“Yes.”
“I didn’t know he was writing to her.” She looked down. “I didn’t know enough about him at all.” Her hands remained folded.
I tilted my head. “I don’t understand.”
“Stanley doesn’t know.”
I was quiet.
“He wouldn’t have liked it if he’d known I’d accepted such a gift from another man. It would’ve undermined him. But,” she said, “I couldn’t resist. I guess I was weak.” A fragile smile. “Such vanity. I was just a girl. It’d been years since I’d had my hair done in a beauty shop. Years. So I accepted it. But I kept quiet about it, and made Jack promise not to tell anyone around here. I didn’t know he was writing to his sister.” She shook her head. “Didn’t know at all.”
My heart was slowing down. I sat back.
From deep within her aging body, she looked out at me. “I felt real pretty afterwards. First time in quite a while.” She nodded, remembering. “Real pretty.”
“I won’t say anything.”
She was grateful. “Thank you.” There was more she wanted to say, but it wasn’t going to come. Not now. Not yet.
At ten minutes to six, I sat down at the curved counter and stared at Jeanne.
She put her hands on her hips. “You here for the big dinner? We close in ten minutes. Can’t be done.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
She looked at me curiously.
“I don’t know anything about you, so if I’m out of line, just tell me. I’m a big boy. I can take it.” I wasn’t much good at this stuff. “But if you’re not involved with anyone, and feel so inclined, I was thinking you might join me for dinner. My treat. I’d enjoy the company.”
There. I’d done it. I’d learned long ago: expect nothing, and you won’t be disappointed. But every now and then, you’ve got to try.
She was clearly a subscriber to the first part of my theory. Her slightly openmouthed expression was one of complete bemusement.
She started to speak, then stopped.
I sat there, trying not to feel like a schoolboy.
“You’re a real mover, Leo from Canada,” she said, finally. “Been a long time since I’ve had a dinner date. Especially with an exotic traveler.” She stood back, eying me playfully. “Tell you what.”
“What?” I asked.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “We’ll start with a coffee and talk about it. There are complications.”
At least it wasn’t “no.” I nodded, approving. “One step at a time,” I said.
We went to a diner, half a block away, and sat in a booth.
She stirred some sugar into her coffee. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“Nolan. Leo Nolan.”
She tapped the spoon on the cup’s rim, then placed it in the saucer. “And you don’t care what my name is.”
“I care. Very much. I’d love to know your name.”
She put her tongue in her cheek and looked at the ceiling. “Right,” she said. “I’m Jeanne Berney.”
“I knew I’d like the name.”
“Just how lonely are you, Leo Nolan?”
I chuckled, then began tending to my own coffee. The woman across from me was a veteran of the male-female game, and like veterans of anything, she survived because of instincts and some kind of innate sinew. I liked survivors. I wanted to be one. “Nothing abnormal. Just medium lonely. Stranger in a strange land.”
“You married?”
“No.”
“Honest?”
I nodded. “Honest.”
She thought about it. “Guys traveling. You never know. Guy your age, isn’t married, but likes women. Makes a woman wonder.” She sipped her coffee.
“Wonder what?”
“What the story is.”
“The story,” I said. “The story is that I’m not such a hot item. I was married once. Back in the early seventies. I’ve been divorced for a long time.”
She pressed two fingers against her cheekbone and studied me. “Any children?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend back home?”
“Look at me. What’s the hot item?”
She smiled.
“See what I mean?”
She conceded it.
“Since we’re doing inventory, what about you?”
She let several seconds lapse before finally answering. “I’m not married. But I’ve got a kid. Little boy. He’s ten. You like kids?”
“I think so.”
“Good.” She formed a ring around her cup with the thumb and index finger of each hand. “’Cause if you want to eat with me tonight, you got to include him.”
I smiled. “It’s a good deal,” I said.
“And I pick the spot.”
I must have looked as bemused as she had, back in Woolworth’s.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We got simple tastes.”
The sun, even after six, was still hot as we walked.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“His name’s Adam.”
“What does he do all day in the summer while you’re at work?”
“Plays with his friends. I hope,” she added. “Lots of baseball.”
“Who looks after him?”
“My parents. That’s where we’re going now.”
“Nice of them.”
“It’s mostly my mother,” she said. Then: “Where you staying?”
“The Scott Hotel.”
“Don’t know that one.”
I smiled. “I’m not surprised.”
She walked beside me unselfconsciously. I guessed that she had thickened at the waist in the last five years or so, but her figure was still quite feminine, without attracting attention. I considered my own shape now, aware of how my chest had somehow begun to slip toward my beltline of late. I had thinning hair and new creases in my face. We were both, I realized, safely anonymous, and it made me feel comfortable to be with her.
“What do you do in Toronto?”
“I work for the Toronto Star. It’s a newspaper.”
“Doing what?”
“Circulation manager. They divide up the city into districts, and there are a dozen of us. We look after home and newsstand delivery for our district. Handle accounts, routes, like that.”
“They need twelve of you?”
“Toronto’s a big city. Three million people.”
“I didn’t realize.”
We waited at a traffic light. “How big’s Ashland*?” I asked.
“About thirty thousand.”
I thought about it. “Could a person get lost here, permanently?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could he come here and hide forever?”
“Don’t know if you can do that anywhere.” She looked at me. “You thinkin’ of doin’ that?”
I shrugged. “No,” I said. I squinted into the sun, shading my eyes to peer across the street. “I was thinking of someone else.”
The light changed. We crossed the road.
We went up the steps onto the porch of the modest frame bungalow on Carter, east of 30th, and opened the wooden screen door.
“Mom?”
“Inhere.”
We went inside.
Mrs. Berney was a small, portly woman in a large house-dress. She looked at me curiously.
“Mom, this is Leo Nolan.”
I held out my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
She accepted the gesture. “Nice to meet you.” Her hand was warm.
Jeanne glanced around. “Where’s Adam?”
“Down at the lot. Playin’ some baseball with Kenny.”
“Good. Thanks. See you tomorrow morning.” She kissed her mother on the cheek, squeezed her shoulder, and headed back toward the front door.
I followed. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Berney.”
“Pleasure.” She placed her hands on her hips and watched us as we went through the screen door
. I thought I saw a smile on her face.
The lot turned out to be a vacant, fenced-in parking lot, adjacent to a boarded-up factory. There were two kids in it—one hitting fly balls, the other catching and fielding them. What made it challenging was the weed growth and the intermittent six-inch-high, six-foot-long cement parking dividers still in place.
We watched for a minute. The kids didn’t seem to notice either the field’s limitations or us.
“Adam!” Jeanne raised her arm.
The kid in the field put his hand over the visor of his cap, shading his eyes more fully, then raised his own arm.
“Who’s Kenny?” I asked, indicating the tiny batter.
“Neighbor. They spend a lot of time together.”
Adam Berney trotted over, a tiny imitation of every major league fielder headed for the bench that he had ever seen on TV. His mother bent down, gave him a quick kiss on the side of the head. Ignoring her, he waved to his friend, who waved back.
“Adam, this is Mr. Nolan.”
“How you doing, Adam?” I held out my hand.
He looked out at me from under his Cincinnati Reds cap, a squint of uninterest, then shook my hand. “Fine,” he said.
“We’re going to dinner with Mr. Nolan.”
He looked from one to the other of us.
“But you get to pick the place.” His mother waited.
He brightened. “McDonald’s,” he announced.
I looked at Jeanne for a signal of some sort. She smiled at him, then turned to me, still smiling.
“McDonald’s it is, then,” I said.
“All right!” Adam Bemey pounded his tiny fist into his baseball glove for emphasis.
3
“What are you going to get?” she asked me as we got in line.
“Not sure.” I was reading the menus behind the cashiers.
“I want a Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and a Coke,” announced Adam. “And one of them.” He pointed to the plastic Smurf figure that was the 59¢ throw-in.
“You got kids,” she said to me, “you got this menu memorized.”
We sat down. The eyes from under the baseball cap peered up at me inquisitively.
“Nice glove,” I said, trying it on for size. “Got a good pocket.”
“Cost me forty-nine dollars. On sale. I just about died,” interrupted his mother. “Can you believe it? Forty-nine bucks?”
Adam glanced from one to the other of us, stuffing the french fries into his mouth with his fingers.
I shifted my index finger outside the leather at the back for support, flexing it open and closed. “Good quality,” I said. “Good value.”
She looked surprised. “Really?”
I nodded. “Will last a lifetime. He can give it to his son someday. It’ll still be good. In fact, it’ll be better. Worked in.”
Adam beamed a sudden smile.
I undid the cord at the end of the baby finger, pulled it tighter, then retied it.
“It’s a beauty,” I said, handing it back to him.
There was no answer, but he continued to smile.
“Who do you like on the Reds?” I asked.
“Dave Parker,” he said. “Mario Soto.”
“Great players,” I said. Biting into my burger, I confessed, “I’ve never had a Big Mac.”
“You’re kidding,” said Jeanne.
I shook my head, chewing.
“Don’t they have McDonald’s in Toronto?”
I nodded. “Yup. But I don’t go there much.” I had always thought there were usually too many kids there.
“You from Toronto?” It was Adam’s first real attempt to communicate with me.
I stopped chewing, pleased. “Yup.”
“You watch the Blue Jays?”
“Sometimes. Who do you know on the Jays?”
“Dave Stieb. Lloyd Moseby.”
“Good men,” I said.
“Jays are pretty good this year,” he said. “For a change.”
“And the Reds are kind of disappointing, aren’t they?”
“They got Pete Rose back, though.” His face was hopeful.
“It’s a good move. He’ll help. Bring some zip to the club. They can use it.”
Adam hollowed his cheeks, sipping his Coke through the straw, not taking his eyes from me.
Jeanne sat back, watched the byplay, smiled.
“So this is a Big Mac,” I said, taking another bite, chewing, considering.
We stopped outside a two-story frame house, painted pale blue. It still wasn’t dark.
“This is it,” she said. “We rent the upstairs.”
The three of us formed a comfortable triangle on the sidewalk. Jeanne placed her hand on her son’s shoulder.
I sighed, looked around, put my hands in my pockets. Forty years old, I thought. You never quite get the hang of it. “Thanks for the company,” I said.
Jeanne smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “It was very nice.”
“Thanks,” said Adam.
I tugged his cap down over his face playfully. He giggled, pushed it back up. “It’s Detroit this year, I think. All the way. Morris, Trammell, Gibson, Hernandez. Who’s gonna stop them?”
He listened, all ears, the big glove dangling from his small left hand.
I looked at Jeanne. “I’m here for a bit longer. Maybe we can do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
She glanced at the upstairs window. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to invite you in this evening. Work tomorrow, and Adam and I still got some things to tend to.”
“That’s oaky. I understand.”
I held out my hand. She took it warmly, firmly.
As I returned, hands in pockets, to the Scott Hotel, I squinted into the sun that warmed my face and chest. Behind me was a long shadow with soft edges that stretched out from my feet, moving with me, touching the darkness at my back. I stopped before turning the corner at 14th Street when I noticed the sun high up on the church turret across the street.
Then I turned, saw that the shadow was gone, saw the long street, cracked pavement and cement, dwindling off into the past.
SIX
A chill night breeze came whispering down from the depths of the valley, and suddenly the place was full of ghosts—shadows of men alive and dead—my own among them.
—Charles Nordhoff And James Norman Hall
Mutiny on the Bounty
1
Sometimes what we become and where we end up is of greater surprise to ourselves than it is to others. Plans get skewered. Logic falters. We become human, terribly so, stumble, try to recover, fail, choose another direction and move onward, shadow and sunshine, the road behind us disappearing, the one ahead unknowable.
It was 1:00 a.m. I could not sleep.
The streets of Ashland led in all directions as I walked in the summer night.
Ashland, like all places, is a very tangible entity. It has a skin that you can feel brushing you as you stand still, fingers that stroke you as you walk, a voice that whispers to you at the edge of hearing. And at night, the entity hums like an electric generator.
“Lots of times he came home and slept. Others, he’d just wander around.”
Its dark warmth blossomed in misted, prismatic halos, perfectly still about the streedamps overhead.
My footsteps were silent.
Life, to a great degree, is about loss. Our experience tells us this. We lose our hair, our teeth, our muscle tone, the acuity of our vision, the smoothness of our skin; we lose money, books, pencils, keys, shopping lists, gloves, umbrellas; our cars rust out, neighbors move away, we discard the favorite slippers with the flopping soles.
Our hope is that it can be contained to the externals, that the damage to our internal landscape can be minimized.
When my son was stillborn, I lost a part of myself that was so large and that went so deep that I feel its absence to this day. When the marriage subsequently died, my optimism lapsed.
I lost the house I lived in. Standing in the hallway of the house that I had shared with Fran for three years, staring for the last time at the furniture, the array of photographs on the walls and end tables, the pine baseboard that I had lovingly installed in the living room, the rugs, the drapes: the memory of it flashes like a snapshot in my head. I see myself closing the door, hear it shut with a solid click, feel my chest constrict. Then it is gone.
I lost part of my self-esteem. I lost friends. I lost the illusion that I was somehow immune to the reversals of modern life.
When my mother died, I lost my youth.
There is a sequence that the mind and the soul can accept. It is a form of entropy: the tendency of all things to collapse, given sufficient time. It is when the sequence is disrupted, when that which has not run its normal course and span collapses into disorder, that we feel the steel lance in our hearts, see the vacuum open to swallow us. This happens when youth precedes age into oblivion.
It happened when my son did not live.
It must have happened when my mother’s little brother disappeared.
Yet I know that I have not fully matured, even yet, because I know that there will be more.
Am I happy? To have suffered the loss and death of loved ones, one would have to be a bit obtuse to consider himself happy.
I am content. I am wiser.
Life is interesting.
At night, the King’s Daughters Hospital on Lexington Avenue is any hospital, in any city.
Beneath a streetlight a cab driver sat, his left arm propped out the window, a newspaper folded against the steering wheel. He eyed me briefly as I stood with my hands in my pockets, looking past him to the building.
A young man came out the front door, stood a moment, oblivious of both of us. At a distance, and in the dark, his features were blurred. Early twenties, I guessed; the short sleeves of his white shirt hung from his elbows as he lifted his hands to run them through black, curly hair. He turned and walked with an unhurried gait up the street.
Watching him, the humidity and stillness seemed to ring in my ears.
I began to follow him. I could offer no reason even to myself for doing so. It just began to happen. Like everything else.
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 6