Shadow of Ashland, A Witness to Life, and St. Patrick's Bed Page 2

  Do you know that coming here has given me an entirely new slant on life? I seem more anxious to be somebody than I ever have in my whole existence. Things seem to be pretty fair here, and you can live cheaper, and make more money than you can in Toronto.

  I received a letter from a friend in Toronto today. The one that phoned you. She said you wished I hadn’t come over here with Carmen as he may prove a bit of a bad influence. Well, forget it—he won’t; and besides I’ve met, and mingled with so many fellows who are that way that one more couldn’t make any difference. So stop worrying about me being led astray. So far as drinking is concerned, I haven’t been doing any. I am too busy making money, and trying to get somewhere. The only thing I’m sore about is that I didn’t come here about four years ago. I’d have had a lot more now to be thankful for.

  I bought myself a nice new pair of shoes last Saturday and a couple of shirts, etc., and I hope to have a new suit in a week or so. I need one badly.

  You know, Marg the secret of the whole thing is I came over here on my uppers. By the time I had paid Mrs. MacDonald in Toronto, and a few other little items, I was broke. I was determined to come over here, though. The boys I worked with there gave me a rotten deal, and that’s no fairy tale. I borrowed a little money from Carmen (that’s where he got the idea to come along) and I’ve paid him back every bit of that right now. That isn’t all either—cause I really am going to make something out of myself. I mean it, Marg.

  This all may seem strange to you—me talking this way, but I have to tell someone how I feel and you are the only person I feel I can tell without being laughed at for dreaming. This is all just between you and me, Marg. I wouldn’t want anyone else to know how I was fixed or what a tough time I had for the first week in Detroit. Everything is going to be okay now, though, and pretty soon I will be able to send you and the children and Tommy something from the U.S.A.

  I’ve been working around Royal Oak—gee, the “Shrine” is beautiful, Marg. I also make it a point to get to Mass on Sunday. Write me real soon.

  Lots of Love,

  Jack

  I put the letter down and looked across at my father, who had been quietly watching me. “Have you read this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you find them?”

  “In the trunk, at the foot of the bed. At the bottom.”

  “What did you make of it?”

  He shrugged. “Not much.”

  “He said he worked in the picture business. What did he mean?”

  “Margaret told me that he was working as a sidewalk photographer down there. She’d heard this from a friend of his here.”

  “Sidewalk photographer?” I blinked.

  “You know—one of them guys who used to snap your picture, then come up to you and offer to sell you prints when they were developed.”

  I continued to look uninformed.

  “No,” he sighed. “I guess you don’t know. Polaroids, Instamatics, video replays … Of course you don’t know.”

  “I think I’ve seen them in the movies. Old movies.” I smiled.

  He smiled back. “Yeah. Old ones.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a job.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “I thought he went to Detroit to work in the car industry.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Sometimes,” he said, “things don’t happen the way you plan.”

  I opened the envelope that had been returned unclaimed. Because I had never seen birthday cards from the 1930s, what I found intrigued me. The stationery and greeting card industries, I reflected, had shifted gears significantly over the past fifty years. There were two birthday cards inside—not birthday cards as we know them—but birthday cards of the era: two flat, unfolded cards about ten centimeters square, with elaborate, embossed colored drawings of a bird in a garden and a galleon on the high seas respectively. The former read: “Birthday Greetings Dearest Brother,” the other, “To the Nicest Uncle on His Birthday.” Each sported a genial epigraph and was signed by my mother, for herself and for the children. On the back of hers was a PS.—Why Don’t You Write?

  Accidentally, I tore the envelope putting them back. It tore easily.

  “And this was it?” I asked.

  My father nodded.

  “You never heard from him again?”

  He shook his head.

  “She’s going to die, you know.”

  The eyes behind the thick lenses weakened. “I know.”

  “She wants to see him.”

  He shrugged, looked away. “He’s gone. He never came back.” Then he looked at me. “What can we do?”

  I stood up, walked to the kitchen window, stared out at the snow-covered parking lot. Beyond it, the traffic inched along Eglinton Avenue.

  TWO

  … our faces marked by toil, by deceptions, by success, by love; our weary eyes looking still, looking always, looking anxiously for something out of life, that while it is expected is already gone …

  —Joseph Conrad

  Youth

  1

  I spent every evening for the next few weeks in two places. First, I would visit my mother; then I would drive to the main branch of the Toronto Public Library at Bloor and Yonge. There I would pore over an atlas, copying down names of cities, towns, communities in and around the Detroit area, and as far south as Toledo. The litany had become familiar: Windsor, Pontiac, Wyandotte, Ypsilanti, Ann Arbor, Flint, Lansing, Grand Rapids—even Saginaw and Bay City—plus numerous others. Having made my daily list, I would then ask the librarian for the white pages of the communities’ phone books, which were all filed on microfiche, and seat myself in front of one of the viewers, scanning them for any mention of the surname Radey. It was likely, I realized, that he was dead. But it didn’t seem too unlikely that he may have married, may even have had children. The name—“Radey”—proved remarkably uncommon, which was to my advantage.

  My list of names and addresses grew, slowly but steadily.

  Eventually, I progressed from the Detroit area to major cities in general, including New York, Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Kansas City, Houston, New Orleans, San Francisco, L.A., San Diego … I had also begun to realize the impossibility of my self-appointed task. How, I wondered, could I hope to succeed where the RCMP and private investigators had failed? The answer, I knew, was that I probably would not. What I would need was a lightning bolt of luck, pure and simple. There were too many places I could never cover, too many years that had passed.

  Yet, I persisted. I wanted to give this to my mother. It was what she wanted. The attempt needed to be made.

  My final list consisted of some fifty or so names. A couple were even J. Radeys. One in Kansas City was a John F. Radey.

  I wrote my letter.

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  I am trying to trace a relative—for strictly family reasons—with the surname Radey. I am trying to find Jack (John Francis) Radey, born in Toronto in 1911- His father was Martin Radey (deceased), born 1882 circa Toronto, and his mother was Margaret Anne Curtis (deceased), born Toronto, 1878. He had one sibling—a sister, Margaret, born Toronto, 1909-

  Margaret, Jack’s sister (now Mrs. Thomas Nolan), is my mother.

  If Jack is still alive, perhaps this letter can reach him. Perhaps he married and had children, some of whom might read this. Xeroxing and networking of this letter is encouraged. If this letter should reach anyone with helpful information, please feel free to call me collect, as soon as possible. Any information would be appreciated.

  Many thanks.

  Sincerely,

  I made a hundred copies, mailing as many as I could out into the void.

  It’s not that there were no replies. On the contrary, I received about a dozen cards and letters, most merely assuring me that they could be of no help. A card came from Boston from a family that informed me that their name had been legally changed in 1955 from a long Polish name; the closest I seemed to
come was a letter from a lady in Illinois:

  My father, Donald, to whom your letter was addressed, died last March, a couple weeks short of his eighty-second birthday. I have two brothers—Todd, in Atlanta, and Paul Michael, of New York.

  My father was raised in the Colorado area. We know very little about his family. We never knew any of them. As far as I know, there were no brothers or sisters. As far as I can determine, he had an unhappy childhood and never seemed to want to talk about it—so, I respected that.

  I’m sorry that I can’t be of some help to you. Good luck in your search.

  I wrote to the two brothers.

  No answer.

  Another brief note arrived as the weeks passed, from Haddonfield, New Jersey.

  Dear Sir:

  Your letter about Jack Radey was brought to my attention.

  A friend of mine who is interested in genealogy suggested that you advertise in the magazine GENEALOGY HELPER, which is published by the Genealogical Publishing Company, Inc., at 1004 N. Calvert Street, Baltimore, MD.

  You may wish to forward a copy of your letter. They might be willing to publish it.

  I sent them the letter. They published it.

  Nothing happened.

  2

  My mother died. I was unable to bring Jack back for her. I had failed.

  Time. It was devouring us all, burying us in stratified layers, impervious to archaelogical probes.

  The snow melted, leaving puddles of slush that glinted in the sunshine. Then the puddles dried up and blew away with the April breezes.

  I stood at my father’s kitchen window gazing out at the bulldozers and cranes that were excavating the parking lot—transforming it into an enormous maw that would serve to support the new police station. In my hand, a mug of instant coffee steamed casually, emitting small rays of warmth.

  Behind me, saying nothing, my father smoked a cigarette with his right hand. His left hand was jammed in his belt.

  It was the eighth of May when my father phoned. “I’d like you to come over.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing wrong.” There was a pause. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter came today. For Margaret.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “I opened it.” He seemed to be apologizing.

  I waited.

  “It’s from Jack.”

  I couldn’t speak.

  “I said, it’s from Jack.”

  “Jack?” My mind was numbed. “He’s alive?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?” The words were tumbling out before I could sift them. “You’re holding his letter, aren’t you?” My voice had become a whisper. It was incredible. Everything seemed incredible.

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Leo … Listen to me for a minute.” I could hear his breathing as he waited. A second tripped by. Two. Three. “Will you listen?” He was breathing heavily.

  I calmed myself. “Yes.”

  “It came in the mail today. Along with all the usual stuff.”

  “Where is he?” The question blurted out before I could stifle it.

  “It’s postmarked Toledo, Ohio.”

  “He’s in Toledo?” It was both exclamation and question.

  “I don’t know if he’s there …”

  “What is it? What is it?”

  “The letter’s fifty years old, Leo. It’s postmarked April thirtieth, nineteen thirty-four. It’s written in pencil, just like the other one. The date on the letter is April twenty-ninth, nineteen thirty-four. It was written and mailed fifty years ago, but it came in the mail today. Today!”

  I closed my eyes and waited for the explanation to present itself to me. Instead, I saw two birthday cards, one with a bird in a garden, the other with a galleon on the high seas.

  My father was strangely composed when he handed me the letter. I wondered whether it was because he had had time to calm himself, or if it was part of the realm of old age to bear surprises with greater dispassion.

  In the upper right-hand corner was the same purple three-cent Washington stamp. The postmark was as he had said.

  The letter was two standard 872-by-ll sheets; atop the date on the letter was the address 117—17th Street, Toledo.

  Dear Margaret:

  I certainty owe you an apology, and I suppose I owe all the rest of the family one, too. It just seems as though the things I should do, I never get around to, and the ones I shouldn’t are always being done.

  I got your letter a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve started to write to you several times. I get about halfway thru and then something happens. How are you all doing, and how is Father?

  I didn’t have such a good winter, but things are starting to look up now. I lost my car, and just about everything else I had just before Christmas. I had a wreck and was laid up for a while, but I’m okay now, and thinking about another car. I guess I’ll be smart to stay away from them for a while, though.

  I was sure glad to hear from you. Don’t think I’m an awful heel for not writing sooner, but just try and realize what a careless brother you have. I would have dropped you a tine at Xmas, but I was in pretty bad shape—physically and financially, so I just lay low and hoped everything would be all right.

  I’ve been in Toledo now for two weeks. How are the children—boy, I’ll bet they are getting big. I’d love to see them. If you get a chance to come to Detroit some weekend why not bring them along, and let me know beforehand so I’ll meet you there.

  I haven’t seen anyone you know for so long that I feel like an orphan. I’m still with Hartican. I was away from him for a while during the winter, but started back again. His picture business is stilt the biggest. I’m working with a chap named McMaster, a real nice fellow. He’s been married about a year and a half, and they were blessed with a bouncing baby boy about three weeks ago. He (Mac, I mean) is just ga-ga about the baby. He has me talking like one.

  Say—that was a dirty dig about those cards you have for me. You’d think you hadn’t heard from me in over a year. Send me some snapshots of yourself and the kiddies. I’m stilt carrying the one of you and Loretta in your bathing suits and Ronnie and Anne on the bikes.

  Say hello to Father and all the gang for me, and write me sooner than I did you. Try and forgive me for not writing sooner—cause you know how a fellow slips once in a while. I’m glad to hear Tommy is doing well and has a new car, and tell Mrs. Nolan I hope she feels like herself soon.

  I’m “gonna” close now and get some sleep. So long and

  Lots of Love,

  Jack

  I left the letter on the kitchen table in front of my father and went to the window. In the excavation pit, the foundations had been poured.

  3

  The next letter arrived on June 23. I hung up the phone after receiving my father’s call and drove over to his house in a daze.

  This one was postmarked June 18, 1934, from Bucyrus, Ohio. The envelope bore the imprint of some roadside inn—or hotel—or possibly even a motel. I wasn’t even certain if such things existed in the 1930s. Perhaps, I thought, it’s merely a rooming house: “THE HIGHWAY,” it read, “on the Nation’s Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway, Bucyrus, Ohio.”

  The letter consisted of three sheets of yellowed stationery, with the same letterhead as adorned the envelope. The upper left-hand corner boasted: “Modern,” the upper right, “Fireproof.” I glanced once more at the envelope. A red two-cent Washington was aligned with a green one-cent counterpart. I read the letter. It was dated, in pencil, June 18/34.

  Dear Margaret:

  The first thing I want to do is apologize for not writing sooner. You know how I am about letters, though.

  I’m still with Hartican of Detroit, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen the office that I almost forget what he looks like.

  How are
all the folks in Toronto? Say “Hello” to all the gang around the house for me.

  Have you been bathing this summer? I suppose Ronnie and Anne are both expert swim champs by now.

  There isn’t very much to tell, as I’ve been hitting small towns all along the line. If the next one is as dead as this I’ll go crazy.

  I don’t know where I’m going from here, but we will be leaving in a few days. I’ll let you know my next address in time for you to drop a line. Let me know how Father is getting along. I’ve lost his address.

  Things are just about the same with me, I’m not making a fortune but I will one of these days.

  I’m “gonna” beat it now and get something to eat.

  Lots of Love

  Your Brother,

  Jack

  We were quiet for a long time in the kitchen. Finally, I looked at my father. “Why is this happening?” I asked. I waited for paternal wisdom, for a flippant retort, for exposure of some implausible and outrageous scheme. I watched him frown, and waited.

  His eyes were focused on the wall behind me. I glanced sidewise to see what might be there. There was nothing. “Things have to be settled,” he said. “Or they never go away.”

  At home, I dug my road atlas out of a pile of litter in the corner of the basement, and sat down to peruse it.

  I found Bucyrus. It was north of Columbus, north of Marion, a tiny speck on Route 4.

  Bucyrus. I let the name roll softly in my brain.

  He was headed south. Detroit. Toledo. Bucyrus.

  On the Nation’s Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway.

  Was it happening fifty years ago? Or was it happening now?

  I knew the answer. It was both.