Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1) Read online

  "You look like a million bucks."

  We started down the steps. "Do we need a car? I've got one."

  She shook her head. "We can walk. It's close."

  "Feels like rain."

  "Not for a while," she said. "For a while, it'll just be hot and the wind'll blow." She looked at me. "Maybe in the night."

  "You're the expert."

  She put her arm through mine as we walked, and it felt like it belonged.

  The Chimney Corner Tea Room was on Carter near 15th, and did indeed look pleasant—more like a cottage than a restaurant. The view from our table through the front window was colored by an array of purple flowers outside that were as high as a hedge. It was a family restaurant, and the better-off families of Ashland were about us, scrubbed clean in shirtsleeves and cotton dresses.

  When I saw the prices on the menu, though, I spoke up. "This is a cut above McDonald's. I think this one should be on me, too." I tried to sound firm.

  "Nonsense."

  "Dutch treat, at least."

  "My treat, Leo Nolan from Canada. Men your age are always tryin' to buy a woman, without even knowin' you're doin' it."

  I was chastised. "I didn't mean—"

  "I know you didn't. It's me has to get it straight in my head, too. Been too many years when I didn't get it myself. I'm asserting myself," she said, a blend of pride and coyness on her face. "Woman has to assert herself, clear the air."

  I relaxed, smiling. "Man my age," I said.

  "Is just the right age," she finished. "Just needs a little tunin', like a piano." She smiled. "Just a little."

  I let her pick the wine.

  In the corner of the restaurant sat a man in shirt and tie, wearing dark glasses, playing the electric organ and singing "Come Saturday Morning."

  "He's blind." Jeanne didn't look at him as she said it. "Been here for years."

  I nodded, not knowing what to say.

  Jeanne ordered the seafood platter, and I decided to try the catfish, "a Kentucky specialty." "They just fry it in batter," she explained. "They do that to everything in Kentucky."

  "Will they serve it with biscuits, too?"

  "You bet."

  I sipped the wine, a California white.

  "How's your cholesterol level?" she asked.

  "Haven't had it checked."

  "Better book yourself in when you get back to Canada."

  The blind organ player began singing "Mona Lisa."

  She studied me for a long time in silence. Then she said: "You're a cop, right?"

  "What?"

  "A cop. A federal agent. What do they have up there in Canada? State troopers? Mounties?"

  "Good Lord, Jeanne—"

  "I've gone out with cops. They keep to themselves. Like you. And there's always pieces missing from their stories. It's 'cause they want something from you."

  "I assure you, I am not a cop." I gave her the most sincere look I had.

  She considered, took a sip from her wine. "Really?" she asked.

  "I am just what you see, and what I said. Nothing more."

  "What are you doin' in Ashland, then? Really. We don't get tourists, and if you're not here on business, I'm stumped."

  I sat back, thinking. She was too observant to play games with, her company too good to lose so quickly. And the bouquet of her perfume, mixed with the warm air and California wine, made me want to share some intimacy. I think most men's brains often work in this simple way.

  And she deserved as much of the story as any sane person could handle.

  "My mother died in March."

  Her face straightened. "Oh. I'm sorry."

  "She had a brother whom she hadn't seen for years. Ashland was his last known address. I came to see if I could End him."

  She relaxed. Finally, what I was saying rang true for her. "You found him?"

  "No," I said. "Not really."

  She waited.

  "We haven't heard from him for fifty years."

  She looked incredulous, yet said nothing.

  "Gonna do a little more digging around, see what I can find out."

  "Fifty years ... Jeez ... Is he here? Still?"

  I thought of last night and the night before. "I don't know," I said.

  "See," said Jeanne, pointing to my catfish. "What'd I tell you?"

  I looked at it. "A Kentucky specialty." I checked the batter. "You were right."

  "I love those words."

  "Pardon?"

  " 'You were right.' They just might be a woman's favorites."

  I smiled.

  "In my case, it's 'cause I'm not right often enough. But when I am, it feels good."

  "It feels good for everybody. You don't have to be a woman." I cut into the catfish.

  The organ player was singing "Red Roses for a Blue Lady."

  "Where do you live in Toronto?" she asked.

  "I've got an apartment, downtown. A one-bedroom."

  "Any family there?"

  I chewed, thinking. "Lots, I guess," I said at last. "My father's still alive. He's eighty years old. And I've got two brothers and two sisters."

  "Big family."

  I nodded.

  "They all still live in Toronto?"

  "My older brother lives in Sudbury with his family. That's about two hundred miles north of Toronto. The rest of them, though, yeah. Around the city, and in its suburbs." I sat back, looked at her. "What about you?" I asked. "I met your mom."

  "And my dad's there, too. And I've got an older sister. Just the two of us."

  "She live in Ashland?"

  "In Cincinnati, with her husband and two kids. Got a nice house, beautiful family. Adam likes to visit. No doubt about it," she said.

  I waited.

  "She's the family success story."

  We listened to the man in the dark glasses finish his song.

  "What happened to Adam's father?" I asked.

  She chewed quietly for a moment. "He was in Dayton, last I heard." She shrugged. "I guess he's still there."

  "You divorced?"

  "Never married. When I got pregnant, he just left."

  I digested this before I spoke. "Does he ever see Adam?"

  "Not once, far as I know. He doesn't send a postcard, a Christmas card, or a birthday card. And he's never paid a dime in support."

  I felt uncomfortable even listening to this account of such epic uninterest. "Did you get a lawyer?"

  She shook her head. "I didn't need a lawyer. Once he left, I realized that I didn't need him. I realized what he was. I can look after myself."

  "But he should—"

  "Leo Nolan from Canada, you surely don't get it, do you?"

  I was quiet.

  "It isn't about what people should or shouldn't do. It's about what they do or don't do. Why would I want anything from him if he don't want his own son?" She stared at me, pushed herself back. "We got a homey little sayin' for a fella like him down here." There was a glint of steel in her eye that accompanied the half smile. "We say that he can go fuck himself."

  I nodded slowly, sagely. "You know," I said. "We got that same homey sayin' up north."

  "So what do you think of the music?" I asked.

  The blind organist was doing his rendition of "My Way."

  "I'm not too crazy about any music by anyone who didn't die violently in a motorized vehicle. You know what I mean?"

  "Buddy Holly," I said.

  She nodded. "Him and others. That's the idea."

  "You like some more wine?" I held out the bottle.

  "You bet." She held out her glass.

  We stood outside the pale blue frame house. Even in the dark, the wind was blowing warm and sultry.

  "No rain yet?" I asked.

  Jeanne shook her head. "Just the wind, for a while. Then'll come the lightning. It'll come in sheets from the east and the north. Afterward, there'll be rain. Lots of it."

  I kissed her. It was the right thing to do, because it came to me spontaneously.

&
nbsp; When I stepped back, she looked at me fondly. "Last time, we shook hands."

  "Don't know what got into me," I said.

  "It's only after nine o'clock."

  I waited.

  "You like to come upstairs for a while?"

  "Very much." Then I pondered. "What about Adam?"

  "I can get him around midnight. Mom won't mind. Girl doesn't get too many nice dates she can afford to mess up when she gets to my age."

  "That's a couple of hours from now." I looked about me, at the lights in the windows of surrounding houses, wondered who was sitting out on their front verandas. "What'll the neighbors say?"

  "We got a homey little sayin' about that down here."

  "I’ll bet you do."

  She took my hand and led me up the walk.

  3

  We made love that night.

  With the warm night wind sweeping across the Appalachians, up the winding Ohio, and through the open second-story windows of the robin's-egg house, we explored each other's bodies in the hesitant manner of all new lovers—careful, uncertain of the limits. And when it was over, it was as right and as comfortable as the dinner at the Chimney Corner Tea Room had been.

  I have a memory of her outline in the darkened room, of the sway of the mattress, of the cool sheets wrapped about us, and of the taste of her mouth as the lightning flashed finally in the skies, as she had said it would. And, strangely, of all things, I remember the feel of her fingers as they trailed along my shoulders, and how much I needed that touch.

  In the dimly lit room, I thought of Adam's father, walking away from this woman and his son. I thought of all the things I could never comprehend, and knew that they were just beginning.

  At midnight, we walked to where my car was parked behind the Scott Hotel and drove to Carter Avenue. I waited while Jeanne went inside her parents' bungalow, and came out with a sleepyhead boy in tow, then drove them back to their home.

  On the veranda, she opened the front door. "Upstairs," she said to him. "Into the bathroom. It's late. I'll be up in a minute." She guided Adam through the door, closing it softly behind him.

  When we were alone, I held her. "Ritchie Valens," I said.

  "Pardon?"

  "He sang 'Donna.' He was in the plane with Buddy Holly."

  I felt her smile against my chest. Then: "I've got to go. Mom stuff," she added.

  "I know."

  "Look." She pointed over my shoulder.

  I turned. Sheets of lightning, without sound, rippled the sky across the river. Watching the spectacle, this woman in my arms, I wondered where I was, how all this had happened.

  "I'm not supposed to ask," she said. "But I will."

  "What?"

  "Will I see you again?"

  I pulled her head back to my chest, where it fit snugly below my neck. "Yes," I breathed. "Yes." And I meant it.

  But already I was alive with what would happen next that night.

  The lightning flashed at my back, leaves on the trees stirring in the wind, and I knew, even then, that I was going to see him within an hour.

  "Yes," I said.

  I stood and waited.

  He came out of the hospital at 1:00 a.m., as he had previously, and we replayed the entire walk along Lexington, 14th, the pause at the Scott, then onto Winchester. It had become a mantra, a ritual like the Mass, where each step in the ceremony was ordained, cherished, and respected.

  When he stood, finally, across from the First Bank and Trust Company building, he put his hands in his pockets as I knew he would, turned and faced me, and once again, our eyes met.

  And yes, there were sheets of silent lightning electrifying the air as we stood there, and I have no idea whether it was pure coincidence or not. But it happened that way, and the images that I remember are burned into my brain as white-hot flashes and heart stops in the night, as the world turned inside out, and I shared a timeless point in the universe with my uncle, who was younger than I was.

  I licked my lips before I spoke. "Jack?-" The word was a long-awaited, soft thunderclap.

  He smiled, puzzled.

  "Jack Radey?"

  He nodded. "Yes."

  My heart flooded with a sudden ache. I forged ahead. "I'm a friend of Margaret's. A friend of your sister."

  In the darkness, his eyes brightened. "Way down here? You're kidding!" He stepped forward, closing the space between us.

  I remained frozen, light-headed.

  His shirt was plain white, open at the neck—the collar from another era; his pants were flannel—too warm for either the time of year or the place—with double-pleated front. "Do you live here?" he asked.

  "No. I'm on vacation. Margaret knew I might get down here. She gave me your address. Asked me to look you up, make sure everything's all right."

  He shook his head, smiling. His eyes were bright blue, like my mother's. "Good old Marg. Always keeping tabs on me. Watchin' out for little brother." He was both amused and pleased. Then his eyes met mine again. "I'm sorry—I didn't catch your name."

  "Leo." He waited for a last name. When I didn't offer it, I added, "Just tell her Leo dropped by to see how you were, to see if there was any pressing news, next time you write."

  He accepted that.

  I walked toward him, closing the space between us. I saw my shadow ahead of me, flickering wildly on the pavement, a transient fragment cast by the lightning with no sound. And as I neared him, as the distance was closed, the air became still, and the shadow disappeared.

  It happened like that.

  I held my breath, looked around.

  We stood, face to face, in the silence, in the dark.

  In the past.

  EIGHT

  Monday, October 8, 1934

  Everything changed.

  The temperature had dropped slightly, the wind was gone, and the approaching storm had ceased to exist.

  The streetlamps were dark, cast iron, with gracefully arched necks, their bulbs suspended downward. And in that soft light, I began to note the classic, hulking black coupes of the 1930s parked intermittently about the street. Then I turned and stared in the opposite direction, my eyes catching the announcement for King Kong, starring Fay Wray and Bruce Cabot, jutting over the sidewalk below the green marquee of the Paramount Theater, resplendent with its new golden lettering and trim.

  I glanced in a window beside me—a clothing store—my eyes scanning the display of suits, coats, shoes: Ayer's All-Wool Tweed Coat, $9.75, Delivered; Lady's High Fashion Dress, $2.98, Delivered; Black Calfskin or White Leather Pump, Featuring a Smart New Bow, $2.45 Pair, Delivered.

  I stood on Winchester Avenue, in Ashland, Kentucky, and let it happen.

  "Where you staying?" he asked.

  I shrugged.

  "You really on vacation?" There was a playfulness to his question. I thought of Jeanne. The story had an obvious timelessness to its incredibility.

  "Sort of," I said.

  "Yeah," he said. "Like everybody else." He took a package of cigarettes from his pants pocket, shook one loose, placed it between his lips, then held the package toward me.

  "No. Thanks."

  He smiled, put them away. He lit his own, inhaling the smoke, enjoying the luxury. Then he seemed to study me. "How'd you know it was me?"

  "I've seen pictures," I lied. "Of Margaret and you."

  He smiled again, his pleasure obvious. "Where do you know Marg from? I thought I knew all her friends."

  "You've been gone for a while now."

  He nodded. "That's true."

  "Marg helped my family when we moved into the neighborhood." I began to amaze myself with my story. "Helped me look after my father. He's my family," I added, trying to flesh out the picture. I realized that I must look positively middleaged to Jack.

  "How's Tommy?" he asked, watching me.

  "He's in good shape. Still working."

  "And the kids?"

  "Ronny and Anne?" I smiled. "Healthy as horses."

  He rela
xed even more. "So you live up around Yonge and Eglinton, do you?"

  I nodded.

  "Too far north of the city for my tastes. I guess I'm kind of a downtown kid."

  He nodded in the direction of the railway lines, just this side of the river. "You sleeping down there?"

  I followed his gaze and took my cue. "Isn't everybody?"

  He seemed to consider. The cigarette smoke floated upward in the still air. "I'm not sure what you're doin', Leo, but any friend of Marg's a friend of mine. It's as simple as that." He gestured with his cigarette toward the railway yards. "Lots sleep down there. I know." He pondered. "Maybe I can help you."

  I waited.

  "I know a nice place. I think we can work something out."

  I followed his glance. The Scott Hotel in its prime, even in the dark, was a very nice place.

  We slipped into the Scott, up the stairs, and into room 8 on the third floor.

  Jack's things were spread throughout the room. Mine were gone.

  He pulled a pillow and blanket from the bed—the same white-painted iron bedstead that I had known—and tossed them on the floor by the window. "Good enough?" he asked.

  "It'll do fine," I said. The furniture was new.

  He nodded, smiled. "We'll talk in the morning."

  I went over to the window, looked out. The church was still there. Then I sat down on the floor with my back against the wall, staring at him.

  He smiled, dropped back onto the bed and ran his hands through his dark, curly hair, as I had seen him do before. "What?" he asked.

  "How do you know you can trust me?" I frowned. "How do you know who I am?"

  He continued to smile, that magic, disarming smile, his eyes burning with a belief in a future and things that I could not share. "Who are any of us?" He paused. "A hunch," he said. "I play hunches. Can't help myself. Marg always said I was a little naive." Another shrug. "What can you do?"

  I was quiet, listening to my heart beat, listening to the silence of the years breaking open.

  "And you're a friend of Marg's. It's enough." He seemed content, pulled off a shoe and leaned back on his elbow, gazing at me. "You must know that she makes everyone a better person just because she believes in them." His eyes twinkled. "You know what I mean?"