The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Hello?” Nick said, answering on the first ring.

  “It’s John, Nick. I’m ready to list the house.”

  ***

  After Regina dropped Esme off at the inn, she left Saugatuck for the short drive to Douglas. Gloria was home, and they were going to actually eat a meal together, the first in days. She pulled into the garage under their condominium and shut the car off before she closed the automatic doors, paranoia about carbon monoxide taking over. She pulled her briefcase out of the backseat and went through the laundry room to the kitchen.

  Gloria had the menus to local carry-out restaurants sitting on the counter, and Regina put her briefcase down and grabbed the pile. The dining room table sat in the window overlooking the common swimming pool area, and although it was lit up, the pool was covered and the chairs and tables were stacked up and covered with tarps. Regina hated the view, complaining to the tenant association that they needed to put the stuff into storage. She didn’t need the reminder every time she looked out that winter was approaching.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” Gloria said, bending down to kiss Regina on the cheek.

  “It might be time for us to put this place up for sale,” Regina said, opening the first menu.

  Gloria walked over to the bay windows and pulled the blinds down.

  Regina looked up and started to laugh. “Thanks. We might as well keep them closed until April.”

  “Did you have a bad afternoon?” Gloria asked, sitting down across from her.

  Regina put the menu down and looked at her. “I’m not sure what happened. I went to my mother’s, and the girl from White Plains was there. My older sister’s kid,” she said. “My mother had that goddamned eagle skeleton out, and that pushed the wrong buttons, I guess. It was downhill from there on. Then, I’m told that both the girl and her mother were in the booth at the show in White Plains, met me and bought Ravenna’s baskets. I grabbed a beer as fast as I could to try to block it out.”

  Gloria rubbed her shoulders as she talked.

  “The worst part of it was seeing Ravenna looking so downtrodden. It was depressing. I felt like I’d walked in on something, that they were in the middle of an intimacy I had no part of. I wasn’t there ten minutes when the girl said she’d better be getting back to the inn,” Regina said. “I offered to drive her home, and she barely said a word.”

  “What’s her name?” Gloria asked.

  Regina looked at her, frowning. “Why?”

  “You’ve been calling her ‘the girl,’ and I just wondered what her name was,” Gloria answered.

  Regina pushed back from the table. “Esmeralda. She’s called Esme,” she said, barely hiding a sneer.

  “Why the derision?” Gloria asked, trying not to sound judgmental, but failing. “This is not like you, Gina.”

  “I think it’s just like me. Maria has been the source of my mother’s discontent since I can remember. I was just a kid when she first told me the gruesome story, conveniently leaving out any mention of my father.”

  Gloria didn’t say anything but got up to make tea. It was a weak offering but a safe one. Regina had all her ducks lined up in a row to return to becoming a full-blown alcoholic, and Gloria was going to make sure it didn’t happen on her watch.

  ***

  After work that evening, April and Ted Freeman met in Grand Rapids at the Costco store for their weekly date. They hated going out to socialize, didn’t drink, and had few friends outside of her family. Going to Costco was one of the rare things they did as a couple. April pushed the cart and Ted followed her around the vast warehouse, fighting the urge to put unnecessary but compelling items into their basket.

  “Are you going to bake cookies for Christmas?” he asked.

  They hovered over a display of bags of nuts and dried fruits, debating the value of buying two-pound bags of anything. Common sense lost out to obsession, and the next day she’d be hauling a hundred dollars’ worth of baking supplies to her mother’s cabin. They walked slowly past the vitamin aisle and stocked up with a year’s supply of homeopathic remedies. Next was the snack aisle, and they were shocked later that evening that two nutrition-conscious people would actually buy that many fried chip items.

  “Look, we don’t spend money on movies or dinners out,” Ted rationalized.

  April started to laugh, and then got serious. “Are we filling empty areas of our life with merchandise from Costco?” she said, holding a gallon jug of olive oil.

  “Yes, but too bad,” he said. “If you don’t enjoy going in there anymore, just say so. You didn’t think of work or your family once for the last two hours, did you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Three hundred dollars later and we still don’t have anything to eat. What do you want for dinner?” Ted opened the refrigerator, peering to see if its contents had changed from the minute before.

  “I don’t know,” April said. “Just boil some pasta.” She went into her office and clicked on the computer. There was an email from her sister’s partner, Gloria.

  Regina is upset about the relationship that might be developing between your mother and the new girl in town. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up.

  April sat back in her chair. “Oh, lord,” she said.

  Her siblings suffered from a conglomeration of childhood developmental disorders ranging from drug addiction to adult attention deficit disorder. She realized that although every family said they were dysfunctional; hers really was. Gloria’s use of the word upset could mean a variety of things, from she’s drinking again, to we’re splitting up. Worrying about her sibling’s well-being succeeded in keeping her from having her own family.

  Ted nailed it on the head. “We’ll never have children because you’re too busy mothering your brothers and sister,” he announced. “Not that I want kids, don’t get me wrong. But I’m worried you’re going to discover that you really wanted kids somewhere down the line.”

  His observation hurt April, but she decided to let it go. He was correct that she was avoiding having them, but he didn’t guess the reason. She was afraid to have kids. The legacy her grandmother left seemed to have far-reaching consequences, and April was afraid of how it might affect her life. No one knew too much about Peggy Morton, except she was a baby machine, widowed at the age of twenty-seven, and that she may have had an affair with a married man who owned the mill where her husband was killed.

  April got up from the computer and walked into the kitchen. Ted was pouring a box of macaroni into boiling water. She went behind him and wrapped her arms around his body.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He finished pouring the pasta in and turned, taking her in his arms. “About what? I insulted you, April. You should be furious.” They stood together, embracing each other. “I’m worried that in ten years when you’re forty, it’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass because we haven’t discussed it. Why aren’t we having children?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to bring a kid into my family,” she confessed. “There’s something ready to explode, and I’m afraid of what it might be.” She looked up at him and closed her eyes, moving in for a kiss. “I love you, Ted. I want to live my life with you. Beyond that, I just don’t know.”

  He smoothed her hair off her face. “Let’s get some counseling,” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “Something has to break soon, and then I’ll consider it. But for now, it would just be a waste of money,” she said. “My father knows something. I can feel it.”

  “Can you ask him?”

  She shook her head again. “Our family doesn’t work that way,” she said. “You know how potheads think everything’s great? That’s my dad. Yep, I think I hit it on the head. He’s an aged hippy who wants peace and love and nothing else.”

  “That’s an artist for you,” Ted said, slipping out of April’s arms to stir the pasta.

  But April didn’t think that was all there was to their story. An important mi
ssing piece cried out for discovery.

  ***

  Dexter Morton pulled into the garage of the fabulous home he shared with his wife of two years. Situated on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the ostentatiousness of the house was an embarrassment to him. People in his community were struggling to feed their children, yet he owned a house that cost more than most people made in a lifetime. His wife, Faye, wasn’t home from work yet, working extra to save for their next big expenditure, an Alaskan cruise.

  Gathering up his junk from doing business in the car all afternoon—notepad, smart phone, briefcase, iPad, laptop and empty McDonald’s trash—he opened the door and stretched his long legs. He’d shoved everything into his briefcase before going to the trashcan to throw his trash away. Faye would be furious if she knew he’d eaten fast food for lunch. He dug around the can and hid the bag under other garbage.

  He unlocked the door that opened into the mudroom, inappropriately named because it would never see a grain of mud. Being extra careful to wipe his shoes and remove them, he walked through the kitchen and living room to the hall leading to his bedroom. They didn’t share a bedroom, although he gained admittance from time to time for sexual purposes. The small room he had was fine. It was spare and neat, and he liked having his own space. He put his shoes on paper in the closet, just in case he’d missed some dirt. His briefcase had its place too, right under his desk.

  Loosening his tie, he went into the adjoining bathroom to pee, careful to close the door in case Faye came home early. He wiped the rim of the toilet off even though she’d never use this toilet. It just wasn’t worth the trouble if she should come in to check. He scrubbed his hands and then took off his suit, carefully brushing it before he hung it up. Pulling on an ironed T-shirt and pressed blue jeans, he was careful to comb his hair after pulling the shirt over his head. Looking around the room before he walked out, everything was in place.

  The cleaning lady left the mail on the hall table. She separated it into piles: one for him, one for the household and one for Faye. Dexter went through his pile, tearing the recyclable stuff into tiny pieces. He looked over his shoulder at the front door and then went through Faye’s, picking out the American Express bill that was in his name but given to her for scrutiny, and the electric bill. He walked back to his room and stuck the bills in his briefcase. When the mail subterfuge was finished, he went into the kitchen to fix dinner.

  It was the least enjoyable part of his day, because no matter what he made, she’d make a negative comment about it. Either she didn’t like the way he prepared it or the ingredients weren’t what she was in the mood for. He found veal chops and asparagus in the refrigerator and started to prepare it the way she liked, lightly floured chops browned in olive oil with boiled asparagus. He got potatoes out of the pantry, scrubbed them off, and diced them into perfectly sized one-inch cubes browned in butter. He stood in the third position of ballet, waiting.

  In five minutes, just as everything was coming together, he heard her key in the front door. Faye had an aversion to walking through the mudroom. He walked out to greet her.

  “Hi!” she said, passing her briefcase off to him, turning her cheek for the obligatory kiss. “How’d your day go?”

  “Not bad,” Dexter answered. “How about yours?”

  Faye launched into a blow-by-blow description of her day, the minutiae painful to hear.

  “Your dinner is burning,” she said.

  Dexter ran to the stove and moved the pan, trying to keep a smile on his face as she continued droning on. He set the table and then, as commanded by his wife, followed her back into the master bedroom and stood waiting while she undressed in the gigantic walk-in closet and yelled out to her husband, complaining about colleagues and corporate and clients. Everyone was fair game.

  She led the way back to the kitchen as he took the pans off the stove and served the proper portions on each plate. Three ounces of meat for her, six for him. A half a cup of potatoes for her, a whole one for him. They could have as much asparagus as they wanted, and although he didn’t care for it prepared the way she liked it, finding it slimy and disgusting, he ate it anyway.

  Uncorking a bottle of wine, he poured full glasses for both of them and, when she wasn’t looking, slipped a Xanax into hers. He’d been doing it nightly for six months, and she hadn’t discovered the real reason she was so relaxed, thinking it was just the wine. Out cold by nine, Dexter would have the rest of the night to unwind and try to figure out how he was going to get the hell out of this mess he’d gotten himself into.

  ***

  Esme answered her email and called her father when she hadn’t heard from him, leaving a message that he’d listen to when he got home from church. She freshened up for dinner, fighting the lethargy she knew had its origins in stress. She took a last look in the mirror and left her room for the dining room at five minutes to six.

  Rhonda was waiting in the lobby for her. “Well, don’t you look pretty? I feel like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet, and it’s only been twelve hours.”

  “You look fine,” Esme said.

  Who would they run into anyway? The dining room was empty. At nine a three-piece jazz band would play, the bar crowd picking up, but no one was eating dinner except the two of them.

  They sat down at a small table next to the front window. Esme watched a small fishing boat come in and wondered if it was Wiley. As if reading her mind, Rhonda piped up.

  “So what’d you think of Wiley?” she asked, looking intently at Esme.

  “He was very nice. He had coffee at Ravenna’s, then had to get back to work,” she answered, leaving out the part of him staying there for hours with her.

  “We used to date,” Rhonda said.

  Esme looked at her to see if she was serious; she didn’t seem like his type. Then she thought, How would you know what his type is?

  “Is that right? What’d you think?” Esme asked, turning the tables.

  “I fell in love with him, actually. We dated for six months. And then he told me he wanted to see other people, so we broke up. I was sick for a month afterward. Actually, I’m still carrying a torch.” She picked up the menu. “I know this thing by heart. I keep hoping they’ll add something new.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. About Wiley. Was it recent?” Esme felt it was okay to ask since Rhonda had started the conversation. And Rhonda seemed more than willing to unload.

  “No. About ten years ago,” she said. Esme hid her disbelief. Ten years ago? “He’d moved home from college, and we ran into each other at Wick’s Park one night during a band fest. You know the drill—drank too much, ended up in bed together. Typical young person’s worst nightmare. Fortunately, he called the next day, and we started dating. Of course, now that I’m an old maid, I realize he was being a gentleman. He probably felt guilty and was going to try it on for size. What did he have to lose? We certainly gave it our best shot.” She looked at Esme and shrugged her shoulders.

  “The only problem was that I really loved him. I still feel a little sick when I see him with a woman,” she said, and Esme felt it was directed at her.

  Why’d I ever say I’d eat with her?

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Esme repeated.

  Was this woman going to be a lunatic? Esme had heard about them back East. You couldn’t talk to the former boyfriend without being threatened. Maybe they could make the meal quick.

  “Boy, I’m really hungry. I wonder if they know we’re here.”

  “I wonder,” Rhonda said as she pushed away from the table and walked back to the kitchen, returning shortly with a harried-looking waitress.

  “Oh, I am so sorry! I didn’t hear the bell, and of course, it’s because you were both already in the building. Boy, please forgive me.” She took their orders and went back to the kitchen.

  Rhonda started the conversation Esme dreaded, as though she were reading her mind. “Don’t think I’d get all crazy if you dated Wiley.”

  Esme frowned. “Why woul
d you even think that? I just got into town yesterday,” she said. “Look, Rhonda, don’t worry about Wiley, okay? You said you had some advice for me.”

  “Right, Ravenna,” Rhonda said. “She’s a character around town; I guess you figured that out.”

  Esme shook her head. She wasn’t admitting to anything, feeling loyalty already to Ravenna.

  “Not really. I figured that she was a little eccentric, living out on the river in a rustic cabin. But she seems perfectly fine, amazingly fine for being in her seventies.”

  “Ravenna’s family members are among the last Natives who live here. I think less than one percent of the population in our county is Native American. It makes me sick, actually. This used to be their home. They named every landmark, every river and town.”

  The waitress brought complimentary appetizers over to the table to make up for their wait.

  When she left, Rhonda picked up again. “It wasn’t fifty years ago that tar-paper shacks stood along the riverbanks,” she said. “My mother told me about coming home from school in tears over some little classmate who was being tormented because she was poor.” Rhonda pointed downriver. “Not far from here, families heated shacks with wood, and in the harsh winters, newborns died of pneumonia. The stories were awful.”

  Esme’s appetite, having appeared for just a moment, made a hasty retreat. She’d rather talk about Wiley. “If we’re going to eat, maybe we should talk about something else,” she said gently.

  “Oh, okay, sorry,” Rhonda said.

  “I would like to hear your mother’s memories, though. Just some other time,” Esme said.

  “You should talk to my grandfather if you really want some stories,” Rhonda said. “He owned a sawmill over in Douglas. They hired mostly Indians from the area. It was the place where Robert Morton died.”

  Esme frowned, the relevance about to smack her in the face. “Robert Morton?”