Red Jacket (20 page)

A Letter of Apology

Scotts' Farmhouse

Warsaw

2 June 1980

Dear Phyllis,

Thanks, belatedly, for your card and for the cheque. I'm so very ashamed. If I were you, I'd not have had anything to say to a bad-minded child whom I'd kept faith with for twenty years, tried to get to know when the time came, and presented with a gift I'd been planning for ages, whose response was as callous as mine.

Steph keeps harping on how much I look like you. I love the Carpenters dearly. They're the only family I've ever known, but one had only to look at them, good strong black folks, and look at fine-featured, puss-eye, wispy-hair, red me, to know I wasn't a Carpenter by blood. And here you were, obviously my kin, and someone who cared about me. I can't think of one other soul who would have kept writing letters for eighteen years to a person she'd known for two months and hadn't seen even a photograph of. It's a sour child, I fear. And who am I to blame for the acid that repeats into my soul, spoiling the taste of everything? Not Gramps, the best grandfather anyone could hope for, nor Ma and Pa, who are perfect parents, nor Edgar, Stewie, and Conrad, nor Sam and Princess — not even Pansy, who's been horrid sometimes, but who I know loves me.

I can't bleat about white racism either. It's not like there wasn't any in St. Chris. I went to St. Chad's after all — as good a preparation for living in the North as any. And I've made good friends here: Steph, the Scotts, Maisie, who popped up out of nowhere. God I can blame, maybe. I can't go on. It seems as usual to be all about me. I know you burned your hand because you were upset. I hope it's better now and that you'll call. I won't bother you by phoning first, what with all you must be dealing with, sake of Granny Vads illness. I hope she's improving. Please take care. Look forward to talking soon.

Grace

Steph feels like getting out of the house so they drive to Lakefield to post the letter.

Death and Disappearance

The staging area is stuffed with boxes and parcels, everything labelled “Ann Arbor.” Steph says she will mail them. God bless Steph!

The fuss with Phyllis still has her knotted up. Did insolence arrive from nowhere and just take charge of her mouth? Or was it a spontaneous blossoming of deep resentment at abandonment as a baby? In a way she feels like a hypocrite for telling Phyllis that if she's sour, she has only herself to blame. Given the circumstances, which respectable psychology book would buy that? Didn't Gramps have a part, Miss Evadne, all the bad-minded Wentley people? Not to mention the professional tormentors at St. Chad and vile Fillmore Buxton!

She looks up from addressing another box, sees her BA “cerfiticate” in pride of place on the chipped mantelpiece, and permits herself to feel proud, just for a moment. Over the weeks, she's done plenty considering, finally deciding there's nothing wrong with being satisfied that she's done a good job of studying her books. She's also decided it's okay to enjoy telling people who ask that she's going to Rackham, a great grad school, on a fellowship. She's mostly silent on the many other offers, though.

Now and then a rude little demon with a Christophian voice encourages bad behaviour. “Why you never just tell Phyllis where to take the cheque and stuff it? If you was vex with her, why you never say, ‘You leave me as a baby. Don't come now with your big-money present and your “Please may I be your mummy?” Far too little, lady, and much too late!' That would at least be honest.”

Steph says she is a pretty tough cookie. Since when? Had her brothers and baby sister loved a tough cookie all this time? Gramps? Pa? Ma? So she fooled them, all but Pansy? Above all, she fooled herself?

She finds a letter from New York that night in her mailbox. It's forwarded from Warsaw, only thing is the return address is not the apartment at Riverside.

Religious Sisters of the Heart of Jesus

Our Lady of Good Hope Convent

New York, NY 45678

9 June 1980

Dear Grace,

Thanks for your letter, which came quite quickly. Please forgive this brief response, but you'll understand shortly. I won't pretend I wasn't distressed at your reaction when I gave you the cheque, but we're still getting to know each other, and there will be misunderstandings. Apologizing must have been hard, and I appreciate the effort. So we'll just put it behind us. I'm writing from work. I didn't have a chance to fill you in properly, but Granny Vads has been quite ill and took a turn for the worse the day after I came back. I'm glad she waited till then because Daphne had a hard enough time while I was away. Yesterday, she was so bad I had to call 911. They took her to St. Clare's, where she is now. I'm staying here at the convent, since it's close by. Say a prayer for her please. I don't think she has long for this world. I'm sorry you didn't have a chance to meet, but heaven waits. I know you weren't going back to your old apartment, and we were all so topsy-turvy when I left that I didn't have a chance to get the address in Toronto where you are now. I'm hoping this will reach you at the Scotts before you leave. If not, I know Alicia or Stephanie will forward it.

With love,

Phyllis

On 15 June, Grace scribbles a reply to say she's leaving early the next morning, Monday, and that she will stay in the dorms at the University of Michigan to start with, but she will call Phyllis as soon as she knows her permanent address and phone number. She contemplates it, but decides she's not going to sign “Your daughter.”

Next day, the plane does the boogie from the time it climbs up over Toronto until the moment it lands in Detroit. It's rainy in Michigan in June, so she makes sure she has pills — migraine headaches don't love rain. When the aircraft slides into Detroit Metropolitan Airport on a beam of brilliant sunlight and she sees green and more green below, she loves the place.

On Tuesday morning as she threads her way from Couzens Hall across East Huron to the office at Rackham, she walks past groups of students talking, laughing, romping, flinging Frisbees in Felch Park. She is struck by their energy, a kind of effervescence that she doesn't recall at U of T. While she is getting things straight in the office, acquainting herself with the social contours, as Gramps had a way to say, a young woman waves a letter at her from across the room. “I think this is for you. Grace Patterson, don't it?” Grace smiles at the “don't it?” A countrywoman! Try as it may, American overlay can't hide St. Chris underpinning.

Odd. The letter is from a Sister Mary Agnes at the convent where Phyllis works. She pockets it, as she now almost always does, for later perusal. Sitting on her bed in the dorm after lunch, she reads.

Religious Sisters of the Heart of Jesus

Our Lady of Good Hope Convent

New York, NY 45678

21 June 1980

Dear Grace,

Please accept our congratulations on your wonderful achievements at university, which Phyllis told us about so proudly when she came back from your graduation! Bravo!

My name is Sister Mary Agnes and I am in charge of the institution to which your mother came twenty years ago, just after you were born. We've never met you, but one advantage of trying to live in eternity, is that you don't have to meet people in the flesh to know and love them. The community here prays for the babies that we have had the privilege to nurture, and for all our mothers and all their babies, so we remember you each day, as Phyllis's daughter.

I'm writing on behalf of Phyllis, whom we all love very much. She is as formidable and blessed a spirit as ever God made, which is one reason we asked her to stay and work with us. She is gifted in many ways and generous to a fault, gentle in her manner and yet tough as nails in her determination. In all, she has been a wonderful example to the young women who come here. Nor is this anything we have taught her; she was ever so.

On Monday last, your Grandma Vads died. As you know, she had been seriously ill for a while. Caring for her was taxing for Phyllis, who has always been her primary caregiver, the biggest difficulty being that in the course of her illness, Miss Evadne not only became mean, ill tempered and given to rages, but she directed her hostility at Phyllis. We know from nursing our old sisters that this can happen with some illnesses, rheumatoid arthritis being one.

The service for Mrs. Patterson was held this morning at Riverside Methodist Church, but Phyllis agreed to have the wake here since, among other things, many of those going to the funeral would be coming from the convent. Given what she had been through, it is perhaps not surprising that your mother collapsed at the wake. Luckily, Sister Mary Immaculate, our resident doctor, was here. Sister confirmed that Phyllis had had a stroke and she was taken immediately to hospital. Regrettably, the stroke has left her paralyzed on her right side. Her speech, thought processes, and memory are also impaired — exactly how severely, we are not quite sure.

Once out of hospital, Phyllis will need to go to a facility able to provide the necessary care, support, and expertise to help her regain as much of her normal functioning as possible. There is no predicting rate or extent of recovery from a stroke, but complete or almost complete recuperation is possible. Our sisters run a wonderful place called
Mary's Haven in Cohasset. It provides services such as these. We have consulted your Grandma Daphne, and she agreed that Phyllis should go there.

Please join us in praying for her full recovery. We continue to ask God to be gracious to you, and guide you in your decisions. Feel free to call me at the number above. The sisters join me in sending our love, and our condolences on the passing of your great-grandmother.

Yours in the Heart of Jesus,

Sister Mary Agnes, R.S.H.J.

Mercifully she is in her room when she reads all this, so she alone hears herself muttering and mewling. Not a doubt that it is her fault that Phyllis is now in the grip of a crippling stroke, for never mind Granny Vads bad treatment, Phyllis was fine at the Scotts. So clever, Papa God! So creative! Your Almighty Big Brain would know messing with Phyllis is the best way to punish me. As if the whole graduation ruckus wasn't still rankling, wrecking the excitement of a new place to live and study, and new people to get to know. Why had she never asked Gramps to hook her up with his Zeke-It's-Okay-to-Grow-a-Likl-Ganja-God before he died? That God existed. He and Gramps were good friends.

“Good tings come from bad, Gracie. Have a likl faith and look for the good tings.” Not Gramps this time but Pa, wiggling the stumps of his fingers. She admits to missing Ma, Pa, her siblings. She longs to talk to Gramps, ask his advice. After all, he helped make the trouble! He could help remedy it! Most incongruous of all is that she should feel so concerned about this woman whom she doesn't know especially well, only two weeks after the horrid exchange in Warsaw. But it's her fault! She must feel concerned!

Steph used to say people invoking Oscar Wilde's witticism, “All women become like their mothers” forget the last part: “That is their tragedy.” This time, it's the other way around, with her mother becoming like her. And the case
is
tragic, if she, Grace, is the daughter Phyllis is turning into! Papa God is clearly amusing himself with this ludicrous reversal of situations: now she'll be writing Phyllis letters that Phyllis won't read! Farcical as well that in Mary's Haven in Cohasset, Phyllis could as well be a baby, if she is to believe the nun's letter. Still, she is plenty better off than Phyllis had been, painfully inscribing teenage thoughts on blue air letter forms and sending them off to a child who would not read them until she was beyond the age when they might have sweetened her nature.

At least Granny Vads, mean-tempered, ill, and in pain is, hopefully, in a better place, though she might have chosen another day to die. Truly, jackass is right when he says “the world not level”! She considers, decides that she'll think of it in a positive way: both she and Granny Vads embarked on a new adventure on Monday!

So what ought she to do about Phyllis
this
time? Repent? She's done that already. Visit Phyllis? She's just reached Ann Arbor and she has neither the money nor the time, given her obligations. Write? She's already decided she will do that. And she will phone of course, Sister Mary Agnes, and the place in Cohasset, if it doesn't cost too much, although she doubts that she will be able to talk to her mother.

All the same, she's sick of being nailed to the Ten Times Ten Commandments. Ann Arbor is a whole new experience waiting. She'd decided that maybe this time she can enjoy it, instead of quaking in terror and hiding in books. Hard work isn't toddling off anywhere soon, but she's not afraid of that. And the whole thing with Phyllis isn't going away either. But maybe the reason she is mean, sour, and desperate is that all she does besides work is flagellate herself.

“Wise man say no point in studying God. Man to study himself” was Gramps's sage counsel. Till the showdown with Phyllis, and Steph's averring that she is a tough cookie, she'd figured on being a pretty decent person. But whoever she is, that person is going to have to do. She will tread light, make sure to watch her mouth, not say or do or plan to do any crazy things, especially since there is no Steph, or Scott family, or Maisie here to rescue her.

A diary. She will keep a diary. She writes down a to-do list every day so as to keep track of work. Fill out the lists a bit, and that can easily be a diary. Pick out the bits and pieces Phyllis will like, and that will make up her weekly letter. Matter of fact, she can use the diary to write a newsletter, and send it to everybody, not just Phyllis, but Ma and Pa, the boys, Steph, Maisie, Daphne, even Pansy and Mortimer. She knows it's a good idea when she hears Gramps chuckling. “If they all get the same letter, everybody would vex. If it name ‘newsletter,' that is a whole different matter!”

Church is the next thing. She has to find a church. She knows things would not have turned out so badly if she hadn't given up on Beloved in Toronto. She will ask someone, maybe the St. Chris young woman in the office at Rackham. She has no family nearby, not even distant kin, and she feels as if a load of rockstone has just buried her. All she can think of is the St. Chris remedy — taking it to the Lord, which means church.

The big stained glass window in the Museum of Archaeology stops her like a splash of ice water in the face on the first Saturday. No glass window she has seen anywhere looks like it. At first she sees only a shedding of soft tones, a gentle splashing of well-behaved hues playing into the room. When she steps forward to focus, she sees a royal purple frill outlining a huge arch and running all the way down the two sides and across the bottom of a large, long window. Inside the frill is another border that resembles accordion pleats of thin brown louvres, or dark popsicle sticks ranged side by side. A vine bearing bright, round emerald leaves, or maybe fruit, each in a curled lilac nest, winds its way close to these edges. Some old, overripe balls of Seville oranges, greenish, dirty yellow, brown-and-gold, looking as though they are spoiling or spoiled, roll around in a bold blue circle at the top, and run down in two lines that lead from the blue circle above to the bottom. Everything lands in a leafy design below. Scrutinized, it's not so pretty, but altogether the colours and the design bloom soft rays on everything.

She can't stop gazing the day she finds it. For no reason, it brings back Wentley and rests it on her heart. Gramps sleeping in dark dirt with a passion fruit vine growing on his grave; Pa reading the Bible in his rocking-chair; Ma watering her purple and orange cosmos with dirty dishwater; Conrad, on his way to school, collecting showers of morning dust as he shepherds Princess in her mauve basic school uniform, matching clips in her hair, hugging her lilac lunch pan; and Sam in his olive short-pants khaki suit, lugging his giant brown school bag. Never mind that they are teenagers now, this is how she thinks of them. When she finds out that it is the Student Christian Association that built Newberry Hall, the place where this window is, and that they used to hold prayer meetings there once long ago, she considers her discovery anointed. She's certain of it when Gramps teases, “You don't find church, Gracie! Church find you!”