The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

by Suzanne Jenkins

  After dinner, she walked around the block to the coffee shop. A tall, attractive young woman was waiting there for her, and Esme recognized her right away. April went to her, and she grasped her hands, seemingly unable to speak. Esme didn’t know what she expected, but the beautiful, professionally dressed April Freeman was not it. She was younger than Esme thought; they might be the same age. Maria was almost sixty-three when she died. Secondly, they looked alike. Anyone would say they were related, even sisters. They had the same small mouth and almond eyes. Their noses were the feature they liked least, small but slightly beaked. Maria used to say to John, “Where did that nose come from?”

  “Oh my God, now I know where I got my nose,” Esme said, refusing to succumb to tears. She was grateful April didn’t hug her; that would have pushed her over the emotional edge.

  “We are definitely related,” April said. “You look every bit Ojibwe.”

  Not sure what April was referring to, Esme asked her to clarify what she meant.

  “From the Ojibwe tribe,” April said, smiling. “We’re Ojibwe.”

  Trying to take what she’d just revealed in, Esme wished Maria was alive to hear it. “We look so much alike, it’s a little scary. I guess I must be more Indian than I thought,” Esme said.

  “Well, I’m Greek, too,” April said.

  Esme sat back in her chair with her mouth open. “How many Greek/Native American families are there in Saugatuck?” she asked, shocked.

  “Just one.” April laughed. “We are Greek/Ojibwa. Anyway, Freeman is my married name. My husband is Ojibwa. My father’s last name is Hetris.”

  “He’s my mother’s father, too?” Esme wasn’t aware that she’d started shaking. Could her grandfather be alive? He was her grandfather, although she’d called Maria’s father, Gus Patos, papou, Greek for grandfather.

  April nodded her head. “And he wants to meet you. Everyone does.” She got up to order from the counter. “Decaf?”

  But Esme was still at “he wants to meet you,” unprepared for this news.

  April brought back two paper cups of hot coffee and went back a second time for a plate of sugared pastries. “I’m sorry, can’t resist. They bake these every day.”

  “How many others are there?” Esme asked.

  April reached across the table and grasped her hand again. “It’ll be okay; you’ll see. You don’t need to be frightened. There are six kids and our mother and father.”

  Esme couldn’t believe her ears. “Your mother is still alive too?” Shocked, unable to keep the tone out of her voice, Esme fought to remain in control. Maria’s mother was alive all along; she’d outlived her daughter. Maria didn’t know her birth mother was still alive, the saddest thing of all.

  “She was only thirteen when your mother was born. She’s a young seventy-six. They aren’t married, you know. Just so you won’t be shocked. It’s really pretty scandalous around here.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Esme said. “My mother only knew what you told her. That she was adopted and had six brothers and sisters who wanted to meet her. Why didn’t you tell her that her mother was alive? That could have been the game changer.”

  Not meaning to challenge the stranger, Esme could feel something building in her, some powerful emotion that she couldn’t pinpoint, either anger or extreme sadness or a renewed grief. She took a deep breath. She certainly didn’t want to direct any negative emotion toward April.

  “We never got that far in our conversation. I knew it would upset her to hear the news. We always knew about your mother. Our parents made sure she was part of our lives. But we had to wait for her adoptive parents to die before we could approach her,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “It was part of the deal that was made when she was born and the Patos family adopted her. When Gus died last year, we were finally able to come forward.”

  “You’ll have to forgive me. I feel irrational right now. My mother’s only been dead a few months, so maybe that has something to do with it.” Esme willed the tears to stay behind her eyes, but one snuck out and tried to roll down her cheek before she caught it with a paper napkin.

  “Oh, I am sorry. It must be awful. We feel terrible about everything; believe me,” April said. “My mother is heartbroken. It is so unfair that they couldn’t meet before Maria died. She wants you to come to see her tomorrow if you can. I have court, so I won’t be able to come with you, and my sister and brothers all work during the day, too.”

  Esme sensed April’s regret and her compassion, but she would never know what it was like to lose her mother and then find out later that not only were her mother’s birth brothers and sisters looking for her, but her birth mother and father as well. Wanting to leave the coffee shop to either run back to White Plains or to get into bed and pull the covers over her head, she decided to stick it out with April and let her guard down as much as she was able.

  “It’s so sad. Her birth mother, alive! I had no idea, or I would have insisted that she talk to her at the very least.”

  Would she have? Or was this wishful thinking? Maria could be as narrow-minded as her husband and the rest of the family. They all thought the same way. Moreover, talking about painful topics was at the top of the list of things to avoid. It could be stifling. And to discover her mother was half Ojibwa Indian? Esme gave out a laugh and then had to explain.

  “I’m thinking of what this news will mean to the rest of my family. I’m a quarter Ojibwa. Not one hundred percent Greek. It will mean something to them, trust me.

  “I think I just had a breakthrough. Maybe this is how I should be thinking, not how this news would’ve affected my mother, which means nothing now, or what the family back East will think. I should only care how it affects me. It’s what my mother would have wanted.”

  “Wow!” April exclaimed. “If you’re able to do that, it would be wonderful.”

  Esme wasn’t sure she’d be able to accomplish it, but recognizing this experience boiled down to her alone took some of the pressure off.

  Coffee finished, they made the move to get up. “I’m not really ready to call it a night. There’s so much I want to ask you about your mother. Are you up for it?” April asked.

  “What do you have in mind?” Esme glanced around as they left the coffee shop. “It doesn’t look like much is open.”

  April had a sheepish look on her face. “I was thinking we could walk to my dad’s studio. He lives just a few blocks that way,” she said, pointing toward the river. “Right above the bait shop. He’s not home, but I’d like you to see his place.”

  Esme was ready to retort no way, but since he wasn’t home, she’d go. Emotionally raw and not at her best, she wanted to have her wits about her when she met her grandparents.

  “Well, all right. Will he mind if we go in while he’s gone?” Esme asked, wondering why he wasn’t living with April’s mother.

  April shook her head. “He’s visiting my mother like he does every evening.” Having answered Esme’s unanswered question, they started walking down the street toward the river.

  “Shall I tell you a little about them?” April asked, forgetting she wanted to ask about Maria.

  Esme nodded.

  “I’ve already told you they aren’t married.”

  Esme didn’t react negatively to the news because it didn’t mean anything to her. She’d been past judging people for their matrimonial status since she was fifteen.

  “I know, some would say ‘immoral.’ They are devoted to each other, and that’s all they need. They’ve been in a relationship since they were teenagers. My dad was married to another woman, a Greek woman, and then she got tired of his lingering feelings for my mother and divorced him years ago. Afterward, he and my mother got back together. He says he wasn’t unfaithful to his wife with my mom. Not physically anyway. I don’t think they even spoke to each other.”

  Esme was trying to take it all in. She wasn’t feeling much except her dead mother was missing all of this; it was the same,
depressing feeling she’d been stifling all along trying to rear its ugly head again.

  “Here’s my dad’s place,” April said as they came to a string of storefronts along the river: a deli, a charter boat tour office, and the bait shop. A wooden stairway along the north side led to an apartment occupied by Mike Hetris. Esme followed April up the stairs and waited as she unlocked the door. April stepped aside so Esme could pass by.

  Not expecting what she saw in front of her—a loft-like space with a ceiling vaulted to the river-facing side of the apartment, with a huge window overlooking the Kalamazoo as it wound its way to Lake Michigan—Esme gasped. Dead ahead was majestic Mount Baldhead, or Mount Baldy as it was affectionately called; the tallest point around at six hundred feet, it’s staircase to the top was well-lit in the darkness of the pine forest that grew on the giant sand dune.

  “We’ll come back in daylight sometime. My dad has the best view in town,” April said.

  Esme turned around, and that’s when she saw the paintings. There was an easel with a large canvas near the window, covered with a paint-stained white sheet.

  April was turning on lights directed upon the many beautiful landscapes hung on the walls. She smiled at Esme. “Your grandfather’s an artist.”

  Esme walked to the painting closest to the window, a landscape of what she surmised were the dunes leading to the lake. It was lovely; the sun must have been just overhead when he captured the light, the entire scene bathed in gold. “This is really beautiful.” She walked to the next, a larger canvas depicting the vast blue of Lake Michigan, with a beach in the forefront.

  “That’s Oval Beach. We’ll get over there one of these days. It’s pretty wonderful when the tourists have left.”

  The next canvas was a work in progress, something which didn’t seem to fit in with the theme of local landscapes, a gigantic, stylized tree surrounded by penciled-in wildlife. She tried to get up closer to see what they were, but it was too dark in that area of the studio.

  Esme stifled a yawn, but April caught it. “You must be exhausted. I forgot you traveled all day,” she said. “Come. Let’s get you back to your room.”

  She walked toward the door, and Esme followed her. The idea that she would come here again, maybe become a frequent visitor, simmered on the periphery of her mind. Everything was happening so fast, not at all what she’d imagined. What did I imagine?

  “Oh, I talked the whole time and never gave you a chance to talk about your mother,” April said, embarrassed.

  Esme smiled, but didn’t respond, not ready to share her mother with strangers yet anyway.

  “Get a good night’s sleep, and in the morning come back to the bait shop and ask for Wiley. He’ll take you to my mother’s in his boat. It’s about a fifteen-minute ride. Dress in layers. The river is cold and windy in the fall. One of these days, I’ll show you how to hike in. And my mother heats with wood, so her place is usually chilly.”

  She could’ve been speaking a foreign language. Do people still live in wood-heated cabins so deep in the woods that you have to hike in? Or take a boat? It’s your grandmother. Esme took another deep breath in an attempt to ward off an anxiety attack. You can do this!

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, after a short but deep sleep, Esme woke up to the sound of someone gently tapping on her door. She opened it a crack and discovered a tray on a cart. It held her breakfast: orange juice, muffins, fruit salad and a carafe of coffee. She carried the tray in and placed it on the table in front of the window with the awesome view overlooking the street and river. It would work as her desk, breakfast nook, meditation corner and contemplative altar.

  The night before, after they’d left Mike Hetris’s studio, April walked her to the Green Leaf Inn. Neither woman spoke, perhaps a consequence of the intense evening. What was left to say?

  April hugged Esme goodnight. “You’ll see; everything has a way of working out. The visit with my mother tomorrow should answer a lot of your questions; help you make the next move.”

  Now, Esme wondered what was in store for her as she bundled up; Indian summer had made a hasty exit in the night. It was forty degrees and cloudy as she walked toward the bait shop after breakfast.

  The lights were on in the bait shop although it seemed unlikely that anyone was going to fish in this weather. However, a large bulletin board with what looked like orders for bait pinned all over hung on the wall, while the phone rang constantly. A pretty young woman answered the phone, “Hello, Katherine speaking,” repeating phrases like minnows and night crawlers, and of all things, insect larvae. She wrote up a bill, pinning it to the bulletin board, yelling, “Hey, Pete, Angler’s Club has a group coming in at noon!”

  “Can I help you?” Katherine asked, smiling.

  “I’m supposed to ask for Wiley,” Esme answered.

  The young woman opened a door leading to a back area and screamed, “Wiley!” at the top of her lungs. The phone rang again, and she answered, writing down something and then yelling, “Hey, Pete, Goober’s got a group at two.”

  Soon, Wiley himself appeared, and after Esme pulled up her jaw, she tried not to stare. Wiley, whoever he was, was a knockout. Drop-dead gorgeous, movie-star handsome.

  “Help you?” he asked, looking at Esme’s long cashmere coat and city boots.

  “April Freeman said I could get a ride to Ravenna Morton’s cabin.”

  “You get there by boat, you know that, right?” he asked softly.

  “Right,” she said, not prepared to apologize for her clothes.

  “We’ll leave in just a bit, okay? Have a seat over there.” He pointed to a bank of empty chairs lined up along the window overlooking the street. In the summer, the chairs would be packed with fishermen waiting for their bait orders. They’d buy their little cottage cheese containers of sawdust and crickets and walk with their poles to the public dock and fish until dusk. In the cold weather, the customers would be commercial fishermen and big charter boats. After Labor Day, locals would stop by in the morning for coffee on their way to the grocery store to buy bread. Any news or gossip picked up at the bait shop, they’d carry home to tell the wife.

  A few minutes later, Wiley Hoffman returned, wearing a wool plaid coat, knit cap, scarf, heavy leather gloves, and holding a folded, plaid blanket. He looked Esme up and down again, concerned.

  “You’ve got gloves? It gets cold out there.”

  She nodded and pulled them out of her pockets, along with a heavy wool scarf.

  “Okay, well, let’s go, then. Follow me.”

  She did as he asked, following Wiley to the dock. He stopped at a skiff with a small outboard motor. Esme hesitated.

  “It’ll get us there,” he said. He hopped down into the boat and pulled a step stool over for her. Holding out his hand for hers, she took it and got down without falling. He pointed to a bench across the bow. “Have a seat.”

  She sat down with her back to him, grateful for the cushion he’d provided.

  “If you get cold, just cover up with this.” He handed her the plaid blanket.

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, here we go.” He pulled the starter cord, and the motor responded right away. A little spray showered down upon her as he angled the boat away from the dock. He sat in back, steering with the motor. She held onto the sides as he picked up a little speed, the front slapping the surface of the water. “It’s a little choppy today,” Wiley said. “We’ll take our time unless you’re in a hurry.”

  She had a choice, either a comfortable, longer ride, or be bounced against the bench and make better time. She opted for comfort.

  The ride through the Saugatuck harbor was beautiful. Few boats were still in the water, the marinas busy hauling out and prepping for winter. Restaurants had discontinued outdoor seating weeks before, the season over. Esme saw evidence of fall decoration: mums in terracotta pots, large decorative kale, early pumpkins, and a necessity, Indian corn. She wondered about the usage of the word Indian. Was it
disrespectful? She supposed she would soon find out. Things which had previously held no interest to her were now of huge importance. Who am I? How on earth do I fit into this milieu?

  Wiley navigated the skiff under the old swing bridge, now the Blue Star Bridge. There wasn’t much activity on the shore, but Esme loved the idea of living near the water, a commodity only the very wealthy could have where she came from. “Are these homes expensive?” She turned to look at Wiley.

  “Some are, some not so bad.”

  They continued under the highway bridge and on to more uninhabited shoreline, marshland and swamp intermingling along the way. They’d been out on the water for about fifteen minutes when Wiley announced they were almost there. “Not sure how close I’ll be able to get. The water line’s low due to the drought. Sit tight, and I’ll see if I can pull ’er in.”

  “This is it?” Esme perked up, anxious, looking into the trees to see if she could see any cottages, but the foliage was too thick.

  “Not quite. I’ll pull up over there, and we can hike in the rest of the way,” he said, pointing to a rickety-looking structure standing in the water but close to dryer ground.

  She could see that her boots were going to get ruined, but it suddenly meant nothing to her. They were stupid, purchased when she was feeling sad and lonely shortly after her mother was diagnosed and Ben broke up with her. The boots would be put to good use. It occurred to her that Wiley didn’t need to go any further than the boat went.

  “Thank you for going with me. I have no idea where we are,” she said.

  “No problem. We are almost to Mac’s Landing.”

  It didn’t mean anything to her, yet. He slowed down, going deeper into the marsh. A large blue heron startled and flew off, stirring deep emotions in Esme. She’d never been so close to such a beautiful creature.

  “She probably has fledglings nearby,” Wiley explained.