The Liberation of Ravenna Morton

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Ravenna’s father. Peggy’s husband,” Rhonda answered.

  “Wait. Who was your grandfather?” Esme asked.

  “You mean who is. He’s still alive,” she said. “George Patos. He was in love with Peggy. Everyone knew it around here. That’s why it was such a novelty when Mike and Ravenna got together.”

  The waitress put their meals in front of the women, and Rhonda didn’t pause but dug in to her food, continuing to talk.

  “Then we’re related,” Esme said, shocked.

  It was Rhonda’s turn to frown.

  Glad her father wasn’t listening in on this conversation, Esme saw the value of him staying in White Plains. “Did the family know this?”

  Disbelieving, she couldn’t see the town knowing about Peggy and George yet not the family. She sat silently, not eating, listening to Rhonda drone on about town gossip. Finally, she’d had enough. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

  “Rhonda, thank you so much for having dinner with me tonight, but I have an awful headache and need to get up to my room. Let me get the bill, okay?” she said, taking money out of her purse and throwing it on the table. Pushing the chair back under the table, she stepped away to leave the dining room.

  “Wait, don’t go,” Rhonda said. “I’m sorry. It’s me and my big mouth. Of course, I’ve upset you now, which wasn’t my intention. Please forgive me. Stay and eat your dinner.”

  “I don’t think I could keep it down, honestly. Let’s talk tomorrow,” Esme said and fled.

  She went up the staircase quickly without looking back, hopeful Rhonda wasn’t coming after her. She got to her room and closed and locked the door. Her phone beeped. Taking it out of her pocket, she saw that it was a text message from Wiley.

  I hope you got home all right. Please meet me tomorrow morning at nine. Miss Morton is looking forward to a visit from us.

  Throwing her phone on the bed, she walked from window to window pulling down the shades, thinking of her mother. She tried not to think of the what ifs, but it was inevitable. What if Maria had known all along that she was adopted? Penny and Gus could have told her, and when Ravenna started having regrets as an adult, she’d been able to find her daughter. One thing Esme had to remind herself of from time to time was that Maria was dead. The news that she’d been adopted upset her for those few short days she’d lived after April’s call. It was the only positive thing about her death; she didn’t suffer over the shocking news.

  The euphoria Esme felt during those moments with Ravenna vanished. Her father may have been correct in saying nothing good could come from this investigation into the unknown. Was it really that important to know everything there was to know about oneself? What if ignorance truly was bliss? The way Maria had been raised was the antithesis of the lifestyle lived by Ravenna Morton and Mike Hetris. Esme couldn’t help herself, but she found she was judging them. It suddenly seemed irresponsible of them, of Mike in particular. Why didn’t they get married? What was there to be gained for their children to live the way they did, with the bachelor father in his gorgeous studio and the struggling mother living in that old cabin on the river’s edge?

  Unwanted tears clouding her vision, she felt her way to the end of her bed. This must be grief, she thought, allowing the tears to fall unobstructed. It was unlike her to look down her nose at another human being, ever. But right now, all she could feel was negativity.

  The sun was down, and the streetlights had come on across the river. She got up, determined not to wallow, and raised the shade in front of her desk table. As she gazed out the window, a familiar form glanced up at her from across the street, and when he realized who he was looking at, he stepped back and smiled, pointing at her. It was Wiley. He got out his phone and held it up toward the inn and then started to text. She went to the bed and picked up her cell.

  Can you come out and play? the text said.

  Immediately thinking of Rhonda, she texted back, Meet me at the coffee shop. She watched him read it and then look up at her window and give her a nod, smiling. He walked off toward the shop on Hoffman as she gathered up her coat and scarf.

  Fortunately, Rhonda wasn’t at the desk when she went down through the lobby. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since Regina dropped her off. Esme pulled her scarf tightly as she walked down the street toward the coffee shop. When she rounded the corner, she saw Wiley standing outside, waiting.

  “You could’ve gone inside!” she said as she approached him.

  He opened the door, holding it for her to pass through. “Overnight it’s gone from Indian summer to Nordic blast,” he said as they walked to the counter to order, taking their coats off in the overheated shop. “Whew! My face is freezing. What would you like?” He looked at her, smiling.

  “Tea,” she said. Then remembering that she’d left her dinner uneaten, she glanced up at the blackboard menu. “And a muffin.”

  They stood side by side, not speaking, while the counter help prepared tea.

  “How’d the rest of your visit go today?” Wiley asked as they took their teapots to a table overlooking the street.

  Esme decided to keep it simple. If he had anything to add to what Rhonda exposed earlier, she didn’t want to encourage him. “It was good. We talked more after you left, and then Regina came in. She brought me back to the inn.”

  Wiley put sugar and milk in his tea. “So what do you think?”

  Esme couldn’t tell if he was fishing for information, and it unnerved her, Rhonda having planted the seeds of wariness. “About?”

  “About your new grandmother?” he asked, smiling again.

  “She’s very interesting, that’s for sure. The baskets! The connection of the baskets and that we’d met Regina at the craft show are exciting,” she answered.

  Wiley was watching her over his teacup. He had nice hands for being a fisherman; she looked away, afraid he would be able to see her reaction to his smile, not sure why she was so eager to join up with him tonight. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.

  “So, do you fish full time?” she asked, her question sounding ridiculous as she said it. But he didn’t seem to mind and smiled that Wiley smile, putting his cup down.

  “Not exactly,” he answered. “My father had a fleet of fishing boats, and when he died, I inherited the business. My sister and I did some retrofitting so we could take fishing parties out.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about your father,” she said. “But it’s exciting about the boats. Do you pilot them yourself, or whatever it’s called?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what it’s called,” he answered. “My sister, Katherine, and my uncle and I are licensed. We have two local guys, retired navy, who fill in part time in the summer. What do you do for a living?”

  “Nothing, actually. I quit my job when my mother got sick,” she said, trying not to allow her sadness to come out and make her sound whiney. She wanted to change the subject. “So Katherine is your sister?”

  “Yep, she is. But let’s get back to your job. What did you do?” He was looking at her intently, as if he really wanted to know.

  She should have been flattered by his interest, but Rhonda’s recent confession about being in love with Wiley was filling her with guilt. She tried not to think about it; Rhonda said it happened years ago.

  “I was an editor at Fairchild Press,” she admitted.

  Saying the name still gave her a little jolt, tying her stomach into a knot, although this time it wasn’t as bad. Maybe she was finally getting over it.

  “Wouldn’t they give you family leave?” he asked gently.

  He was watching her talk and felt her regret.

  “It wasn’t really an option. There was something happening beyond my mother’s illness, and now we know that it was all of this—Ravenna, the baskets, my aunts and uncles,” she said. “I needed to be unfettered to come here. I need to find out all I can about my mother’s family, about her heritage.”

  “I guess I didn’t unders
tand how important coming here was for you,” Wiley replied.

  Esme gathered up the courage to dig a little bit at Wiley’s expense, contradicting her earlier decision not to do so. “I found out something interesting tonight.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “Rhonda at the inn is George Patos’ granddaughter. She said George was in love with Peggy. Is that common knowledge?”

  Wiley winced. He was holding his teacup up with his elbows on the edge of the table. It was a convenient height to hide behind. “Ugh,” he said, and they laughed. “It’s one of those secrets everybody knows about. This is confidential, okay?”

  She nodded her head.

  “He was so in love with Peggy that he allowed her to live by the river in an unheated cabin, raising nine kids all by herself. I don’t call that love.”

  “He knew Peggy well, though, I’m assuming,” Esme stated.

  “You could say that. In a Biblical sense. From what I remember, the family was very isolated. Peggy never came into town. If she needed anything, George got it for her until the kids were old enough to run errands. I’m still not sure what was going on, if he was protecting her or if she really didn’t want to come into town for some reason.”

  “A lot of people don’t like to leave their neighborhoods. It’s not that unusual where I come from,” she said.

  “This was different, though. Legend has it that Ravenna covered for her mother. She’d ride her bike or canoe into Douglas to mail packages or to get groceries. She took care of Peggy after everyone left. John moved to Kalamazoo right after high school to go to college. He still lives there. As soon as they could, they all moved out and left Ravenna there alone.”

  “Why’d someone have to stay with Peggy?” Esme asked.

  Wiley shrugged his shoulders. “That’s part of the legend no one really knows. The family was loyal, that’s for sure,” he said. A thought came to him, and he debated whether to verbalize it.

  She saw him hesitate. “What?”

  “You should talk to George,” Wiley said.

  She frowned, until it became clear to her that talking to George was exactly what she needed to do. Why’d he hide the adoption details from Peggy? And then from Mike and Ravenna?

  “He lives in Chicago,” Wiley said. “I’ll get his phone number for you if you want to call him.”

  “Thank you. It’s probably something I should do on the sly,” she said.

  He nodded. “I agree. I’d offer to go with you, but I think it might be a journey you should make on your own.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” she said, thinking having a companion might be a good thing. She stifled a yawn. “It’s been a long day. Thank you again so much for taking me out to Ravenna’s today,” Esme said, gathering up her tea mess.

  “What time do you want to leave tomorrow?” he asked.

  Esme smiled at him. She was at his mercy. Unless she walked, there was no other transportation out. “Same time? But I need to pay you,” she said, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of money before this.

  “Mr. Hetris paid in advance,” Wiley answered. “You’re all set.”

  They pushed their chairs back and took their tea mugs back to the counter. Esme didn’t want to leave together but didn’t see how she could accomplish it without telling Wiley what Rhonda had admitted. Luck took over as a friend of his called him over to talk. Esme begged off and hurried out of the coffee shop, walking to the inn as quickly as she could. The light was on over the desk, and through the etched glass of the front door, she could see Rhonda talking to a couple.

  Rhonda looked up at Esme as she walked in. “Cold out there?” she asked, smiling.

  Esme fake-shivered, “Brrrr!” and ran up the stairs to her room before Rhonda could engage her.

  Chapter 12

  Michael Morton finished his shift on the nursing unit, focusing on getting last minute orders noted, preparing to give his replacement report. He’d gone from one task to the next all day long, putting the patient first at all times, rigid in his practice of nursing, never deviating from accepted practice, doing everything by the book. He was relentless in his pursuit of excellence.

  When he would finally stop long enough to take a deep breath, he’d realize how exhausted he was, and if he allowed it, the sleeping beast, his addiction to prescription painkillers, would wake up and demand feeding. He never stole pills from work. And he never came to work high. But the moment his shift was over, as he grasped his ID badge hanging around his neck and lifted it to swipe the security device of the locker-room door, his brain would switch gears and speed toward the goal of getting home and popping a pill.

  So far, he’d been lucky enough to get what he needed at a pain clinic he frequented in Muskegon. He did everything required of him, kept his appointments, went to physical therapy, and participated in a horrible support group full of aging women complaining about their knee pain.

  The temptation to get a fake ID and go to another pain clinic closer to home was strong, but he fought it, driving to a clinic in Benton Harbor instead. It required the same response, only it was self-pay; he simply said he didn’t have insurance. As long as he could continue like this, taking just a few pills a day and a few more on the weekend, he’d be okay.

  The addiction started out innocently enough; he wanted to get high but didn’t like wine. “How can you not like wine?” a friend said. “That’s insane.” Wine gave him a headache, it put him in a bad mood, and it took too much beer to get a buzz. But a recreational Percocet, now that was something else. He discovered it energized him after a twelve-hour long grueling day. It also decreased his appetite, so it was easier to keep his weight under control.

  Playing Russian roulette, his entire family had one kind of addiction or another: his father was a pothead, his brother Walter ate himself into a stupor each day, Regina was an alcoholic, Dexter was a workaholic, and April, well, April just was addicted to giving. That left Ozzy. Ozzy was addicted to being a saint.

  He hadn’t yet discovered his mother’s Achilles’ heel. But when this woman from White Plains appeared, he thought she might be it. Time would tell. She’d only been in Michigan for two days and was already causing a bit of an uproar; Michael could hear the anxiety in his mother’s voice when she left the message on his answering machine. His mother didn’t even have a phone, so for her to borrow one from one of her children, he knew it had to be big.

  Driving the speed limit but clenching his fists and bitching the whole way home, all he wanted to do was to lock his apartment door and take a pill. He’d get to the cabin sometime the next evening after everyone else had gone home.

  ***

  Ozzy was the only son who took his father’s name. It was just easier to be a Hetris. He hated it that his father and mother weren’t married. The area where they lived was supposed to be so tolerant of alternative lifestyles, but there was a vein of conservatism that ran strong, and he didn’t want his children ostracized as he had been.

  He taught math at the high school. They stayed for the school district in spite of wanting to get away from his family, because he had a secret only his wife knew. Brother Dexter living in his ostentatious house, his sister Regina and her lesbian partner, and Wally and his model child-bride were a problem for Ozzy. He avoided taking his children to visit Ravenna; the way she lived also embarrassed him, and he was aware of the pain it caused her because he was the only one who had kids of his own. Now, this new one shows up.

  He couldn’t imagine wanting to drag up more shit from his family’s history. The woman had a perfect life a thousand miles away from the Kalamazoo River, and it looked like she was here to stay. And she was snooping around, trying to discover facts and truth. He and Becky walked each night after dinner, and they saw her meeting Wiley Hoffman at the coffee shop. They were having a real tête-à-tête, too. He stood on the sidewalk looking into the window until Becky pulled him along.

  “Come on, Oz, nothing to get worked up about.
She is your niece, after all.”

  “That’s a crock of shit. What the hell does she want, coming here?” he asked, pouting.

  “You have April to thank for that. Why didn’t you speak up when they were making all the plans to bother that poor woman? From what Regina says, she was on her deathbed. Nice call to get when there’s not a darn thing you can do about it.”

  “When’d you talk to Regina?” he asked.

  “Yesterday. She’s not taking this well, either.” Becky knew that to suggest Oz call his sister was not a wise move. He was becoming almost homophobic in his outlook, and nothing he said to Regina would help either of them. Becky’s life was evolving into one in which much of her energy was spent in enabling the balancing act between her husband and his family.

  They spent every Sunday going to church with Mike Hetris. She felt it was more an act of antipathy toward his mother. Their children were going to Greek School in Grand Rapids after regular school every day, and the expense was a strain on the household. They ate Greek food, spoke Greek, studied Greek history.

  Yet the other side of him, the rich heritage of his mother’s ancestors, he shunned. They didn’t have one of her baskets in the house, although Becky loved them. They’d covered the walls of their house with Mike’s paintings. She wondered how long they would be able to continue living in such a charged atmosphere. The other problem was trying to encourage Ozzy to stay involved with his family, to go to his mother’s when summoned, and to allow their children to develop a relationship with his brothers and sisters. Becky was more afraid of hurting Ravenna than anything else.

  Her husband placed all the blame for the family’s unconventional lifestyle on Ravenna. Becky wondered what it would take for Ozzy to forgive her.

  ***

  April took her time finishing with her last client of the day. When she was anxious, she’d purposely drag out the last hour of work. Forcing herself to focus on something other than whatever was happening at home took the edge off it. So rather than rushing around, missing dinner, and flying to her mother’s house, she was taking her time and enjoying the sensation. It was self-denial at its most frustrating. Like taking the last piece of chocolate cheesecake and waiting for fifteen minutes to take a bite.