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Chapter 2 – MOTHERS

  Unknowing of events going on in the hated North with Rachel and Allen, back in Georgia, the shade of Annie Edwards began her morning duties. There was always work to be done, always and forever, it seemed. The children awakened and once again her heart began to tighten and ache. Their eyes looked to her with a vestige of forlorn hope, but they could see that things had not changed. It had been going on too long for them to complain. They had given up on that a long, long time ago. And so, the children began another day of play, which was all they had to stave off the dread they endured.

  Nodding, Annie turned to face her home. The house was kept wonderfully neat. The new help worked hard to keep it that way since the slaves had run off. “Ingrates,” she thought. She and Archibald had always treated them nice, hadn’t they? Better than any of her neighbors had treated their own slaves. By what rights did hers go and run off for, leaving her with all the work? And it was hard work for one lone woman with two little children. Well, they had good help now and she hardly lifted a finger to keep her home spotless.

  Take a moment to turn back the clock. Fourteen years before Allen and Rachel met Ryan for the first time, Carl Hawthorn died. It was an accident; a moment of time that changed Allen’s and Rachel’s lives forever (Ryan’s too, they would find out). Carl pulled to the side of Interstate 87 to render help to a middle-aged woman who had her car’s hood up in the universal plea for help.

  Over the police and fire scanner, which he always had on as a volunteer paramedic, he heard the call regarding a car stalled on the side of the highway two miles ahead. Carl turned on his dash and rear window mounted blue lights before stopping, then pulled off into the grass by the Interstate and stepped out. There was plenty of room for traffic to get by, so he didn’t double-check behind.

  A sleepy driver’s eyes were drawn to Carl’s flashing blue lights. The driver didn’t realize that the attention shift also caused him to steer towards those lights, until it was too late. Carl’s last thought after getting out of his Dodge Packrat 4x4 was to try and recall where the parked Volvo’s bumper jack was supposed to fit. He felt no pain and left the world like a light that was simply turned off. The suddenly wakeful driver of the Ford Constellation II could only take in a confusing array of events: a loud thump, his windshield spider-webbing and reddening, a strike of metal on metal, his air bag deploying, and the rapid spinning of his car. Then, the very brief breath of silence after his car had come to a stop was shattered by the banshee screech of eighteen wheels that almost drowned out a diesel’s horn.

  The Ford driver had less than a second to look left and see the Peterbilt’s grill that hit him broadside. From what was left of man and machine, only the VIN and NYS license identified to police and rescue workers the car’s make and the man’s identity. The lady standing by her Volvo was left without a scratch, but her subsequent years of nightmares required medication and long hours of therapy. Most of Carl’s body was found seventy-five feet away from the point of impact.

  Rachel was home at that time. She had picked up Allen from pre-K at Winterbear, had dinner cooking and a portable phone conversation going with Allen’s future kindergarten teacher. She was a whiz at organization and was well known for being able to juggle half a dozen projects at once. The receiver gave a call-waiting beep. Her chat with Mrs. Eckert being mostly concluded, she excused herself from that conversation to move on to the next.

  Allen had come in to show his mother his mastery of shoe tying and to ask when Daddy was coming home. Mom was at the oven, standing very still. He saw her reach forward and turn off the oven and two burners. “Mom? When’s Daddy coming home?” She turned to face her son. “Mom, why are you crying?”

  Back in present time, Rachel asked, once surprise had a moment to subside, “Is there a last name to go with that, or do I call you Mr. Ryan?”

  “Just Ryan will do, Rachel, for now,” he said while taking a closer chair. “You deserve a few words from me before Allen and I have our time together. Your first husband and I were close. I have met many good people in my life, but he was one of the best. Carl respected my need for privacy because he knew why it was necessary, as I hope his son will do.”

  If anything would have guaranteed Allen’s complete cooperation and attention, that was it. His mother had striven to give life to his sketchy memories of his father and she did well, considering. Yet, here was a new source, a new perspective on the man who would have been Dad to him, had fate been kinder. Frank had been good to him, but there was a difference that could be seen with how Frank treated his own biological children. The scars of his real father’s involuntary abandonment were there. The therapist had pointed them out and did what she could to ease them, but few can affect full healing of such a loss.

  Rachel still wondered about the secrecy. It was just more rocky soil that could spoil the seed of trust. Carl had been always honest and open with her, but he never mentioned this Ryan. How could she not know of a friendship that could spark a man like Ryan to finance a college education and spend who knows how many hours and how much influence during a family crisis, for people who didn’t even know him, and then continue to do so for seventeen years? Who WAS this man?

  “By telling you this, I have stirred up old memories, and curiosity. Rachel, I met Carl when he was attending Rhinebeck Elementary School. He was quite the athlete, even back then. Just like his son.”

  Click. “Wait a minute, hold a second...you were the guy! I remember! Mom, I met, uh, Ryan, when I was a kid. Remember the guy you got all worried about when I was in, what, 4th grade? The guy at the playground! It was you. You said, “It’s not time yet”, or something like that. And you knew my name!”

  Rachel remembered. Mothers have very long memories. She had feared some pervert was ogling her child and reported it to the police. Nothing came of it. Years later, Allen sees this man...and remembers him? A man who only said a few words to him at a one-time meeting? All these thoughts tumbled through her mind in a few seconds. Her presidency of her high school debate club had trained her mind to be logical and quick. Her next natural action was to look the (potential) opponent in the eyes to deliver her response with greater impact. His eyes. Rachel thought, “Mr. Bojangles”. There was a line in that song about “the eyes of age”. Like those eyes. Eyes are mirrors to the soul. Those mirrors looked deep. “What lies behind those eyes, Mr. Ryan? And how does my son figure into those plans that lay a few centimeters behind those hazel irises?” All her senses were on full alert, but none of them picked up danger signals. Just mysteries.

  “Rachel, one could write a book on all that just passed in your mind. You might allow that my assistance in the past, with no request for return, says that I have nothing but Allen’s best interests in mind. Please, trust me. From what Carl told me about yourself, I believe you will be able to balance your natural maternal protectiveness in favor of affording Allen an opportunity few ever even glimpse.”

  Mother and benefactor locked eyes again and this time for more than a fleeting instant. Her impression was, “He just buttered me up, or reassured me. Same thing, different agendas.”

  “I will trust you, Ryan, for now. Allen is a young man now and his path is his own choosing. I stand by my son, not in front of him.”

  Even the eyes of age can be surprised. The grace of this woman met his expectations, and a little more. Perhaps there were still things to learn on this ball of mud. Ryan continued to gaze into Rachel’s eyes and smiled, not from winning, but from appreciation.

  “I bet she burns the toast and snores.”

  Rachel saw Ryan’s face change. She had, for a moment, felt a deeper connection that had brought some peace to her misgivings. His attention had just been pulled away from her to, somewhere else. The look on his face; amusement?

  While Ryan Fitzgalen turned his eyes to someone the others could not see, Private Elijah Cooper gazed at the mane of his che
stnut mare, Freedom. Sometimes he would smile at the irony of riding Freedom in bondage. He thought that there must be worse hells, for here were no demons, pitchforks, or unquenchable fires. There was the occasional gnashing of teeth, bonded as they were to the saddles.

  It had been a while since the last push. The Major had planned to lull their captor to sleep, so to speak; she never actually slept. Maybe, just maybe, some could break past that demon’s reach. Two had done it, but that was a while ago. Others had also made it a very long time ago, but she had gotten much harder to fool since then. How she raged at her losses and at their cheers. The men were hiding the excitement over today’s attempt. It wouldn’t do to have her sense their anticipation. She could do that, the witch.

  “Why do you have a room like this?” Marianne Carbine set down a carafe of coffee next to the monitor while Rachel nested into the comfortable chair.

  “Mrs. Gladstone, Mr. Mendelssohn is a lawyer. Recorded depositions are still used in court, sometimes. People are more comfortable being recorded if the equipment is not obvious. There are three hidden camera set-ups in Mr. Mendelssohn’s office and a small parabolic dish-and-microphone set-up that can be aimed by remote control from here. That’s the control there, the joystick thing next to the volume control. That’s been disabled for the interview. I switched the cable for some music. You can use this earpiece if you like. That lets you hear with one ear what’s going on, with the music, that is, and use the other for whatever else you like. A phone call perhaps? You can use that videophone to call anyone you like at no charge to you. The bathroom is through that door down the hall. I took the liberty of purchasing recent editions of magazines similar to those you have subscriptions to. (“They know that?”) Will you require anything else?”

  Rachel thanked Marianne and declined further assistance. “Fine, I’ve got a back-log to catch up on. This meeting took a lot of my paperwork time. I can do it now, bring it home, or just move in here. Just push this com-button if you need anything else.” With that, Marianne finally left.

  Rachel settled in with a cup of sweet and light coffee and watched the monitor. Ryan and Allen were on screen, looking like they were exchanging pleasantries. Each was speaking in equal turns, each in a relaxed posture. The big revelation(s) had probably not started yet.

  Ryan was probably breaking deeper ice without Mamma around, man-to-man stuff. Sports? Cars? Girls? She set the spoon down on the napkin, rested both elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her palms.

  “OK, Rachel, see what you can gather from non-verbal clues. You’re good at this. Come on, use your mind.” Rachel’s eyes took in postures, facial features and hand motions. There were three feeds on the video screen (didn’t Gustav say only one video stream?); a side view that took in both men, a second view focused on one speaker, a third on the other. The two individual shots were side by side on the top, the wider side view on the bottom. This was getting interesting.

  Ryan displayed a posture of control and confidence. He showed no signs of being closed or devious. His eyes were not darting about in nervousness or burrowing in with zealousness. They were warm, with laugh lines bearing evidence of a man who finds amusement (there’s that word again) in life. Allen was leaning slightly forward in an attitude of attention. Classic teacher-student postures and, likely, nothing had been taught yet. The rules and roles are set and the play hadn’t even seriously begun. No jockeying for position here. “Ryan, you’re good. Natural or learned?”

  “Rachel, there’s an earring next to you on the floor. One of yours?” Marianne had shaken Rachel from her concentration. She looked at the floor and saw the earring. She didn’t wear earrings. Odd.

  She noticed, “Wait. There, a few inches from the earring.” In an office where everything is so tidy, a wire lead not connected to anything stood out like a zit on prom night. A look through the door showed Marianne at her desk, with her back to the interviewee’s mother. Then how did she know about the ear ring? A look down showed a standard audio jack.

  The mind is a committee. At this meeting of Rachel’s mental parliament, pros and cons were being weighed in debate by Rachel’s Angel and Cat personae. Angel took the podium in winged glory, dwelling long and hard of the immoralities of cheating and other sins that Cat probably had in mind. Angel had to give it her best shot when the opponent was that darned Cat. Cats are nature’s embodiment of curiosity. Cats are deceptively soft and fluffy, hiding feral ferocity that lurks behind a front of calm wisdom. Angel finished, and then stepped down.

  Cat stretched, padded to the podium, and spoke eloquently on maternal duties, then cloyingly of the wonders of wisdom to be gained. “How can we be a proper mother if ill informed? As for being able to keep secrets, hadn’t we kept thoughts of Carl private even during those moments when our full attention should have been devoted to Frank? More than once we have avoided saying the wrong name at the wrong time.” Angel blushed. Cat smirked.

  Rachel put on the ear jack and turned on the music to a country and western station. Carl liked that. Frank preferred classical.

  Angel tried for counterpoint. Rachel wondered what part of her mind was doing the ‘call to the podium’. Was there a part of the brain entitled Speaker-of-the-House, or perhaps Referee?

  Angel began with, “What good would our word be from now on if we cannot be true to it now? We taught Allen that one lie leads to many, which leads to entanglements from which there is no escape. Our honor is at stake. How can we betray a trust from someone, mysterious or not, who has been so good to us? (Cat waited patiently). God expects us to live our lives in sacrifice for greater good. Isn’t that what this is all about? Aren’t you putting your own selfish desires before the greatest good of our son?”

  Cat smiled her respects to Angel. “My feathered colleague, you make some good points. Let us look at them from another angle and gain perspective. Have we ever given our word not to listen to this conversation?”

  Angel said, “Well, not exactly, but...”

  “And would hearing what is going on disable us or enable us to further the good of our only true son, keeping in mind that wise action must be guided by wisdom?”

  “But what about your honor?”

  “Bingo!” Cat smiled when she heard the word “your”. It represented a surrendering of responsibility, as a parent does when he or she tells a spouse of what new atrocity their son or daughter had committed and what were they going to do about it?

  Rachel tried the music jack plug. It came out smoothly. The music stopped, Cat did not. Cat suggested that Rachel take a quick peek at Marianne, which she did, cementing the result regardless of where the debate went. The secretary, true to her word (wince), worked diligently at forms, terminals, videophone connections and even with pencil and paper. “How can she do that?”

  Cat went in for the kill. “Let us consider “honor”. What honor is there greater than motherhood? Great honor confers great responsibilities. If we are to support Allen, then we must know how best to accomplish it. Do we know this man with no last name? Can we fully trust someone who would marginalize a man’s mother, whose wisdom and guidance has shaped Allen’s character and did it for years without the benefit of a father partner?”

  Angel sighed. She had lost again. The other jack slid in as smoothly as the decision Rachel had made. One more look at the secretary and her hand sealed the deal by gently learning how to manipulate the parabolic dish microphone joystick.

  While Rachel familiarized herself with sound technology, Annie’s children were playing by the west gate. Her staff (she assumed) began to arrive and prepare to tell strangers all about her home. So many visitors every day, and Annie didn’t know any of them. “Don’t they have any real work to do?”

  As two mothers watched over their young, Gustav Mendelssohn, J.D. sat at Dot’s Jury Box Cafe in his usual booth. Unlike everyone else he had to deal with today, he
drank tea, herb tea at that, with honey. Dot kept a supply of his favorite tea, apple cinnamon, and honey packets.

  He mused. “So it happens again with Allen as it did with Carl. It will be good to have a fulltime hand at the wheel.” The loss of Carl had put a strain on things for Ryan’s small but dedicated group. He smiled. There was a movie, a long time ago, which still makes the rounds once in a while: “Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”. He had told Ryan about it, who knew of the work (of course). An aging candy maker sought out a youngster who would take over the duties of managing a major factory. Wonka chose a child who would do things Wonka’s way, not an adult who would do things his own way.

  There were parallels enough. The boy, Charlie, the one in the movie? He didn’t have a father, either. Wonka and Ryan both valued their privacy highly for similar reasons. But there were differences.

  Allen was not a starry-eyed child and, while both Ryan and Wonka were eccentric but good men, Wonka lived a far more normal life and only had to find a protégé once.

  Just over a quarter century ago, he had begun doing some work for Carl Hawthorn. He didn’t know the connection to Ryan then. It took time to realize that Carl had a silent partner that was never there, but was always there. He gathered early on that there was much under the obvious surface and it became gradually known to him, as he proved his reliability, that his duties included keeping what was under the surface from being generally known. The day Carl died was the day he had met Ryan David Fitzgalen. He had expected the call for an emergency board of directors meeting. He hadn’t expected to arrive at the office to find only himself and a man he had never seen before.

  “Gustav,” the man had said after introducing himself, “I want you to work for me full time. Sell off your remaining interests. You start today. I need all of you.” Ryan nicely pulled the rug out from his scramble for excuses by telling him how much his time would be valued. What he learned about Ryan’s organization was just short of miraculous. What he learned about Ryan was not a jot or a tiddle less than a miracle. Well, time to get back to work. He asked for another tea in a to-go cup.