Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1) (3 page)

Many thanks.

Sincerely,

I made a hundred copies, mailing as many as I could out into the void.
 

It's not that there were no replies. On the contrary, I received about a dozen cards and letters, most merely assuring me that they could be of no help. A card came from Boston from a family that informed me that their name had been legally changed in 1955 from a long Polish name; the closest I seemed to come was a letter from a lady in Illinois:

My father, Donald, to whom your letter was addressed, died last March, a couple weeks short of his eighty-second birthday. I have two brothers—Todd, in Atlanta, and Paul Michael, of New York.

My father was raised in the Colorado area. We know very little about his family. We never knew any of them. As far as I know, there were no brothers or sisters. As far as I can determine, he had an unhappy childhood and never seemed to want to talk about it—so, I respected that.

I'm sorry that I can't be of some help to you. Good luck in your search.

I wrote to the two brothers.

No answer.

Another brief note arrived as the weeks passed, from Haddonfield, New Jersey.

Dear Sir:

Your letter about Jack Radey was brought to my attention.

A friend of mine who is interested in genealogy suggested that you advertise in the magazine
GENEALOGY HELPER,
which is published by the Genealogical Publishing Company, Inc., at 1004 N. Calvert Street, Baltimore, MD.

You may wish to forward a copy of your letter. They might be willing to publish it.

I sent them the letter. They published it.
 

Nothing happened.

2

My mother died. I was unable to bring Jack back for her. I had failed.

Time. It was devouring us all, burying us in stratified layers, impervious to archaelogical probes.

The snow melted, leaving puddles of slush that glinted in the sunshine. Then the puddles dried up and blew away with the April breezes.

I stood at my father's kitchen window gazing out at the bulldozers and cranes that were excavating the parking lot—transforming it into an enormous maw that would serve to support the new police station. In my hand, a mug of instant coffee steamed casually, emitting small rays of warmth.

Behind me, saying nothing, my father smoked a cigarette with his right hand. His left hand was jammed in his belt.

It was the eighth of May when my father phoned. "I'd like you to come over."

"Anything wrong?"

"No, nothing wrong." There was a pause. "At least, I don't think so."

"What is it?"

"A letter came today. For Margaret."
 

"Who's it from?"

"I opened it." He seemed to be apologizing.
 

I waited.
 

"It's from Jack."
 

I couldn't speak.

"I said, it's from Jack."

"Jack?" My mind was numbed. "He's alive?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What do you mean, you don't know?" The words were tumbling out before I could sift them. "You're holding his letter, aren't you?" My voice had become a whisper. It was incredible. Everything seemed incredible.

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"Leo ... Listen to me for a minute." I could hear his breathing as he waited. A second tripped by. Two. Three. "Will you listen?" He was breathing heavily.

I calmed myself. "Yes."

"It came in the mail today. Along with all the usual stuff."

"Where is he?" The question blurted out before I could stifle it.

"It's postmarked Toledo, Ohio."

"He's in Toledo?" It was both exclamation and question.

"I don't know if he's there ..."

"What is it? What
is
it?"

"The letter's fifty years old, Leo. It's postmarked April thirtieth, nineteen thirty-four. It's written in pencil, just like the other one. The date on the letter is April twenty-ninth, nineteen thirty-four. It was written and mailed fifty years ago, but it came in the mail today. Today!"

I closed my eyes and waited for the explanation to present itself to me. Instead, I saw two birthday cards, one with a bird in a garden, the other with a galleon on the high seas.

My father was strangely composed when he handed me the letter. I wondered whether it was because he had had time to calm himself, or if it was part of the realm of old age to bear surprises with greater dispassion.

In the upper right-hand corner was the same purple three-cent Washington stamp. The postmark was as he had said.

The letter was two standard 872-by-ll sheets; atop the date on the letter was the address 117—17th Street, Toledo.

Dear Margaret:

I certainty owe you an apology, and I suppose I owe all the rest of the family one, too. It just seems as though the things I should do, I never get around to, and the ones I shouldn't are always being done.

I got your letter a couple of weeks ago, and I've started to write to you several times. I get about halfway thru and then something happens. How are you all doing, and how is Father?

I didn't have such a good winter, but things are starting to look up now. I lost my car, and just about everything else I had just before Christmas. I had a wreck and was laid up for a while, but I'm okay now, and thinking about another car. I guess I'll be smart to stay away from them for a while, though.

I was sure glad to hear from you. Don't think I'm an awful heel for not writing sooner, but just try and realize what a careless brother you have. I would have dropped you a tine at Xmas, but I was in pretty bad shape—physically and financially, so I just lay low and hoped everything would be all right.

I've been in Toledo now for two weeks. How are the children—boy, I'll bet they are getting big. I'd love to see them. If you get a chance to come to Detroit some weekend why not bring them along, and let me know beforehand so I'll meet you there.

I haven't seen anyone you know for so long that I feel like an orphan. I'm still with Hartican. I was away from him for a while during the winter, but started back again. His picture business is stilt the biggest. I'm working with a chap named McMaster, a real nice fellow. He's been married about a year and a half, and they were blessed with a bouncing baby boy about three weeks ago. He (Mac, I mean) is just ga-ga about the baby. He has me talking like one.

Say—that was a dirty dig about those cards you have for me. You'd think you hadn't heard from me in over a year. Send me some snapshots of yourself and the kiddies. I'm stilt carrying the one of you and Loretta in your bathing suits and Ronnie and Anne on the bikes.

Say hello to Father and all the gang for me, and write me sooner than I did you. Try and forgive me for not writing sooner—cause you know how a fellow slips once in a while. I'm glad to hear Tommy is doing well and has a new car, and tell Mrs. Nolan I hope she feels like herself soon.

I'm "gonna" close now and get some sleep. So long and

Lots of Love,
 

Jack

I left the letter on the kitchen table in front of my father and went to the window. In the excavation pit, the foundations had been poured.

3

The next letter arrived on June 23. I hung up the phone after receiving my father's call and drove over to his house in a daze.

This one was postmarked June 18, 1934, from Bucyrus, Ohio. The envelope bore the imprint of some roadside inn— or hotel—or possibly even a motel. I wasn't even certain if such things existed in the 1930s. Perhaps, I thought, it's merely a rooming house: "THE HIGHWAY," it read, "on the Nation's Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway, Bucyrus, Ohio."

The letter consisted of three sheets of yellowed stationery, with the same letterhead as adorned the envelope. The upper left-hand corner boasted: "Modern," the upper right, "Fireproof." I glanced once more at the envelope. A red two-cent Washington was aligned with a green one-cent counterpart. I read the letter. It was dated, in pencil, June 18/34.

Dear Margaret:

The first thing I want to do is apologize for not writing sooner. You know how I am about letters, though.

I'm still with Hartican of Detroit, but it's been so long since I've seen the office that I almost forget what he looks like.

How are all the folks in Toronto? Say "Hello" to all the gang around the house for me.

Have you been bathing this summer? I
 
suppose Ronnie and Anne are both expert swim champs by now.

There isn't very much to tell, as I've been hitting small towns all along the line. If the next one is as dead as this I'll go crazy.

I don't know where I'm going from here, but we will be leaving in a few days. I'll let you know my next address in time for you to drop a line. Let me know how Father is getting along. I've lost his address.

Things are just about the same with me, I'm not making a fortune but I will one of these days.

I'm "gonna" beat it now and get something to eat.

Lots of Love
 

Your Brother,
 

Jack

We were quiet for a long time in the kitchen. Finally, I looked at my father. "Why is this happening?" I asked. I waited for paternal wisdom, for a flippant retort, for exposure of some implausible and outrageous scheme. I watched him frown, and waited.

His eyes were focused on the wall behind me. I glanced sidewise to see what might be there. There was nothing. "Things have to be settled," he said. "Or they never go away."

At home, I dug my road atlas out of a pile of litter in the corner of the basement, and sat down to peruse it.

I found Bucyrus. It was north of Columbus, north of Marion, a tiny speck on Route 4.

Bucyrus.
I let the name roll softly in my brain.
 

He was headed south. Detroit. Toledo. Bucyrus.
 

On the Nation's Main Thoroughfare. The Lincoln Highway.
 

Was it happening fifty years ago? Or was it happening now?
 

I knew the answer. It was both.

He was moving, had moved, is moving, deep into the heart of America. It was clear. America: the Melting Pot. Canada: the Event Horizon.

Down the Lincoln Highway. Assimilated. Ingurgitated.
 

Then and now.
 

And tomorrow.

The letter that arrived July
5
was the briefest—written on a torn piece of stationery. It was from Ashland, Kentucky. The hotel this time was called the Scott Hotel, and the letterhead underlined its features: "Fire Proof—Moderate Price—Tub and Shower Baths." It had been postmarked July 1,1934.

Dear Margaret:

Just a line to ask how you are, and how things are going in Toronto. I am doing pretty well down here. I have my own car now, have had it for a week, a Dodge Roadster. How are Tommy and the kiddies? Say Hello to Father for me.
 

I'll be in touch.

Love,

Jack

4

I usually take my holidays in august. I like the weather, the heat, the end of summer. I usually head north, rent a cottage, do some fishing. The splash of a smallmouth bass taking a surface lure on an August evening can make the hairs on my neck stand up straight.

This year, I headed south.
 

Detroit, Toledo, Bucyrus, Ashland.
 

I had to see for myself.

I told my father. He nodded, sitting in the kitchen.
 

Outside, the girders rose up out of the pit, giving shape to the police station. The parking lot was gone.

There was no Vermont Hotel in Detroit. There were Holiday Inns, Hyatts, Hiltons. An office building stood on the site where 138 West Columbia would have been.
 

I drove on.

There was no 117—17th Street in Toledo. At least not any longer.