John Farley had the most dazzling smile. “Your grandmother is the strongest person I know. I’m sure she’s going to get through this, Jennifer. Don’t ever count Sam out.”
Thirteen
THAT AFTERNOON Iwas back at Sam’s house, and I was trying not to let what had happened get me down. I was thinking about making one of Sam’s famous “wacky cakes” and then eating it all by myself. The huge oak tree out front cast a soft shade over the front yard. Just like always. A couple strolled along the footpath that encircled the lake; sailboats blew across the water, pulled by their colorful sails.
A rosy-cheeked older man sat out in a wheelchair at the water’s edge, tossing a green tennis ball for a brown terrier mutt. The dog brought the ball back every single time. The man finally saw me, and as people on the lake do, he waved.
I waved back, then went inside. I returned to the front porch with a big glass of lemonade and a packet of Sam’s letters.
I had so many questions about Sam and my grandfather now.I never really loved Charles.Was that true? Was it possible? What other secrets did the letters hold?
I settled into a wicker rocker, untied the packet, and gave the string to Sox, who took it off into the bushes to kill.
Then, with a breeze riffling my hair, I began to read the story of who my grandmother really was.
The first few letters were notes about Sam’s garden, her feelings about a provocative column I wrote on the post office disaster in Chicago, some thoughts on President Clinton, whom Sam both adored and was terribly disappointed in.
Then I picked up the thread of her life story—and Sam dropped another bombshell on my head. Geez, I had hardly recovered from the last one.
Fourteen
Jennifer,
This could be the worst of the letters that I’ll write.
Charles and I honeymooned in Miami, as you know. We stayed at the Fountainebleau, a wonderful old hotel on Collins Avenue, right on the beach. But Charles was unhappy the whole time we were there. He complained that the hotel staff was too servile, the food too rich, the sand too sandy. To put it mildly, he found fault with everything.
And he especially found fault with me.
On our third night there, right after dinner, we were on the small terrace outside our room, listening to the ocean pound against the jetties. Charles had had several drinks.
I was trying to make conversation. “I enjoyed meeting that couple from North Carolina. We had some good laughs, didn’t we?”
His face darkened with a storm that seemed to come out of nowhere. He looked me straight in the eye. “If you ever stand up against me, if you ever cross me in any way, if you ever become a bore or a simpleton, I will leave you and without a dime.” Then he raised his right hand and slapped me across the face. Quite hard. Bone-jarring. I think it was the first time I had ever been hit in my life.
Then Charles thundered inside, leaving me devastated on the terrace. I sat outside for a long time, listening to the surf of the Atlantic Ocean, or maybe it was the blood pounding in my ears. I wanted to throw up, to run home, but how could I?
Jennifer, I was crushed and terribly confused. Do you understand? I’d left my home, all my friends, so that I could be with Charles. Things were very different back then, especially for small-town girls. A woman didn’t get divorced, not even if she was struck.
I grew up that first night of our honeymoon; I saw our future together and felt there was little I could do to change it. But I did do one thing. Before we left Miami, I told Charles that if he ever hit me again, I would leave him on the spot and damn the consequences. Everybody would know what a bastard and bully he was.
After the honeymoon, Charles and I moved to a large apartment in Chicago. It still wasn’t very good between us, though. Once he’d passed the bar, your grandfather joined the family firm. Soon I gave birth to your mother, then to your aunt Val. But, Jennifer, I lived for the summers, when I always returned to Lake Geneva.
But I dreaded the weekends, when Charles would come up from Chicago. He brought his moods with him, though he rarely raised his hand to me. He was selfish and enjoyed putting me down in front of the children and friends of ours. But he did provide for us, and he eventually did make good on the promise he’d made to tell me the dark secret in his past. What Charles would never tell me were the secrets in his present, the girlfriends he had in Chicago and elsewhere.
I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you wanted to hear my story.
Fifteen
Sweetheart,
Let me tell you some other things about your grandfather so you can understand how he came to be the man that he was. The husband, even the grandfather.
Picture Charles telling me about what he called “sins of the father,” events that shaped his life—and mine. It was three years after we were married. Your mother was in her crib in the next room, and she was such a good little sleeper. Charles and I were in bed, and cars whooshed by in the rain, lighting our faces with headlights as they passed our window in the Chicago apartment.
It was on this dreary night that Charles finally told me about the transforming event of his life. It had happened when he was just sixteen, and it is an incredible story.
Charles’s parents had thrown a party in their imposing home for their older son, Peter, who had just graduated from prep school. It was after dinner and the guests had moved to the library for coffee. Peter was opening his gifts and Charles made a careless remark to his father that his older brother always seemed to get the best of everything.
