Every true story ends in death.
― Ernest Hemingway
Uncle Antoine’s Funeral
By John Gray Swan
PART ONE
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.
– Seneca
Chapter 1
Tuesday April 28, 1970
“Hey, Chubby,” shouted the dispatcher, “got a run for you!”
“There ain’t no orderly.”
“Take the new guy.”
“He ain’t finished his first aid course.”
“Just take him. He’s in the lunchroom.”
The dispatcher handed the order sheet to Chubby; he looked at it and grinned. It was an emergency call rather than a hospital transfer. Then he poked his head into the lunch room. “Hey, you, new guy!”
“Yes sir?”
“What’s your name?”
“Wilbur Noakes.”
“Okay, Willie, let’s go. We got a run.”
“But…”
“Yeah, I know. The dispatcher says to take you, so you’re going.”
Wilbur closed his first aid manual, followed Chubby to the garage and climbed into the passenger seat of a large white ambulance. Chubby started the engine, and switched on the siren and flashing lights. He turned right into the alley and then left onto Market Street, heading east away from downtown.
“Word is you just got out of the Army,” said Chubby.
“Navy.”
“What?”
“I just got out of the Navy.”
“Vietnam?”
“Two tours.”
“Two?”
“Yeah, nobody’d ever heard of Vietnam when I joined up in ’63. Last year they were getting ready to send me back. My six years were up so I got out.”
Chubby was doing over sixty and weaving though the midafternoon traffic. He was supposed to wait for cars to pull to right, but that wasn’t Chubby’s style. He just loved the freedom the siren and lights gave him. He looked at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye. He was hanging onto the door handle for dear life, but had a grin on his face. Chubby turned south onto Arlington.
“What did you do in the Navy?”
“Medical Corpsman.”
“Ah, I guess you must already know some first aid.”
“Some.”
Minutes later the ambulance turned right onto Reed Avenue and parked on the street behind a black and white. There was cop leaning against the car and cleaning his nails with the small blade of his pocketknife.
Cubby jump out of the car. “You guys call us?” he asked the cop.
“Yep. Weren’t no need for the siren, though.”
Chubby and Wilbur took the stretcher and medical kit out of the ambulance and rolled up the driveway to the front door. The cop held the door while they carried the stretcher up the steps and into house. To the left in the living room was a man lying on a dilapidated sofa, covered by a blanket. He was pale, emaciated, hair thinning and gray, eyes closed. A tall, slender, middle-aged woman sat on the coffee table holding his hand.
Wilbur opened the medical kit, dug through it and pulled out a stethoscope. He said, “Excuse me, ma’am. I need some room to work here.”
“Of course.” She stood and moved out of his way.
Wilbur touched his face, peeled back an eyelid, pulled down the blanket revealing a thin, stained, sleeveless undershirt. He inserted the ear tips of the stethoscope and placed the diaphragm on the man’s chest. He moved it around his torso and listened intently.
“Is he dead?” asked the woman.
“I’m not a doctor, ma’am.”
“Is there a heartbeat?”
“Not that I can hear.”
She frowned, and nodded.
Chubby stepped in holding a clipboard. “We’ll take him to the ER at Akron City. The doc there will make the pronouncement.”
“Of course.”
“Before we take him, I need some information for the report. His full name?”
“Antoine Pierre Trombley.”
“This is his residence? 847 Reed Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
“Marie McLaughlin.”
“Is this your residence?”
“No. Not for a long time.”
“Your address?”
“2491 Haverhill Road, Fairlawn, 44333.”
“Your relation to the, uh, patient?”
“He’s my brother. My half-brother.”
Chubby motioned to Wilbur for help; they moved the coffee table out of the way and rolled the stretcher next to the sofa. Chubby showed Wilbur how to lower it, and they slid the frail body onto the stretcher. Chubby strapped him in, and they readjusted the stretcher’s height to waist level.
As they rolled the stretcher to the door, Chubby asked the woman, “Do you want to ride in the ambulance to the hospital?”
“No, I have my car.”
“Okay. Just go to the ER admissions desk; they’ll tell you how to find him.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Once they had gone, she looked around the room thinking how small and shabby and empty it looked.
Chapter 2
A Brief History of the Trombley Family
Archaeological evidence suggests that modern humans have continuously occupied central France since the end of the Late Glacial Maximum. When the planet warmed and the glaciers receded about 15,000 years ago, humans resettled in the upper Loire Valley and expanded into Brittany, Normandy, southern Britain and western Germany.
About 11,000 years later Indo-European immigrants began a series of incursions from the south and east. They introduced advanced stone and, later, metal working technologies. By 1,000 B.C. they had imported a powerful agricultural package that included wheat, cattle, goats and horses; next came the Romans (1st century AD) and the Franks (5th century). The Frankish King, Clovis I, converted to Roman Catholicism in 498, which led to its adoption throughout France.
All these invasions had a tremendous linguistic, cultural and technological impact, but genetic testing suggests they made no contribution to the makeup of the Trombley family DNA.
In the 1300s the city of La Rochelle was the busiest Atlantic sea port in France, and it was quite natural for the Trombleys, who were shopkeepers and craftsmen, to shift their businesses from the Loire 80 miles to La Rochelle.
The most impactful modern historical event on the lives of the Trombley family was the publication of Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses in 1517. It ignited the Protestant Reformation and more than 400 years of war, torture, repression, bigotry and human migration.
In the 1530s the French lawyer John Calvin broke with the Catholic Church and fled to Geneva, where he became a major figure in the Reformation. By 1550 an estimated 10% of the French population had converted to the new church, and La Rochelle was one center of the protest. In 1559 Calvin drafted the Confession of La Rochelle; its adoption in 1571 formally established the French Reform Church.
Whether for reasons of business or faith, the La Rochelle Trombleys joined the Reform Church, and that choice linked their fate to the French Protestant Huguenots.
Starting in 1560 periodic civil wars broke out between Catholic and Protestant factions. In 1598 Henry of Navarre, a Huguenot, converted to Catholicism and was crowned Henry IV. He negotiated the Edict of Nantes, which granted the Huguenots political and religious freedoms. The Edict went in and out of favor over the next 90 years until Louis XIV revoked it and banned the French Reform Church. Most Huguenots abandoned their lives in France and moved to Switzerland, Germany, the Netherlands and England.
In 1688 thirty-three Huguenot families established a French-speaking colony in British North America on the mainland north of Manhattan. They called their colony New Rochelle in honor of the French city of their spiritual origin.
Responding to the lure of a French Protestant homeland, many in the Trombley family emigrated to New Rochelle between 1700 and 1725. The Trombleys continued to pursue their old-world livelihoods and maintained commercial, religious and familial connections with the rest of the French-speaking world. These connections were especially strong with colonies in New France – Quebec and Acadia.
By the mid-1800s there were well established groups of French-speaking Trombleys, Collinots and Reseguiers living in northern New York state and in Canada around Montreal. Members of this tight-knit group moved back and forth over the border, depending on which they detested more: The Papists in Canada or the anglophones in the United States.
In 1909 Pierre Trombley struck out on his own and moved his wife, Marguerite, and their three-year-old son, Antoine, from Syracuse, New York to Akron, Ohio.
Northern Ohio is remarkably flat, but Akron is situated on an inconspicuous kind of summit: to the south rain water flows into the Gulf of Mexico; to the north it flows into the Atlantic. Native American traders used a portage in the area to move their goods from one watershed to the other. Akron owes its existence to the Ohio & Erie Canal and the series of locks that lifted barges over that “summit”. From its inception, Akron was a place on the way to somewhere else.
Despite this reputation, a few important people actually moved to Akron on purpose. In 1871 the city offered Benjamin Franklin Goodrich $13,600 to move his failing rubber business to Akron. While the offer of capital was critical, Goodrich was also aware that Akron provided easy access to markets in the East and a supply of raw rubber from Brazil. By 1900 The B.F. Goodrich Company, The Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company, and The Firestone Tire and Rubber Company had made Akron the Rubber Capital of the World.
Between 1900 and 1910 the population of Akron rose from 40,000 to 70,000. Those people needed places to live and work. Pierre Trombley, a carpenter, went to Akron to build them.
Chapter 3
Wednesday September 17, 1918
As usual Marguerite was awake before the tiny hammers struck the bells atop the alarm clock. She got up and put on her light housecoat; when she left the bedroom, the clock was still ringing and winding down, and Pierre was battling to wake up.
She opened the kitchen door to get the milk and smelled the crisp air. The eastern horizon was brightening, but there was still a half an hour until dawn. Ça va être une belle journée, she thought. It’s going to be a beautiful day! She turned and looked at her kitchen and smiled. Her kitchen.
She turned on the kitchen light, thinking that she lived an age of miracles: electric light, a gas stove, indoor plumbing, and coal fired central heating made her home a revolution in comfort. Her family on the farm in Kirkville, New York still lived in the stone age by comparison.
She put water in the pot and coffee grounds in the basket, then the pot on the stove. She got eggs from the icebox and dry ingredients for pancakes from the cupboard. By the time she finished stirring the batter, the coffee was ready.
She poured a mug, added a little sugar and carried it to the bedroom. Of course, Pierre had fallen back to sleep.
She gently shook his shoulder and said, “Allez, mon amour, le temps de me réveiller.”
His eyes fluttered as he attempted to keep them open. She put the mug where he could smell the coffee and he reached for it. She stepped back; he groaned, sat up and put his feet on the floor. She handed him the cup and he drank.
"Merde, c'est chaud," he cursed. And then after a moment, "D'accord, je suis réveillé."
Marguerite walked into the boys’ darkened room. “Come, Antoine,” she said quietly, knowing her older son was awake. “Wash your hands and face. I’m making pancakes.”
“Why does Jimmy get to stay in bed?”
“Really, Antoine, must we go through this every morning? And please call your brother ‘James’.”
“I don’t see why, nobody else does.”
Her habit had been to kiss him on the top of his head, but at twelve he was almost as tall as she. She tried to give him a peck on the cheek, but he dodged her on the way went to the bathroom. Neither saw the other smile.
She put bacon on the stove to fry and fixed lunch pails for Pierre and Antoine: leftover fried chicken, a small apple and a cookie. She poured coffee into Pierre’s thermos. She turned back to the stove and poured pancake batter onto the griddle. Pierre walked into the kitchen carrying the newspaper from the evening before and sat down at the head of the kitchen table to read the front page. A moment later Antoine took his place at his father’s right.
Marguerite gave her son a plate of pancakes and bacon and a glass of milk. Antoine closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment.
“The news from Europe?” she asked.
“Is good.” Said Pierre. “We have the Boche on the run. Won’t be long now.”
“Wonderful!”
Antoine wolfed his food, and said, “More pancakes, please.”
“As soon as Papa’s are done.”
Pierre said, “He can …” and stopped at a look from Marguerite. “Yes,” he continued, “I’m sure he can wait,” and went back to his paper.
Moments later she served Pierre his breakfast and poured more batter on the griddle. Concentrating on the paper, Pierre negated grace as he often did at breakfast.
“What are you doing in school today, Antoine?” asked Marguerite.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course, you do. What are you doing in Math?”
“Long division. I hate long division.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s boring. I could do long division in the third grade.”
“It never hurts to brush up. And English?”
“We’re reading The Adventure of the Speckled Band.”
“What’s that?”
“A Sherlock Holmes story.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. What’s it about?”
“A nasty old doctor who’s trying to kill his stepdaughters with a poisonous snake.”
“How dreadful.”
“I think it’s funny.”
“What do you mean ‘funny’?”
“I don’t know. How do you teach a snake to crawl through a ventilator and bite the person on the other side? And then crawl back when it’s done?”
She put more pancakes on Antoine’s plate. He devoured them in the same fashion as the first serving.
“More coffee, mon petit?” asked Pierre, still not quite awake.
Marguerite poured his coffee with a small smile; Antoine got up from the table to dress for school.
“Brush your teeth.”
“Yes, Maman.”
She considered making her own breakfast, but did not feel hungry. “Peut-être que je vais manger avec James” she muttered to herself. Perhaps I’ll eat with James.
“What’s that?” asked Pierre.
“Nothing.”
She heard Antoine walking to the front door. Most days he left early to play with his friends in the schoolyard.
“Put on your jacket,” she called.
“Oh, ma, do I have to?”
“Yes, you do.” She heard him stop at the closet and go out the door.
Pierre came around the table to where she stood leaning on the stove. “Are you alright?”
“Oui, juste un mal de tête soudainement.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s nothing. A little headache.”
He put his arms around her, and she smelled his strong masculine scent from the previous day’s work.
“Will you never stop trying to teach me more French?”
She smiled. “Si vous n'étiez pas un idiot, vous le sauriez déjà.”
He laughed, catching the word “idiot”. He put his right hand on her ample bottom and kissed her.
“Isn’t it time we started that baby girl you want?”
“Yes, but not this morning. You’ll be late for work.”
He nodded. “See you this evening.”
“À plus tard.”
He started for the door.
“Put on your jacket.”
“Oh, ma, do I have to?”
They laughed. He went out the door and turned east to catch the streetcar on Arlington.
She washed up the breakfast dishes watching the day begin out the window over the sink. The Steiner’s house next door blocked the sun but scattered clouds on either side turned red and gold. She stepped out to the sidewalk to catch the last few minutes of the sunrise. When colors had mostly faded and the clouds turned to puffy white, she looked up and down the street at the maples and elms beginning to turn yellow and red. She sighed and walked back to house.
As she opened the front door, she coughed. “J'espère ne pas avoir froid,” she muttered. She made her bed, went to the boys’ room to make Antoine’s bed, where she fought the urge to cough so as not to wake James.
It was her day to mop the kitchen floor, but she was starting to feel achy and fatigued. She sat down at the kitchen table and drank a cup of coffee. She was still there an hour later when James walked in carrying his Teddy bear.
“Bonjour, maman,” said James.
“Bonjour, James. Es-tu prêt pour le petit déjeuner?”
“Oui, maman.”
She got up and fixed their breakfast. When she returned to the table with plates, Teddy was sitting in Pierre’s chair.
“Teddy wants some breakfast, too, maman.”
“Say ‘S'il vous plaît, prenez un petit déjeuner pour Teddy.’”
He did his best to repeat it; she corrected him until he got it right. She got a small plate from the cupboard and put it in front of Teddy. Then she broke off a small piece of pancake and bacon and put them on Teddy’s plate.
James bowed his head and said, “Bénissez-nous, Seigneur, bénissez ce repas, ceux qui l'ont préparé, et procurez du pain à ceux qui n'en ont pas. Ainsi soit-il.” Then he ate with gusto and said, “Bon, hein, Teddy? He says it’s good, maman.”
She gave him a look.
“Il dit que c'est bon, maman.”
“Merci, Teddy.”
For the remainder of the morning James played about the house and Marguerite laid on the sofa in the living room. At eleven she got up, feeling worse than ever, and cut up an apple for James’ snack. After James ate his apple, she walked with him the four blocks to the elementary school coughing all the way. Then she walked home and laid gratefully back down on the sofa.
His mother had given Antoine the job of walking his brother home from school, which he hated. His friends, Harry and Rudolf, were always up to something after school – baseball or kick the can or throwing stones at cats. It was irritating to miss even a minute of such fun.
“Come on, squirt, get a move on.”
“Mon nom ne ‘squirt’.”
“It’s squirt if I say it’s squirt. And speak English when you talk to me.”
“Mais maman me veut...” Antoine grabbed him by the ear and twisted it.
“I said to speak English.”
“Owww, I am going to tell maman.”
“You do and I’ll make you pay.”
“You’re just too dumb to speak French.”
"Je parle assez bien le français.” James stared at Antione; he had never heard him speak an entire sentence in French. “Now get a move on or I’ll drag you the rest of the way by your ear."
This only made James walk in baby steps.
“Alright, be that way.” Antoine turned and walked back in the direction of the school.
“Wait!” squeaked James.
“You can find your own way home.”
“I’ll walk fast, I promise.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Minutes later they were at the front door; Antoine opened the door for James because even though he could reach the knob, he had trouble turning it. James went in the door and Antoine jumped off the stoop and headed back to school. He had not gone ten steps when James popped back out the door.
“Antoine, come back!”
“What now?”
“Something’s wrong with maman.”
Antoine leapt up the steps and into the house. He found his mother lying on the sofa and covered in perspiration; her eyes were closed.
“Maman!” he said. “Maman, wake up!”
He shook her shoulder and she felt hot. He could not rouse her.
“Jimmy, go next store to Steiner’s and stay there. I’ll get help.”
Antoine ran the two blocks to Arlington and block north to Balducci’s, the neighborhood green grocer.
He burst into the store and cried, “Mr. Balducci! Mr. Balducci!”
“Hi, Antoine,” said fifteen-year-old Joey. “My old man’s home sick. Me and Gramps are watching the store today. What do you need?” The old man waved from behind the big mechanical register.
“My mother is sick, too. I can’t wake her up.”
The elder Balducci understood English fairly well, but did not speak it. He spoke Italian to Joey.
“Gramps wants to know if she has a fever.”
“She’s real hot.”
More Italian. “Gramps says to go home, cover her with a blanket. We’ll call the doc,” said Joey walking to the telephone on the wall.
“Ok.”
Antoine ran the three blocks home. Marguerite was the same, hot and unresponsive.
He ran to his room and stripped the blanket off his bed. He hurried back and covered his mother. Then he sat on the floor next to her, held her hand and talked to her about his day at school and his plan to play baseball with his friends on the weekend. Without her usual questions, he soon ran out of things to tell her. He got up often to see if the doctor was coming down the street.
It was clear, even to him, that his mother was getting steadily worse. Her cough became more violent, her breathing more ragged. She choked, and blood-flecked foam started to drain out of her nose and mouth. Then she began to thrash trying to catch her breath.
“Stop, maman! Please Stop!” He couldn’t bear to watch her any more. He ran to his room and hid in the corner behind the chest of drawers as house began to darken.
Eventually he heard his father’s voice. “Marguerite? Marguerite? Antoine?”
He ran to his father, crying and calling, “Papa, Papa!” They met in the dining room.
“What’s wrong Antoine. Where’s maman?”
“She’s in the front room.”
Pierre looked confused. At that moment there was a knock at the door. Pierre opened it and found a man in a suit and fedora standing on the stoop, carrying a small, leather bag. Pierre would always remember that the man reminded him of Teddy Roosevelt, with a large fleshy face and round, wire-rimmed glasses.
“Is this the Trombley residence?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I am Dr. McLaughlin. I’m here to see the lady of the house.”
“Antoine, is your mother sick?”
Antoine nodded.
“May I see the patient?”
“Yes, of course.”
Pierre led the doctor into the living room, turned on the lamp, and for the first time saw his wife lying on the sofa. She was unnaturally still and had a slight bluish tinge to her skin. The doctor went to her side, held her wrist for a moment and looked into her clouded eyes. He took a small horn shaped object from his bag and put one end to her chest the other to his ear. He sighed, stood and took Pierre aside; even so, Antoine could hear every word.
“Mr. Trombley, it saddens me to inform you that your wife is dead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. She is cold to the touch, there is no pulse. She has been dead the past hour or so, I would think.”
“But how can this be? She was fine this morning.”
“Think back; perhaps she had a bit of cough or a headache.”
“A headache, but it was nothing.”
The doctor shook his head. “There is a new influenza strain. It is very deadly, especially to young, healthy adults. We don’t know why. Your wife’s eyes are cloudy from petechial hemorrhaging. This is a sign that she suffocated. This disease can fill the lungs with fluid. Even if I had been here, there would been nothing I could do.”
“Oh, my God!” Pierre put his face in his hands.
The doctor put his hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “I am so sorry to give you this dreadful news. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think she suffered much. She was most likely unconscious during the last stages.”
Antoine did not believe that; he had seen his mother dying. But he said nothing.
“I am sorry, Mr. Trombley, but there are many other sick people that I must see tonight. I will inform the authorities. Somebody will come to get her body as soon as they can.”
Pierre nodded; the doctor gathered his hat and bag and left. Pierre stood in the living room, completely at a loss. Then he saw Antoine.
“Where is your brother?” asked Pierre.
“I sent him to Steiner’s after school. I suppose he is still there.”
Pierre nodded. “I will get him.”
“I don’t think Jimmy would like to see maman like that.” Her cheeks, lips, chin, throat and dress were covered with dried tears and mucus; her face was set in an expression of fear and distress.
“Yes, you are right, of course.” Pierre picked up her limp body. “Get a pan of water, soap and a washcloth, and bring them to my bedroom.”
Antoine went to the kitchen, got a basin from under the sink and ran a little water into it. Then he went to the bathroom, got a clean washcloth from the cabinet and the bar of soap from the wash stand. He walked into his parents’ room and found his mother lying on the bed and his father pulling her dress up over her head. For a moment Antoine thought his father had been crying, but then had second thoughts.
“Bring that here” said Pierre. Antoine walked to the side of bed and handed him the basin, then turned to leave the room. “No, please stay. I may need your help with this.”
Antoine turned back to the bed. He saw that his mother was dressed only in her camisole and knickers. This embarrassed him; he couldn’t recall ever seeing his mother’s knees. Pierre scrubbed and rinsed her face, throat, shoulders and hands. Then he went to the armoire and selected her Sunday dress.
“I am going to pick up her legs and you slip the dress on,” said Pierre. Antoine followed his father’s directions. “I will hold up her bottom, and so on, you keep slipping the dress up.”
“Why are her arms so stiff?” asked Antoine as they struggled to get her arms into the sleeves of the dress.
“It’s what dead bodies do. It wears off after a few hours.”
“Oh.”
Pierre did not bother to button the dress at the back; he just tucked the loose ends under her body. He washed her face, arms and hands, then composed her lying on her back, arms at her sides, head on her pillow. He arranged her shoulder length hair around her face, combing it with his fingers. He stood back and they both looked at her. Then he took his son from the room.
They sat for a moment on the sofa where she had died. Pierre hugged his son and said “I should get James now.”
“He likes to be called Jimmy.”
“Yes, no doubt, but I must continue to call him James, at least for a little while.”
Antoine looked down and nodded.
“I will be back in a minute.”
He got up and left Antoine alone in the house with his mother’s body once again.
Chapter 4
Tuesday April 28, 1970
“Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company.”
“Hi, Gertie, it’s Marie. Is he in?”
“Sure, Marie. Just hold on.” Gertie put Marie on hold, pressed the internal line and dialed 112.
“Yes?”
“It’s your wife on line two, Mr. McLaughlin.”
“Thanks, Gertie.” He pressed the blinking line two button. “Marie, what’s up?”
“Nelson, Antoine’s dead,” she said, holding back her tears.
“Oh, no. When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I went to his house this morning to take him to his doctor’s appointment. When I got there, he didn’t answer the door. So, I let myself in and found him on the sofa. He wasn’t breathing, so I called the police.”
“Where are you?”
“Akron City Hospital. The ER doctor just declared him dead.”
He looked at his watch, “I have an important meeting in about five minutes; do you want me to skip it?”
“The ATG?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so. There’s nothing you can do right now, but I’ll need some help making the arrangements. Can you help me with that tomorrow?”
“Let me see.” He looked at his calendar. “Yeah, that would be okay. Nothing super important in the morning.”
“Oh, good.”
“I’m supposed have drinks with Bud after work. Do you want me to cancel that?”
“Oh, no. I’ll see you at home later.”
“Look, Marie, I’m sorry, I really am.”
“I know you are, Nelson.”
“I liked the old bird in spite of everything.”
“He liked you, too.” Nelson grunted. “Well, he did.”
Gertie poked her head in his office door. “Time,” she said.
“Sorry, Marie, I have to go.”
“Yes, I’ll see you at home.”
Nelson stood, straightened his tie and walked out of his office with a slight limp. He was tall and heavy with bright blue eyes and a crooked nose. As he passed Gertie’s desk he asked her to reschedule his one meeting in morning. Being careful of his right knee, he shuffled down the single flight of stairs to the first floor, walked down the hall to the exit and out into the April sunshine. He walked the fifty yards to main Goodyear Administration building, and into the large conference room on the east side of the building.
There were just over twenty men in the room, all members of the Aerospace Technologies Group. He sat down with Ed Berenger, his project engineer and Phil Kowalski, his project chemist.
“You guys ready?” he asked.
“Sure, Nails,” said Kowalski. Berenger just nodded.
William Sanderson, the ATG administrator, walked into the room and up to the podium.
“NASA is calling for a review of all systems on the spacecraft, with special attention to the Service Module and the oxygen/hydrogen power generation system. Let’s start with Hoses.”
Each of the teams gave reports on the various parts supplied to NASA for the Apollo missions. The parts were used in the monstrous Saturn V rocket, the S-IVB, and the sections of Apollo Spacecraft – the Command Module, the Service Module, and the Lunar Module. There were hoses, belts, o-rings, and miscellaneous other rubber products, extruded and molded.
“Okay, Nails, what about the o-rings?” asked Sanderson.
“Sandy, you know nothing has changed in the process since 8.”
“I still want the report.”
Nelson looked at the chemist.
“Our quality assurance testing on the synthetic rubbers from DuPont and GE have found them to be well within our system specifications. We haven’t rejected any part of any shipment since August of ’68. Manufacturers of other chemical constituents have a similar record. As Mr. McLaughlin said earlier, we haven’t changed any of the formulations since Apollo 8.”
Nelson turned to the engineer.
“The manufacturing processes on all 107 of the different types of o-rings in the spacecraft and booster have been locked down since October of last year. There have been no changes to report.”
“Your current rejection rates?”
“We only run a hundreds at time for each type of ring. Rejection rates are not statistically significant at those low numbers.”
Sanderson just stared at Berenger.
“After microscopic inspection and measurement of each ring, about four percent across the board. Some as high as eight percent, some as low as two. It varies from ring to ring and run to run.
“Destruction testing at high and low temps show all rings exceed the requirements in NASA’s specs. NASA has not rejected a batch of o-rings since September of ‘68.”
Two more groups gave their reports after Nelson’s group.
Sanderson looked moderately encouraged. “So, I am safe to say that we believe that no Goodyear component contributed to the explosion on Apollo 13?”
All the heads in the room nodded.
“Excellent. One final bit of business. We’ll be send the consolidated report to NASA with that conclusion. It is possible that NASA will reject some or all of the report. In that case project managers should all be prepared to fly down to Washington to defend your conclusions.”
The men filed out of the room and down the hall the to the exit.
“What the hell was that, Nails?” said Berenger. “What could o-rings have to do with the explosion in the oxygen tank?”
“Boys, it’s CYA time. Nobody wants to catch the heat from this one.”
Nelson slipped into the booth across from Bud Bainey. Bud owned a rubber products distributorship; they had met 20 years earlier when Nelson called on Bud as a salesman. Nelson had taken Bud on golf outings and Saturday afternoon trips to Columbus for Ohio State football games. By this time, they were just good friends. Bud sat behind a half-full martini glass which held two skewered cocktail onions.
“Hi, Nails.”
“Bud. Looks like you got a head start.”
“Not really. This is my first.”
Nelson looked around the bar, which was populated by middle-aged, middle-class businessmen wearing suits and ties. He caught the eye of the waiter who headed in his direction.
“What’ll you have, sir?”
“A Manhattan.”
“Coming right up.”
Nelson eyed his friend; he was little shorter, fifty pounds lighter, ten years older, balding, with horn-rimmed glasses perched crookedly on his thin nose.
“How’s business?” asked Nelson.
“Spectacular.” This annoyed Nelson. “How’s your business?”
“Never should have taken this fucking o-ring job.”
“The Apollo disaster still got you down?”
“It’s not that, although it’s irritating as hell. I agreed to take the job because I thought the Apollo assignment would give me leg up. But guys that I was hired in with, like Hugh Jefferies, are lined up for division manager jobs, while I’m stuck as the product manager for fucking Apollo o-rings. The tire division’s got all the pull.”
“Nelson, your problem is not o-rings. You just married the wrong woman. Marie’s family just doesn’t vote any shares.”
Nelson grunted. The waiter set a Manhattan in front of Nelson. “Thanks.” Nelson took a sip.
“I keep telling you Goodyear doesn’t know what to do with guys like you. They don’t like smart, aggressive boat-rockers. They like things to be predictable and comfortable; they like their twenty-seven percent of the market and those fat dividend checks at the end of every quarter. They’re not interested in fighting for another three percent. It’s just too much effort.”
“We’re not going to talk about this again, are we?”
“This is the last time I bring it up, I promise.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, I can’t afford to buy a distributorship.”
“So, you say. Just hear me out, okay?” Nelson barely nods. “I’ve had my eye out for a very particular situation. I’ve being looking for a dealership that’s seen better days, one that is a little seedy, but has potential. And I’ve found just the place, a Parker Seal distributor in Muncie.”
“Shit, not more o-rings.”
“O-rings are a great business. They’re in everything, cars, trucks, boats, ships, factories, plumbing, everything. The margins are good, and they are easy to ship. I don’t have to tell you this stuff. You have got to stop thinking like a Goodyear fat cat. The margins on tires are terrible. Goodyear likes them because they’re a high-ticket, high-volume item. But tires are poison to a distributor.”
“I fucking hate o-rings!”
“You’ll love them if they make you rich.”
A trim medium-sized man in a dark suit with blue-black hair and a five o’clock shadow walked by the booth.
“Hi, Nick,” said Nelson, sliding out of the booth.
“Nels!” the two men smiled and shook hands.
“Nick, do you know Bud Bainey?”
“No, seen him around, though.”
“Bud, this is Nick Koufos. He owns this glorified gyro stand.”
They shook hands. “The family owns; I merely manage.”
“Speaking of the family, how’s your old man?”
“Enjoying his garden in St. Petersburg. He’s going to be in town at the end of May. He’d love to see you.”
“I’d like that.”
“Great. We’ll arrange something while he’s here. Sorry, got to go.” He smiled. “Problems, always problems.”
Nelson watched him go and then sat back down, a smile on his face.
“How do you know him?” Bud asked.
“High school. We played ball together. Those were the days.”
“And his dad?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He came to the games, I got to talking with him and spent time at their house. Got to like Greek food.”
They each took a sip of their drink.
“So, where was I?” said Bud. “Oh, yeah. I was talking about o-rings making you rich. Listen, you could be the rock and roll star of the o-ring business. You’re the guy that put Goodyear o-rings on the Moon. Right?”
“Wasn’t just me.”
“Would Goodyear have gotten that order without you running point?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Not like you to be so modest. Take it from me, your rep will open lots of doors. But more than that you are one hell of salesman. Wouldn’t you love to go back to sales? And make a boatload of money doing it.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t bullshit me, ol’ buddy. I know you; you miss the hunt.”
“What’s the price this ‘seedy’ distributorship?”
“They are hinting at one point five million.” Nelson groaned. “But I’m sure we can knock it down by at least a quarter of a mil. And I’m guessing you could get a business loan for about three-quarters of a mil on the business itself.”
“That’s great. That only leaves me five-hundred grand short.”
“I don’t think we’ll have any problem getting the balance.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?”
“We’d be partners, of course. You don’t think anybody would loan that kind of money to a complete beginner?”
“Partners?” A dim filament began to glow behind Nelson’s eyes.
“Sure, I’ll put up a couple of hundred thousand maybe and we’ll get a loan for the rest. But you’d be the managing partner and majority owner.”
“Majority owner?”
“Well, sure. You’ll be doing most of the work; sweating your ass off; burning that midnight oil, baby. When I cash out, I expect to make a tidy profit on my two hundred thousand. Money I could never make in the market.”
“So, how would this work? I don’t know shit about running a business.”
“My business is pretty much running itself. I can afford to spend a couple weeks a month in Muncie for a while. Then five or six days a month after that until you have your feet on the ground. And I’m always just phone call away.”
Nelson took a slug of his Manhattan. “I don’t know, Bud, that’s a lot of risk. I’ve got two kids in college.”
“That’s a detail, Nails. There are lots more that you haven’t thought of. You need a lawyer and an accountant from Muncie or maybe Indianapolis to vet this deal for you.”
“That won’t be cheap.”
“Look, I won’t let you do this if you aren’t protecting yourself every way you can. You have to be absolutely certain the risk is manageable before you take the plunge.”
Nelson grunted.
“And that starts with getting familiar with the business. Do you think you can get away from work for a couple days sometime in the next two weeks? We should go down to Muncie, look the place over, meet with principals, talk to a few of the employees.”
“Yeah, probably. But I have to talk to Marie first.”
“Of course.” He opened his brief case, pulled out an 8x11 envelope, and handed it to Nelson. “This has an outline of the plan, pretty much what we’ve discussed so far. Read it over, show it to Marie, discuss it, then call me.”
Nelson finished his Manhattan. “You want another Martini?”
“Sure do. Thirsty work.”
Nelson signaled the waiter and ordered two Martinis. “I can only stay for one more. Marie’s brother died today.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. Didn’t know Marie had a brother.”
“Yeah, we didn’t get along. Him and me, I mean. Just never had much to say about him. Died in the house they grew up in.”
“Maybe you should head home.”
“No. I offered to cancel, but she didn’t want me to do that. If I know her, she wants some time to herself anyway.”
Waiter brought their second round. Bud picked up his drink making the motion for a toast and said, “To a future in business together!”
Nelson said, “Mmmm,” and pick up his glass. “How about, ‘To a bright future!’”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Chapter 5
A Brief History of the McLaughlin Family
Four-hundred million years ago tectonic forces snapped off a splinter of Laurentia, the ancient proto-continent that underlies North America. 50 million years later it collided with the northwestern edge of the European continental shelf, driving the Scottish land mass above the surface of the ocean. The collision heaved-up a massive mountain range. Although ground down by repeated glacial periods, the Southern Uplands formed a physical barrier and established a natural border with the gentler landscapes to the south.
In the north the Grampian Mountains formed much later, the result of subduction along the Great Glen Fault. The narrow band of the Central Lowlands, protected by mountains to the north and south and treacherous seas to the east and west, has always cradled most of the human population in Scotland.
Scotts brag that, due to the gritty Scots character and the gift of geography, Scotland has never been conquered. That is true in the sense that no foreign invader has ever occupied and held the entire country. It is also true that the Romans, Irish Gaels, Vikings, Britons, Angles and English at times held large chunks of Scotland.
While the natives of Scotland eventually repulsed the Romans, Vikings and English, the Gaels held the west coast for more than 300 years. They Christianized the rest of Scotland and disseminated their language, art and technology along with their religion. In the 9th century the Gaels and Picts agreed to merge their kingdoms forming the core of the Scots culture and character.
Like France, the Protestant Reformation came to Scotland in the early 1500s. In 1560 Scottish Parliament adopted the Confession of Faith, and Scotland became a Protestant country. Six years later Mary Queen of Scots, a Catholic, abdicated, and her Protestant son, James Stuart, became the king of Scotland. When Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, James Stuart assumed the throne of England, and, for the first time in history, Scotland, Ireland, England and Wales shared a single monarch.
During the period of James’ rule, the major source of the internal unrest came from the north of Ireland, the most rural and staunchly Catholic part of the country. In order to “civilize” the Gaels, James confiscated the entire province of Ulster, and sent colonists, primarily Scots, to own, manage, and work the land.
The McLaughlins were camp followers, reluctant yeoman infantry, impoverished itinerant peddlers and, as a last resort, agricultural laborers. They saw this royal land grab as an opportunity to improve their station. The McLaughlins, who descended from the Gaels, crossed the Irish Sea to help subjugate the land of their ancestors. Their return proved to be everything they’d hoped. The second generation began to educate their elder sons; the fourth sent them to the ancient universities of Scotland – St. Andrews, Glasgow, Aberdeen and Edinburgh. These men became lawyers, Presbyterian clergymen, traders, and estate managers for absentee landlords in Ireland.
In 1844 Ian McLaughlin, a solicitor in Belfast, sent his son Thomas to study at Glasgow University. At the end of the spring term in 1846, Thomas returned home to visit his family. When he disembarked, Thomas was shocked by the state of Belfast. During the short carriage ride to his family home, he saw the dingy streets were full of rubbish and horse manure, and there seemed to be many more idle people in the streets and many, many more beggars.
In his serene bubble at university he had been unaware of the devastation of the potato blight. In the previous year almost 200,000 had died of starvation and the great Irish Diaspora had begun.
Upon arrival Ian took Thomas into his study and informed him that the family business was failing and he could no longer support him at university. In fact, the collapse of rent values made it difficult to maintain him in any way at all. Instead, he had arranged passage for him to the United States.
Ian told his son that he would provide letters of introduction to the Wilsons of Philadelphia, with whom the McLaughlins shared connections by marriage. Ian left no doubt in Thomas’ mind that, as the third son, he should not expect any support from the family beyond that. He would be on his own in America.
The Wilsons arranged lodging for him with a distaff member of the family and helped him to find a minor position with an associated law firm. He must have impressed some member of the Wilson family, because two years later he was a scholarship student at the University of Pennsylvania. Knowing that he had to fend for himself, he chose to study engineering, which, in those days, meant civil engineering – building roads, railroads, bridges, dams, repairing canals and the like. His first job was with Coleridge & Sons where he learned surveying. In 1858 he became one of the “Sons” by marrying Adele Coleridge.
In 1861 at the age of 35, he joined the Union Army as an engineer at the rank of Captain. He was sent to Ohio to scout the southern border for possible locations of barracks, embankments and fortifications against a Confederate invasion from across the Ohio River. However, two events in late 1861 made his task almost moot. Kentucky, a slave state, decided to join the Union in spite of its close connections with Virginia and Tennessee. Additionally, the citizens of northwest Virginia voted to break away from the secessionist east, formed the state of West Virginia, and also joined the Union. Within a few weeks the possibility of hostile borders had been nullified politically. However, the Union Army hedged its bets, and left McLaughlin to complete his work while taking most of his man power for more urgent jobs in Pennsylvania and along the Potomac.
In late 1863 he worked the last third of his survey out of Cincinnati and sent for his wife. A more idyllic and tranquil Civil War service would be difficult to imagine. When he finished in early 1864, he arranged to be assigned as the army liaison to the construction of the strategically important Cincinnati-Covington Bridge. When discharged from the Army in the spring of 1865, he was hired as an engineer on the bridge project. When completed in late 1866, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world.
In 1867 Thomas moved his family to Columbus where he opened his own firm. His company surveyed railroad right of ways in Ohio and Indiana and built small bridges for the railroads and municipalities in the central Ohio area.
He sent his sons to the University of Pennsylvania, but his grandsons mostly went to Ohio State. Many became engineers; a few became lawyers. In 1910 Earl McLaughlin graduated with a medical degree and moved to Akron to set up his practice. He met and married Laura Wainwright at the First Presbyterian Church; they had four children: Genene (Genie), Nelson (Nels, Nails), Lester (Les), and Wilson (Wil).
Chapter 6
Thursday 17, April 1919
Earl McLaughlin’s office took up two rooms on the bottom floor of his three-story family home. Those two rooms had been reconfigured and furnished as a waiting room with reception desk, examining rooms, and a water closet.
He walked through the interior doorway to his office and locked it behind him. He unlocked the exterior office door and looked out on the porch. No patients were waiting there, which pleased him. He peripherally noticed that it was quite a lovely spring morning.
He turned and looked at his tidy waiting room with great pleasure. He had been back from his service in the Great War for a little over eight months and his relief showed no sign of diminishing.
Not that his had been the blood-and-guts, soul-crushing anguish that many had endured. Earl’s father, Montgomery McLaughlin, was a lawyer in Columbus and a personal friend of the Republican Senator, Warren G. Harding. Senator Harding had arranged for Earl to serve as an examining physician at Fort Slocum in New Rochelle, New York.
The fort, located on Davids’ Island, was one of the largest recruit training facilities in the country; there was a constant stream of injured and sickly recruits that needed care. Near the end of the war, as recruitment and training wound down, there had been some talk of sending the camp doctors overseas, but when the Spanish Influenza broke out in August of 1918, the War Department decided to discharge some of them instead. Their hometowns needed help with the epidemic.
Earl sat down at the desk to write up his notes on the last two patients from the previous evening. He had finished filing the notes when Fiona Reynolds and her eight-year-old son walked through the door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Good morning, Dr. McLaughlin.”
“Hello, Timmy. How’s the arm?”
Timmy held up his left arm to show the doctor his cast. “It’s good. Itchy though.”
“Let’s go to the examining room, shall we?”
“Can my ma come?”
“Of course.”
They went to the first examining room, Earl turned on the overhead light, and helped Timmy up onto the examining table. Fiona sat in one of the two wooden chairs across the room from the table
Earl smelled the cast from both ends, near the shoulder and wrist. It was dirty, damp and disintegrating at in both spots, but did not have a sickly smell. He had Timmy move his arm vigorously from the shoulder, then grip Earl’s hand with thumb and fingers.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“Can you squeeze any harder?”
Timmy applied more pressure, and Earl yelped as if in pain, which made Timmy and his mother laugh.
“Did that hurt?” asked Timmy.
“A little bit; you’ve got quite a grip there, partner. How about you? Did that hurt you?”
“No.”
Earl held the cast at the elbow and pulled gently on Timmy’s hand. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
Earl pulled a little harder; Timmy should no sign of pain. He turned to the boy’s mother. “The arm appears to be healing well. We should be able to take the cast off soon. Why don’t you come back in three weeks or so, and, if everything looks good, we’ll cut it off then.”
Timmy said, “Yay!” and Earl helped him down from the table. Earl turned back to Mrs. Reynolds, who was smiling but still in her seat.
“Is there something else?” Earl asked.
“Yes. Just a moment.” She looked at Timmy. “Can you get to school on your own?”
“Sure, ma.”
Earl said, “I’ll just see Timmy out and I’ll be right back.”
He walked Timmy to the door and watched him skip down to the sidewalk. When he returned to the examining room, he saw that the woman had taken a hankie from her bag and was fidgeting with it. He sat in the chair next to her.
“Now, Mrs. Reynolds, how can I help you.”
“Yes, well, yes. You know Betty Andrews? She’s a patient of yours.”
“Yes, a fine woman.”
“Yes, she is. We both go to First United Methodist Church, you know.”
“Really? How nice.”
“Yes, and on Sunday afternoon we were at a social, and we were sitting and chatting, just the two of us. About one thing and another. Women’s things, you know. And I got telling her about some things that were troubling me. And she knew exactly what I was talking about. And she said you had helped.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” She looked down at her hankie. “Go on.”
“Well, it’s a little, a little, a little… private.”
“I see.” He paused. “I have treated Mrs. Andrews for a number of things; if I have helped her, I am sure I can help you, too. But I won’t know what needs to be done unless you describe the symptoms.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Well, I, let me see. I have this strange feeling of being closed in, I have been very cross with George and the boys lately, even when I’m not having my monthly. I have been having trouble sleeping. And often when I do sleep, I have very strange dreams.”
“What kind of dreams.”
“I don’t know really, but when I wake up I feel breathless and flushed. And I’m wet.”
“Wet?”
“Down there,” she said looking at her lap. Her face turning red.
Earl smiled gently. “You’d be surprised how common this is, Mrs. Reynolds. Doctors have been treating this malady for many, many years. What you are experiencing is called hysteria. That name comes from the Greek word for the womb; you can think of it as a kind of nervous or emotional energy that builds up in the womb. Some women discharge this energy easily, some don’t.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Did Mrs. Andrews describe the treatment?’
“No. I asked, but she just said I should talk to you”
“Yes, well, the treatment does require me to touch you ‘down there’, as you call it. A little bit with my hands, but mostly with a medical instrument. It takes about twenty minutes, sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more. Hopefully, you will experience a paroxysm, which is the release of this energy.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not at all. It can be a little uncomfortable, but it’s not painful.”
“Oh.”
“So, would you like to try it?”
“Now?”
“Or, if you want to take some time to think about it, that would be fine, too.”
“Yes, perhaps I should think about it.”
“Good, you do that”
At six o’clock Earl locked the exterior door and sat down at his desk to complete the patient notes from the day. Just before six-thirty he stepped out of the office and walked across the foyer to the parlor. Laura was on the settee working on a piece of needle point.
“Earl!” she said happily.
He smiled. “’Evening, Laura.” He sat in his chair across from the settee, the afternoon paper laid on the lamp table next to his chair.
“Busy day?”
“Pretty steady, yes. Nothing serious, runny noses mostly. One case of hysteria.”
“The poor dear.”
“Yes, but it came out well.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“How was your day?”
“Nelson had another tantrum this afternoon.”
“Really? What about?”
“He wanted to know why he couldn’t have another birthday cake.”
Earl smiled. The family had celebrated the boy’s fourth birthday the previous week. “What did you say?”
“What could I say? ‘Birthday cakes are for birthdays?’ Then he says ‘But why?’. Agnes and I shut him in his room and he spent half an hour throwing toys at the door.”
Earl went and sat next to his wife. He put his arm around her and she laid her head on his shoulder.
“He’s such a trial.”
“I know, but you and Agnes are doing a wonderful job. He was born ornery, that’s all.”
“I know. I think Genene spoiled me.”
“Any second thoughts about having more children?”
“Oh, no. I’m just hoping the next one is more like Genie. Speaking of which, I believe I’m fertile for the next two or three days.”
“Yes?” Earl said, delighted.
“So, if you’d like, we could have a tumble tonight.”
“Well, that would be fine.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes!”
“We’ll set out your dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Laura glided out of the room, looking back with a smile. Earl stepped to the side board and poured himself two fingers of good Scotch whiskey, returned to his seat and took up the paper. The two-line banner headline shouted:
PEACE CONFERENCE NEARS CRISIS; WILSON MAY DECIDE TO WITHDRAW
Earl agreed with the President that heavy reparations and other punitive measures against Germany could lead to future conflict. But the Brits and Frogs were out for blood. He did not agree with Wilson on much else.
For example, in another front-page story, he saw that former President Taft had spoken to the Akron Chamber of Commerce in support of Woodrow Wilson’s League of Nations. Earl didn’t see the point. European powers would never threaten the United States with the Atlantic Ocean in the way. Bad idea, he thought. Especially at the cost of breaking bread, so to speak, with godless Bolsheviks.
He saw that Rhode Island had appealed to the Supreme Court to block ratification of the Eighteenth Amendment. They’re just farting in church, Earl thought. Prohibition is coming and there’s nothing to be done about it. He looked at the scotch in his glass. Fortunately, every discussion of legislation to enforce the amendment included provisions for “medicinal spirits”, so his own supply was not in jeopardy.
Finally, there was small article about new cases of influenza and the reopening of the influenza ward at Akron City Hospital. Please, God, no. He personally had not seen a case in almost six months.
“Earl,” called Laura.
“Coming.” He freshened his scotch and took it to table.
Aside from the office the first floor contained the parlor, Earl’s study, the dining room, and the kitchen. He sat down with his wife at the dining room table. Laura, Agnes, Genene and Nelson had eaten earlier; the children were playing on the side porch.
His dinner consisted of leftover pot roast with carrots, potatoes, onions and dried herbs, fresh bread, butter, homemade peach preservers, homemade pickled beets, and homemade dill pickles. In season, Laura and Agnes spent much of their time putting up fruits and vegetables.
Laura nibbled at a bit of carrot cake. She chatted at him about her garden club, card club, a party she wanted them to attend the weekend after next. Earl ate with gusto but without comment other than nods and grunts.
As he finished, she said, “Dessert?” He eyed her carrot cake with a lack of enthusiasm. “There’s a little chocolate pudding in the ice box. Agnes could whip some cream?”
He brightened. “That would be fine.”
She went to the kitchen where Agnes was washing up the dinner dishes. As she was returning to the table, Genene ran into the house followed by Nelson brandishing a stick. Earl push his chair back from the table.
“Daddy,” she squealed and leaped into his lap. He hugged her and kissed her light brown curls. Nelson poked his father with the stick through the slats in his chair.
“Nellie, m’ lad, what are you doing back there?”
“Killing the dragon,” he giggled.
Earl stood with Genene in his arms and roared, “We’ll have none of that in the dragon’s lair.”
Nelson dashed off laughing merrily; Genene squirmed to get down. He chased them twice around the table being careful not to catch them. He followed them into the parlor (the kitchen and study being off limits), and then up the stairs to the second floor. The children ran to Genene’s room, closed the door, and held it shut. Earl pretended to have trouble getting the door open, then pushed his way in. They screamed and ran for the bed, where he trapped them and held them in his arms.
“I am the tickle dragon,” he rumbled in his deepest voice.
“NNNNOOOO!” they screamed as he tickled them mercilessly.
“Earl,” called Laura from the bottom of the stairs, “your dessert is ready.”
“Coming, dear.”
He picked up his children and carried them down the stairs, their arms around his neck. He put them down in the dining room, sat in his chair and prepared to consume his pudding and cream. The two children stood side by side and looking up at their father like a pair of mutts waiting for scraps to fall on the floor.
“Have you not had your own dessert?” he asked them.
In uncanny unison, they shook their heads from side to side. He looked at Laura, who just rolled her eyes. He looked back at the delightfully chubby youngsters.
“Well, seeing as how you are both clearly suffering from a lack of nutrition, I don’t see how I can refuse you.” He gave them each a generous taste.
Nelson said, “Genie got more than me!”
Laura stood and said, “That’s enough. Let’s leave your father in peace.” She took them into the parlor to read them The Tale of Mr. Tod by Beatrix Potter. Earl picked up his cup of pudding and took it into his study where he could smoke a cigar and have a quiet moment to himself.
As the hall clock chimed eight, Earl went out to the parlor, and Agnes, coming from the kitchen, trailed behind him. They found Laura reading Rebecca of SunnyBrook Farm to Genene, and Nelson asleep with his head in his mother’s lap. Earl picked up Nelson and carried him up to his room.
“Mommy,” said Genene, “can Agnes tuck me in?” Genene had made this request several times in past month. Laura smiled and kissed her daughter good night.
Agnes held out her hand and said, “Come along, then, Miss Genie,” her husky voice and Irish accent the only beautiful thing about her. They climbed the steps holding hands.
Agnes guided Genene through the nighttime routine: washing up, sitting on the potty, changing into sleeping attire, and saying her prayers.
Once tucked snugly into her bed, Genene said, “Please tell me the story.”
“Which story?”
“You know!”
“Again?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well.” Agnes pulled the small chair from its place against the wall and sat down next to the bed. “Once upon a time there was small girl who was born on farm outside the tiny village of Colp in County Meath, and her name was…”
“Agnes Maureen McCormick.”
“Yes, indeed, it was. And she lived on that farm with her mother and father and three brothers and three sisters.”
“What did she do on the farm?”
“She had so many chores. She swept and scrubbed their good wooden floor; she washed dishes; she cleaned her father’s muddy boots. She helped her mother make soap and candles. She collected eggs. As she got bigger she took on more farm chores like feeding the pigs, milking the two cows and helping to harvest the wheat; she picked apples, wild berries, potatoes, turnips, cabbages and carrots. Best of all was helping to care for her two younger sisters. Changing diapers, feeding, kissing, cuddling, just watching and keeping them safe.”
“Didn’t she go to school?”
“Not everyday school, like you m’ girl. She went to Sunday School where she learned about Jesus and Mother Mary and the Saints. For almost two years a nun taught them about the ABCs and how to sign their names. And she thought, oh, what a powerful thing that was.”
“Did she like living on the farm?”
“Well, let’s see. She loved her family, but it was a hard life, the same chores every day, every week, every month, every year.”
“So, she had no adventures.”
“Not on the farm; that came later. After her mother died of the grippe. After the plow horse stepped on her father’s foot and the wound took sick, he died, too.
“Her older brothers had married. A new generation was coming into the world. There were no suitors for Agnes and shortly there would be no place for her on the farm. The priest put her in touch with an agency that found places for Irish girls in American homes.
“She desperately wanted to spend one last Christmas with her family, but she would have lost her place in O-hi-o. So, she boarded an Irish Sea ferry out of Drogheda in mid-December which arrived in Liverpool the next evening. She transferred to the great steam ship Umbria. The whole of Colp would have fit in one tiny corner of that leviathan. The ship sailed the next day and was expected in the great city of New York on Christmas Day.
“Five or six days out of port the weather turned rough with high seas; everyone was sick and in their bunks. The next evening there was a change in the ever-present sound and shaking of the ship. The steward on their deck told them there was problem with ship’s power, the engineers were at work on it, and they were in no danger.
“The girl was sure that she was going to die, and she was terrified of going to her judgement without having been confessed. When she had the strength, she prayed on her rosary, saying ‘Our Fathers’ and ‘Hail Marys’. After a what must have been many days, the comforting throb returned. The day after that the storm passed, and everybody got out of bed and went to the dining hall and ate the best meal of their lives.
“The ship docked in New York on New Year’s Eve. The next day, she started her new life in a new country in a new year. A woman from the agency collected her from the ship and guided her by street car, elevated train and ferry to a grand railroad station. In the evening she boarded a westbound train. Somehow, she and her carpetbag made it through three changes of trains, and she arrived in Akron three days later. Mrs. Wainwright, the mistress of the house, and Miss O’Hara, the housekeeper, met her at the station.”
“Was Miss O’Hara very mean to her.”
“Well, at first she thought O’Hara the devil herself. Many’s the night she cried herself to sleep moaning, ‘Why, oh, why did I ever leave Colp.’ But as time went by she began to see that O’Hara just wanted everything to be done proper like. Eventually O’Hara eased up a little and even gave a bit of encouragement now and again.”
“And Mrs. Wainwright?”
“Ah now, the mistress was a darling woman. Mrs. Wainwright and the girl were closer in age, and she was sympathetic to the girl from the start. And then two years later, the miracle happened.”
“Laura was born.”
“Yes, Laura was born, and the girl added nursemaid to her duties. Neither O’Hara nor the mistress had much experience with babies, and they came to rely on the girl to care for Laura and her three sisters.”
“Glenda, Julia and Aster.”
“Yes, Glenda, Julia and Aster.”
“And when Laura went to school?”
“Yes, when Laura went to school, Mrs. Wainwright discovered that Agnes knew her ABCs but couldn’t read. So, she encouraged and helped Agnes to learn. Laura and Agnes learned to read and write and do their sums together. When the family went to the opening of the new library in the Carnegie Building, and Mrs. Wainwright found Agnes in the corner crying. She asked her what was wrong, and the girl said, ‘I never knew there were so many books.’ Mrs. Wainwright helped her get a library card, so she could take out books on her own.
“Then when Laura married…”
“the good doctor…”
“Laura took the girl with her to help care for her babies. The end.”
Genene looked up at Agnes, and she could see the little girl’s mind working. “Agnes, do you miss Ireland? And your mommy and daddy and sisters and brothers?”
“Yes, I do miss Ireland; the land is so green and Irish Sea is so blue. But as far as my family goes, you are my family now. You and your mother and your grandmother.”
“And Nellie.”
“Of course. I love Nelson, but, just between you and me, boys that age are hard to like. Now, I’ve kept you awake long enough with my silly story. Give us a hug.”
Genene reached up. “Goodnight, Agnes.”
“Goodnight, m’ precious girl.” Agnes turned out the lamp; she slipped out of the room, and up the stairs, looking forward to spending the end of the day with her latest library book, The Hundredth Chance by Ethel M. Dell.
After putting Nelson to bed, Earl fetched his pajamas from the master bedroom and went to the bathroom. With more children on the way, he had plans to add more facilities to house, at least another toilet with sink, perhaps a full bath to the master bedroom. For the moment the only bath in the house was off the second-floor hallway. He undressed and saw in the mirror a large, fleshy man with a prominent belly. He set aside his wire-rimmed glasses, clipped his mustache and sideburns, and washed his face, hands, arm pits, groin. Then he cleaned his mouth with tooth powder and a rubber bristled toothbrush that fit snuggly over the tip of his index finger. He was very careful with this; Laura did not like the taste of tobacco. He put on his pajamas, returned to the bedroom and slipped into bed. He retrieved The U.P. Trail, a western by Zane Grey, from the nightstand and settled in to read.
Minutes later Laura came into the bedroom and smiled at her husband. “I’m going to take a bath if you don’t mind.”
“No hurry, pumpkin.”
Laura took a fresh nightgown from her dresser, her robe from a hook on the armoire and went to the bath. She started the tub and undressed, neatly folding her garments. She sat on the edge of the tub, checked the temperature and turned up the hot water a little.
Looking up she saw herself in the mirror; at twenty-five after bearing two children she was still attractive – a little wider in the hips, little thicker in the waist, perhaps, but she was not concerned about her figure. She was critical of her face, though. It was long and narrow; her jaw too prominent, a little horse-faced, she thought. Her hair, though, was light-brown and lustrous, her gray eyes still sparkled, her teeth were sound. That would just have to do.
Then, as always at this moment, her thoughts turned to her cousin Gwen Dandridge. The week before her wedding Gwen asked Laura to take a walk. They put Gwen’s newborn into her baby carriage and headed for the park.
They sat on bench, and Gwen said, “Laura, has your mother had a talk with you about your wifely duties?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Gwen.”
“Yes, I was afraid of that.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“I am talking about married life. I want to tell you some things about marriage that I had to find out for myself.” Gwen took a deep breath. “Have you ever been out to the dairy farm in the spring?” meaning their Uncle Jeremiah’s place in Bath.
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you ever see the bull mount one of the cows?”
“I think one time when I was ten, maybe.”
Gwen sighed. “Yes, well, He, that’s how the bull his seed inside a cow, so she will have calves and produce milk.”
Gwen stopped. Laura, wondering what this had to do with her marriage, said, “Yes?”
Gwen blushed and looked away. “Married men and woman do the same thing. Only face to face.”
“What?”
“Yes. Yes. I know. It’s shocking. But I wanted to spare you some of what I went through.”
“Earl and I… Earl and I…”
“Yes.”
Laura was shaken. “When… When…”
“On your wedding night. Sometime during your honeymoon at the latest. And men want it throughout the marriage. Not just to make babies.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry. From what I can tell lots women learn to enjoy it.” Gwen smiled awkwardly. “But at the very least you want it to be comfortable.”
“Comfortable?”
“Well, if your body is not ready to accept your husband, it can be uncomfortable. Even painful.”
“Ready? What does ‘ready’ mean?”
“Have you ever touched yourself?” Gwen looked down.
Laura then Laura caught her meaning and blushed. “Yes, a little.”
Also blushing, Gwen said, “Did you ever get a little, a little, um… moist?”
“Is that bad?”
“Oh, no, you need to be moist for it to be comfortable. So, on your wedding night, before bed, go to the bathroom, and make yourself until you are ready.”
“Ready?”
“A little moist is better than not at all. Don’t worry, you’ll learn. The important thing is you know more than I did.”
She climbed into the tub while it finished filling and let the hot water relax her. She thought about Earl as a father, husband and provider. She thought about their conversations in bed and the times when they just cuddled. And then she followed Gwen’s suggestion.
She got out of the tub, dried herself off, put a little scent on wrists, neck and cleavage. She put on her nightgown and robe and carried her clothes to the bedroom.
As she entered the room, Earl turned off the lamp on his nightstand. She put her clothes on her dresser, hung her robe in its place on the armoire, turned off the lamp on her side of the bed, leaving the room in total darkness. She slipped into bed and into his arms.
She snuggled up to his back, stroked and patted his arm and back, ran her fingers gently through his hair, encouraging him to sleep. Then she lay quietly waiting for his breath to tell her he was truly asleep. Thinking, that was nice, she carefully got out of bed and walked quietly to the door
“Who won, mommy?” said a small voice next to the door.
“Oh, oh!” said Laura loudly. “Dear lord, Nelson you scared me half to death.”
“What is it, dear?’ asked Earl drowsily.
“Nothing, Earl, go back to sleep.” Laura took her son by the hand and lead him back to his room.
Once she had him settled back in his bed, she asked, “What were you doing in our room.”
“I went to potty, and I heard a noise, and I went to see what it was.”
“And what did you see.”
“I saw you and daddy having a wrestling match.”
“Of course.” Earl often had “wrestling” matches with Nelson in the evening.
“Who won, mommy?”
“Who won what, sweetie?”
“The wrestling match?”
“Oh.” She said. She thought of the Earl’s seed possibly fertilizing her ovum. Kissing her son, she said “I did. Yes, I won.”
Chapter 7
Monday June 9, 1919
The school year passed in a fog for Antoine. His only clear memory was standing at his mother’s grave during the burial. Was the small headstone already in place? It seems unlikely, but in his mind’s eye he saw it very clearly.
Marguerite Estelle Trombley
Mari à Pierre
Mère d'Antoine et James
1888 – 1918
He remembered nothing of school: not sitting in class, not reading books, not taking tests, not solving math problems on the chalkboard. He remembered nothing of playing with friends after school or looking after Jimmy or chores or talking to his father. Who made their meals? Who cleaned their clothes? Who made their beds? Who did the shopping?
Jimmy, who had wailed when taken to his mother’s deathbed and been inconsolable at the gravesite, recovered quickly. Within a month he was laughing with his friends and cheerful at school.
Shortly after the school year ended, Antoine, lying face down on his bed, heard the front door open and his father’s voice call to him. He got up and went to the living room. In the vestibule he saw a stranger; she was tall and thin, wearing a blue skirt and jacket over a white blouse. Her dark blonde hair was pinned up; perched on the front of her head was a small straw hat with single blue paper flower. She looked his father’s age or a little older. There was a large suitcase at her feet.
Pierre came in the door putting two more bags next to the first. “Ah, Antoine. There you are. Come and say hello to your new mother.”
“My new what!?”
“Your new mother.”
“She’s not my mother! My mother is dead!”
Antoine took three steps into the entry way; Pierre, fearing Antoine would strike her, stepped forward. But Antoine bounced off his father, brush past the woman, and ran out the door.
Pierre’s shoulders slumped and his chin dropped to his chest; He turned to look at his new wife.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”
“Don’t worry, Pierre,” she replied with a strong French accent. “We knew this would be hard.”
“I brought you here to make our lives better, all four of us. I’m at my wit’s end with him.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“Yes, I told him I was going to meet you.”
“That we were getting married?”
“No, how could I tell him? I knew myself only a few days ago.”
“Look at me, Pierre.” He looked into her dark brown eyes. “Are you over Marguerite?”
He dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.”
She stepped around the luggage and put her arms around his neck, perhaps a little awkwardly.
“We are going to need a little patience, eh?”
At first, Antoine refused to eat the food she made, preferring apples and cheese. On the third day Sarah made stew from the recipe that Marguerite used; the smell permeated the house and assaulted Antoine when he came home. With an effort, he went to his room and closed the door. As Pierre and Jimmy sat down to supper, she put a small bowl of stew, a slice of bread and a glass of milk on a tray outside his room. She knocked on the door and walked away.
Minutes later Antoine walked into the kitchen, the empty bowl in hand. He did not look at the others. He went to the stove and lifted the cover on the pot of stew.
“Antoine, what are you doing?” asked Pierre.
“Getting more stew,” said Antoine, not looking at his father.
Pierre looked at Sarah, she glanced at Antoine’s chair.
“You may have more stew only if you sit at the table.”
Antoine hesitated for a moment, but the smell of stew and his thirteen-year-old appetite got the better of him. He dished up more stew and sat down at the table. As he brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth, Pierre reached out and took a firm hold of Antoine’s wrist.
“I expect you to sit down with the family at meals. Do you understand me?”
Antoine nodded and tried to put the food in his mouth, but Pierre did not release his grip.
“Answer me,” demanded Pierre.
“Yes, Papa, I understand.”
But Antoine still would not look at Sarah. He did not answer her questions or respond to her requests.
The thing that galled Antoine the most was how quickly Jimmy accepted Sarah. He spoke French with her, for God’s sakes, just like he had done with their real mother.
One afternoon Jimmy came into their room and piped hello to his brother. Antoine got up off his bed and twisted his brother’s ear.
“Ow, ow, ow, ow!” said Jimmy; Antoine let go. “What was that for?” he asked, rubbing his ear.
“Why are you calling that woman ‘Maman’?”
“Papa says she’s maman. She says she’s maman.”
“You know the fairy tales; you know that all stepmothers are wicked.”
“She’s not wicked. She’s nice.”
“That’s how she seems now, but just you wait. Hey, where are you going?”
“To tell maman.”
“You better not, or you’ll be sorry.”
Jimmy ran to Sarah for comfort, but he thought better of telling her the real cause of his distress.
The last Sunday in June he refused to go to church. Pierre was livid, but Sarah continued to council patience.
At the end of July, Antoine started staying out later and later in the evening. Pierre and Sarah had no idea where he went and he refused to say. In early August he stayed out all night and did not come back all the next day.
Around ten o’clock he went back to the darkened house; the front door was locked. He went around to the kitchen door at the side of the house, which was also locked. He got the spare key from under a flower pot and unlocked the door. He replaced the key, went into the house, relocked the door, and stepped up into the kitchen. The light was on over the sink, and he could see that Sarah was sitting in a kitchen chair in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Please sit down, Antoine,” she motioned to a chair a little to her left. “It is time we had a talk.”
He tried to push past her, but she braced herself against the doorway.
“You will have to knock me down to get by. If you do, I'll let your father beat you.”
“My father has never beaten me.”
“He has wanted to beat you every night since I have been here.”
“You’re lying.”
“If you doubt me, you can ask him.” He set his jaw, thinking he had lost his mother to influenza and his father to this stranger.
“Let me by,” he growled.
“Why so angry, Antoine?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
“Because you killed ta mère? Your mother?”
He balled his fists, his face red, a vein in his forehead throbbed. “Did my father tell you that?”
She shook her head, “Don’t be an imbécile! He said you found her ill and did all you could.” She paused. “I know you are in pain. I know that you feel guilty.”
“What would you know about it?”
“Sadly, a great deal. I was married before.”
“Before?”
“Before your father.” She opened her bible which had been resting in her lap, took out a photograph and offered it to Antoine.
It was a picture of Sarah and a tall, handsome man in a Canadian Army uniform. He wore a beret and a grin, his arm around her waist. She looked up at him, a toothy smile on her face. Antoine noticed that Sarah was much prettier in the picture. Looking up he saw circles under her eyes and sagging skin around her mouth.
“What's his name?”
“Daniel Richard,” she said, using the French pronunciation.
“Where’s he now?”
“In Flanders Field.”
“Was he killed in battle?”
Sarah looked down and nodded. “Oh, yes, in battle.” She looked up, and he saw the tears coming to the corners of her eyes. But her voice was steady. “The war was longer and crueler for us than for you. In the States. We are citoyens of the British Empire. Besides,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice, “the Bosh were raping La Belle France.
“When the war started, Daniel's friends were mad to join. He felt that he should stay with me and do his job. He was foreman at the lumbermill. It was important to the war. But he looked at his friends with such désir. And he was the best: strongest, smartest, bravest. He was captain in all the sports. The le cœur, their heart.
“Then he was nothing, not the littlest part of the group. Some who were jealous said he had no conneries, that he was afraid. He didn’t move, he didn’t spoke. I could not see him like that, with no life in him. Finally, I said, you go to them. Oh, I was l'imbécile. I should have held onto him as long as I could.”
“Have you told this to Papa?”
“No. I told him,” she choked up, “I told him my husband had been killed in France.” Finally, the tears spilled down her face. “We had that, you see. We lost our beloved and maybe ourselves a little.” She put her face in her hands. “Please, Antoine, please help me.”
Seeing her tears, he could no longer hold back his own.
Sarah put out her arms to him. He fell to his knees, put his face in her lap, and sobbed. And for the first time since his mother's death, crying helped.
He cried for some time and she stroked his head. He mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Hush, Antoine” she murmured, “It will be good.”
Eventually he sat back against the wall, all strength and emotion spent. He wiped his eyes and nose on the front of his shirt. Looking up into her face, he saw her lips turned up in a small, sad, beautiful smile.
“What should I call you?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “Call me Sarah. And one day, perhaps, you will like to call me maman.”
“May I call you Maman Sarah?”
“Oh, yes,” she said with new tears. “Oh yes, please call me Maman Sarah.”