Remembering the Bones

  TWENTY-THREE

  I must not dwell on Harry’s orphan childhood. I felt badly enough when he told me his story, which I thought about for weeks. I mourned the small child who sat on the wooden chair beside the tracks, the abused boy who slept in a shed and suffered frostbite and was not permitted to go to school. I was outraged on his behalf, and despised the adults who had abused him. But those events had happened long before and I had not been a part of them.

  Ally was twenty-one at the time of her wedding, and I was the same age when I married Harry. It was 1947, the year after I met him. Lilibet, too, was twenty-one—she and I were married the same year. My wedding was in August, hers in November. We were child brides, all of us. What did we know? What did Phil and Mr. Holmes ever tell Ally and me? What did the Queen Mum and the King impart? I know that on our side of the ocean, we felt a distinct lack of information in the air.

  After I married, I thought about this one day when Phil told me a story about one of Grand Dan’s deliveries during her time as a midwife. Called to a farmhouse because a baby was on its ‘way, she arrived to find the young woman in the last stage of labour, sitting on the edge of her bed. Convinced that the baby was about to come out of her mouth, she was holding an enamel dishpan under her chin.

  Grand Dan removed the dishpan and told the girl to lie down. After the birth, when the cord was cut and the baby cleaned up and rubbed with oil, and after Grand Dan had given the mother a brand new cake of Baby’s Own soap, and after she’d burned strips of cloth on top of the wood stove to get rid of the birth odour, she sat on a chair beside the bed and told the young mother what she needed to know.

  “She was no more than seventeen,” said Phil. “What worried Grand Dan was the girl’s confusion about how the baby had been put into her in the first place.”

  That was the end of the conversation.

  The story interested me for a different reason, especially as it had come from Phil. At no time in our lives had anyone thought of imparting what Ally and I needed to know. But there was no point in saying that, not after we were both married. In any case, hadn’t Grand Dan discussed with me, once, if vaguely, the matter of complementary parts when I was a child?

  When I finished telling Case about Harry and the pillow and our courtship, she looked up and said, “Is that the end of the story, Momma?”

  Well, no. I married Harry, after all. In my pale blue suit and my porkpie hat.

  Our father was dead; Ally and Trick were married; I was still living at home with Grand Dan and Phil. A man named Ira had purchased the dry goods store shortly after Mr. Holmes’s funeral, and asked me to stay on to do the work Phil had once done—serving customers, ordering fabrics and ribbons, buttons and needles and thread. Every morning, I walked as far as the mailbox, where Mott’s son, Junior, who worked at the hardware store, picked me up and drove me to town. I was glad to have a ride in cold weather, and I chipped in fifty cents a week to help with gas. Trick had taken over our father’s car, and he drove out to the country on weekends to take Grand Dan and Phil wherever they needed to go.

  My employer, Ira, was tall and concave and had a receding mandible. When I first met him, I thought of Gray’s and Miss Grinfeld, simultaneously. He shaved, but his cheeks were shadowed with bristles. He made me think of consumption, excessive thinness, the crooked letter C. When he faced people, he approached and pulled away at the same time. He began his takeover of my father’s store by having a huge one-day sale of old stock, and I stood on the sidewalk with Ally and Grand Dan and Phil as we watched bolts of familiar plaids and wools and voile tucked under arms and carted out the door. The former enterprise of Mr. Holmes was, in a single day, transformed.

  Before we married, Harry and I had saved enough money to begin paying rent on a small, three-bedroom bungalow in town. We planned to move in when we returned from our honeymoon, and hoped to stay there until we could buy our own house. As it turned out, affording own house took longer than expected; we didn’t move up the hill overlooking the ravine until Case had finished high school.

  Our wedding took place August 2, 1947, a quiet celebration witnessed by nine people, including the Dixons, the family who’d been keepers of Harry’s suit while he’d been in the navy. Harry’s legs were wobbly and he complained of being hot in his suit, but we managed to get through the ceremony. Among other gifts, Phil gave me an electric sewing machine. Ally painted a dazzling picture of the Danforth country house, white surrounded by light. Grand Dan gave us the glass-leafed tree, the “tree of life” that had belonged to my late grandfather. Harry and I had a modest plan to spend a three-day honeymoon in Syracuse, New York, a four-hour bus trip that included the border crossing. Neither of us had been to the United States. I had never stayed overnight in a hotel.

  We had hoped to attend the annual New York State Fair, but it had been suspended after the attack on Pearl Harbor and hadn’t started up again after the end of the war. Our hotel was close to South Salina and Jefferson, in the theatre and shopping district. I wanted to go to Loew’s State Theater, having heard about its elegance, its grand staircase and Tiffany chandelier. We were headed for a big city—over two hundred thousand people—and our funds were limited, but we didn’t care if we did nothing more than stroll through Fayette Park and along the old filled-in Erie Canal. Harry’s employer, Mr. Ring, had been there with his cousin’s family, and he had described all the main sites to see.

  It was necessary to take a bus from Wilna Creek, change to a Greyhound bus in Kingston, and cross the St. Lawrence over the recently built Thousand Islands Bridge, which we had only read about. The Dixons drove us to the bus terminal, and we were on our way. We held hands on the bus and by the time we crossed the long span of steel that joined the two countries, it was late afternoon. I stared down at shadows on the surface of the great river and silently repeated my new name, Georgina Danforth Witley. I saw not another person on that crowded bus, nor would I ever recall a face from that journey. I was suspended over dark waters that flowed to the sea. I dared to think, We love each other. We are safe from waves that will batter and strike, but will never break through. I rested my head on Harry’s shoulder. This is what Grand Dan felt for my grandfather; this is what Phil must have felt for Mr. Holmes—before he began to shout. This is what I see on Ally’s face when she exchanges a fast smile with Trick, or when a hand touches his arm as he passes. I felt heat from Harry’s shoulder; I was aware of his thigh pressed against mine. And there was the matter of Grand Dan’s long-ago explanation of complementary body parts.

  Harry slept the entire way. His hand was warm in mine and I did not try to wake him. I was sorry he’d missed the bridge, but I knew he would see it on the way home. We were wearing matching gold bands, which Harry had purchased by making deposits to Cornelius Ring for the better part of a year.

  As the bus approached the terminal in Syracuse, I spotted our hotel from a side street before the driver pulled in to discharge the passengers. The hotel was a walk up the side street and then one long city block and part of another. I shook Harry and he woke, reluctantly. We got off, collected our suitcases and made our way to a busy, divided street with heavy traffic. I had never seen so many cars, and most of them were new. As soon as we checked in and took the elevator upstairs, Harry stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

  Was this supposed to happen? We were alone in a bedroom for the first time; we were married. I sat beside him on the edge of the bed while lights came on in the street below. I tried to wake him, but he shook me off. His voice was harsh. “Let me rest, Georgie,” he said. “Leave me alone. I’ll get up in a minute.”

  But he did not.

  Two hours later, I was hungry and angry. I had changed my clothes and brushed my hair and moved over to the armchair by the window. I looked out at the lights of the city and stared down at a group of black Americans who were walking by on the street below. I could hear them talking and laughing softly to one another. I woke Harry again and told him the hotel dinin
g room would soon close and I had to eat. He was still wearing his herringbone suit, rumpled from being slept in, and he stared at me as if he couldn’t see my face. Was this the loving man I had chosen to marry? The man who had chosen me? He dragged himself up off the bed.

  The waiter, a man in his fifties, wore a white shirt with a black vest and bow tie, no jacket. He was cleaning up for the night and was not happy about us coming late to the empty dining room. I must have looked anxious, because he suddenly capitulated and I could tell that he felt sorry for me. “All right,” he said. “You can order steak and potatoes. That’s about all the cook has left in the kitchen. There might be a few mushrooms, too.”

  Grateful for any kindness, I promised that we wouldn’t linger over the meal. We had set aside enough money for dinners for three days and I was in charge of the funds, which were in a change purse inside my handbag. Breakfasts were included with the room charge, so I didn’t have to worry about those. For lunch, we planned to snack on fruit and sandwiches while we were out sightseeing.

  Stained glass in the upper windows of the dining room gave a greenish glow to the room, and I suddenly had the feeling that we had swum to the table and were drifting underwater. The waiter’s nose looked as if it had taken a blow straight on and as I watched him I thought septum, buckled septum. He glanced over at us several times from the doorway to the kitchen, and rubbed at his cheek. He must have wondered at our youth, our silence. We had not spoken a word to each other since we’d sat down. A low lamp hung over our table and, when the steaks were served, Harry raised his elbow as if to block the waiter’s approach. As he did, he struck the lamp, which swung crazily over our heads.

  “Hey, take it easy,” the waiter shouted, and I saw his body tense for a fight.

  I let out my breath and came up for air. “Are you sick, Harry? Is something wrong?”

  He looked past me, ignored the waiter, stood up and said to neither of us, “I’m going upstairs to my room.” The lamp was still swinging. The voice I loved was gone. I cut a large chunk out of my steak and put it in my mouth and tried to chew quickly, but abandoned the rest of the food. I was afraid to ask if I could bring it with me; I did not want pity from the waiter. He picked up a plate in each hand and shrugged. “Have it your way,” he said. “But you could have saved the cook the trouble.” I paid for the food and, still chewing, followed Harry to the elevator. Upstairs, he collapsed on top of the bed, leaving no room for me. I slept in my clothes in the armchair, and cried half the night. Harry did not move.

  In the morning, he was still sprawled on the bedspread, the front of his shirt blotched with perspiration. I wondered if he had become criminally insane. I tried to imagine what my family would say, what they would do in my place. I needed the women around me, Ally and Phil and Grand Dan and Aunt Fred, and I conjured their outrage on my behalf. Oh yes, this was love. This was what they knew. I went into the tiled bathroom and threw up. I had a shower, put on a fresh skirt and blouse and went down to the main floor for breakfast. I ate alone and went back upstairs, fortified. Harry was still asleep. I stood by the bed and forced him to wake. He glared up at me and said, “Who are you?”

  Nothing had prepared me for marriage.

  I looked at him again and saw that I was staring into darkness. I was so frightened by this, I fought back rage and tears and told myself I’d been denying reality. My husband loved me. He must be sick, out of his mind. I touched his forehead and felt his burning skin.

  My first thought was that he would die outside our own country. My second thought was that there was no money in my purse for doctors. Hadn’t we been warned that health care was expensive south of the border?

  I had to get him home.

  I was trembling, and thought my leg bones would not hold me up. I asked Harry if he wanted water, got him to take a few sips, and he lay back down. His eyes stared through me. I went downstairs, paid the bill and told the desk clerk we’d had a change of plans. My body was shaking so much, I had difficulty pressing the elevator buttons. I went back up and found Harry asleep again. I closed my suitcase and lifted his, still locked. I stood at the window, stared down at the median in the busy road below, and calculated the shortest way back to the bus terminal. If I could get Harry across the road directly in front of the hotel, the distance would be shorter than walking all the way to the traffic light and then across. After that, we would have to make our way down the side street.

  I had no idea how often buses left for Kingston. I told myself, You are a big girl, Georgie. You can do this by yourself. You have to get him home. I threw the strap of my handbag over my shoulder, hauled Harry up and off the bed and made him lean against me. He was still wearing his herringbone suit. I told him to move his feet, to shuffle, to keep himself upright. I picked up my suitcase ‘with my left hand, linked my right arm through his and supported his weight against my side. I took charge. My right hand carried his bumping suitcase between us.

  When we reached the elevator, I straightened my spine and thought, Vertebrae, vertebrae, hold me up. I had a quick vision of Hubley the headless skeleton being dragged across the page. A man and woman in the elevator stared at us and looked down at the two suitcases. The man eyed Harry suspiciously and then looked away and turned to his wife. “You know that statue of Columbus in the circle?” he said. “They say Mussolini paid the shipping charges to get it here.” He shrugged. “That’s what I heard. I’m not saying it’s true.” At the mention of Mussolini, Harry lifted his head but didn’t try to speak. He slumped against me again.

  In the lobby, I pushed and shoved him past reception, looked straight ahead and reached the outside door. A thin-faced woman followed us out to the sidewalk. It was obvious that she’d been talking to the desk clerk. “Mrs. Witley,” she said, “would you like a doctor to see your husband?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, looking past her. “We are both fine.” I moved forward. I had heard but not allowed myself to feel pleasure at the words “Mrs. Witley” spoken aloud.

  I was streaming with perspiration and wanted to abandon the luggage, but had made a plan and would stick with it. I pushed Harry out into traffic and got as far as the median, horns honking. I sat him down and he fell over. I pulled his legs up onto the grass. I left the suitcases on the median and hauled him up once more and dragged him across the other half of the road. A man leaned his head out of a car window and shouted, “Are you crazy, lady? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” I kept my head down, kept Harry’s feet moving, got him across, pushed him up the curb and around the corner, and finally reached the terminal. I sat him on a bench and he slumped over. I checked the schedule. Miracle of miracles, a Kingston bus had pulled up and was due to leave in twenty minutes. I had to run back out to the main road to collect the suitcases, and dodged cars again, parked our luggage beside the bus and pulled Harry to his feet. The driver was standing outside the bus when I got Harry as far as the steps. “Is this your luggage?” he said. He was eyeing the two bags I’d dragged over. Then, he gestured to Harry. “Is this passenger okay? I’m not so sure he should be getting on my bus.”

  “He’s all right. He’s tired because we were out late,” I said. I feigned a laugh and wondered if it had come out as a scream. I got Harry on board and pushed him to the back of the bus. We sat in a double seat and I believe, after that, he was semicomatose all the way home. Throughout the trip, the driver stared angrily at me in the mirror. My biggest fear was that we would never get back to our country. I could not allow myself to think that my husband would die on a bus. We recrossed the great river and finally reached Kingston. I dragged Harry off, but the driver was off first and waiting for us.

  “Where do you think you’re going now?” he said. He was ready for an argument.

  “We have to catch a bus to Wilna Creek.” I heard my voice, imperious. To myself I said, And you’re not going to stop us. In eighteen hours, I had become fierce.

  He waited until the Wilna Creek bus drove up, and went over to
talk to the other driver. I glared at the two as they conferred, glared as they muttered and shook their heads. We were permitted to board.

  When we reached Wilna Creek, I half-carried Harry down the steps, and collected our bags. He collapsed to the ground just as the bus drove away. Although he didn’t know who I was, he seemed to know that we were back, we were home. He lay on the grass beside the terminal and closed his eyes. I ran inside to phone the hospital. Within ten minutes, he was being wheeled on a stretcher through the emergency room doors. I phoned Ally and she was with me when I received the news, less than a half hour later.

  Harry had polio.

  “Your husband is seriously ill,” the doctor said. He was angry, and spoke as if I were a bad child who had caused the illness. “Where have you been? Where has he come from? Why did you wait so long to have him admitted?”

  So long? This had happened in just over twenty-four hours. I did not even attempt to explain.

  Thus began our marriage. Harry was kept on the Isolation Ward for three and a half months and, during that time, I was not permitted to visit. His room was on the ground floor at the back of the hospital. At the end of the second month of his illness, he was strong enough to be lifted into a chair by the window. I had discovered that I could go around and stand on a grassy patch outside his room and talk to him across the windowpane. I could barely see inside his room, which was dimly lit and always in shadow. Much of the time, the windows were specked with dirt; other days, they were newly washed and I could clearly see his face. He had lost weight. His shoulders were thin. Sometimes the blind was up, sometimes down.

  When I was alone, I could not get the worry of Mr. Roosevelt out of my mind. He’d died the same year as my father but, years before that, polio had paralyzed his legs. I’d heard talk of infantile paralysis when I was a child, and about Mr. Roosevelt’s March of Dimes. Would Harry be able to walk when he was permitted to leave the hospital?