by Pat Mestern
“Died,” Ramona said. “I can’t bide this passing away passed, finished the journey thing. If one dies, he or she dies, simple as that. There’s no sense in softening the blow. It only prolongs the grief if one doesn’t come to realize quickly that dead is … well … dead.”
Don glanced toward his passenger. He’d obviously touched a nerve still raw from the death of her husband. “So, you were telling me that Harry Forest and Charlotte Carmello met in the second grade in this school. I somehow assumed that with a surname like Carmello, your aunt would have attended the Catholic school.”
“Grandmother didn’t want to segregate her children any more than they already were as Catholic, Italian, no father. Grandpa Carmello died at age thirty-five, an accident where he worked. She hoped that her children would integrate into the sort of lives their peers enjoyed.”
“And did they?”
Dad and Tomas gained respect through their ability to use their fists when necessary, not a good thing, but what works, works. Charlotte won everyone over with her sweet disposition.”
“And this is the school they attended? The present building doesn’t have the appearance of one that’s been here long.”
“The old stone section, at the back. That’s the original school. They attended classes during the 1920s. To get back to your main purpose for being here - Harry and Charlotte. From what grandmother said, to begin with they were attracted to each other by their size.”
“Do tell me more.”
“Harry was by no means a handsome fellow. You spent time with him. You saw him and know he stood a tad less than five feet tall. During his youth he was very slender with bandy legs. He was strong, very strong. He had broad shoulders that were built to carry the world on his back. He was clever. When excited, he had a bit of a stutter. He had little hair on his head and God endowed him with large ears.”
“You said that he was clever.”
“Academically, he was brilliant. He could have been anything - a doctor, professor, writer. Mother said that what he lacked in physical appearance he made up for in his mental abilities. His clever mind didn’t stop the school bullies and loose-tongued lassies from picking on him because of his peculiar looks. If anything, it aggravated the situation.”
“What about his home life?”
“Not so good according to grandmother. His mother did what she could, but a boy needs a father.”
“When did your grandmother die?”
“1977.”
“And, you said that she was a friend to Mrs. Forest.”
“She saw the woman through the worst of her situation, especially during and after the War, just like she helped my friend Lorraine and her mother to settle in the village after they arrived in the area.”
“After the First World War there were a lot of fatherless children, and husbandless women.”
“Oh, I’d agree to that statement. Many didn’t have a father or husband that returned from the war. In Harry’s case his father returned but he didn’t want anything more to do with his son or wife. I think he was afraid to be near them after what he’d been through and seen during the war.”
“Like a lot of other armed forces people his father was possibly going through traumatic psychological issues,” Don said.
Grandmother said that Harry’s early years were really the worst. It was good that he and Charlotte met when they were so young.”
September 1920
Harry was so used to the stares, the jeers, and silly comments he didn’t bother to pay attention or to react to them anymore. He walked down the school’s hall concentrating on the door to Miss Maple’s room where he would once again be reprimanded for spitting at a bully whose sole pleasure in life was to push Harry down the stairs, if he could. As his mother explained, it wasn’t his fault God had given him some physical challenges. Ma never dwelt on his physical disabilities. She applauded him for his ability to absorb information like moss absorbed water. She told him that he really was a clever little fellow.
Harry never knew his father. The man managed to impregnate his new wife just before he signed up to fight in the war and was shipped to Europe. He came back from the war in early 1919 a heavy drinker and emotionally crippled man who chose life on the streets of the city instead of caring about a wife and son. It’s not that James Forest actually lived on the street. He shared an apartment with his brother, sister-in-law, and nephews who were in their teenage years. Life on the streets to James Forest meant sitting on a corner of one of the busiest city intersections begging for change, playing up the wounded war veteran saga. Any money he made was immediately invested in booze.
Harry and his mother lived in a small fieldstone house at the edge of the village, a home that his mother inherited from her aunt, the same place Harry lived in when he retired back to the village. The property was bound by the river to the rear, fields to the west. A large redbrick, two-storey home was a quarter mile to the east. The county road ran in front of the property. A pioneer cemetery was located on the east side of the road within sight of the house.
Harry’s mother, Jane, managed to keep a roof over their heads by cleaning the redbrick house weekly. It was owned by one of the village’s prominent businessmen. She also took in laundry and cooked at a local hotel. She was so busy that Harry was left pretty much to his own devices. He did spend a lot of time in the hotel’s barbershop when his mom was cooking. By age five Harry did a tolerable job of sweeping the shop’s floor. He never spoke with the barber’s customers and they didn’t bother with the strange little leprechaunish creature that sat in a corner at the back of the shop reading a book.
As Harry marched toward Miss Maple’s door, and the punishment that would be netted out behind it, his eyes were on a petite, blonde-haired girl who stared with equal intensity back at him, her sparkling blue eyes taking in every detail.
“Hello,” she said as he got within hearing distance. She was small enough that she looked him squarely in the eyes. “My name’s Charlotte Carmello. We just moved to the village. I’m in Miss Maple’s Grade 2 class. What’s your name?”
Time stood still for Harry Forest. And well it should have, for somewhere in the back of his moss-like brain, it registered with Harry that he had found a soul mate. That idea was further cemented on Valentine’s Day 1921. When each child was allowed to open their box, there was only one Valentine in Harry’s, the first that he’d ever received. It was from Charlotte. Charlotte, on the other hand, even for her delicate looks, had a box full. However, her largest smile and a most expensive valentine were reserved for Harry.
Chapter 2
May 2004
“It looks like the little terrors have been let loose for the day,” Ramona said, “but we’ve no more reason to stay here any longer. I just wanted to show you where the relationship began. We need to be at the high school where Mrs. Davidson promised to let me show you something special. I don’t know the lady. She’s new in town but she sounded nice enough on the telephone.”
It was a short drive to Larch Avenue and the parking lot at the high school. Don pulled into a spot with a sign that indicated it was reserved for visitors. There seemed to be teenagers everywhere. They were like a swarm of bees, running for busses, jumping into cars, and walking in all directions.
“Will Major be alright in the car?” Ramona asked. “I don’t think it appropriate we take him with us but I’d hate to have him let out by some silly kid, or stolen. He’s a beautiful dog.”
“I’ll leave the window down a bit and lock the doors. He’ll be fine. If anyone comes too close to the car he will sound the alarm. If someone ever tried to remove him from the vehicle … well, I’d hate to be the one that has to patch the devil up—the kid I mean.”
“Harry trained him well,” Ramona said.
Mrs. Davidson’s office, in the new section of the school, was to the right of the front doors. It was easy to find with its windows and door covered top to bottom with paper artwork that promoted a St
op-the-Litter campaign.
Ramona laughed. “It’s funny really. Sign litter to bring attention to a Stop-the-Litter drive. I wonder if any of the students gets the conundrum.”
Introductions were short. Ada Davidson was a no-nonsense person who didn’t waste time on chit-chat. “I will admit, Mrs. Ashdon, your request was a little unusual. I haven’t spent much time in the basement of the old school. The area you want to see is full of boxes of old records no one knows what to do with.”
“How old are those records?” Don asked.
“Most are from the beginning of the twentieth century, some older. Nothing was thrown out before computers came along. No one’s taken the time to put the information onto a computer.”
“Has someone been asked?” Ramona said. “That would be a great project for an historical society volunteer or some students.”
Ada Davidson ignored Ramona’s comments. “Come along. The caretaker has the keys. If boxes need to be moved, don’t ask him. It’s not in his union agreement.”
Ramona, Don, and Mrs. Davidson walked through a series of corridors from the new section into the original high school building where they descended into the basement area which housed change rooms and a gym. They found Cliff the caretaker in the hall next to the boys’ change room.
“If you don’t mind, I’ve work to do.” Mrs. Davidson turned to leave. “I’ll pass on this expedition and leave you in Mr. MacRae’s capable hands.”
Ramona waited until Ada was out of earshot. “Cliff MacRae. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you,” Cliff said. “You’re one of the few who remembers the old boiler room still exists. Why the contractors left that hole in the ground is beyond me. It should have been filled in when the new heating system was installed in the addition during in the 1950s.”
“Smoke MacRae, stop your complaining,” Ramona said. “You spent as much time in the dungeon as anyone, smoking against the school’s rule.” Bet you still do.”
“Same old sourpuss, Ramona-ona-ona Carmello.” Cliff laughed. “See. I remember your nickname.”
“And I bet you still roll your own,” Ramona said, “just like Dad taught you to do years ago. It’s one dollar a butt if I find any. Money goes to the Stop-The-Litter campaign.”
Cliff smiled. “No bets, Ramona. My wallet’s empty. The wife didn’t give me an allowance this week. Come on. The door is right across the hall, as you know. Watch your step on the stairs. I found enough flashlights to go around. We’ll need them once we’re in the room.”
Cliff unlocked an old wooden door, flipped a switch, and the three descended a dozen concrete steps into a large room that still held the old steam boiler. The room’s walls were constructed of limestone then plastered. An inner concrete wall, with an arch in the middle, cut the room in half. Beyond the arch, in the gloomy back area, Don could make out skids of cardboard boxes that were stacked floor to ceiling in some places. There were skids of boxes around the boiler too.
“I assume the boxes are on wooden skids to keep them out of water or away from dampness coming up through the floor,” Don said.
“Correct assumption. The skids were my idea. I didn’t want these old records to rot. They are historical information that needs some tender care and keeping,” Cliff said.
“Why Smoke, you do surprise me. History was not one of your favourite subjects. These bits of paper are just as important as what’s written on the walls.”
“I figured out what you were looking for so moved a few boxes to make it a little easier to see what is on the wall,” Cliff said.
Ramona pointed her flashlight up to the corner of one of the inner walls. “Don, take a look at what’s written on the walls and ceiling. It was like a right-of-passage for the fellows that they leave their names before graduating or leaving school for one reason or another. The boiler room proved the best place to do their scribbling, leave their mark because few teachers ever visited the area. If they did it was to smoke. There was a code of honour, so to speak.”
Don turned his flashlight on the ceiling and what wall space was free of boxes. The area was covered with scribbling and sketches. “Think of the information that’s here, and few see it.”
“When some of the guys came to dances and socials, they added bits of information or juicy gossip,” Cliff said. “Some of the boys never came back from the war they fought in, the First World War in some cases, the Second World War for others. Until she died ten years ago, old Mrs. Delaney used to come down here and leave flowers for her boy, right below his name. I kept the area free for her.”
“Some just came down here to skip class. The fellow in charge of the boiler before Cliff got the job didn’t mind giving them a place to hide as long as they plied him with Orange Crush. Archie loved that soft drink.”
“As if you didn’t keep a few bottles in your locker, Ramona,” Cliff said.
“Like, you’d know,” Ramona replied. “There’s certainly a lot of local history on this plaster. Seeing it again makes me really want to agitate to preserve this room, to cover the walls with Plexiglas perhaps?”
“Ah, you’re onto something,” Cliff said. “Go for it, Ramona. People will support you. The school board might be a problem though.”
“Could one of you gentlemen lift a couple of boxes?” Ramona asked. “What I’m looking for is behind these two.”
Cliff handed the boxes to Don.
“What do you see?” asked Ramona as she turned her flashlight onto a drawing on the concrete wall.
“Two hands holding a heart between them,” Don answered.
“And written in the heart?” Ramona asked.
Don gently removed the fragile cobweb that partially obscured the drawing, looked closely at it, and said, “Whoever did this had an artistic bent. The hands are so well-defined and the writing is like calligraphy.”
“Read the inscription,” Ramona urged.
“1927. Harry Forest loves Charlotte Carmello.” Don continued, La vena di amore corre per sempre is inscribed in the heart.”
“Translated loosely it means ‘The vein of love runs forever,’” Ramona said.
“Hell and damnation! That phrase is exactly what Harry Forest requested be engraved on his headstone: ‘Harry Forest, faithful to his beloved Charlotte Carmello, 1932. La vena di amore corre per sempre.’”
“Whatever it means, that’s an odd request for Short Harry’s tombstone,” Cliff said.
“Not so, at all,” Ramona countered. “Harry Forest to the core, I’d say.”
“Look, Mr. MacRae … Cliff. I’d appreciate your not mentioning what I just said.” Don put a hand on Cliff’s shoulder. “I have a few things to clear up about Harry’s estate before certain information is made public.”
“Sure,” Cliff said. “My lips are sealed.”
“Are they?” Ramona said. “Or do I have to dig up some juicy bits of gossip about you and the widow across the way?”
Cliff gave Ramona the strangest look. “I said my lips are sealed. I don’t want no rumours about me and … Well, I don’t want trouble.”
“Good,” Ramona said. “Didn’t I hear something about you retiring soon?”
“At the end of the year I’ll be 65 and ready to give this place the big kiss-off. Have you two seen enough?”
“I think so,” Ramona said. “Any questions, Don? Do you want a picture for your files?”
“No need,” Don said. “I know where to find the inscription if need be again. Obviously the drawing proves that by the time Harry was fourteen he was smitten with Charlotte.”
“Just as much as she was with him,” Ramona said. She turned to Cliff. “Do me a favour. If you hear that something’s going to be changed down here, some renovations done, would you let me know? I want to preserve that drawing.”
“That I can do,” Cliff said.
On the way up the stairs, Don whispered to Ramona. “Thanks for hushing Cliff. By the way, you’d have made seventeen dollars if he to
ok you up on your bet. And, the butts were all from hand-rolled cigarettes.”
“I bet if you smelled one of them, it wouldn’t be tobacco that would assail your nostrils. Cliff has some … problems of his own.”
Back at the car, Don said, “Where to next?”
“Next stop is a short walk away. It will probably be the most poignant in your voyage of discovery for want of a better description of your need to know about Harry. We can leave the car. We’re heading for that glade of trees in the park right next to the school. Major should enjoy the walk. There are no benches but a big old stone to lean against while we chat.”
“I’ve a blanket in the car,” Don said. “We can get comfortable.”
Seated on the blanket, their backs against the rock, Ramona gave Don a quick history of the area. Mrs. Armstrong had six sons and lived in the redbrick house to the south. Miss Polson, an artist of some note, lived next to her in the yellow brick two-storey house. Her studio was in a bedroom on the second floor. The fields to the east were cow pasture until the early 1950s when some wise guy duped farmer MacKay into selling cheap. Then he built cheap and sold high. He made a fortune while old Mr. MacKay ended up living with a daughter in an apartment in Owen Sound.
“What some people won’t do to make a buck,” Don said. “In my job I’ve seen too much of that sort of thing. You said that you lived in the neighbourhood?”
“Over there, to the west, the two-storey stone house and little stone cottage beside it. That property belonged to the Carmello family. After my grandfather, died my grandmother raised Tomas, Frankie, and Charlotte with the help of her mother and father who lived in the cottage.”
“How many acres are there?”
“Five. Grandmother was very astute about money, although like everyone else she suffered during the Great Depression. The orchard, gardens, a flock of chickens, and a milk cow kept food on their table. Fortunately, at that time you could still keep a cow, and pigs, in the village.”