He was moving, had moved, is moving, deep into the heart of America. It was clear. America: the Melting Pot. Canada: the Event Horizon.
Down the Lincoln Highway. Assimilated. Ingurgitated.
Then and now.
And tomorrow.
The letter that arrived July 5 was the briefest—written on a torn piece of stationery. It was from Ashland, Kentucky. The hotel this time was called the Scott Hotel, and the letterhead underlined its features: “Fire Proof—Moderate Price—Tub and Shower Baths.” It had been postmarked July 1,1934.
Dear Margaret:
Just a line to ask how you are, and how things are going in Toronto. I am doing pretty well down here. I have my own car now, have had it for a week, a Dodge Roadster. How are Tommy and the kiddies? Say Hello to Father for me.
I’ll be in touch.
Love,
Jack
4
I usually take my holidays in august. I like the weather, the heat, the end of summer. I usually head north, rent a cottage, do some fishing. The splash of a smallmouth bass taking a surface lure on an August evening can make the hairs on my neck stand up straight.
This year, I headed south.
Detroit, Toledo, Bucyrus, Ashland.
I had to see for myself.
I told my father. He nodded, sitting in the kitchen.
Outside, the girders rose up out of the pit, giving shape to the police station. The parking lot was gone.
There was no Vermont Hotel in Detroit. There were Holiday Inns, Hyatts, Hiltons. An office building stood on the site where 138 West Columbia would have been.
I drove on.
There was no 117—17th Street in Toledo. At least not any longer.
I took Route 20 East from Toledo to Bellevue, veered south on 269 to 4, then south the last twenty-five miles or so to Bucyrus.
Just south of Bellevue, I passed a billboard advertising the Seneca Caverns, “Popularly known as The Earth Crack.” The last thing my eye caught as I drove by was the blurb for the Caverns’ “Old Mist’ry River,” which “has defied all attempts to measure its depth or located its source.”
Crevices in the earth, I thought. Running in all directions.
Route 4. The Lincoln Highway. Bucyrus.
I tried to imagine it as Jack had seen it, leading into the splendor of America, offering him his fortune. A pleasant little burg. Sherwood Anderson country.
I drove back and forth along the main route twice, tasting, searching, looking for more than just the Highway Inn. In some way, I was looking for Jack.
He was not here, though. J.C. Penney was here. So was First Federal Savings, Rexall Drugs, Halliwell Hardware, Kork ’N’ Cap Drive Thru, Radio Shack, H&R Block, and Holiday Inn. Gray-and-white Kiwanis garbage bins were strategically located to polish the exterior.
The Highway was gone. Amish Cheese was still here.
I had no idea where Jack was.
That night I stayed at the Holiday Inn.
The next day, I got back onto 23, and took it all the way to Ashland, Kentucky. At Portsmouth, I crossed the Ohio River.
It was hot and humid, as only August can be.
I stopped at a Burger King for lunch, scanning the local phone books for a Scott Hotel. There was no listing. Instead of “Fire Proof—Moderate Price—Tub and Shower Baths,” I was regaled with modern attractions: color TV (twenty-four-hour movies); sauna baths; free in-room coffee; kingsize waterbeds; luxury rooms … People stayed at the Ramada Inn in 1984— not the Scott.
I finished my lunch. I had come all this way to see, to try to understand.
Getting into my car, I began to drive, touring the streets casually, my arm resting on the open window ledge.
J.C. Penney was here, too. So was Wendy’s, McDonald’s, and Arby’s. Chevron Gas, McCreary Tires, Midas Mufflers. Dairy Cheer—Home of the Smashburger, ABC Drive Thru Liquors. Sears. The Ashland Oil Company.
I made a haphazard left onto 14th Street from Winchester, and I saw it. The Scott Hotel. A creaking rooming house, whose very foundation had shifted, giving it a perceptible list, out of plumb with its surroundings.
The sweat ran into my eyes. At least, I think it was the sweat. I may have been crying. I don’t know.
THREE
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Great Gatsby
1
Opening my eyes, I blinked several times. It was still there, avatar of a bygone era, unassuming and pale.
The Scott Hotel.
I glanced at my watch. It was 3:00 p.m. Easing the car to the curb, I parked.
It was an accident that I had found it. At least, I thought it was an accident.
I got out, walked up to the dilapidated front porch, noted the motionless swing seat tucked in its corner, studied the moon-shaped wells in the three steps before me, and took them smoothly, arriving at the front door. A giant oval of beveled glass, frosted at the edges, was implanted in a heavy wooden frame, laden with innumerable coats of paint, the latest of which was a drab olive green. A cast-iron knocker hung to the right of the glass, chest high. I used it. Then I took a step back, waiting.
When the door was pulled open from within, a small wiry woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in the hallway. Her eyes were shadowed and squinting. I was unable to see the end of the hall behind her.
For a moment, we merely confronted one another. Then she spoke. “Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m—” I was at a temporary loss. She smiled, tilting her head to one side. I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what to ask. My journey—everything—seemed impossibly foolish.
Yet there were the letters. I had them in the car—in the glove compartment. They were real. They existed.
I tried again. “I’m looking for—Jack Radey.”
The smile disappeared slowly, a receding ripple from a stone cast far out into a still pond.
She stood there.
I waited.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
I crossed the threshold, entering the past.
We were in a parlor, furnished in leftovers from the thirties and forties. The afternoon sun streamed through partly open venetian blinds into the dim interior, dust motes floating idly in the slanted bars of light.
“Sit down.” She indicated the worn, wine-colored sofa, a needlepoint pillow at each end.
I sat, watching how my presence stirred the weightless specks.
She seated herself in a threadbare easy chair, letting seconds elapse as she appeared to gather her thoughts. “Who are you?” she asked, finally.
“My name is Leo Nolan. I’m from Toronto, Canada.”
She folded her hands.
“I have an uncle named Jack Radey. My family hasn’t heard from him for quite a long time. This was one of his last known addresses.”
She listened, without responding.
“I’m on vacation. I’m a circulation manager for the Toronto Star newspaper. I’m doing some touring down here in the States. Thought I’d stop by Ashland and see what I could find out—if anything—about Jack.”
Her dark eyes clouded. “When did you last hear from Jack Radey?”
“It was a long time ago.”
The woman waited.
“Fifty years ago.”
Her eyes closed. The dust motes drifted downward, a slow-motion waterfall.
“I’m Emma Matusik,” she said. “I know the name. Jack Radey.”
I shifted to the edge of the sofa, intent on her words.
“It’s from before my time. My parents own the hotel. It isn’t much now. But it had its day. There are people who have lived here for years. Mr. Bannerman, for example. Been with us for twenty-three years, last February. Jack Radey did live here, off and on, for quite a while from what I understand.”
“When did he leaved Where did he go?”
“You’d have to ask my parents that.”
/>
“Was it recently?” I leaned forward.
“Oh, no. Like you said—it was a long time ago. I don’t remember any of it. It’s all just stories I’ve heard.”
“Stories?”
She hesitated, thinking. “Would you like to speak with my parents, Mr. Nolan?”
“Yes,” I said. The calmness of my voice masked the excitement I felt. “Very much.”
Her parents, I realized when I saw them, must have been eighty years old. Emma Matusik led them into the parlor, seating them on the upholstered settee at the end of the room nearest to me.
I rose and went over to them, offering my hand. “I’m Leo Nolan.”
The old man accepted the gesture, shaking my hand. Then, peering at me, he said, “I know you.”
I held his hand, taken aback. “I don’t think so.”
He squinted, confusion entering his eyes.
His wife had been staring, too, struggling with some memory.
The old man shook his head. “You look like someone I used to know. Name Leo rings a bell, too.” He shook his head again. “Was a long time ago.”
The old woman spoke. “Maybe your father?”
I shrugged. “Don’t think so,” I said. “Don’t see how.” Their reaction to me only left me more curious than ever. Maybe, I thought, I look like Jack Radey. Maybe it’s a family resemblance.
Then I looked at them again, at their fragility, their age. Maybe it’s nothing, I realized.
The old man let my hand drop. “I’m Stanley Matusik,” he said. “This is my wife, Teresa.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I sat back down.
“What is it we can do for you, Mr. Nolan?”
I glanced at the daughter, wondering what she had told them. She remained silent.
The old man’s face had a lined toughness to it, his sparse white hair sprouting in tufts on the sides of his head. The woman did not meet my eyes; although the years had grayed her, she had clearly once been quite striking.
The air in the room was Kentucky still and warm.
“I don’t know if your daughter told you. I’m from Toronto, Canada. I have an uncle named Jack Radey. I understand he used to live here.”
The room awakened slowly. From an August slumber on the Ohio River, it rolled over, sat up, and crackled like an Ontario fall, the dust falling between us now like autumn leaves.
For a frozen moment, no one spoke. The old woman finally looked up, staring directly at and through me. Emma, the daughter, said nothing, waiting. It was left for Stanley Matusik to break the silence. “Is this a joke? Is that it?” His eyes narrowed as he set his mouth.
“A joke? Good Lord, no.” I was taken by surprise. “I don’t know what you mean.” I looked from one to the other of them, trying to interpret.
The old man put his hand to his chin, spreading his thumb along his jawline. He dropped his eyes, then stared back at me. His wife placed her hand on his free arm, gently.
“Like I know you. Like I seen you somewhere before.” He mulled it over. “Who’d you say you were?” he asked.
“I’m his nephew—Jack Radey’s,” I said, conscious of trying to clear the air of any possible misunderstanding. “He was my mother’s brother. My mother died recently, and one of the things she really wanted was to see Jack. Or at the very least, to know what happened to him. She hadn’t heard from him in years.” The letters, I thought. No. Not yet. “One of the last addresses she had for him was here, at the Scott Hotel. So I thought I’d drop by and see what I could find out—since I was down this way.” I added the last part in order to try to restore a casual atmosphere to my inquiries. There were things hovering unsaid on all our parts—ghosts that none of us was dealing with particularly well.
The past.
“Yes,” the old man said finally. “Jack lived here.” He nodded. “He did indeed.”
He placed his own hand atop his wife’s, on his arm.
“He left a long time ago.”
“When?”
“Nineteen thirty-five.” “Where did he go?”
A shrug. “Not sure.” A flicker in his eyes, a candle stirred by a door opening.
I tried another tack. “What did he do while he was here?”
“Took pictures, for a while. Then he worked at the King’s Daughters Hospital.”
Something new. Something I didn’t know. A small wedge, perhaps. “This is in Ashland?”
He seemed to relax, on familiar terrain. “You betcha. Opened during the First World War, as a three-room emergency hospital. The state’s just poured eighteen million into it. Gonna be a hundred new jobs at least, they say.” He paused. “This old city can sure use them,” he added.
“What did he do at the hospital?”
“Worked as a night janitor. Can’t remember how long. Six months. A year. Something like that.”
“And then?”
“Then he left. He was gone. Like that.” He spread his callused hands and stared at me, the candle in his eyes burning cleanly. “You’re young. You wouldn’t know. It was the thirties, you know. Things like that happened.”
I nodded.
We sat in silence.
“I’d like to stay for a while,” I said.
They seemed surprised. “How long?” the old man asked.
“A week. Two. Then I’ll have to go back.”
“Hardly anybody stays here anymore, Mr. Nolan.” It was the second time that I had heard Teresa Matusik’s voice. There was the trace of an accent, long buried, that lent a richness to the words. “You might be more comfortable at a newer place. More up-to-date.”
“Of course we have room,” said Emma Matusik, intercepting her mother. “Lots of empty rooms. There’s only Mr. Bannerman, Mrs. Kristensen, and Miss Maurice here now—besides us. We’d be honored.”
I smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Then I turned to the senior couple and asked it. “If you can remember what room Jack stayed in, I’d like the same one. Is that possible^”
Mrs. Matusik’s lips parted as if to say something, but nothing came out. The candle continued to flicker in Stanley Matusik’s eyes.
I wanted to go into the past. I couldn’t help myself.
2
The Scott Hotel was a rambling old three-story house. As I was led through it and up to the third floor, I glanced at dark turns in hallways and closed doors with tarnished brass numbers on them, aware of secrets they would not yield. Stanley Matusik plodded ahead steadily, with remarkable stamina for a man his age. When we reached the third floor, he stopped between two doors, numbered 8 and 9.
“Nobody comes up here much anymore,” he said. “Too much trouble. Too many stairs.” He turned the doorknob of number 8. “Jack stayed in here.”
The door swung inward and open.
“Did you ever hear of the ‘Battle of Toledo?’” Stanley Matusik stepped aside and let me precede him into the room.
A white-painted iron bedstead. A wooden-veneer chest of drawers. Venetian blinds. A blue upholstered easy chair, facing an RCA black-and-white TV. An oak wardrobe with a mirror inset in the door.
“No,” I replied. “I haven’t.”
The door to a small bathroom was ajar. I could see the wall sink and a towel bar.
“It happened fifty years ago.”
I turned to look at him.
“Was one of the reasons Jack left Toledo, came to Ashland.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“This room’s got its own bathroom. There’s a few that do. Was one of the reasons Jack took it, way up here on the third.”
“Toledo. Jack,” I interjected. “What happened?”
He looked at me. “It was the Depression. In nineteen thirty-four, everybody seemed to be on strike. Must’ve happened even up there in Canada.” He waited.
“It did.”
He went over to the chest of drawers, leaned on it. “Toledo was a little Detroit. Automobile parts,” he said. “Depression ruined Toledo—especially in
thirty-four. It was big news even down here. Willys-Overland—made that jeep—employed thirty thousand people. Went bankrupt. Ohio Bond and Security Bank closed its doors. City couldn’t make payrolls.” He shook his head. “It was bad.” He stared off into space. “Electric Auto-Lite, though. That was the one.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Matusik?”
He glanced at me, then at the easy chair. “Might be a good idea.” He sat down.
I faced him, sitting on the side of the bed.
“You never heard about it?” he asked again.
“No.”
“Was in all the newspapers.” He thought about this, then shrugged. “Auto-Lite made lighting, starting, ignition systems. Had contracts with Packard, Nash, Studebaker, Hudson, Willys.” He looked at me. “All of them gone now. Strange, isn’t it?”
I nodded, as kindly as I could.
“In thirty-four, they got the Chrysler account. A whopper. You could see it coming: lots of product, low wages. Same old story.” His eyes focused far away. “They went on strike.” He frowned. “Company brought in strikebreakers, special deputies, armed its company guards and stored munitions in the plant.”
“Where was Jack in all this?”
“I’m gettin’ to that.” He continued, lost in his own memories. “There was mass picketing—thousands. City police couldn’t handle it all, so the sheriff deputized special police, paid by Auto-Lite. After a few days, the crowd, they say, had reached ten thousand. One of the hothead deputies grabbed an old man and beat him, in front of everybody, and that was it.”
I waited.
“The Battle of Toledo. May nineteen thirty-four. It had started. The picketers cordoned off the fifteen hundred strikebreakers inside the factory—kept them there from noon till midnight that day. Deputies in the plant and on the roof fired tear gas, covered an area four blocks around in the stuff. They hurled bolts and iron bars, used water hoses—even some gunfire. Crowd fought back with bricks and stones. Some fires were set.” He shook his head again. “Ugly stuff. Ugly.”
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 3