A Witness to Life (Ashland, 2)

by Terence M. Green

  "No."

  "British. Very nice. This," she says, indicating what is on the table, "is not Kurma."

  "Mm."

  "And then, just before joining Simpson's, I worked for Creelman Brothers Typewriter Company."

  "Really? I've seen it. It's on Adelaide, right near where I work."

  "You're absolutely right. It is." She smiles. "You should've come in to see my typewriter demonstration."

  "I should've."

  "Men cannot handle them. Perhaps it is their fingers. I think it is more basic than that. Women and typewriters were made for each other."

  "I guess I haven't given it enough thought."

  "I learned quickly. I was their demonstrator. Did you know that there are probably over one hundred fifty thousand lady typewriters in America and Canada today?"

  "I had no idea."

  "And an office girl can make ten dollars a week. More than twice what she could earn in a laundry or kitchen."

  The salary shocks me. It is more than I make.

  "So you see, Mr. Radey—"

  "Martin."

  She stops, smiles. "So you see, Martin, I have a very good idea of whether my job is a good one or not."

  "I'm glad you have found a good job."

  "But it isn't that good." She sips.

  "I thought you said—"

  "That I could tell a good job from a bad one."

  "Ah."

  "My job is acceptable. That's a long way from good."

  What she says rings true for me. Much of my life has been acceptable. Yet it, too, has been a long way from good.

  Through the restaurant window, I watch a string of black birds—feathery, puffed pearls beaded along the roofline of a storetop across the street.

  Maggie Curtis follows my gaze. "They're European starlings," she says. "There were a hundred of them released in New York's Central Park back in the 1890s. Now they're everywhere." She looks at me. "Immigrants," she says. "Like us."

  I stare at her, into her assuredness, wanting, against hope, for this to be the crossroads we all await.

  "Do you like to read?"

  "Newspapers. I like to read the newspapers," I say.

  "Books. Do you read books?"

  "Not many." I think. "A biography of Napoleon, when I was in school. Mother had a Booth Tarkington novel at home that was given to her. I started it. It didn't interest me. I read some of House of the Seven Gables. It was around the house. Quite imaginative, but not quite my cup of tea." A pause. "I guess I'm not much of a reader."

  "I'm reading one now called Sister Carrie. It's about a girl who goes to Chicago and becomes a man's mistress. When it first came out it was deemed immoral." She smiles.

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Eaton's. I bought it."

  I have never bought a book, and have trouble digesting the idea.

  "It's like a breath of fresh air," she says.

  "Why did you want to meet with me, Martini Did you recognize me?"

  "Only when I heard your name." Why, indeed. I cannot articulate it. I am not sure myself. I am driven. "You're a lovely woman," I say. "Who wouldn't want to meet with you?"

  "Nonsense."

  "Pardon?"

  "I am not a lovely woman. In point of fact, I am somewhat unlovely. I have to watch my waist, especially since I refuse to wear a corset, and I am astute enough to be fully aware that I am unremarkable in most other ways as well. I have no money, I come from a common, workaday family as you well know, and I am far past my prime."

  "Maggie—"

  "It is true." A pause. "Do you know where I was born?" She does not wait for an answer, and I do not know the answer anyway. "Burnhamthorpe. A village of one hundred people, at Dixie Road. It has a blacksmith shop, wagon shops, a shoemaker shop, a general store, and a post office. Farmers from the north stay overnight at the Puggy Huddle Hotel at the Second Line east on their way to market in the city. I come," she says conclusively, "from nowhere."

  "I don't know what you're talking about." And for a moment, I do not. This strange self-assessment has derailed me.

  She waits a few seconds. "How old are you, Martin Radey?"

  "I'm twenty-seven." Close enough, I think.

  "I am twenty-nine. Most women my age have been married for a decade, and have a brood of children. Do you know that life expectancy for a woman is fifty-one? For a man, forty-eight?"

  I am stunned. She is moving too fast, cutting away layers of the game. "I did not."

  "I read it in the newspaper. But because you are a man, you can father children until you die, while I, on the other hand, have seen my prime years disappear. So don't tell me that I am lovely. Or that I am desirable. Or any other of that romantic claptrap."

  "But," I say, I implore, "it is true."

  She tilts her head on an angle, places her fingers against her cheekbone, purses her lips, contemplates me anew, as if another layer of skin has been peeled away, exposing a rawer, simpler truth.

  "It is true," I say. Again.

  And then we are silent. We sip our tea.

  Maggie pours me a second cup. I let it warm me, do not want it to end.

  She lets me see her home. We ride comfortably on the Queen car, pointing out stores, landmarks, making small talk, listening to the clop of hooves. I point out Brookfield Street, where I live, as we pass, before realizing that she must know of it from Teresa and Peter. At Dufferin, we transfer to a northbound car that wends its way onto Dundas, where she lives, she has explained, with her parents and remaining unmarried brother and sister.

  It is far past where I have to go, but I do not mind. In fact, I want to delay returning home.

  At her front door, I doff my Homburg, hold it in my hand, ask it. "Are you working tomorrow?"

  Her eyes meet mine. Hazel. Older than mine. Already, she has shown me that she is much more than I have ever known in a woman. "As a matter of fact, no. I have one Saturday a month off, and tomorrow is the one."

  "Do you have plans?"

  "One always has plans."

  I am disheartened.

  "But nothing that cannot be adjusted."

  The space between us seems immense. I have not touched her.

  "Can I see you tomorrow?"

  A beat. A decision. "What would we do?" she asks.

  I don't know. I don't care. "Have you seen The Great Train Robbery at the nickelodeon?"

  "I have. Yes."

  "So," I admit, "have I."

  She smiles.

  "We could go for a picnic. It is June." She does not appear unlovely to me, especially the smile, the corners of her mouth turned up with promise, with hope. When she does not protest, I forge ahead. "To the Island, perhaps. The sky looks clear. It should be a nice day."

  I cannot believe that I have done this. I cannot believe that I have set myself up so blatandy for disappointment. I am standing here with this woman who has drawn me like a magnet to a far corner of the city, for whom, at this moment in time, I would do anything, and do not know why.

  I hear only the night crickets.

  She reaches, takes my hand in both of hers. I feel the small bones, see, even in the faint lamplight from the street, the fine veins on their backs.

  She knows, I think. Knows me. Maggie.

  "That sounds very nice."

  When I get home, Gramma is asleep. But I stop by her room, step inside, and tell her anyway.

  The following Monday, I buy my first book. I buy a copy of Sister Carrie at Eaton's. That night, by gaslight in the kitchen, I read:

  Here was neither guile nor rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy.

  3

  190 Michigan Ave.

  Detroit, Mich.

  August 30, 1908

  166 Crawford St.

  Toronto, Ont.

  Dear Martin & Maggie,

  Your wedding was a blast! I am still recovering. Maggie's parents served
up a feast fit for kings, and Maggie, Martin certainly showed good sense when he decided to hang onto you. You have my permission to box his ears anytime he shows a lack of appreciation. I expect that you two are comfortably nested in your new quarters and happy as pigs in poop right now, and well you should be.

  I was right back at work within two days and we haven't let up since. We've got a power-driven conveyor belt at the plant now on which the car frames are set and we managed to average 93 minutes for each car assembled! And if you think that's fantastic you should hear the rumors buzzing around about how we'll soon have a new car assembled every ten seconds of the working day and the Tin Lizzies as we call them will only cost a few hundred dollars apiece. I hope it happens soon as I want to own one just like everyone else. Instead of looking after all that I did previously my job now is only to fasten on the right rear wheel. Walter Norton beside me bolts the mudguard brackets to the frame. At the tenth station the engine is dropped in and the body bolted on and it's ready to roll. All of Detroit is talking about us.

  Wish I could have given you a Tin Lizzie for a wedding present, then you could have tossed a few camphor balls into the gas tank for pep and driven us home. Cora and I think of you both often, and Cora says hello to you both and thanks you for including her in your reception as she had never been to Toronto and was quite impressed. The heat surprised her even though it was August as she said that she thought Canada would be much colder.

  All the best for now to you two and remember what they say about the Ford, that it is the best family car as it has a tank for father a hood for mother and a rattle for baby.

  Your vaudevillian Best Man,

  Jock

  * * *

  166 Crawford St.

  Toronto, Ont.

  Sept. 21, 1908

  98 Portland Ave.

  Rochester, N. Y.

  Dear Emma 61 John,

  A small thank you from Martin and me for the wedding gift of the beautiful glass bordeau lamp, but your presence at our wedding was the real gift. I hope the trip home was pleasant and that we will see each other more often in the future. Martin is indeed fortunate to have such a sister and brother-in-law.

  Fondest regards,

  Martin and Maggie

  * * *

  166 Crawford St.

  Toronto, Ont.

  Sept. 21, 1908

  Monastery of the Precious Blood

  118 St. Joseph St.

  Toronto, Ont.

  Dear Sr. Bernadette,

  I'm sorry to have taken so long to respond to your letter and gifts, as they deserved a more appreciative thank you. But things were so hectic leading up to the wedding and settling in to our new flat that I only now feel that I can make the time. The scapulars will be worn fondly and Martin's watch lining is grand. He sends his thanks as well.

  I trust all is well with you and hope that we shall see you soon. I remain

  Your good friend,

  Maggie

  * * *

  190 Michigan Ave.

  Detroit, Mich.

  July 25, 1909

  166 Crawford St.

  Toronto, Ont.

  Dear Martin,

  Thought of you yesterday (today is Sunday) when we were down at Detroit Beach on Lake Erie and we saw all the families with kids playing there. Let me know the minute the baby arrives, Cora and I wilt pop a champagne cork that you might hear all the way from Detroit! My friend Walter Norton has managed to buy a Tin Lizzie and he and his girl Mary Alice and Cora and I drove down to spend the day at the beach. Walter let me drive for a bit, we didn't get stuck even once. What a ball!

  I was offered a transfer to Ford's Walkerville plant across the border near Windsor but turned it down. They've been turning out Model C, K, N, R, & S since '04 there but now that they're gearing up to turn out Model Ts they need more men. Want me to give them your name? Interested? A family man like you could use the money.

  Like the song says, Toot Your Horn, Kid, You're In A Fog.

  Jock

  * * *

  FROM: MARTIN RADEY

  166 CRAWFORD STREET

  TORONTO ONT

  22 AUGUST 1909

  TO: JOCK ROSS

  190 MICHIGAN AVE

  DETROIT MICH

  MARGARET MARY RADEY BORN AUG 21 AT 6 LB 6 OZ STOP MOTHER AND DAUGHTER DOING FINE STOP FATHER SMOKING A BIG CIGAR AND TOOTING HORN IN A FOG STOP POP THAT CHAMPAGNE STOP

  DADDY MARTIN

  EIGHT

  It is strange awakening to find the sky inside you and beneath you and above you and all around you so that your spirit is one with the sky, and all is positive night.

  —Thomas Merton

  The Sign of Jonas

  Now, in 1984, Margaret lies before me in the hospital bed, dying, and I know, without knowing why, that the death within death that I have witnessed in the treetops, in the sky, will come to me shortly, a hawk falling from the clouds, and that all this will end. That is why I am here, a final stop on my ethereal trip, loosed from the flock of lost souls with which I travel. And looking at Jack, my son, I now know that he too is dead, that Margaret is seeing us exactly as she last remembered seeing us, and I am filled with a longing and a sadness and a joy beyond understanding. That is why I am here in my seventy-year-old body and why Jack is smiling, in his prime, handsome in his early twenties.

  Words are not needed. We all understand. It is what happens. It is how we close the door.

  Then Jack does a remarkable thing. He hands me a small stone, smiles. I am breathless. I close my hand over it. Oh Margaret. Oh Jack. I look at them both, see babies, then children, see everything good that I managed to spoil, and silently ask for their forgiveness.

  NINE

  1911

  1912

  1

  On April 30, 1911, Jack is born. John Francis Radey. My son.

  When Margaret was born, my heart melted. With Jack in my arms, my chest swells with a pride I never knew. Babies, both, but so different. Margaret, so easy to please, so eager to please in return, Jack pulling away, creating his own space. I sense this immediately, instinctively. A son and a daughter. I am the luckiest man alive. Yes.

  We are in a new flat on Lansdowne Avenue—the second floor of the middle house in a row of three. All is wonderful, yet all is chaos. Margaret always slept at reasonable times, is perpetually good-natured. Jack is the opposite. He cries at night for hours, leaving us exhausted for days, weeks at a stretch—exhaustion such as we have never known. Margaret did not prepare us for this. Is it the difference between boys and girls? We do not know.

  Maggie's eyes are red with the burden. I live in a strange isolation from her as she withdraws into herself, not needing me, needing only sleep.

  She sleeps with the children.

  I think of my father, how I suddenly understood him once I had been with a woman, with long-forgotten Lillian. Now I understand him again, more fully. I understand his life, what he gave. I close my eyes and see him eating quietly at the end of the table.

  Typhoid fever is what people are talking about in the city. The downtown area reports hundreds of cases, and we are glad we live near the west end. Yet I travel every day into the city center and listen to the talk, hear the reports. The city adds chlorine to the drinking water, explaining that this chemical will kill the disease, that the germs are in the water.

  I drink it, taste the difference, fill empty milk bottles, seal them carefully by wedging cloth in the necks, take them home to Maggie and the kids in a shopping bag. When I cross Yonge Street the two miles from Front to just north of College are aglow with six thousand new streetlamps, like a fairy tale, pumped to us from the giant generating plant at Niagara Falls.

  The city ablaze with electric light, bottled water that will spare us. Miracles abound. Things are not so bad.

  On Saturday I treat myself to the Harrison Baths at McCaul and Stephanie Street. It is heaven. A thirty-minute bath, complete with showers and a towel: ten cents. Refreshed, I strol
l toward Yonge Street, cross to the south side, and enter 57 Queen West, R. A. Caldwell Hair Dressing & Shaving Parlor ("Razors Honed"). After the twenty-cent haircut, the chair folds back and I lie there, eyes closed, amid perfumed and leather scents, as my face is lathered and scraped. When I am asked if I would like my neck shaved as well, I say yes, why not, I would, aware that it will add another five cents to the ten-cent shave, but I do not care. I close my eyes again, wish Jock were here, wish we could go for a glass of ale afterward.

  I stand at the Yonge Street wharf and watch as the new Trillium sails toward the Island. The ferries, I realize for the first time, are flowers. Primrose, Mayflower, Blue Bell, and now Trillium, the largest. Flowers on the water. Dreams.

  Fire has consumed the past. I sift through the ashes, quiet, try to envision the new order. I can see the rebuilt Hanlan's Point amusement park, see the strings of colored lights even in the daytime, even from this distance. But it is not the same. In '04, the city, in '10, the Island. The Figure-8, the Scenic Railway, the old Mill, enveloped in flame. The House of Fun, the Penny Arcade, all there when Maggie and I watched diving horses, all gone, replaced by something new, something I can only see while standing here at a distance, something I do not know.

  The Trillium, white, cuts the blue water.