rolling at the best of times.

  He was twenty-one. Just as I had been with my father, there wasn't much he was going to tell me. But it was more complicated than that.

  I wasn't his father. Bobby Swiss was.

  III

  Adam showed me how to get onto the Internet. The door to his room was open when I passed by and I stopped, stared in. He was at his desk, the computer screen glowing in front of him.

  He turned, smiled.

  "What's up, sport?"

  "Browsing."

  I leaned against the doorjamb. "Surfing?" I was showing off. I knew the term.

  "C'mere. I'll show you. I'm downloading an article off the Web."

  The Web. Magic words to me. Information out of nowhere.

  "It's on Madagascar," he said. "Amazing place. Fourth largest island in the world. A micro-continent. It broke off from Africa 125 million years ago and drifted into the Indian Ocean. The people of Madagascar are called the Malagasy."

  "This is what you're doing?" My smile mocked him good-naturedly. "When you could be watching TV?"

  "Right."

  "Where did this all come from?"

  "We studied it in anthropology last year."

  I'd lost track. "I didn't even know you took anthropology."

  "It was one of my options. They make you take options. Try to broaden you."

  "Must be awful."

  "Terrible." He smiled. "But every now and then some stuff sticks." He looked at me. "Don't tell any of my friends I was doing this on my summer vacation. It wouldn't look good."

  "Course not." I frowned. "What would people think?"

  "Exactly." He sat back. "What would you like me to find for you, Leo? I'll show you how to use it."

  I didn't know. I had to think.

  We played around for quite a while before I got rolling, and then I typed in "1960 Chevrolet Impala," my first car, just to see.

  "1960 Chev," Adam said. "Jeez. Talk about anthropology. This is a dig. This is archaeology."

  The search engine produced a list of them. We visited several sites. Some had them for sale, others listed specs, etc. Fascinating. I saw myself behind the wheel. I saw myself a kid again.

  The past: 125 million years or thirty-five years. Bits of it could be retrieved, examined. Once again, I envied Adam his chance at an education—something I had missed.

  I saw myself driving that Chev, through Detroit, through Toledo, through Ohio, to Dayton.

  Dad's old room needed painting. When Jeanne and I rolled up the rug in there, I saw her pick something up, turn it over, examine it. "What's this?"

  It was a tiny wire brush, about three inches long, white bristles at each end. It was bent, twisted. I knew what it was.

  "It's used to clean an electric razor."

  Jeanne didn't say anything. She handed it to me.

  I was kneeling on the floor. I sat back on my heels, held it.

  The next morning, the red garnet ring had moved from the ashtray to the dresser. The razor brush was gone.

  He was in the room. He was under the rug. In the tackle box behind the furnace.

  I didn't know where he was.

  But I knew what I had to do. I couldn't escape it. I knew what I had to do.

  IV

  That year I started my four weeks vacation the last week of July. Jeanne's three weeks wouldn't begin until the first of August. When I told her that I was going to Dayton by myself, she looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "What are you talking about?"

  "Three days," I said. "I'll drive. I think I can do it in three days—there and back."

  She didn't say anything.

  "Maybe four. I'll be back before your holidays."

  She shook her head slowly, uncomprehending. Her eyes clouded.

  "Four hundred miles or so. I'm guessing."

  We were in the kitchen. She sat down, finally stared at me. "What's going on in your head?"

  I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to explain it.

  "I have to," I said.

  She waited.

  "By myself."

  She lowered her head, pressed her brow with the palm of her left hand. Slowly, she nodded.

  "I've been having dreams," I said.

  "I know."

  It was my turn to nod. Of course she knew. Then: "I'd like to see Bobby Swiss."

  "Oh, Leo."

  "Before Adam does."

  She looked sad.

  "I don't want Adam to get hurt," I said.

  "He's twenty-one. He's a big boy."

  She was right. "This is for me."

  Her eyes deepened. "It was more than twenty years ago, Leo. A lifetime. What are you thinking?"

  "It's not that." I shook my head. "It's the dreams." Impossible to explain, I thought.

  But Jeanne waited, patient.

  "I need to be alone."

  The silence expanded. Floating between us, I saw the chipped lamp, the ring, the electric razor. A young man in a Dublin pub. The Greyhound Bus Station in Dayton.

  "Alone with my father," I said.

  She sat back, looked at me.

  "And Adam's."

  "This doesn't make any sense."

  "I know."

  She folded her hands in her lap. "Are you okay, Leo?" The Kentucky drawl that I loved. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "I don't think so. I don't know what to tell you. I just have to chase this. It won't go away."

  "We're still okay? You and me?"

  "We're wonderful."

  She smiled.

  I wondered how to say it. I wondered how to tell her that the past had moved inside me, that I had to take it back where it belonged.

  "To Dayton?"

  I nodded. "To Dayton."

  That was Saturday. I told Adam that I had to go to Cincinnati to see Uncle George, Aunt Amanda's husband, that he needed financial help with his business.

  I left Monday morning.

  PART TWO

  The Music

  The ancestors come into our homes like guests who need no invitation.

  —Saying of the Malagasy of Madagascar

  EIGHT

  I

  Dixie. The name conjures up magnolia blossoms, the Deep South. Yet Toronto has a Dixie too—or did have. Just northwest of the city, in what is now suburban sprawl, the village of Dixie sprang up in the early 1800s at the crossroads of Cawthra and Dundas. It wasn't called Dixie immediately. It had to gestate through Fountain Hill, Sydenham, Oniontown, until a local doctor, Beaumont Dixie, donated land for a chapel. Buffalo Bill Cody himself, of Wild West fame, was baptized in that very Dixie Union Chapel. The chapel is still there, but the village is gone, buried beneath strip malls and six lanes of traffic.

  In the back of a drawer at home, I have an old receipt, for cemetery plot number 620, in Peace Mount Cemetery, Dixie, Ontario, dated February 21, 1926. It's for the sum of twenty-five dollars, received from Martin Radey.

  Martin Radey was my mother's father, my maternal grandfather. He died in 1950. He and his first wife, Maggie, who died in January of 1926, are buried there.

  Besides her children, my mother, who died in 1984, has no more living relatives. Her brother, Jack, disappeared back in the thirties. A few summers ago, for the first time, my brother Dennis and I visited plot 620, out of curiosity. There was no monument, no marker of any kind, just a shallow impression in the earth between two other stones. Except for us, no one knows—or cares—that they're there.

  On the 401, heading southwest out of Toronto, I passed Dixie Road. It came back to me: my brother and I standing there on the grass, the August sun beating down on us, staring downward, puzzled that no one had ever mentioned that there was no stone, no indicator of any kind.

  But they are there. My grandparents. In an unmarked grave. I could feel them as I drove by, off to my right, slightly to the north.


  I was going south. Into the past.

  Shortly before Windsor, still on the Canadian side, I stopped and had the number six McNuggets Meal at a McDonald's.

  The signs said "Bridge to USA—left," and "Tunnel to USA—right." I went left—up and over. The high road. On the bridge, cars crawling, the afternoon sun was a white- hot light on the Detroit River below.

  Traffic stopped. I hung there, suspended, in my 1993 Honda Civic coupe. I pretended I was in my 1960 Chev. The road beneath me vibrated, throbbed, wiggled.

  Route 75 South, from Detroit to Toledo: smokestacks, steam, factories. Refinery vats on the right, the Ford plant on the left. Hydro towers marching along beside me for miles, sentinels, four arms spread.

  Bob Evans, Super 8. A steady stream of eighteen-wheelers.

  Factories gave way to farmland. Flat, nothing. I pulled the visor down to shade my eyes.

  Near Monroe, there was a sign that said "Dixie Highway." The past was still with me, everywhere.

  Coffee at a Speedway Service Center in Monroe. The place was full of smoke. I dawdled, looked for maps, but they were all out.

  "Ohio Welcomes You to the Heart of It All." The road, which had hummed and clicked evenly from Detroit, smoothed, silent. I was somewhere else, somewhere new. This was different.

  Toledo hovered, a barrier to Ohio.

  I saw the first sign for Dayton as I circumvented the city, then a dozen more ("75 South—Dayton") leading me around it, steering me past false exits, distractions, pulling me south. At the tip of Toledo, the three lanes became two, the road simpler. I was being funneled, drawn down purposefully, toward Dayton.

  A new sign told me it was 135 miles.

  A string of geese: a V on the horizon. The bumper sticker ahead: "Pray Hard and Live."

  The sun fading on my right-hand side.

  Exit 181: Bowling Green and Bowling Green State University. I didn't want to drive in the dark. I wanted to see everything.