I found myself nodding again, even though I wasn’t so sure. All we knew of her so far was that she was a wounded heart, in a bad marriage, in love with the wrong person, betrayed in the sense her family had sold her out, and the love of her life had married another. This didn’t add up to a woman who was heading anywhere except for a much-needed affair.
“I hope you’re right,” I conceded. “Well...” I began looking around as if I needed an escape. I wasn’t sure what I needed. I just had to keep moving.
“Have a good trip,” he said, and it was the most ordinary thing I think he’d ever said. “Find Julianne in the Windy City.” That was better.
I nodded and went out the door. The Windy City, John, Henrietta, John’s wife and kids, maybe his great-grandkids, like me. It was too much. I looked back at Kyle’s house, wanting ever so much to run back inside and beg him to come with me. My breathing came hard for a few moments and then slowed. I turned around and went to my car. No, I was going to do this alone.
Chapter 35
“So that a search may be made
in the record books of your fathers.”
The Windy City blew right through me as I floundered through its streets, its archives, its historical societies, and its libraries. I’d never done so much research before, not even as a journalist. I came to Chicago knowing John’s name and the address on his envelopes. That was all. Chicago was old and well preserved, and I believed that some thread to John still existed somewhere.
The dust from old books and old newspapers matted my skin and clogged my nose. The print from aging periodicals darkened my fingertips.
When I slept in the hotel where I’d rented a room that could be had by the week, I dreamed of John, visions of a man I longed to meet yet still in some way didn’t want to forgive. He looked sincere in my nocturnal subconscious images, not like the cad I wanted to believe he was for marrying another. He always stood far off, a long coat over trousers, his hands stuffed deep into its pockets, his eyes begging me to come his direction. I tried. I walked toward him through the fog of my dreams, but I never came close. I never could reach him. I called his name, but his expression never changed and he didn’t answer. He was ever far away and elusive, silent, yet still he beckoned me nearer.
I brought books back to my room in the evenings, pored through them, looking for names that connected the dots to John’s family. During the day I stayed with the reserve materials and archives that never left their homes. It was during the day, in the dungeon of a newspaper office, that I finally found him. A small obscure article about his wedding, of all things, and I looked at the date. June 13, 1908. He’d married shortly after he told Julianne he would. I wanted to scream. At him, for him, for both of them. After I stared at the few small lines, I noticed the name of the church and the street it was on. Madly I grabbed for my bag and yanked out a pen and some paper. 800 Troost. I prayed it would still be there.
I raced upstairs and clawed my way through milling persons and found someone who worked at the paper and asked how I could find a church, a street, an address. Eyeing me as if I were insane, they tossed me a telephone book, and I flipped to the back to churches and ran my finger down the list until I found it. First Christian Church on 800 Troost.
“Thank you,” I shouted, sliding the phone book back toward the sour clerk. I raced out the door and hailed a taxi just like a true Chicagoan and clung to the back of the seat as I urged him faster to the place where John wed his second choice for a wife.
I didn’t know what I expected to find at the church. No one there would remember him, but it was a start. I paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk in front of a tall gray stone building whose peaks and spires reached for the equally gray Chicago sky. I stood at the end of the sidewalk that led to its front steps and tried to imagine John here years ago, without the sidewalk, standing at this juncture, a choice between what he wanted and what he felt he had to do.
Did he consider running? Was he placid? Was his bride pretty enough and special enough that his reluctance was tolerable? I had a knot in my stomach for him. I couldn’t have done it if I were in his place. I couldn’t have walked up those steps and down that aisle to marry someone I didn’t love. I couldn’t, and I wished Julianne hadn’t, either.
I put one foot in front of the other until I came to the bottom step. Then I mounted them one by one until I stood in front of the ornately carved doors. I touched them. They were ancient. They were doors my great-grandmother had possibly touched at one time, touched as a young girl in love, never guessing she wouldn’t touch them as a young bride.
I pulled the door open and stepped into a cavernous foyer, and beyond that into an even more vast sanctuary. My footsteps echoed, sounding hollow and frightened as their clatter bounced off the walls.
“May I help you?”
I jumped. I couldn’t see a body, but there was a voice. A male voice echoing from nowhere as if it were God’s.
“Where are you?” I called, much weaker than I sounded in the empty sanctuary.
A dark figure stepped from the right, a tall figure, and it stood at the front, looking at me. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked again.
“I was looking for someone,” I said foolishly. He wouldn’t be happy to learn that that someone had died over forty years ago.
“We have excellent roll logs of our members. If you want to come to my office, maybe I can help you.”
I eased to the front where he stood, even though his voice sounded as if it were coming from behind me, beside me, all around me. When I came close enough to decipher his features, I found him to be relatively young, probably in his forties, and nice looking in a Kyle sort of way. He nodded.
“I’m Pastor Richardson,” he said. “Who is it you’re looking for?”
“John,” I said, “John Baxter.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.” He thought for a moment. “But it’s a large congregation, and he may be easy to find. Please follow me.”
I followed him to his office and watched him pull a new directory from his shelf.
“No, he won’t be in that,” I said, and Pastor Richardson turned toward me, giving me an eye that said he was wondering whether I had ill motives, just another person coming off the street looking for a handout. “I mean, he’s deceased, I’m sure.”
Pastor Richardson raised his eyebrows and slid the book back onto his shelf. “Let’s begin again,” he said, and he sat down at his desk.
****
By the time I left the church I felt as if angels had given me wings. Pastor Richardson had served me well and had even enjoyed the search, in the end supplying me with John’s wife’s name, their address, and the names of his children who had been baptized in the church. I clutched in my hand the treasured paper where he’d written the information. I never wanted to let it go.
I rode a taxi to the address and paid the driver hurriedly and shooed him away. I wanted to be alone with this house. I wanted it to be 1908 again, not 1989. He drove away, the exhaust lingering behind, reminding me it really wasn’t 1908. When it had dissipated, I stood there, staring at a tall, ancient home, two stories high, painted white and trimmed in green. The trees guarding the house were monstrosities, and I was certain they’d been there when John lived here. Maybe they were even planted by him. I walked forward slowly, taking in the whole of the view, letting it purge me and cleanse me of the anger I’d amassed for him, certain his cloaked figure waited somewhere there for me. Finally, I’d be close.
I wove through bushes, flowers, and trees as I made my way to the front door. No one interrupted my stroll, so I knocked, not knowing what I would say. My knuckles made hardly a sound against the heavy wood. I wondered if I should try again, louder. I also considered leaving, maybe coming back tomorrow when I was better prepared. Just as I was thinking to turn away, the door opened and an elderly woman stood squinting at me as if she needed glasses, which she already had.
“Excuse me,” I said,
“I’m Annabelle Crouse.”
She continued to stare as if she hadn’t even heard me.
“I was looking at your house because…well, because a man used to live here that was almost in my family.” I felt foolish. She continued to peer at me, tipping her head to the side like a puppy who had no clue what you’re talking about. “Could I ask you a question or two?”
“What was his name?” she called, her voice thin and strained.
“John,” I said quickly, surprised at her outburst. “John Baxter.”
Her eyes drifted away from me as if she could spot him somewhere nearby, in the trees or in the air behind me.
“Baxter,” she said to no one. “Maybe you’d like to come in.”
Chapter 36
“Wanting to have their ears tickled,
they will accumulate for themselves teachers
in accordance to their own desires.”
I grabbed the phone as soon as I reached my room that evening, to dial Kyle’s number, anxious to tell him everything I’d learned. As I started to dial I noticed the phone’s red button flashing at me, interrupting my gaiety. I wanted to talk to Kyle without interruption, so I called the front desk to see why they’d left me a message.
“Who are you?” a gruff voice asked. He must have assumed I was some passing floozy, the other women who I’d seen taking rooms here probably doing so for another reason.
“Room 36,” I said, “Annabelle Crouse.”
He fumbled around for a moment, papers shuffling, breaths that sounded like gasps accentuating his frustration.
“Here it is,” he said finally. “Call home.”
“Call home?”
“That’s all I know.” And he hung up.
Perturbed, I hit the receiver and dialed my parents.
“Hello?” my mother’s frantic voice answered.
“Mama? Are you all right?” I could hear the strain in her voice, the ragged tears cutting through her hello.
“No,” she shouted, “I’m not!”
I’d never heard her voice so taut before, so near breaking.
“Mama?” I whispered, my mind reeling with the worst.
“It’s out!” she nearly screeched. “The whole thing’s out, and we’re so ashamed, so disgraced. Your grandfather won’t survive this.”
I swallowed, knowing without her saying any more what was out. My mother was collapsing at our family’s ruin, and I was collapsing at Julianne’s. How dare they! I felt like a lioness robbed of her young. How dare someone betray my wishes, and how dare everyone still judge her. I was from a community of Paul Juniors, quick to paint her with that historical scarlet letter so they didn’t have to be responsible for any of their own sins. And my mother would let them. She didn’t know any other way.
“Mama,” I said.
“Get back here,” she wailed. “No, don’t come back. They’ll blame you and you’ll be ruined. Your grandfather already does.” She broke into sobs as my blood ran cold. Grandpa Samuel. As my head and heart pounded, my shock morphed into anger. How could a community level judgment so much more oppressive than God’s? How could my family let them?
“Mama,” I said sharply. “Please calm down and tell me what happened. Maybe there’s been a mistake and I can take care of it.”
“Oh, there’s no mistake,” she said, sniffling, her voice warbling but less rangy than before. “It’s out there. It’s in our paper, your whole story, with a byline that it’s about someone in our community, and there’s no mistaking who it’s about. I’ve had seven calls already, people prying, not a one of them calling to comfort me or assure me it doesn’t sound exactly like Julianne. No, they’re just being nosy, sniffing around for dirt. Oh, oh, oh…” Her voice began to change again, the high tone returning and tears spilling into the gaps between her words.
“Listen to me, Mama. You’ve got to tell me what you know. There’s been some mistake. I didn’t do this, and I know Edith wouldn’t let it happen. So just tell me everything you know, and I’ll get to the bottom of it.” I sounded strong and confident, but my grandfather’s face kept swimming in front of me—his hurt, his anger, the shame he was probably suffering.
She tried to compose herself, but the agony, real or imaginary, had her. She was defeated, overcome with humility by a story my family had tried to keep buried for too long. It hadn’t gone away when they’d denied it. It had festered instead. Just like I’d said it would.
“Well,” she sniffled, “it’s in our county paper, and according to Maxine it’s in Troy’s big paper, too.”
A cold chill ran through me. Troy was a larger city. If it was there…
“Mama, do you have a copy of it?”
“Unfortunately, I do,” she snapped.
“Grab it, and tell me if it says my name or AP anywhere on the article.”
I held my breath while she fumbled for the newspaper. I heard it rustling, exaggeratedly, as if she was shaking it like a rat terrier would shake a rat. “There,” she said at last. “No, your name’s not on it. It just says ‘written by a local author.’ And I don’t see AP anywhere, either. Is that good?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I lied to her. “That’s good, Mama.” I heard her let out a shuddering sigh.
“Good because your name’s not on it?” She sounded slightly hopeful.
“Sure,” I answered, not at all concerned about my name. “That’s real good.”
“Are you coming back here?” she asked, sounding very much like she didn’t want me to, like I would be lynched by my own family if I returned to the town where I’d grown up.
“Not yet,” I said, looking at my watch. It was getting late, but I might be able to catch a flight to Cincinnati. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call and let you know where I am. In the meantime, Mama, don’t worry.” I emphasized the last two words, knowing I might as well be telling her not to breathe.
“I’ll try not to,” she said. “Be careful.” And she hung up.
I looked at my watch again and then grabbed a phone book. I’d go to the airport and sit there on standby if I had to. I was going to Cincinnati tonight, one way or the other.
Chapter 37
“A house divided against itself falls.”
Forgiveness is not about forgetting. I can forgive John, as I hope he’s forgiven me, but I can’t forget. I try to erase his memory and the images of him married to another from my thoughts, but every bit of him is still there. I no longer pine for him. It’s too late for that. So maybe it’s me I long for, the me he awakened, the girl who was so free to love without fear. Maybe it isn’t him at all. Maybe it’s what he aroused in me. Whatever it is, it’s still there, deep inside, trying to stay hidden. There’s no place for a person like that in Isaac’s world. No place for laughter, joy, expression of oneself in soul, mind, or body. No pleasures, no arts, no life.
There’s no forgiveness in Isaac’s world, either. He goes through the motions of intimacy with me like I go through the motions of cooking and cleaning for him. He has no heart when he touches me, just fire, and determination to possess. I have no heart when I tend to his home, just a determination to do my best. He can’t forget. He still preaches condemnation at me from his pulpit. He is souring his boys toward me. I am an alien here, with only a few possessions as reminders of who I really am, where I belong, who I should be. I keep them hidden from him, and I return to them when the dullness and tyranny of this existence dry me up so much that I can no longer bear it. I return to the few fragments of my real being, memories of better days, arts in their purest forms. Drinks from a well I hope never goes dry. If it does…so will I.
~*~
Kyle stopped reading, only the static of the telephone connection in my ear.
“I thought you’d want to hear that,” he said, his voice soft and accentuated by the brittle crackling of the line.
He was right. It felt like a long drink of home, of me, of remembering who I was and what was important. I needed that. I’d arrived
in Cincinnati in the wee hours of the morning after a late-night flight. I’d gone to Jill’s, woken her from a sound sleep, and stayed there after she’d assured me she knew nothing of the story’s leak, sleeping away my exhaustion until mid afternoon. My fury reawakened as Julianne’s words seeped through me. The fury I’d brought to Cincinnati over the betrayal Julianne and my family had suffered, the anger I had at her unwanted exposure.
“You were so right,” I said into the mouthpiece. “How’d you know?”
I could hear him shrug on the other end of the line. Could see it in my mind. Could imagine a soft kicking up of one side of his mouth as he said nothing, the tiny grin sharing all his thoughts.
“Did Jill tell you I was here?” I asked. “Is that how you found me?”
“Yeah, she called when you came in. Said you were upset.” He paused, and I didn’t ask how she knew his number. “Is it partly because of something you found in Chicago?” he asked, his voice like my mother’s now, worried and afraid, but afraid for Julianne, not of her.
“No,” I said quickly, suddenly realizing I hadn’t told him what I’d learned in Chicago. I had been going to call him from my hotel yesterday when I’d called my mother instead. All of the good news and excitement at what I’d learned had vanished in the panic over Julianne’s exposure. “I found John!” I said, excitement returning. “Well, about him. I found some of his relatives, but I didn’t get to talk to them. I would have looked for them today, but I came here instead.” My excitement waned, reality snuffing the thrill of finding my great-grandmother’s ex-fiancé once again.
Kyle breathed softly into the phone. “Wow,” he finally whispered, awe in every fraction of the word. “So you’re in Cincinnati because the story leaked?” he asked, his tone more tenuous.
I hadn’t really thought about him or how the spread of Julianne’s story would affect him. I could eventually move away from my old hometown and go on with my life. But Kyle wouldn’t. He’d be a fixture there forever, and everyone would know he’d been at my side as I revived my family’s shame. I swallowed.
Mine to Tell Page 17
