J. Ellis stared at the front page of The Daily Record. He could no longer play the role of the magnanimous, trustworthy mayor after this goddamned story. The floodlights had suddenly turned on and were blinding him. He stared at the headline, the words blurring as he grew dizzy and felt a hot churning in his bowels. “MAYOR REED, FATHER OF WAYNE BUILDING & LOAN EMBEZZLERS.” A great heat rose inside him and he gripped the arms of his leather swivel chair. The telephone on his desk began ringing, as did the one outside his office.
“Sir?” Darla Adams, his faithful secretary, poked her head into the office.
“Not now!” he shouted, slamming a hand on the ink blotter.
The door closed quickly.
Don McAfee had confirmed that Isabelle had never married and her name was still Jacobs, although she had moved from Syracuse to Lackawanna, just outside of Buffalo. She had worked at the public library there. She had always loved to read.
There was a part of J. Ellis that felt genuine pride in Gilbert and Flora. Clever, respectable, and clearly possessing a better work ethic than even his top executives. And he marveled at the sheer ingenuity with which the embezzlement had been executed. He couldn’t believe they had pulled something like that off. In his most obtuse moments, he even took credit for how they had turned out as people, as though he’d had something to do with their upbringing.
Betty and Johnston had their trust funds. At the end of the day, he considered the money Gilbert and Flora stole as money that was probably rightfully theirs, in light of all the years he should have been sending funds to their mother but hadn’t. His fear of the paper trail leading back to him and to his wealthy, well-respected family was too strong. Allowing them to get away made J. Ellis Reed feel like his debt had been repaid, and that he’d finally done the right thing. He was almost sorry he couldn’t tell anyone of his unmitigated, covert benevolence, if only to have Betty revisit the idea of a J. Ellis Reed statue, or at least to have his grandchildren make him another sash.
He groaned and growled in frustration over the newspaper, beating his fists on the ink blotter and wiping the sweat from his face, sick over his imminent demise, or Gilbert’s death, or both.
Chapter 43
In every person’s life there comes a moment; an opportunity for redemption, a chance at genuine personal growth, to become a better human being. Sometimes this moment is preceded by a jolt of clarity or some startling occurrence or disaster; it often involves an unflinching, hard look at oneself and one’s actions, an enormous, and likely painful, gulp of pride, and a Herculean effort at apology.
It would have been nice if Betty Miller had recognized that moment, if she had been a big enough person to apologize to Vivian Dalton. She had intentionally leaked a very personal, deeply humiliating bit of information, and then attempted to publicly embarrass and shame Vivian about it at every opportunity. But, in order to apologize, Betty would have had to acknowledge, not to mention believe, that she had done something wrong, something that begged forgiveness. That what she’d done wasn’t a lesson that had needed to be taught, a score that had necessitated evening. But Betty Miller was almost blithely oblivious to her own behavior. How could she have been expected to find fault with herself, when she was so busy finding fault with everyone else? It was quite time-consuming, you understand. Everyone had to atone for something. Everyone except her and her father.
Despite several of her so-called friends drawing comparisons, she saw zero similarities between Edward Dalton’s secret first marriage scandal and her own father’s alleged illegitimate children scandal. She became pointedly resolute in proving that the photostat of the birth record had somehow been faked. It was impossible and inconceivable that her father, her father, would have done something so shameful.
Once the people of Wooster wrapped their heads around the fact that Gilbert and Flora had been of mixed race, they then began whispering that Gilbert and Flora had in fact looked a little like J. Ellis Reed. Something in the forehead, and maybe the jawline.
“Non-sense!” and “Pre-post-er-ous!” Betty had exclaimed.
Bystanders would have said she was shrieking, but Betty Miller did not shriek, she spoke very distinctly. The man who had impregnated the Negro woman (Betty made no distinction between mulatto and Negro), then abandoned her to raise two children alone (a shame, really, that was true), must surely have been someone else. She refused to believe it, even after her father admitted his wrongdoing.
He stated it very plainly Saturday afternoon (after everyone and their mothers had read both Daily Record articles about Gilbert Ogden), in the parlor of the Reeds’ house. Betty was there, in the smart new skirt and jacket set she’d bought at Beulah Bechtel’s, because she’d needed a little pick-me-up. In spite of the cost, the skirt and jacket hadn’t quite done it, so after shopping she tried, repeatedly and unsuccessfully, to telephone Dr. Charlton at home to request a prescription for Dexamyl. The Bell telephone lines seemed to be backed up again, which was proving to be quite the regular problem.
Her younger brother, Johnston, was at the house (and in need of a haircut), as was their mother. She sat pale and silent, but as lovely as ever, in the Prussian-blue dress set against the coral damask of the wing chair. Her father would not make eye contact with any of them, but he spoke clearly. He admitted everything, from the love affair with Isabelle Jacobs to the unplanned pregnancy to when he fled town. He even cried a little bit, but squeezed his eyes shut tight to fight back the tears. And still, Betty wouldn’t believe it. Her face became a grinning mask, like one of the Howdy Doody characters on the back panel of the Kellogg’s Rice Krispies box in her pantry. Her body was so rigid she was getting muscle spasms in her neck and back, and her hands had been clenched into fists for what seemed like days, the little Charitable Thoughts angel charm hanging impotent and forgotten from her wristwatch. She had braced herself for that family meeting, and the truth her father was trying to impart just bounced right off her invisible shield, deflected.
Betty didn’t try to understand why her father would have had a romantic relationship with a Negro, because to her it simply never happened. She might have tried to comfort her mother, like John was doing, but there was nothing to comfort her about. Everything was just fine. Mother was probably just tired. Betty was able to give her father a tight hug, because he was a wonderful man who had been treated very badly by the newspapers. Make no mistake, The Daily Record would be getting an earful from her. There were myriad ways she would make that paper suffer. She was privy to dozens and dozens of secrets and scandals of the people in Wooster, and she’d use that leverage to her advantage. Perhaps she would start her own newspaper. The kind of publication that would put out proper, wholesome content that would benefit the people of Wooster.
As she kissed her mother’s pale cheek and hugged her brother goodbye, she had already begun planning the luncheon. She slid her pocketbook over her wrist and pulled on the short beige leather gloves. It would be a bigger challenge to boycott the town’s most widely circulated newspaper, but she wasn’t worried. What would be the best food to serve at the luncheon? She’d ask Dolly.
But as she exited the house and walked toward the Cadillac parked outside, Betty had to concentrate on keeping her breathing even and her shoulders squared. The Coupe was the latest model, more fashionable than Marilyn Dean’s, but did that even matter now? Had it ever mattered? Her steps slowed on the driveway as she thought back to New Year’s Eve, when she’d been basking in the warm, hazy glow of her third champagne cocktail while all four of her children played Parcheesi under the lights of their grandparents’ Christmas tree. She remembered feeling happy then. Feeling happy and thinking that the only things that should matter are God, love, and family. Family.
She tucked herself onto the padded bench of the Coupe and pulled the heavy car door closed with a slam. Gripping the top of the steering wheel in her gloved hands, Betty let her shoulders slump and begin to shake as anguished sobs escaped her throat.
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sp; Chapter 44
“Gilbert Ogden!” “Ogden!” “Oh, my goodness, the Gilbert Ogden story!” “Did you read about Gilbert Ogden?” was what squawked out of every headset at the switchboard that week. The Eddie Fischer story had been buried by the Gilbert Ogden story. On any other day, it would have been big news, front page even, that someone had attacked that nice Charlotte Dalton (poor dear!), and then tried to break into the Daltons’ house by throwing a brick through the window. But with Gilbert Ogden being shot on the front page, Eddie Fischer had been pushed back to page two.
He’d been apprehended by the police not far from the Daltons’ house that night. Vivian had gone with Edward to the police station, grateful that Erma Gifford could stay at the house with Charlotte. It had been sad more than anything else. Here was this man, he wasn’t a kid anymore, Jesus, he was in his late twenties, and he was angry and confused and frustrated. Vivian knew what that felt like, and she knew just what he was missing. A connection to his father. Vivian could see that much in his eyes. His eyes that looked just like Edward’s, but a little more red and bloodshot from the Spray Net.
He wouldn’t say much to them, or to the police. But he asked to speak to Edward in private. The police said no, but they sent one officer into a room with the two of them, giving them a little more privacy. Vivian’d watched the clock on the wall of the station, wringing her handkerchief in her hands, thinking about how everything connected to Edward’s big lie just kept getting worse and worse. Happy goddamned Valentine’s Day.
Vivian hoped Eddie Fischer wouldn’t mention anything about her driver’s license to Edward. She’d lose the upper hand if Edward knew she’d gone to Syracuse, and she couldn’t have that. The upper hand was all she was hanging on to at this point. Holding on to the ends of slippery fingers.
She’d heard Eddie tell the police he wasn’t going to hurt Charlotte, just wanted to talk to her. “She’s my sister, right?” But he didn’t have an excuse for throwing the brick through the window. Vivian saw that brick and she saw the rage. She knew what that looked like. He would go back to Syracuse, maybe to jail. Vivian wasn’t sure if he had broken any laws by coming to Ohio, but she’d be glad when he left and went back to his life in New York. You’ve seen your father now, so that’s finished. Vivian’s insides clenched as a thought tiptoed into her mind. What if it wasn’t finished, though? What if this person was to be part of their lives now?
Edward and Vivian had left the police station in silence, and rode home in silence. They had entered the house in silence, and Vivian had helped Edward tape newspaper over the broken window in silence. Vivian would’ve been aware of the silence if her mind hadn’t been running a steady stream of chatter on its own. Did his son tell him I was in Syracuse? Is he angry with me? Is he angry with his son? What gives him the right to be angry? I’m the one who should be angry!
Charlotte skipped the Valentine’s Day dance and kept herself shut up in her room with an acute case of temporary agoraphobia. She’d played her Eddie Fisher record all night, and then all day Sunday, and would have played it all that next week, except the smaller story, on the second page of The Daily Record, after the story about Gilbert Ogden, told her that Edward “Eddie” Fischer was the name of the man who’d been arrested for destruction of property at the Dalton residence, and for assaulting Charlotte Dalton. Charlotte knew that she’d never again hear the name Eddie Fisher (no matter how it was spelled) without thinking of that attack.
It was all over school the following week. Eddie Fischer attacked Charlotte, and threw a brick through the window in their house. Some of the more gullible students believed it had been the crooner Eddie Fisher, and they wondered how Charlotte had even met him. She must have been some kind of girl to make Eddie Fisher crazy enough to throw a brick through her window. Sue, in particular, found that to be the absolute limits of hysterical. Not better than The Myth of Syphilis, but a close second. She went out of her way to encourage those rumors.
“Char,” she had said over chipped beef in the cafeteria, “if Eddie Fisher was throwing a brick through your window, you’d invite him in, at least, wouldn’t you?”
Charlotte had pulled a wan smile, wishing Sue didn’t have to make a joke out of everything. Sue had no idea how terrifying it had been, and it would be a while before Charlotte could see the humor in the Eddie Fisher rumors. Barb was more sympathetic.
“You must have been so scared!”
Charlotte had been so scared, and the fear had usurped the rest of the weekend. The fear kept her from going to the Valentine’s Day dance, and Charlotte also blamed the fear for sending Max Zimmerman right into the arms of Peggy Cline, who hadn’t experienced any kind of fear that night. Max couldn’t meet Charlotte’s eye at school, and Sue’s solution was, “He can take a handful of drop-dead pills, that’s what I say,” which sounded just fine to Charlotte.
After she read the details of the police report, Charlotte had broken the Eddie Fisher 45 over her knee, as well as her other Eddie Fisher records, and tossed them all in the wastebasket under the desk in her room.
Louis Jordan’s “Saturday Night Fish Fry” had filled the silence in her bedroom instead. Upbeat and peppy, it was exactly that kind of shocking “Negro music” Mrs. Barnes had been complaining about when her son Raymond brought that fast New York City girl home to meet her. Charlotte knew her mother held those same narrow-minded thoughts, and was probably cursing at the ceiling as the music blared above her in the kitchen.
Charlotte would have been surprised to see her mother pick up the record and read the title with a little wistfulness, when she went into Charlotte’s room to pick up stray items of clothing for that week’s wash. The Fish Fry. The good old McGinty Fish Fry. What she wouldn’t give to go back to those days, when her life in Wooster had been so much simpler.
Life in Wooster had become complicated for all the Daltons, and Charlotte couldn’t wait for the day she’d finally get to leave. When she made the cheerleading squad at Wooster High School that spring, wearing the brand-new saddle shoes her dad had bought her, she felt like she could probably wait it out a little longer. She would add cheerleading to her growing list of accomplishments (she was a joiner, all right) and ignore anyone who told her it wasn’t important. Max Zimmerman’s new girlfriend Peggy Cline had tried out as well. She hadn’t made it.
One more thing that made Charlotte feel a little better about Wooster was the exposé about Mayor Reed. She had read it until her eyeballs just about burst from their sockets, and she had finished the story with her mouth hanging wide open. She was willing to bet Mayor Reed’s granddaughter Margie Miller was probably shitting a brick right about then.
Chapter 45
Vivian didn’t know who had sent the photostat of Gilbert and Flora’s birth certificates to The Daily Record. Her copy was still tucked safely away in the bottom of the hatbox. She’d just about fainted when she saw the front page of the paper that day. She’d hustled upstairs to the bedroom closet and thrown off the lid of the hatbox. But there it was. Still sitting next to the cigarettes, which she still needed every once in a while, and never you mind.
On the long drive back from Syracuse she’d considered it. Well, she’d done more than just consider it. In her mind she pictured it’d be like that time she’d stood at the switchboard and scooped her arm under all those connected cords and in one fell swoop unplugged them all. She’d used her personal power to disrupt Wooster, and it had felt good, at first. The story about J. Ellis Reed would definitely disrupt Wooster, she’d thought as she drove that endless, barren stretch of highway between New York and Ohio, letting her mind wander in all sorts of directions. Vivian’s imagined version of the disrupting involved a dramatic scene where Betty Miller would be forced to read the details of the birth record aloud on television, during a commercial break for I Love Lucy.
Exposing J. Ellis Reed would’ve hurt that nasty Betty Miller the same way Betty’s rumor-spreading had hurt Vivian. And she might’ve done it, at some p
oint, if someone else hadn’t beaten her to it. But . . . she also might’ve kept it a secret. It was all too muddled now to really be sure, but Vivian decided to give herself a little pat on the back for resisting temptation and keeping the document hidden in the hatbox. She decided to look at it as a spiritual boost, continuing to push her in the direction of Good. Everyone needed a little boost now and then.
The spiritual boost was almost as rewarding to Vivian as the reassurance she’d gotten from that birth record. She’d always sensed Gilbert and Flora weren’t suited as a couple. I know people, goddam—She stopped herself in mid-thought, suddenly conscious that “goddammit” was not exactly in keeping with her spiritual boost. If she planned to continue on her route to Good she’d better watch her thoughts. Anyway, that sneaky Gilbert Ogden’d been shot, but there’d been no word of Flora Parker. Vivian wouldn’t be one bit surprised if she was off somewhere with her husband, Bill, enjoying the rest of that Wayne Building & Loan money. Because those two had looked like a couple of lovebirds to Vivian, and Vivian knew people.
The typewriter in the little attic room at the Dalton house had seen a whole lot more poetry, and not quite as many desperate letters to civic officials, as a result of the spiritual boost and the route to Good. She found that the poetry brought her a more peaceful sensation in her stomach, but the knots hadn’t disappeared completely. It was as if they’d been soaked in liquid and shrunk in size, but were now also just a little bit tighter and just a mite more difficult to untie.
Vivian’s leather pumps slapped over the damp pavement as she passed Freedlander’s on her way to work. Last week’s snow had melted and it was looking like that groundhog might have been wrong after all. Let’s hope so, she thought. I’ve had enough of winter. I’m ready for spring. She hummed “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” as the runoff from the melted snow ran in a mini-river along the curb next to her.
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