Yesterday’s telephone conversation with Myrna replayed itself over and over in Paul’s mind. She had been right in her condemnation of him. He had taken much from Leo and, in return, had managed to destroy his career. The thought of Rex Hale serving as the chair of the Psychology Department almost made him nauseous. For Paul, a relationship with Rex as his superior would be impossible to manage. He doubted that it would ever be possible to mend the fractures that had come in their professional association.
Again Paul tried to sleep, but sleep just wouldn’t come. In a way he feared the prospect of sleep with its hideous dreams. He had retired at an early hour the night before his departure for Michigan but had no sooner begun to doze off than did the fearful dream of the preceding night begin to repeat itself. In that surreal state between waking and sleep he had fought to extricate himself from the ghastly images and the spirit of accusation that assailed him, but it was as if some paralysis had overcome him, drawing him deeper and deeper into a world of shadows and torment. He willed himself to resist but was powerless to do so. As in the preceding night he began to relive what had seemed to be a pilgrimage into hell where some superior force held him in subjection and required that he view the ugly consequences of his spoiled life.
When wakefulness intervened, he had tried walking in the fresh air of the night, which did allow him to clear his thoughts sufficiently to write to Claire. It was shortly after 5 a.m. when he had left the envelope for her before driving to the San Diego Airport. It was now half past eight. The engines of the plane droned on and Paul’s exhaustion overtook him in a few minutes of fitful sleep.
It was after 3 p.m. when Paul requested the envelope that had been left for him at the Hertz car rental desk in Detroit. As anticipated, the charges had been prepaid, and a detailed set of driving instructions sent him on his way to Elizabeth’s home in Ann Arbor. The note in the envelope was typed with the exception of some handwritten text at the bottom of the page which read, “Thanks for coming. I’ll have dinner waiting for you.”
The prelude to summer had come to Michigan and the road between Detroit and Ann Arbor was lined with green foliage that spilled out into the countryside. Paul felt relief at being away from the pressures of San Diego and was soon lost in nostalgia. He had not been back to Michigan since his days as a graduate student. There had been no personal ties to Michigan over the years, but more than that, he had been reluctant to return to these places that could so readily awaken repressed memories and reopen festering psychological wounds.
As he entered the outskirts of Ypsilanti the water tower he had seen each morning as he drove to school loomed into view, and it was as if he had gone back in time. Following his feelings, he drove towards Willow Run where he and Cathy had lived during those first wonderful months of their marriage. He was surprised to discover that most of the prefab units had been torn down. Only a few of the one-story row houses remained. Among those that were still standing was the little home where he and Cathy had lived. He yearned to stop and go inside. Perhaps Cathy would have dinner on the table – happy, carefree Cathy – who had been the joy of his life.
He drove on, retracing the route he had used to the campus each morning. Although there had been many changes, his memory restored things to their original appearance. The sun shone in its afternoon glory and small children were playing on the streets of Ypsilanti. In Ann Arbor he caught his first glimpse of the University buildings that had claimed so much of his time and energy. The University Hospital had undergone some renovation, but notwithstanding the modernization, it stood there as a gloomy reminder that not all who entered its doors were allowed to return to the lives they had once known.
Paul quickly oriented himself to the street directions in the note Elizabeth had left at the airport. He now drove east from the campus into the lush hills on the eastern edge of Ann Arbor. Here, palatial homes set back from the road could be seen through the overhanging branches of trees that were already covered with thick foliage. He drove slowly through these beautiful surroundings and noted the many lanes and paths that meandered into the dense greenery. At last he came to a red brick driveway. On either side of the driveway there were abutments of stone and masonry with an arch reaching from one to the other. At the apex of the arch was Elizabeth’s address, fashioned in wrought iron.
He proceeded slowly up the drive in the direction of the three-story brick home. Lush green lawn spread out in front of the home until it met a natural wooded area with dense stands of trees and bushes. There were flowerbeds and small ponds adorned with rock-work that added elegance to the setting. Paul parked his rental car beneath the overhanging branches that graced the area with an atmosphere of seclusion and walked to the semi-circular brick steps with their heavy pillars beneath an extending portico that was probably a balcony. He pushed the doorbell and heard the melodic chimes inside. The door soon opened.
Beaming at Paul with the kind of familiarity that would normally have been extended to an old friend, Elizabeth extended her greeting. “Paul, it’s wonderful to see you. Please come in.”
“I feel as if I should introduce myself,” he said politely as he stepped inside. “But you seem to know me already. Have we met before?”
“We met briefly, but I would not expect you to remember that. For me, on the other hand, it was a most memorable meeting. But we can talk about that later. Come in and sit down. You must be weary after traveling all day.”
Paul followed Elizabeth down a wide hallway. There were two rooms that opened to the right and a large circular staircase that ascended to the left. She led him to the end of the hall and through another doorway that opened into a spacious and beautifully appointed room. There were exquisite draperies and paintings, complimented with ornate settees and chairs of Chippendale design. A grand piano stood at the end of the room, and to its side large full-length windows opened as double doors onto a veranda.
Paul sat and Elizabeth settled herself opposite him. “You have a beautiful home, in fact I might use the term exquisite.”
“It was my husband’s dream home, Paul. He had no desire to be ostentatious; he just loved beautiful things. He always said, ‘If we like people it’s important that we have a nice place to entertain them,’ and that’s what he did. It seemed that we always had house guests when he was alive, and I still do a good deal of entertaining, but I’m more partial to a simple lifestyle. I’ve continued to live in this big house and have tried to keep it beautiful because I felt that’s what he would have wanted me to do.”
“What kind of work did your husband do, Mrs. … ?”
“Russell, but I would be pleased if you would just call me Elizabeth. Isaac started out in the automobile industry here in Michigan and retired in Southern California where he manufactured private airplanes. But the most fulfilling chapter of his career was in Ypsilanti where he superintended the Willow Run bomber plant during World War II. It was Henry Ford’s contribution to the war effort. It was there at the Willow Run plant that Isaac learned enough about the manufacturing of airplanes to strike out on his own after the war.”
Paul evidenced surprise. “Then you would likely be familiar with the Willow Run housing complexes that were built about that time.”
“Where you and Cathy lived years later. Yes, I knew the area well. Those housing units were built to accommodate the hundreds of migrant workers that came to seek employment in the plant. I was a teacher in the Willow Run School back in those days.” She paused, adding wistfully, “Those were happy times for me.” Then, redirecting her attention to Paul, she brought focus to this casual conversation. “Were you surprised at my invitation, Paul?”
His eyes searched this face etched with lines of graciousness. Paul had been somewhat taken by her air of familiarity and personal warmth. He was full of curiosity about this unusual woman. Responding with a smile he said, “Surprise is not the proper word. But for me, the greatest surprise is that I actually came at the request of someone I didn’t even know.”
“At a particularly difficult time in your life,” Elizabeth added.
“Yes, that, too.”
“Paul, I was the other patient in Cathy’s hospital room back in October of 1957. I spoke with her throughout the night prior to her surgery. She told me the story of your courtship and of the difficult days before and after Michael’s birth. She was so full of fear and despair about her surgery. We talked of God and of life in the world to come. I did my best to answer the many questions that were troubling her. At her request I taught her how to pray that night – really pray! I’m not sure I can adequately describe the spiritual awakening she experienced as she discovered how to truly commune with God. In the short time we were together I saw a wonderful transformation take place within her.
“I was also there that morning when your impatience with her became so great that you stormed out of the hospital room, then returned a couple of hours later. I was the one who told you that they had already taken Cathy to the surgical-prep room. How well I remember the panic in your face when you realized you had been mistaken about the time of her surgery and that you would not be able to see her as you had planned. I wept for you and her during that difficult day.”
Paul had not expected their casual conversation to move into such delicate territory. Moreover, Elizabeth’s directness had caught him off guard. He was left without words and looked away from Elizabeth’s gaze, wishing to escape the intensity of the moment.
Understanding his reaction Elizabeth offered sincere reassurance, “But rest assured, Paul, you have come to a friendly place today. I have no condemnation for you, nor shall I increase the pain you have known since that terrible morning so many years ago. My desire is to help you heal. And if you will hear me out, I will show you a doorway you have never seen before. Beyond that doorway there are answers to the questions that surely plague you. I know something of your present distress, Paul. It has been painful for me to be aware of the tragic events that are swirling about you. Please don’t think me presumptions in assuring you that all is not lost. There is a way out of the trouble that is consuming you. More than that, there is a way for you to find the healing and peace that have eluded you for so many years.”
Under different circumstances such words, though spoken in the spirit of sincere love, would have bought resistance and possibly offense on Paul’s part, but a curious feeling swept over him. He would listen to what she had to say. Doubt and mistrust were a part of his nature, and the frame of mind they produced had been with him so long it seemed unrealistic to ignore their presence this day, yet something was different. He sensed there was an element of urgency in what was transpiring. Whatever it was this woman had in mind during the time they would be together seemed sufficiently important that he agreed with himself to suspend critical judgment. If something out of the ordinary was happening to him he would try to remain open to it. He had not been able to find God in all his years of searching. Perhaps God, whatever and whoever he was, might find him at this critical hour of need. In that spirit he spoke graciously but with complete honesty to Elizabeth.
“I appreciate your concern for my welfare, Elizabeth. Frankly, I’m bewildered by all of this and only hope that you don’t expect too much of me. I cannot pretend myself into a new way of thinking about life. Hypocrisy is something I cannot countenance, nor am I willing to set aside the many unresolved questions that have been with me throughout my life. I cannot adopt a way of life that does not provide substantive answers to those questions.”
A beguiling smile crept across Elizabeth’s face as she spoke, “I’ve never felt that serious conversations worked well on an empty stomach. Let’s move into the dining room and get something to eat. Come, let me introduce you to my sister.”
They arose, and Paul followed Elizabeth through a set of French doors that led to a formal dining room. There were three place settings at the end of the long dining room table and Elizabeth motioned Paul to one of the chairs, at the same time calling her sister’s name, “Helen, will you join us?”
Nearby, another set of glass doors stood open and led from the dining room to the veranda area that apparently ran the full length of this side of the home. Paul could see through the doors and to the edge of a patio where a gently sloping ramp led into the wooded area beyond. There, only a few yards away, sat Helen in a wheelchair, enjoying the sights and open-air sounds of a pleasant afternoon. She immediately turned and wheeled herself across the inset bricks that formed the patio floor and into the dining room.
“Paul, I’d like you to meet my sister, Helen Reid.” As she moved in Paul’s direction he stood and took her extended hand in a pleasant greeting. “Although the two of you have never met before, I have told Helen much about you.”
“Truly she has,” said Helen. “I feel as if I am renewing an old acquaintance.”
Helen was slight of build and would have undoubtedly stood no more than five feet tall. Her auburn hair was cut short and was styled in a casual way. Paul assumed that the wheelchair accommodated a disability rather than ill health, for Helen appeared to be physically vibrant. Her movements were quick and well-coordinated, and she spoke with animation that involved her entire body. Helen’s young looking, small featured face bore little resemblance to Elizabeth, with the exception of the perceptible warmth and grace they both radiated.
“Why don’t you two visit for a moment,” said Elizabeth, “and I’ll bring things in from the kitchen.”
Helen wheeled herself to the table and Paul again seated himself. “I’m at a distinct disadvantage,” said Paul.
“And why would that be?”
“Both of you seem to know so much about me and yet I know virtually nothing about you.”
“Very true, and we must remedy that. I’m Elizabeth’s younger sister. There are just the two of us in the family. I have lived here with Elizabeth since her husband died about 15 years ago, but my real home is here.” She gestured to the wheelchair. “This is where I have spent much of my life.” She spoke in a matter of fact way without the slightest hint of self-pity. “I was injured during my younger years and have only limited mobility.”
Before Paul could find an appropriate response to Helen’s statement, she continued in her uninhibited manner. “I tell you that only to put you at ease, Paul. New acquaintances are always curious but reluctant to ask about the wheelchair. I never think much about it. It’s just a way of life for me. Let’s see, what else should I tell you about myself? Oh, yes, I might tell you about my books. Books are the love of my life. I have worked as head librarian at the Ann Arbor municipal library for the last twelve years and have been employed there since I graduated from the University of Michigan many years ago. Having told you that, I hope you don’t perceive me to be a stuffy bookworm of a woman. I do love life and try to live it to the fullest.”
“I’m sure no one regards you as being stuffy. I do have one question, however. How does a woman in a wheelchair get to work each day?”
“As soon as I was old enough to drive, my father purchased an automobile with manual controls. After Elizabeth married, Isaac gave the matter his personal attention. Isaac was an undisputed genius when it came to mechanical design. The result was a Ford touring car with a collapsible steering column and a powered seat that made for easy entry. There was no seat on the passenger side, just space for my wheelchair and a moving ramp mechanism. The whole contraption allowed me to enter from that side of the car in my wheelchair, move myself into the driver’s seat, then retrieve the retractable ramp and close the passenger door with the touch of a button or two. With that, I was on my way without assistance from anyone. Getting out of the car involved some additional mechanical wonders Isaac personally designed.
“After Isaac’s death, the time came when it was necessary to get a new car, and fortunately he had left enough friends in the automobile business to make it possible for me to get the design duplicated. … I’m afraid that was an involved answer to a simple question,” s
he said.
It was impossible for Paul not to like Helen. Her smile was contagious and her buoyancy suggested that all was well with the world. “You said that books were the love of your life. What do you enjoy reading most?”
She wagged her finger at him in mock rebuke. “Don’t get me started on that, Paul. I’ll monopolize this whole conversation tonight and you didn’t come to hear me talk about books. But in a word or two I’ll have to say that my fascination is history. My father was a history professor at the University of Michigan. Without really trying he taught me to appreciate history and to think like a historian.”
“And how does a historian think?”
“Ah yes, Paul, history is everything. It’s where we’ve been and where we’re going. I don’t think a person knows who he is until he knows something about his roots, his people and their culture, as well as their struggles and their values. Where we’re going as a society is a product of our past. Our values, our direction, even our collective social conscience is a heritage from the past. You know how the saying goes: ‘We stand on the shoulders of those who went before.’”
“You do feel keenly about all of this, don’t you?” said Paul, noting the sparkle in Helen’s eyes and the animation in her face.
“I don’t know how anybody could be bored with history, and perhaps the finest history works are biographies. I think they are studies of life in the raw.”
“And why do you say that?”
“You’ll have to stop asking me questions, Paul, because I can’t give half an answer. But let me quickly summarize what I have discovered about biographies. Even though history generally makes people what they are, there are a few unique people who come onto the world scene to shape history. Their thoughts are so cogent and their influence is so powerfully felt that the impact of their personalities shapes human events. Whether they are political, scientific, or artistic figures, their contributions come to be life forces, like mountain streams that cascade downward drawing from other tributaries until they cut their own channel.”
Braided Gold Page 33
