The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

by Suzanne Jenkins

  Unable to pinpoint his expression when he saw Esme for the first time, she decided it was definitely more than curiosity. She read emotion in his face, too. Maybe he was feeling guilty. Stepping aside for her to move by, Esme tried not to grimace. The kitchen was to the left, and there was a uniformed man preparing food at the counter. The inequities were adding up.

  “Can I take your coat?” He held out his hand to assist her in taking it off, and she allowed him to, fighting the urge to judge him.

  This was not what she expected. Comfort, yes, but blatant wealth? No. She would bite her tongue because all she needed from him was facts. That he didn’t feel he could support Peggy or at least help her out more than he had so she would be allowed to keep her grandchild was his business, whether it angered her or not.

  “Follow me,” he said, smiling at her.

  She squelched her gasp as the panoramic view over Lake Michigan spread out before her. Floor-to-ceiling glass covered the entire east-facing wall. She looked at it, but pride or some other unknown emotion would not allow her to comment. He should be ashamed of himself, she thought, back to judging him.

  “Have a seat.” He pointed at a white canvas-covered armchair. It was so cliché, the decorator furniture and artwork, the expected sculpture. It looked like a photo shoot from a magazine.

  She couldn’t help herself and had to ask, “So are you a collector?”

  “No, no,” he answered sheepishly. “My decorator chose the art.”

  Once the pretense was gone, she allowed herself to look around the room with admiration. “It’s very nice,” she said, wondering why none of his nephew Mike’s beautiful art was hanging on the walls.

  “My granddaughter did it. Albert’s sister, Sophia. I’m getting used to the white.” He looked around the room, pleased with his home.

  Esme relaxed. She could imagine her own grandparents doing the same thing for her but on a lesser scale.

  “So, Miss Wynd, what can I do for you?”

  She looked at him, not sure how to proceed. She repeated what she had said to him on the phone. “There’s something more here than just a baby being given up for adoption. I almost feel like Peggy was coerced. I’m struggling with the idea that she would readily hand over my mother without allowing Ravenna some say. Can you shed any light on that?” She thought that if George Patos were a younger man, he would have gotten up to pace. But he sat still and looked off at the view. His discomfort was palpable.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Esme nodded her head.

  “Why do you want to know? You could be opening a Pandora’s Box. Ravenna or Mike have never asked.”

  She looked at him intently. “I’m not sure why they haven’t. Maybe they’re afraid. Or maybe they don’t understand that they have a right to know. I have to know the truth, because I saw my mother die unhappily. She’d always known there was something wrong. And when April Freeman called her, it solidified the unknown. Put yourself in my shoes, please, Mr. Patos. I wish I could just let it go, trust me.

  “If Peggy didn’t want her thirteen-year-old daughter to have a baby to protect her, why wasn’t Mike arrested? It was statutory rape, even back then. Why did you get involved? It seems to me that if you had really wanted to help her, you’d have seen to it that their living conditions were improved.” She stopped, realizing she was on a rampage that could only escalate.

  Then, thankfully, the doorbell buzzed. The uniformed man answered it and ushered Albert into the apartment.

  “We’ll continue this after lunch. My grandson doesn’t know all the details,” he said quietly.

  Her heart started pounding hard enough that she felt it in her ears. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat. George pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down. A salad was put in front of her, fresh vegetables out of season, with a hunk of feta cheese and a few olives on the plate. She didn’t have to think about contributing to the conversation; Albert started talking about the dairy business, and George put in his comments where necessary. The stress of the afternoon caught up with Esme, and she wished she could ask if they’d excuse her, she’d like to just go over to the couch and take a little nap.

  “Would it be possible for me to get a cup of coffee?” she asked during a lull in the conversation. She wanted Albert to finish eating and leave so she could hear what it was George was going to say. She hated wasting time.

  Finally, the meal was over. Albert excused himself; he needed to get back to the farm. He hugged his grandfather good-bye and shook Esme’s hand. She’d later learn his sole purpose in driving an hour into Chicago was to check her out. The family was frightened someone might try to hurt their papou.

  “Let’s take our coffee back to the den,” George said.

  They sat down again, and he began talking. “What I am going to tell you is common knowledge, but like most families, it became a secret because talking about it hurt Peggy. She talked with me about it because she was getting older, and old people need to make peace with their pasts. They have to make restitution in order to go to their graves without a lot of guilt. But Peggy wasn’t able to abolish her ghosts. They were too deeply imbedded in who she was. Instead of apologizing to Ravenna for having allowed the baby to be taken away so she could gain some integrity, Peggy continued to mistreat her, and the guilt and despair was too much for her.”

  “Wait, back up,” Esme demanded. “What do you mean mistreat?”

  George showed his age for the first time that day, slumping over in the chair and putting his hands up to shield his eyes. He’d witnessed it and never intervened. Something else to add to the roster of shame he would carry for the rest of his life.

  He looked up at Esme, and she could see the struggle he was having. Was it embarrassment or regret?

  “She beat her. And was verbally abusive. It got worse after the other children grew up and left home. Before that, she tried to hide it. Peggy would get into such a state of depression; the only way she could bring herself out of it was transferring the anger to Ravenna. She knew she was doing it, and why, yet she couldn’t stop herself. It was awful to witness.”

  Awful isn’t the right word, Esme thought, horrified. She struggled not to react, the visual she had of the older woman pummeling Ravenna disturbing and real. “What’d she use?” she whispered.

  He looked at her, confused.

  “Did she use an implement?”

  George shook his head. “No. Just her fists,” he said. “Not punching, but like this.” He made an up and down movement with his fist, as though he were striking something. “Just a few hits, not prolonged. I saw her once. She wasn’t expecting me.”

  “Oh my God,” Esme said, horrified, doing her best to control her emotions.

  She saw with clarity that adoption was the best thing that could have happened for her mother. What if she’d been raised in that environment? And then the comments she’d ignored the day she spent with Ravenna came back to her. Ravenna tried to tell Esme the truth, and she’d blocked it out, the reality too terrible to contemplate.

  “Mike didn’t return to the picture until years later, until Peggy had died, so he wasn’t in a position to offer protection. He didn’t even know. I didn’t allow her to hit Ravenna when I was there, but I wasn’t there often.”

  It didn’t ring true, Mike not knowing. But she had no proof.

  “What was the justification? Not that there ever is any, but what led to it? There had to be something.”

  “There was,” he said. “Not that I’m making excuses for it. But maybe if you read something she left behind, you’ll understand.”

  He got up and walked over to a desk against the opposite wall. It was a real working desk, papers neatly stacked on its surface, not an art piece. He opened a small door and took out a set of keys, and then bending over, inserted a key and unlocked a drawer. Esme thought he seemed more like a man in his nineties now; the conversation was taking its toll. He took out a tattered-looking cardboard-covere
d booklet. Esme remembered seeing similar booklets in her grandmother’s house in White Plains, penmanship practice books that had belonged to her mother. He carried it back to the couch and sat down with it on his lap. He didn’t offer the booklet to her but started leafing through it.

  “There’s one letter in here that I’m willing to let you read. Most of this stuff is too personal. I didn’t want to destroy it, because I just didn’t. When I die, my family can decide what to do with it.”

  Esme had no idea what he was talking about, but if this was a journal that belonged to Peggy, he should have given it to Ravenna or John or one of her other children. He thumbed through the booklet until he found the envelope he was looking for.

  “She started to write to Ravenna, but lost her nerve. ‘Leave well enough alone,’ she said. I understood; neither woman was equipped to work out the problem because it was too deeply rooted. I don’t think apologizing came naturally for Peggy. She could demand it of others, but not of herself.” He reluctantly passed the letter off to Esme. It was in a legal-sized, yellowed envelope.

  ***

  Printed on the envelope in shaky writing were the words Mt. Pleasant Boarding School. Esme started to read Peggy’s story.

  After Robert died, I knew that my life was a ticking bomb. The things that happened to me were slowly rising to the surface for me to deal with, or not. I chose not to feel. Ravenna would receive the brunt of my suffering. I singled her out to feel what I was unable to face.

  I’m about to confess a situation that was common among my people. We were petrified, but because in our household we didn’t speak about what was happening, when it happened to us, we had no plan. My family fled the scene instead, leaving me behind. Yes, the story is that I was first stolen from my family, and then they abandoned me. What could be worse?

  She continued reading, the story growing more terrifying and unbelievable, but when she finished with the first page, George put his hand over it. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said.

  Esme dropped the papers in her lap and lowered her head. No longer caring how she appeared to George Patos, she began to cry. She thought that she’d never cried so much in her life as she had since coming to the Midwest.

  “I did the same thing,” George said. It had been quiet for such a long time in the apartment that his voice startled her. And then softly, he said, “I know I could’ve done more for Peggy.”

  If it was a difficult admission for him to make, it had an edge of insincerity about it that grated on Esme’s nerves. She’d stop judging him. It took too much energy. It wasn’t his fault Peggy had been kidnapped or that her parents left her. He was a cad who took advantage of a woman. If it hadn’t been Peggy, maybe it would’ve been someone else. Maybe there were more women.

  “Does the family know about this?” Esme asked, finally speaking. If they did, she thought, they were either minimizing the impact it had, or in denial. The amazing thing was that Ravenna seemed so normal for having been physically and emotionally abused. It gave Esme chills.

  “No!” he exclaimed. “Peggy never spoke of it to anyone. Peggy gave me the document to read when she made the decision not to give it to Ravenna. Shortly afterward, she committed suicide.”

  Esme gasped, shocked. “She killed herself? Does anyone else know?”

  “Ravenna does. She found her. I don’t think she told anyone, but if they do know, like everything else, they don’t talk about it. There’s nothing they could do, so why dwell on it?”

  Esme didn’t know if she could take any more, choking back tears again. “When did she die?”

  “Right after Pules graduated high school,” he answered. “She and Nadie were placed in foster care for a while when Pules was eight, and she never recovered from the experience. It never affected Nadie the way it did Pules, maybe because she was older. She fought Peggy, rebelled, did everything she could to get away from the family. I guess Peggy must have waited for Pules to graduate because she felt like she’d already been damaged enough during the foster care experience.”

  Esme thought of Ravenna. What effect did her mother committing suicide have on her?

  Esme was going to call April and tell her of the existence of the documents when she was alone. She knew it was pot stirring, but was willing to risk being a troublemaker. It was time to leave George Patos for now; supersaturated with information, she was afraid to listen to more.

  “I guess I better head back to Michigan,” she said, standing up.

  He reached his hand out for the letter, and she handed it back to him, but what she’d read was imprinted on her brain. As soon as she could, she’d write down the things that stood out, and try to remember the things she’d forgotten.

  “But if you agree, I’d like to come back.”

  A look of something unreadable came over his face, but Esme was sure it was not in her favor, maybe regret over having shared the information with her. However, he was gracious to her. Helping her on with her coat, he made small talk, leading her to the door.

  “Thank you for coming over,” he said. “I hope what I’ve told you will help in your quest to learn more about your mother’s inheritance. I’ve seen the combination of those genes in Ravenna’s other children, and they are a fine mixture.”

  Whatever, Esme thought as she shook his hand again. If she remembered correctly, Ravenna’s family said they hadn’t seen him in years. How’d he know? Maybe Mike kept in touch with his uncle, feeding him family stories.

  She left the apartment and decided to walk the six blocks to Union Station. Having no idea when the next train left, she didn’t feel the need to rush. The things she learned swirled through her head. Peggy’s life starting with her kidnapping and stay at the boarding school, discovering her parents had moved, and then Robert’s death must have contributed to a severe mental disturbance. How she managed to care for her family as well as she did was an amazing feat.

  The walk to the station deflated the urgency Esme felt in contacting April. All she wanted to do was get a seat and sleep on the way back to Saugatuck.

  Chapter 15

  Ozzy Morton finished his last class of the day, spending a few minutes straightening the papers on his desk. Dragging his feet, he dreaded going home, coerced into going to Ravenna’s after school. Teaching was the highlight of his day, what he lived for. Of course, he never admitted it to his wife, because she wouldn’t understand that although he loved her, and their three children brought him so much joy, the job gave him his self-worth. His life would be perfect if it weren’t for one thing; his family of origin.

  It was a huge source of stress. Constantly worried they would do something that would embarrass or disrupt his life, the work he put into distancing them took infinite energy. The only person allowed access was his father. Although shamed that Mike never married his mother, since he was respected in the community for his works involving the church and for his art, Ozzy forgave him.

  Usually the pessimist, Ozzy focused on the positive about his dad, hoping those things would continue to be enough to overshadow the negative, which was Mike’s total disregard for the way they lived when Ozzy and his siblings were growing up. A single woodstove heated the cabin in the worst Michigan winters while Mike was living in luxury in town. Ozzy hated it that everyone seemed to know that Mike hiked in to see Ravenna every afternoon and then wouldn’t leave until early the next morning.

  Ozzy remembered an incident when he was just ten years old, riding his bike down Butler Street, discovering Mike in a restaurant with a beautiful woman. Quickly turning his bike around, he hid behind a car parked on the street to get a good look. It devastated him, and there was no one to ask about it because they had no one but Ravenna and each other. Mike was like a special visitor who came to dinner and inquired about homework, not doing things other fathers did, never attending a school function or playing ball with his boys, never passing out discipline, talking to them like adults as soon as they could walk.

  None of t
he children ever confronted Ravenna about Mike because she was a sprite. Angelic and peace giving, unable to point her finger or admonish, wherever she was, it was impossible to generate strife. Ozzy’s memories of Ravenna were of her working, sitting on the ground, making baskets. Or pounding their clothes on the boulder in the river in the heat of summer, her children playing around her. Digging in the garden or chopping wood. But in spite of it, Ravenna never seemed to labor. They never heard her raise her voice or a hand to one of her children, never complained or criticized.

  She’d sing in Ojibwe, embarrassing Ozzy terribly when he was a child, even if they were alone. But once as an adult, he came to the cabin and walked in on her shucking corn on the back porch, singing, and the beauty of it upset him so deeply that he left without saying hello. He remembered her holding him as a little boy, singing to him. Ozzy knew he was a difficult child, always crying out for her. She later said she dealt with it by never putting him down, carrying him around on her hip until he was five.

  The young woman from White Plains had upset his mother. Ozzy was angry because as long as Ravenna was doing okay, he could ignore her. But Ravenna upset was not acceptable. He’d have to involve himself in her life again, and he hated having to do so. It meant exposing his children to the poverty of the cabin. His wife disagreed with him.

  “Ravenna chooses to live the way she lives, Oz. You’re doing your children a grave disservice by preventing them from seeing her. Amy is intrigued by baskets and gardening. Her grandmother would be a perfect person to introduce her to self-sufficiency.” Amy was their only daughter, a ten-year-old girl.

  “If I wanted my children to be exposed, I’d live that way myself,” he snapped.

  “Oh, come on now, Ozzy,” she said gently.

  Becky was the only person who could get Ozzy to see where he was wrong. And he was wrong about Ravenna. When Becky determined he was getting out of control regarding not seeing his mother, she’d do what she could to reel him back. Ever since the woman from New York arrived, he’d been a nervous wreck, sure some family drama would erupt that would destroy the false sense of security he had built around his wife and children.