For almost a year following the end of my marriage back in the seventies, I experienced a kind of clinical depression, hovering on the edge of nervous breakdown. I lived in a small studio apartment by myself, went to work daily, read books, watched TV. I went out seldom—had little interest in it. Some friends, who I now realize were the most perceptive and sensitive, sought me out, since I rarely sought them out.
For a while, in the evenings, I took to playing solitaire at the dining table while the television played in the background. The rhythm of the cards was soothing—mindless yet fascinating. It became a Zen-like activity: repetitive, calming. And with the periodic and irregular flow of numbers, colors and suits, with the random serving of patterns, success and failure, came insights that helped me get through it all, helped steer me back into the mainstream of life.
I saw with clarity that there was no reason for many things. There were only permutations, combinations, ebb and flow, flood and drought. The cards sometimes fit together in a sudden burst of accessible harmony, during which all things happened with ease; then just as quickly and randomly, they sealed off further progress. It was something I needed to see at that point in my life, and I learned to accept satori where it could be found.
The young man walked on ahead of me through the night.
Breathless, almost dazed, I continued to follow.
The blanket that is night can change everything. Vision. Thoughts. Assessments.
With silent footsteps, the air thick, we sauntered through the pools of incandescent haze spilling down from the street-lamps, him leading, me trailing, a hundred or so feet apart.
I dared not develop the thoughts that had begun to stir, like leaves eddying, in my brain. They made no sense.
The young man with the dark curly hair continued onward, oblivious of my presence. When he crossed the deserted street, and headed north on 14th, I stopped momentarily, a rush of adrenaline making me light-headed. Then I, too, crossed in the stillness, and fixed my gaze on him as we headed north, my thoughts swirling.
We were headed in the direction of the Scott Hotel.
I thought, for some reason, as I walked, of my father in Toronto, sleeping as ever in the house we had all shared. I remembered the night sounds of my youth: my brother’s teeth grinding in the bottom bunk; the moan of a nightmare coming from my grandmother’s bedroom—one of many that awakened us with increasing regularity in her final years; the subdued voices, muffled, of a disagreement between my parents, indistinct yet unsettling, from behind their closed bedroom door.
Just as suddenly, I remembered being inside that bedroom with my parents, listening to them laugh as I cut out risqué cartoons from my father’s True and Argosy magazines, absorbing the distinct smell of the hardwood floor on which I lay, as I pasted them into the scrapbook my mother had bought for me to occupy my child’s attention span.
Then it was winter, and I was walking along Eglinton Avenue, going home from second grade, my slippers in a plastic bag, my black rubber boots with the tops folded over on my feet, beside an enormous snowpile bulldozed at the edge of where the buses turned into the subway station. I climbed the hill of snow, tumbled, burrowed, felt the cold crystals slide into my boots, then became drawn into my own world of fantasy and experiment. I buried my slippers in a deep hole on the far side of the snowpile, knowing they were wrapped in plastic, certain that I could retrieve them the next morning on my return route.
I dug for days afterward and could not find them. And it remained a mystery that I confronted on a daily basis as I passed the spot, baffled. I did not tell anyone. I got by indoors at school by remaining quiet, in my heavy, extra socks.
And I recalled how in the spring, when the snow melted, the plastic bag lay in the midst of charcoal slush and road salt, intact, materializing as if from another world.
I placed the bag in a garbage can on the way home. I never told anyone. I had outgrown the slippers and could not grasp their reappearance. They belonged to the past.
He stopped outside the Scott Hotel.
Behind him, I slowed, holding my breath.
He glanced up at it, hands in pockets, then moved on.
I followed.
He turned right and walked along Winchester, stopping again to stare at the monumental First Bank and Trust Company building.
My eyes strayed from him to gaze at the tall first floor of the edifice, to appreciate its decorative windows, its columns set in antis between wide corner piers. Then I tilted my head back, absorbing the upper stories, noting the broadly projecting copper cornice at the top.
When I looked back at where he had stood, he was gone.
The street was empty in both directions.
I stood, stunned, alone, the Ashland night flowing over me, the world silent. A fog entered my head, then lifted, leaving my vision, at that moment, cut with the brilliancy of a diamond.
A magic place sought years later seldom materializes.
When I was a teenager, there was such a place nestled in the rocks on the opposite side of Ashbridge’s Bay on Lake Ontario. You could sit there for hours looking across the lake, down to where Woodbine Beach curved out onto the water. The rocks tumbled and fit in just the right shape and position. There was privacy and beauty.
I used to take a girlfriend there and while away the hours. Ducks would swim by. Geese, gulls, terns. They would get the scraps from the picnic lunch.
I can picture it clearly in my mind, even now.
Yet when I tried to find the spot some years later, I could not. Several places looked similar, but none of them quite right. There were more or fewer rocks. The path was wider, narrower, covered with different growth. Always something.
I found another spot.
I don’t know where the other one went.
The next morning, after showering and dressing, I walked back to the spot where I had last seen the young man. In the bright daylight, surrounded by the street sounds of traffic, it seemed quite a different experience. Gone was the intensity of vision, the preternatural sense of awareness; in its place was the ordinary, the expected.
About me, people engaged in the business of the day.
I stood on the sidewalk, at the exact spot where I had last seen the man standing. I looked across at the First Bank and Trust Company building, playing out the moment before he had vanished.
The building told me nothing.
Below me, though, the sidewalk was broken, where it had sunk over the years. The shallow depression and cracks at my feet marked his disappearance.
The earth, I thought, and looked down. It’s as though it swallowed him up.
I drank coffee in a diner, staring through its smeared windows out onto the street.
2
Emma Matusik opened the door to her family’s living quarters when she heard me come in the front. “Mr. Nolan?”
I looked up.
“Message for you. Phoned while you were out.” She handed me a piece of paper.
I expected it to be from my father.
It was from Jeanne. There were two phone numbers. One said “Work,” the other “Home.”
I smiled.
Then I saw Emma Matusik eyeing me curiously. There was something else that she wanted to say. “There’s some stuff,” she began, “in the back here, that you’re welcome to. Couple of years ago, we bought some things with the idea of updating some of the rooms, but the plan never got too far.” She shrugged. “My father just wanted an excuse to buy some of the modern gizmos, I figure. Nobody’s stayed here long enough to make updating the premises much of a priority for quite some time now.”
She went back inside her apartment. I followed her through the open door.
It took two trips to carry them to the third floor. I lugged the small bar fridge up to room number 8 first, then returned for the microwave on the second trip. They were both brand-new; the Matusiks hadn’t even bothered to remove them from their cardboard boxes.
I set the microwave on
top of the chest of drawers and the fridge on the floor beside it, plugged them both in, then sat back in the blue easy chair to enjoy the spectacle of my new domesticity.
A fellow, I thought, could stay here quite a while.
And Emma, for some reason, seemed to want me to.
“This one’s dated September thirtieth, nineteen thirty-four.” The line carrying my father’s voice from Toronto was clean and clear.
I listened to the words, and their echoes.
Dear Margaret:
I’ve been her for more than three full months now, and it’s really beginning to feel like home. Me, a Southerner! Can you believe it?
Still trying to get ahead, Marg. I guess I’ll always be trying. In fact, I’m involved in something here that has lots of promise, so just keep your fingers crossed. It’s what I’ve been needing to get started—just that little start-up stake. Some of the fellows here at the Scott have got a project that’s very interesting. The man who runs the hotel has agreed that it makes sense, too, and with his help, something is really possible. But enough of this. I’ll try to keep you posted, if things work out okay.
Like I told you, Marg I’ve met lots of interesting people, and seem to be able to keep busy. But there’s still some time to fill, and I’ve been reading a book called “The Moon and Sixpence,” by W. Somerset Maugham, which I got from the library. It’s about a fellow named Charles Strickland who abandons his home and family and travels to Tahiti in order to paint. Somebody asks him in the story if he’s never bored or lonely, and he replies “It is evident that you do not know what it is to be an artist.” Heck, I guess I don’t know what it’s like either, cause I can’t figure why he’d leave his wife and kids behind. But, and I have to admit it, there’s a part of me that understands exactly what he’s doing and why. The rat race for money and staying one step ahead of the guy behind you is enough to wear anyone down.
But I’m no artist, Marg. Heck, I can’t even paint the side of a house.
It’s just past dinner time, and I’m going with a friend to the movies tonight. “King Kong” is playing at the Paramount. I hear the ape gets a bad deal. It should be fun, and I can sure use some fun.
Say “hello” to everyone for me, and send me Father’s address, okay?
Lots of Love,
Your Brother Jack
There was nothing to say.
Jack, I thought.
Where are you?
At Woolworth’s, I bought a microwavable plate, a drinking glass, a mug, and a set of stainless steel cutlery.
Before leaving, I went and sat down at the counter in front of Jeanne. She was serving a customer, but caught my eye and smiled—a genuine, pleased smile.
“How you doin’?” She leaned forward on her hands.
“I got your message.”
She shrugged. “Pretty bold of me.” Her hair fell out from behind her ear. “But I figured, what the heck, you seemed like a decent guy. And decent guys don’t grow on trees. I know.”
“I’m glad you called.”
She looked relieved. “Listen,” she said. “I was wonderin’ about tomorrow evening^”
I waited.
She licked her lips, then continued. “Seeing as how you took us to dinner, I was hoping you’d let me take you to dinner. Just the two of us. Show you some Kentucky hospitality. I know a nice place.”
I smiled, knowing what it took to make such an overture. I’d made many of them myself. Too many. “My pleasure,” I said.
She stood back and straightened, her confidence restored. “Great. My mom offered to keep Adam for the evening.” The loose strand of hair got tucked back behind the ear. “You know where I live?”
I nodded once, still smiling.
“Give me time to get home, get changed. Can you come by at seven-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
Now it was her eyes that smiled. “I can’t believe I’m doin’ this.”
“Feels good when it works out, doesn’t it?”
“It surely does,” she said, nodding. “It surely does.”
At a 7-Eleven, I bought a jar of instant coffee, a container of orange juice, six Pepsis, some bananas, milk, cream, sugar, and a box of Cheerios. Then, to diversify my cuisine, I tossed in two frozen dinners and a frozen pizza.
At ABC Drive Thru Liquors, I bought six cans of Miller Lite. I had my Robert Daley novel, the TV in my room, and I wouldn’t be seeing Jeanne until tomorrow night.
Like Jack said, I thought.
A fellow’s got to do something with his spare time.
I microwaved the frozen dinner and drank two cans of Miller Lite while I watched a ball game on the TV. Then I fell asleep on the bed during the news, my novel open on my chest. When I woke, Carson was ending, and groggily I rose and switched it off.
Nighttime. At last. I went to the window and drew it in through my pores.
I had been waiting for it.
At 1:00 a.m., I was standing across from the King’s Daughters Hospital, the night warm and sultry, the street silent and calm.
He came out the front door, just like last night.
I held my breath.
The only sound was that of his footsteps as he strode down Lexington, Central Park on his right, some of the fairer manors of Ashland on his left.
It was a replay. He turned right, heading north on 14th Street.
I followed.
For the five blocks between Lexington and Winchester it was as though the rest of the world had been sealed off, while we, the two of us alone, moved through a blackness that crackled with possibility.
When he stopped at the Scott, I stopped. And when he turned along Winchester, I turned, too.
Across from the First Bank and Trust Company building, he paused, put his hands in his pockets, and stood in contemplation. Again.
I watched, hypnotized, afraid to lose him a second time.
Then he turned and met my gaze.
We stared at one another, without fear, without suspicion. The air was truly alive now, and I felt my heart beat with a wonder and certainty that it had never known.
Jack Radey stood before me, a young man in his early twenties. I knew it was him. I could tell by the jaw, the cheekbones, the dark, black hair. He was a Radey—my mother’s brother.
My uncle.
We stood on Winchester Avenue, in Ashland, Kentucky, that hot night in August, some twenty feet apart.
He smiled. He put his hands in his pockets and smiled, full of wonder and delight. And youth.
It was a perfect moment, one of the few that we are allotted in our lifetimes—a moment when the eons needed to transform coal into diamond contract with the purity of quicksilver.
Nineteen thirty-four or 1984?
They were the same. For that brief instant, then and now were in the palm of my hand.
And when I blinked, he was gone, as I knew he would be, and I was once more alone in the night.
SEVEN
I have an idea that some men are horn out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace .. .
—W. Somerset Maugham
The Moon and Sixpence
1
The next morning, I spooned instant coffee and sugar into my mug, filled it with water from the bathroom tap, and microwaved it to steaming. I stirred in cream until it brought the temperature down to a drinkable level, poured myself a bowl of Cheerios and some orange juice, and broke a banana off from the bunch.
I pushed the blue upholstered easy chair over to the window, set my breakfast on the ledge there, and sat down to eat, staring out at the sun warming the church turret on Winchester Avenue.
Jack, I thought. Jack Radey.
“Gonna be a hot one.”
Pulling the door shut behind me, I turned to the source of the voice. Sitting motionless on the veranda swing, in the morning shade, was Stanley Matusik.
; “How are you this morning?”
He nodded. “As ever.”
I walked over beside him, then half sat against the railing, facing him. I had the feeling that he had been sitting here, waiting for me.
“So what do you think of Ashland?”
I squinted, looking out across the street, into the glare. “Nice.” Then I looked back at him. “Very nice.”
The silence that hovered between us for the next half minute was a good one, unhurried, patient.
“Any more on Jack Radey?” he asked, finally.
I squinted once more into the brightness of the morning, away from the veranda. Then I turned back to meet the weathered eyes staring at me. We shared another silence. Then: “He’s here, somehow,” I said. “It’s all here, somehow.”
Stanley Matusik continued to stare at me. He dropped his gaze and nodded. “Like everything else,” he said. “There’s things that’re there all the time. All’s you’ve got to do is clear your head to see ’em.”
A heat bug whined and the air shimmered off the hot pavement.
“That building there.” I pointed along Winchester.
Stanley’s gaze followed my finger.
“The big one.”
I watched his face, studying its lines.
The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes straightened, a memory floating to the surface behind them.
I waited.
He sat back, quiet, reflective. Then he looked at me. “Bank,” he said. “Why?”
I shrugged. “Seems impressive.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Anything special about it?” I asked.
His brow furrowed, and the seconds flowed by like a meandering stream. “Bank’s a bank,” he said.
Looking at its height, I considered this. “When was it built?”
“Nineteen twenties.”
I leaned back against the railing once more, listening.
Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 7