The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

by Suzanne Jenkins

  A turtle on the muddy shore pulled its head in when the wake of the boat disturbed the calm water. A fat brown muskrat surprised Esme as it dove next to the boat, and she shrieked and then began to laugh.

  “Oh boy!” she said, too many new experiences for one day. He’s probably thinking “city slicker.”

  Pulling the prop up, he carefully navigated the boat with an oar around a downed tree and up onto the shore, moss-covered rocks and grasses hiding muck. Wiley stood up and hopped out of the boat, pulling it up as far as he could onto marshy land. He held out his hand for hers.

  “Careful, it’s pretty wet here.” He pulled her to safety, keeping hold of her hand until they got to dry ground. “Did you ruin your boots?” He didn’t seem to be making fun of her as she thought he might.

  She looked down, and just the toes were wet. “No, they’re okay,” she said. “I’m glad I’m finally getting my money’s worth. These will be my swamp boots.” And then Esme had the pleasure of seeing something women in Saugatuck longed to see—Wiley’s smile. She felt her face go numb; it was that beautiful, that surprising. She had to smile back at him. His smile did something deep within her chest; she felt the connection as it left his mouth and traveled across the short distance to her heart pounding, hard.

  “So you’re coming back here.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

  “Ravenna’s my grandmother,” she said, surprised at her need to explain the situation to a stranger.

  His eyebrows went up. “Oh! You must be the adopted daughter,” he said. It seemed news traveled fast around these parts.

  “Actually, I’m the adopted daughter’s daughter. Has everyone heard about me?” she asked, slightly annoyed, but smiling at him because, well, she just couldn’t help herself.

  “The baby is folklore.” But he smiled as he said it.

  They meant no harm, and she decided not to take any. If this had happened back East, she thought, she’d never talk to the involved parties again. Here, erroneously, her early observation was that maybe pride didn’t matter. What did she have to hide? Everyone knew more than she did. This visit would clarify more for Esme, but she simply had no idea how much.

  Chapter 3

  John Wynd stuck to his daily routine; the slightest deviation sent him spiraling into a dark abyss of despair and sadness that nothing, except for possibly a scotch, could bring him out of. Each morning after he showered and dressed, he made up the bed he’d slept in with Maria until her death. Pulling the sheets tightly, just as she would have done, he arranged the pillows so they were perfectly symmetrical. Then he’d go to the kitchen for coffee. If he allowed himself to get out of bed and go straight to the kitchen, he’d stay in that state of disarray for the rest of the day. It was just easier to be ready to face the world by preparing for it first thing.

  In the weeks following the funeral, women from church beat a path to his door with food. Sweet rolls, baklava, dolmades, avagolemono soup, and some indistinguishable-looking dishes that he would throw in the trash as soon as the giver left. And they weren’t going to linger at the door, either. He discovered that if he didn’t keep his position firm, they would barge past, taking over Maria’s kitchen, opening cabinets looking for plates and the paraphernalia necessary for coffee making. Finally, he had a meltdown, ungraciously shoving a gigantic platter of sliced tomatoes and feta cheese back to its giver, yelling at her that he was allergic to tomatoes and hated feta. That put a stop to the food train.

  And then Esme left New York for her adventure. The emptiness of the house was palpable. Why’d I ever retire? His hobby was his wife and family. Everywhere he’d go, Maria would accompany him. They grocery-shopped together, went to the hardware store, stopped in at her cousin Genie’s for coffee. After her death, he tried going to Genie’s once. It was too painful. He must have never joined in the conversation before, because in her kitchen now without Maria, he was totally out of place. They had coffee, and he didn’t say a word, finally leaving for the last time. Genie stood at the door, crying, a hankie to her face. Nothing would ever be the same.

  He stood in the living room, looking out the window, with a cup of coffee in his hand. He often caught himself in this position, his coffee growing cold, eyes seeing nothing, body statue-like, but in his mind, a complete drama unfolding as he played out all the events of his life that shaped what it had become.

  The wedding day which would change him—at the altar of the ostentatious Greek Orthodox Church, with ten groomsmen standing behind him, and on the other side of the nave, ten bridesmaids. A trumpet sounded, and everyone stood up and turned to look at the back of the church as Maria, holding on to Gus’s arm for dear life, came out of the vestibule into the church. She was gorgeous. What had attracted him to her from the very first was her unique appearance, exotic looking, with high cheekbones and delicate features. John’s own mother had remarked under her breath, gossiping with her sister June, that there must have been a Chinaman in the Patos family tree. John heard it, too.

  “Mother, for God’s sake, why in hell would you say a thing like that?”

  Esmeralda Wienis backpedaled, but not apologetically. There was something about her future daughter-in-law, an unlikable quality she kept to herself when John was around. Maria was haughty like the rest of her family, but it was something more.

  What difference did it make now? Both women were dead. Marrying Maria was the best thing John had ever done; it normalized him in his own eyes. The next important thing he did was to change his surname from the horrible Wienis; he’d been tormented all through school. Wiener, wienerman, wienie, wiener penis; the list went on forever. The day his father died, he called an attorney and got the ball rolling. Wynd. It rolled off your tongue. It was a generic name, almost poetic. Of course, his family was appalled, blaming Maria for his embarrassment.

  When Esme was born, they named her Esmeralda to honor his mother, but it backfired. The old lady was convinced there was something wrong with Maria and her offspring, with their almond shaped eyes and reddish brown skin that turned almost bronze in the sun. She didn’t live to hear the truth, and Maria almost didn’t, either.

  John was so angry when April called; he started investigating if some law hadn’t been broken. In his estimation, she slithered into their lives spewing intrigue all over Maria’s last days, days that should have been peaceful, a time where the family could say their good-byes and begin grieving. What possible good did it do to choose that moment to make her declaration?

  Esme disagreed. It was important to her mother to have the truth before she died. She didn’t want a relationship with them. It was enough to know that her own discontent, or unease, had real roots, just as his did. John and Maria, it turned out, were both uncomfortable in their own skin.

  Today he was going to take a step out in faith. It was Friday, and he was going to return to church. His family had been active in the same church since 1906. He’d stayed away because he couldn’t stand the sympathy, the compassion coming at him. It was worse than Maria’s friends bringing food. Something within was healing, and he wanted to test the water. If he was going to continue living, he had to keep trying. It was either that or kill himself, and he didn’t think he had the courage for suicide.

  ~ ~ ~

  April Freeman tossed and turned the night after being with Esme. Ted Freeman finally got out of bed, took his pillow and left for the couch. Turning the bedside light on, she lay back down against the pillow. Having met Esme Wynd, the wrong that she may have done by calling Maria was just sinking in.

  April’s family got together on occasional Saturday nights, and during a recent gathering, they decided April would contact Maria. Mike Hetris told Ravenna the week before that his cousin Gus Patos had died, leaving the door wide open for them. No one had any idea that Gus and Penny never told Maria the truth, that they’d adopted her. Mike’s attorney called him with Maria’s phone number.

  “If you’re going to do it, you better hurry up. My unde
rstanding is that she hasn’t been well,” he said. In their innocence, or ignorance, it didn’t register that not being well might mean ready to die.

  April shouldered the responsibility because Mike and Ravenna were too frightened. April was an attorney; she knew how to handle people. She said she’d do it but from her own home; she didn’t want a bunch of family members telling her what to say while she had the woman on the phone. The next morning, April waited until eleven and made the call. A man answered the phone and didn’t question who she was, but she could hear soft voices in the background. Finally, a weak-sounding Maria got on the line, whispering, “Hello”.

  “Maria, my name is April Freeman. I’m calling from Douglas, Michigan. Is this a bad time?” Maria said no, and April forged ahead. “Last week, our attorney told us your father died in July. It opened a door for me to contact you because, you see, I’m your sister. You were born when my mother was a teenager, and as you know, you were given up for adoption. We couldn’t contact you until your adoptive parents died. I’m sorry for your loss, but I hope you can understand why I wanted to talk to you.” There was silence on the other end, and April wondered if Maria had hung up on her. She waited.

  “Who is this again?” Maria asked, her voice a little stronger.

  “I’m your sister, April Freeman,” she said.

  “April Freeman, what do you hope to accomplish by calling me?” Maria asked.

  “My parents always talked about you, and our hope, the hope of my brothers and sister, was that one day we could meet you, that’s all,” April said, cringing at how weak her reasoning sounded. Weak and selfish. Why hadn’t this knowledge transpired before she made the call?

  “I’m not interested,” Maria said. “Don’t call here again.”

  The phone went dead. April hung up, put her head in her hands, and started crying. She felt a combination of embarrassment and sadness, regret and anger. It was so abrupt in its finality, Maria’s rebuff, that depression followed immediately and persistently. Each day was harder than the day before.

  “You’d better pull it together,” Ted told April. “I don’t see your mother surviving this, especially if you fall apart.”

  Two weeks later, Mike called her at the office in the middle of the week, which he rarely did. “Come to your mother’s tonight, manari mou. Family council,” he said.

  “Oh no, Dad, what is it? I can’t take any bad news right now,” April complained.

  “Be a big girl and get over to your mother’s tonight after work. And please tell Ted I have the book he wanted,” he said before hanging up.

  April had so much going on at Michigan Legal Aid, doing work for Native Americans with civil matters. She liked her home life to stay peaceful and boring, and it had been anything but since she’d called Maria.

  Rushing home at the end of the day, she grabbed a sandwich and her purse, yelling down into the basement, where her husband was putting together an armature for a sculpture her father was making, “I have to get over to my mother’s.”

  He mumbled good-bye.

  April yanked on her hiking boots and put a warm jacket, hat and mittens on. She’d drive over to Riverside Road and hike in to the cabin. It was complicated getting there, but the children did it so often it was as natural as going to the grocery store. She had her flashlight with her because the sun would be down by the time she left later that night. The drive over took less than ten minutes. Beyond a thicket of downed trees and bramble, an open path led to Ravenna’s cabin. They didn’t want it too accessible to outsiders; unless you knew it was there, it was undetectable from the road.

  She stayed on the trail and could smell wood smoke. “Boozhoo nimaamaa!” April said. Greetings, Mama.

  Ravenna was covering her tomato plants with newspaper and weighing the paper down with rock so it wouldn’t fly away in the night wind. She walked around to the back of her cabin, where the trail ended.

  “Boozhoo indaanis,” Ravenna said back, Greetings, my daughter. She came to April with her arms outstretched. “Biindigen!” Come in. “So! Your father called. I wonder what that man is up to.”

  “Mother, I am not happy,” April singsonged. “I have sixteen clients tomorrow, and I need to prepare for each one.”

  Ravenna wagged her finger at her daughter. “Oh, you, you will be fine. Come. Have some nice hot tea. How often do you get to see your old mother and older father in the middle of the week?” Snickering, she spoke in a heavily accented, nasal voice, dragging out the last letter at the end of sentences, so it sounded like she said you wheel be finnnne, have some hot teeee. April smiled behind her back. Ravenna pointed to one of eight ancient Windsor chairs surrounding a large rectangular oak table in the middle of the cabin. “Sit.”

  A knock on the door and the squeak of the screen ushered brother Oswald in. Twenty years after Maria was born, Ravenna had six children in eight years. First born was Regina. The oldest boy was Oswald, whom they called Ozzy. Ozzy was forty-two and lived with his wife, Becky and four children in Saugatuck. He taught math at the high school, and his wife taught art. They were active in the Episcopal Church, going every Sunday with Mike. Ozzy kept his family away from the cabin and his mother unless there was absolutely no way he could avoid it.

  “Nimaamaa,” Ozzy said respectfully, going to his mother to kiss her cheek and accept her hug. “Do you know what’s going on?” he said to April. He was carrying a can of Diet Pepsi and popped the tab open.

  Ravenna said in Ojibwa, “Ozzy, Ozzy, don’t drink poison. I’ll make you tea.”

  “Sorry, Mama,” he said, putting the can out of sight.

  “I have no idea,” April said, answering his question.

  They heard a whistle. Mike Hetris knocked on the door with his cane and then opened it. “Good evening, family,” he said.

  Ravenna smiled at him but said nothing as she poured water over tea bags.

  He nodded toward Ravenna. “Ikwe,” woman, he said, looking down with a giggle.

  And she said, “Inini,” man, back to him.

  “Dad, can we get this show on the road? I have a lot of work to do tonight,” April whined.

  “You’ll survive,” Mike said. “Let’s just wait a minute, if you don’t mind. I’d like the rest of the family to be here.”

  They heard a hoot owl whistle, and the next person to knock on his mother’s door was Walter, the son born before April. Walter was a giant in the family, six feet six inches and two hundred eighty pounds.

  Ravenna went right to him, to the annoyance of his siblings, and wrapped her arms around him. “Abinoojiiyens makwa,” baby bear.

  “Hi, Mama, what’s up?”

  “You want soup?”

  “Sounds delicious,” he replied. Walter was married to a fashion model from Chicago. Stephanie was gone during the week, and poor Walter made up for her absence by eating every meal like it was the last supper.

  Ravenna picked up a bowl and ladle from the counter and went to the big pot on the wood-burning stove. There was always enough for anyone who came by. When she lifted the lid, April could smell beef.

  “Mama, can I have some?” she asked.

  Mike and Ozzy said they might as well eat, too.

  Ravenna ladled big bowls of soup. Homemade wheat bread using grains she’d ground herself from winter wheat a local farmer let her glean from the field after he’d made a pass with his equipment accompanied the soup. She didn’t have to do it, but it was something she enjoyed and felt strongly about, being self-sufficient and not wasting. April took a spoonful of her mother’s soup and along with the beef, saw corn, tomatoes, chilies, okra and small white beans, all from Ravenna’s garden.

  “This is good,” she said, eating her sandwich with the soup. They ate while they waited for the stragglers: brothers Dexter and Michael, and sister Regina.

  When everyone had arrived, Mike stood. “Ravenna, please sit down,” he said.

  She did as he asked, but she was frightened. She never sat at the table wit
h her family, too nervous when they were around. Wanting to be on her feet to serve them, Ravenna went from child to child to make sure that each one received their share of her love. Everyone was quiet while they waited for Mike to speak.

  “I heard today from White Plains that Maria died.”

  April gasped; Ravenna looked past him, shocked.

  “She’d been sick for a while, but the family wanted privacy, so they didn’t tell many people. I wonder what her husband must be feeling,” he said, looking at Ravenna.

  Ravenna lowered her head and began to weep. Walter put his arm around her, his huge hand dwarfing his mother’s shoulders.

  “Daddy, who called you?” April said. She was sad, more from shame about her encounter with Maria than her death.

  “Cousin Peter found out at church; the Patos family in White Plains told the Chicago Patoses. Even her own congregation didn’t know how sick she was. ‘They didn’t want the bad Karma,’ Pete said. You know what that is. Well-meaning people will say things like, ‘Oh, she’s so sick; how’s he going to cope when she dies?’”

  The magnitude of the news hit them at the same time; Ravenna’s first child had died without knowing her birth parents. It didn’t elicit compassion in all of them.

  “I’m sorry you ever started this mess,” Ozzy said gruffly.

  “That’s a horrible thing to say!” April cried out. “It’s for Nimaamaa. It’s for Daddy.”

  Ravenna reached over to April, patting her on the arm. “Poor Ozzy, this is not easy for any of us,” she said softly, looking at her son with compassion.

  “I’m not concerned for myself,” Ozzy said, getting up from his chair and pointing his finger at her, yelling, “What good did it do? Now you’re upset, and we all feel like crap. For what?”

  Ravenna clicked her tongue, shaking her head.

  “Sit down, son,” Mike said. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

  Ozzy pulled his chair back out and sat, lifting the can of soda to drain down his throat.