Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1)

by Terence M. Green

  I nodded slightly, feeling his presence everywhere.

  "Tell her everything's fine. Tell her I miss her." He offered his hand. I took it. His eyes sparkled.

  "Tell Father I'm fine, too."

  I nodded again. "I will."

  He smiled openly, warmly. "Nice meeting you, Leo."

  I smiled in return. "Margaret wants you to stay in touch."

  "I will," he said.

  And then he was gone.

  It happened like that.

  The moment of purity and insight and belief and hope and regret and possibility folded up and vanished into the stillness.

  I looked down at the cracks in the sidewalk, the shallow depression at my feet.

  I went back to room 8 at the Scott Hotel. For most of the night I sat in the blue upholstered easy chair, staring out the window into the darkness, seeing nothing, seeing everything.

  I think I fell asleep. I’m not sure.

  I’m not sure of much anymore.

  In the night, as before, perhaps as always, what seemed to be dreams may have been real, what seemed real may have been a dream.

  In the morning I went to the basement of the Scott Hotel and stood on a cement floor. Where the drain pit had been was a proper metal grill fixed in the floor. Everything was dry, reasonably modem.

  I stared at poured concrete walls. The entrance to the tunnel was gone.

  "Who are you?"

  I turned to see Stanley Matusik, balding and timeworn, standing at the foot of the stairs behind me.

  "I'm just who I said I was."

  "I know you. From somewhere."

  I nodded. "Maybe you do."

  He looked at me. The eyes searched. "You know, don't you."

  "I think so."

  "How?"

  "I just know."

  He knew it was true. "Been over fifty years." Then he asked. "What do you know?"

  "I know it didn't work. I know they're in there. Jack, Jimmy, George." I glanced at the wall where the tunnel had been.

  "Yes and no," he said.

  My senses sharpened. Maybe I didn't know.

  "You know about the rain. About the flood." Statements, not questions.

  "Yes."

  "Whole goddamn thing came down. Water turned everything to mud, everywhere. Filled both tunnels solid, like they was never there. When it stopped, when it finally receded, when everything dried up, you couldn't even tell there'd been anything but solid ground there ever." He walked over to the concrete wall, stared at the opening in his mind. "We dug the whole thing out again. Me, Henry, Emmett, and some others. Took us eight weeks to do it properly. By then, rumors was goin' 'round. Folks in town seemed to know what had happened. Jimmy and George's families must've talked. We asked 'em not to." He shrugged. "What can you do? Don't really blame 'em."

  He turned and looked at me.

  I waited.

  "We found Jimmy and George. Found their bodies."

  His stare became a probe as he studied my face.

  "Never did find Jack."

  I realized that I had stopped breathing.

  "He wasn't there."

  "What do you mean he wasn't there?"

  "Gone. Don't know what happened to him."

  "That's impossible."

  "Yes," he said. "I know."

  He walked with me up the stairs and out into the morning air.

  We sat on the veranda.

  A steady drizzle had started. Steam rose off the sidewalk.

  "Could tell it was goin' to rain, the last coupla nights." He folded his hands in his lap, looked at me, looked at the sky.

  "Maybe you just missed him. Maybe he got washed away." I tried what I had been thinking aloud, tried them to make sure.

  He shook his head.

  "I don't understand."

  "Not sure I do either. Man goes into the earth, doesn't come out." Again, he shook his head. "We made certain, before we sealed it all up. Took Jimmy and George to their families. They buried them in family plots on their properties out of town. Like I said, rumors were flyin'. Nobody asked too many questions, though. There was enough talk that we forgot the whole idea of the bank, the money. Wouldn't've worked no more." He stared hard at my face. "Like there's somethin' missin' when I look at you, Leo. Like there's somethin' I can't remember. Like you're a piece of the puzzle, but I can't fit it in."

  Whatever had happened to me, I realized, hadn't happened to him the same way.

  He studied, probed, frowned. "Can't get hold of it. Like a wisp in my head, then it's gone. Like I should know somethin' more about you. But it's fuzzy. It's blurry." He was quiet for several seconds. Then: "It couldn't've been, though, could it?"

  "No," I said. "It couldn't."

  "Mind plays tricks on you. 'Specially when you get old."

  "Plays tricks on everyone," I said.

  "Dug a new basement out in forty-seven," he said. "After the war. Put jacks under the whole building. Poured a new concrete foundation." He pondered. "Our scheme, everything we did before that, seems like madness when I think about it now."

  "Was the times," I said. "There was a kind of madness everywhere." I thought of George walking twenty-five miles looking for a job. I thought of Henry, whose little girl's hair fell out. Of Emmett, whose little boy died of scarlet fever.

  "What happened to Henry? To Emmett?"

  "Died," said Stanley. "Both of them died back in the sixties. Long time ago. Henry had cancer. Emmett just seemed to die. Heart, I think."

  "So it's over."

  "I'm alive. Ain't over in my head. Long's I'm alive," he said, "it ain't over." His eyes weakened. Thinking. Weighing.

  I remembered the looks he had given Jack and Teresa, his knowledge of something between them. And I realized that I could never know what his motives had been for sending Jack into the tunnel that last time.

  Or whether he knew himself.

  2

  Midafternoon, I stood, facing the cliffs on the opposite shore of the Ohio. Then I sauntered in the warm rain to the park behind the library at 17th and Central, to stare at the mounds of the three Indian graves. I sat on the park bench, thinking about entire villages beneath my feet, of their lives and loves and commerce thousands of years ago.

  Of the layers beneath us all.

  When the sky began to clear and the rain let up and I became more aware of my wet clothing, I realized that it was time to go.

  Glancing one last time at the mounds, I left.

  In my room I packed my things. My eyes lighted on the microwave, the bar fridge, and I thought of Emma's efforts to accommodate me, to encourage me to stay.

  Emma.

  And it hit me for the first time.

  I stepped into the parlor and gazed in wonder at the child's portrait in the elongated oval frame.

  Yes, I thought.

  "It's me."

  I turned to see Emma Matusik standing behind me.

  "It was taken in nineteen forty-one. I was six years old."

  I thought of how she had wanted me to stay, of how Jack had wanted me to stay. You could see him in her eyes. You could see the sudden, startling blue. You could see the cheekbones, the dark curly hair. Jack. My mother. The Radey features.

  "Did you find Jack Radey?" she asked.

  Hotels, rivers, tunnels spanning two countries flooded into my head. I saw men digging, women working, and Jack and Teresa together, stealing what they could from life.

  "Yes," I said, and felt my heart swell in my chest as I looked at her, at my cousin.

  "I needed to find him, too," she said.

  I nodded, understanding.

  "My mother told me enough of the story when she was ready to tell it, when I was ready to hear it. I was in my twenties. I found an old book from the local library at the back of a shelf in my mother's closet. I was looking for one of her sweaters for her. I picked it up, wondered why it hadn't been returned. There was a photograph of a young man between its pages. It was a photo of Jack. He used to take pict
ures, you know."

  I knew.

  "Mother didn't keep any other mementos. It didn't seem right. She and my father built a good life together. They managed to live with it."

  "Does Stanley know?"

  "Mother says he doesn't. But I think he does. He's never said anything, though. He's a good man." She paused. "I love him very much."

  "Does your mother still have the photo? The book?"

  "She gave them to me. I have them."

  I waited.

  "Would you like to see them?"

  "Yes," I said.

  Carefully, I opened the fifty-year-old copy of Maugham's Moon and Sixpence, held the yellowed black-and-white photograph in my fingers, and lingered over the incredible piercing eyes and the dazzling white smile for the last time.

  SEVENTEEN

  Writing letters is actually an intercourse with ghosts, and by no means just with the ghost of the addressee but also with one's own ghost, which secretly evolves inside the letter one is writing.

  —Franz Kafka

  Letters to Milena

  1

  Jeanne approached me along the curved counter with her pencil poised over a yellow receipt pad. Her smile had started the second she caught sight of me coming through the doors. "You still hungry, fella? Can't get enough of Kentucky cooking?'' The strand of hair fell out from behind her ear.

  "You just whetted my appetite."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "Interested in a little excitement?"

  "Fast lane. Life on the edge. It's where I live. Look around you." She jerked her head to indicate the nearly empty store.

  "How far's Cincinnati?"

  " 'Bout ninety miles."

  "If you can get out of here a little early, you, me, and Adam could be sitting down in some good seats at Riverfront Stadium by game time. The Cardinals are in town for a set. Should be a good game. You know much about baseball?"

  "Hardly a damn thing."

  "Want to go?"

  She was undoing her apron. "I'd like to see them try to stop me."

  It was a hot, humid night, perfect for baseball. The Reds won on a line single to right field in the ninth by Dave Parker. We ate hot dogs and ice cream, and bought the overpriced programs.

  On the way out of the stadium, I paid $5 for a pennant for Adam and watched his face light up.

  Jeanne put her arm through mine and pulled me to her tightly.

  It was past midnight when we got back. Jeanne got Adam to bed, then went with me downstairs to sit on the steps of the veranda.

  A summer night in Ashland was everything a summer night should be.

  When I looked at Jeanne, she was watching me. "Something's happened."

  "Yes," I said. "Something has happened."

  "You found your uncle."

  I tilted my head to one side, trying to decide what to say that would make sense. "Yes and no."

  She waited.

  "Found out he isn't here anymore. Found out he's probably dead."

  She leaned her head against my shoulder.

  "I found his daughter."

  "Any other family?"

  I thought about it. "Not that I know of," I said.

  "She living here?"

  "Yes."

  "Married?"

  "No."

  "Her mother?"

  "Never married my uncle. Married someone else. Still married to him." I paused. "It's complicated."

  Her hand covered mine. We sat in silence for a while. Then Jeanne looked up at the night sky. "Rain's passed."

  I looked up, too.

  "You're leaving, aren't you." A statement.

  I looked down, nodded.

  She squeezed my hand. "We had a good time."

  "I got a job back home. Family."

  "I know."

  "Have to go back."

  "I know."

  I didn't know what else to say.

  "Will you stay with me tonight?" she asked.

  "I'd like that," I said. "I'd like that very much."

  2

  I left Ashland the next morning, crossed the Ohio, went along 52 to 23, and north. I saw a small family cemetery high up on a hill and thought of how much more natural it was to bury one's dead like that than the way it is for most of us now.

  I thought of George and Jimmy.

  I had lunch at the Court Café in Bucyrus.

  Later, because it was hot, and because I was tired, I pulled off Route 4—the Lincoln Highway—just south of 20, had a Pepsi at the gas station, and read a poster for the Seneca Cacverns, the ones I had read about on my way to Ashland.

  I got back in the car and followed the signs. Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a modest picnic area, parked, and walked into the rickety gift shop. The sign above the shop announced: Enter the Caves in Here.

  I told myself I needed the break. I bought a ticket for the next tour.

  There were about twenty of us.

  A local high school girl led us down the poured cement stairs. I felt the temperature drop into the fifties, felt the sweat cool on my skin. I left the upper world behind.

  The cavern was not a solution cavern. It had been formed by an earthquake, millions of years ago—a giant crack in the earth. The roofs and floors, it is pointed out, would fit perfectly into one another if compressed.

  The high school girl delivered her well-rehearsed speech at each point of interest. When we reached the bottom we were introduced to "Old Mist'ry River," which, we were told, had defied all attempts to measure its depth or locate its source. The stream's only inhabitants were amphipods—half-inch-long shrimplike creatures.

  I asked her if it ever rose up higher into the caverns.

  "During freshet thaw," she said. "Ten years ago it rose right up to within ten feet of the entranceway. But," she added, "it always recedes again. It always drops back to its proper level."

  I nodded, remembering my mother's words. Jack was here. And my father.

  Turning, we retraced our steps, up out of the cavern. I wanted to go home.

  At Detroit, I crossed the border into Windsor.

  In Toronto, life went on.

  I returned to my job, visited my father occasionally. He had been right, I guess. In the kitchen, that day before I left, he had simplified it. Things have to be settled, or they never go away.

  At first, I phoned Jeanne weekly. Then it was twice a week.

  August became September. The nights became cooler, but I still tossed, slept restlessly, alone.

  By late September, we were talking every night.

  When the phone rang, I expected it to be Jeanne.

  It was my father.

  "Another letter came," he said.

  I had thought it had ended. I had thought it was over. "From Ashland? From Jack?"

  "From Jack. But not from Ashland. Come and see."

  I saw the river rise up one more time, saw it carrying bodies, filling caverns.

  I hung up and left.

  The yellowed envelope had the two-cent Washington red and the green one-cent counterpart. It was postmarked Bucyrus, Ohio, December 23,1934. It was stationery from the Highway again, the same place as one of the first batch of letters that had arrived before my trip south.

  "On the Nation's Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway."

  My father handed me the letter that had been inside. It was dated the same as the postmark on the envelope.

  Dear Margaret:

  Sorry I haven't written for so long, but I've been more than a little busy. And I've always been a little careless, as you well know.

  Things didn't work out in Ashland. You have no idea how I wish they had. It's kind of complicated, and a long story—but there was some trouble (nothing that you should worry about) and I figured it was certainly time to go.

  Bucyrus is pretty. I'm doing lots of manual labor, and have discovered that shoveling manure here smells the same as it does everywhere else. Odd jobs are scarce, but so far I can make enough for food, a place to stay,
and a pack of cigarettes. What more could a fella want?

  How I got here—now there's a story. But I'll save it for another time. Your little brother has managed to get out of a tight scrape and land on his feet. I guess I'm learning to survive. Father would be proud of me.

  I trust Father is well.

  You know, Marg, I'm beginning to miss Toronto. There's lots of times when I sit here in my room and think back to Berkeley Street. It wasn't so bad, you know? And remember Margueretta Street? And High Park? Honest to God, I don't think I know what I'm looking for anymore, Marg. I guess I just came back to this place out of habit, cause it was a place I'd been before. Last time I was here, I complained that the town was dead and that nothing happened. This time it seems just fine for now. Maybe I'm gettin' old, and can sit on the park benches with the old-timers better now.

  Actually, it's the fact that Xmas is only two days away that's got to me. I miss everyone dearly, and feel kind of alone right now. I wish I could see you again, but it isn't in the cards right now. Remember how we used to string the popcorn with Mother, while Father would sit and smile and smoke his cigar? Gee, I must be gettin' sentimental. That was a long time ago.

  I'm coming back to Toronto someday, Marg. You can bet on it. I want to see everyone. I still want to make something of myself, cause I know I can.

  Think of me Xmas morning, when you and Tommy and the kids are opening your presents.

  I'm sending along a little something for everyone for Xmas. Buy something nice for yourself and for the kids. And I'd like to ask a favor. Could you send the enclosed to Teresa Matusik, c/o The Scott Hotel, Ashland, Kentucky? I don't want to send it myself, cause too many questions might be asked. So if you can keep it for a while till you get to Port Dover next summer and mail it from there. That way, it wouldn't have a Toronto postmark on it, and that's important to me. The whole thing is kind of private, if you know what I mean.