When Fenelon Falls. Dorothy Ellen Palmer
HAZEL #17
When I finally made it down to the lobby, no one was there but the Boy Scout with his bushel of apples still half full. That darn Walter had kept me so late that Angus had given up and gone home. Can’t say I blame him. I did feel sorry for the Scout; he’d been there since lunch, so I stopped to buy an apple. I was fumbling with my gloves and change purse, encouraging him to go on home, and he was saying he couldn’t because he’d promised his Akela not to quit his post until all his apples were sold. That’s when I felt a hand on my arm.
‘Excuse me, miss,’ said a thick American accent. ‘Perhaps I can offer some assistance?’
I turned. He took off his hat. A tall man with wavy red hair and a crooked smile, sporting a beautiful blue cashmere overcoat and a dark paisley scarf, silk. He turned to the boy. ‘Son, I was a Scout myself, and you’re absolutely right. A promise is sacred, especially one made to your Akela, your commanding officer.’ He reached into his pocket. ‘So, had you sold all your apples today, how much would you have made?’
The boy just stared. ‘Perhaps a good ten dollars?’
He nodded. ‘Right. So I’m buying these fine apples, all you have left, please.’ He peeled an American ten from a gold money clip, then added, ‘And if it’s all right with you, I’d also like to buy this fine basket to carry them in?’ He passed him another ten. I thought the boy was going to pop! ‘Now do as this kind young lady says and get home safely.’ With that the boy burst into Thank you, sirs and exploded out the door.
We laughed. I smiled, ‘Yes indeed! Thank you, sir. That was most generous of you.’
He smiled, ‘Don’t thank me, miss. I only thought of it because I saw you doing it first.’ He held out the basket. ‘So, how do you like them apples?’ We laughed again.
We chatted and he introduced himself, by first name only, though I thought nothing of it at the time. He said he was in town to check on a family business interest but since his return to the States had been grounded, he’d been advised to stay at a place called the Royal York. Could I point him in the right direction? I was going that way myself, so off we went.
Once we got outside, the wind was so strong he had to move his arm from my elbow to my waist. Again, I thought it nothing more than a gentleman’s courtesy to a lady. It should have taken us only a few minutes but he walked more slowly than I expected. Of course, he was fighting the wind with that huge, heavy basket. Since the storm rendered conversation all but impossible, I waved goodbye at the front door and stepped away to cross over to Union Station. He gripped my hand and spoke into my ear, ‘Please, miss, a moment more?’
A doorman in red, complete with gold braid and a peaked cap, opened enormous brass doors. We climbed a mahogany staircase to a marble lobby and plunked down in two deep velvet chairs. Chandeliers! Five of them! I counted seventeen fur coats without even trying! It seems the Torontonians with the nicest homes to go home to were the first to give up on getting there.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, rising up slowly with an involuntary hand to his back, which he covered by leaning forward with a smile. ‘You wait right there.’
Too embarrassed to ask, I spent his absence wondering how to get him to say his last name. Even if I’d heard it, I doubt it would have registered. Remember, this was 1954; he was only a Junior Senator. Plenty of water under plenty of bridges since.
‘See here,’ he said when he returned. ‘My father taught me to be forthright and I’m proud to be so. The wind out there is beyond any storm I’ve ever seen, and in the South Pacific I saw a few. So I’ve taken the liberty of securing a room for the night.’ The look on my face as I rose to leave must have said it all. ‘No, no, my dear young lady, your own room. On a different floor than mine, in fact. Please forgive me.’ So I sat back down. He smiled, and when he handed me a key I took it. And my darling daughter, I’ll tell you why.
One: I was soaking wet and frozen stiff. Two: I was dreading the prospect of going back out there at all, let alone forcing myself downhill to the lake from the Long Branch loop to the trailer. Three: I’d just been offered a room in the Royal York, the hotel I’d fantasized about my whole life but had never, ever expected to stay in. Four: I’ll admit it, he was a most handsome man. I know what you’re thinking, dear. I knew it then too.
He suggested that we take an hour to freshen up in our separate rooms, emphasis on ‘separate’ with a grin, and then he’d meet me in the dining room. I’d had my bath and was in a panic trying simultaneously to do something with my hair while ironing the sodden brown lump that had been my tweed skirt. I was thinking, ‘Bank clothes! You’re going to dine at the Royal York in bank clothes? You’ll be a laughingstock. Better make a run for it!’ when there was a knock on the door. It was a bellhop, complete with that funny little chinstrap – a bellhop with a dress box! A dinner dress, black velvet, sleeveless: ‘For the Apple Lady.’ Where he got it, I’ll never know. It fit perfectly. I’ll admit it, this Cinderella was glowing.
The rest of the evening? I can share some of it, dear. We had dinner. We talked. You would probably want to know that he never actually lied. To paraphrase Emily Dickinson, he told the truth, but he told it slant. Said he came from a large New England family and shared some funny stories about his brothers. He didn’t want to talk about the war; I didn’t want to see his wedding ring. After a few glasses of wine, he asked me to come up with some good ideas about things a man could do in bed and winked! Explained he was facing a back operation next week for an old injury and would be bedridden for months. What could he do with himself during his convalescence? Any suggestions?
When he summoned the waiter and asked for the special, the chef wheeled in a dessert cart and lifted the lid off a still-steaming apple pie. How we laughed! We toasted the Scout and agreed that everyone should have his sense of honour and courage. He said courage was something that interested him a great deal, having seen men with so much of it and also, sadly, with so little. I thought he meant the war. I said it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, so maybe he should use his recovery to write a book about courage? He called it a capital idea and ordered champagne. It got late. I’d never had champagne.
And the rest of that long-ago night is nobody’s business, my dear one, not even yours. But today of all days, how I wish I could tell you! Do you see it? Your father’s charm saved my life. If I’d returned to the trailer I’d have been killed with Gladys and Angus. I long to tell you that no, your father was not a brick-laying bumpkin with a Grade 6 education. People just assumed it was Angus, once he was dead. If only I could hold you and tell you the truth! Today when I saw your sister bury her face in her mother’s skirt and your brave little brother salute your daddy’s coffin, I longed to find a way to tell them too. But of course it’s not possible. They can never know they have a big sister. And you, you’ll never know any of us.
Why did I never come forward? Shame. Pure and simple. No good country girl can be proud of a fling with a married man, even a now famous one. I could never hold my head up in town again. Mommy and Janie were barely speaking to me as it was. It was so much easier to let my boss play Sir Galahad, to burst into tears and confess that I’d been very, very foolish with Angus when I thought I was going to die in that nasty hurricane. I assured Walter you were a dead man’s baby. He agreed to marry me on the condition that he wouldn’t have to raise another man’s child, so I had no choice. What good would it have done either you or your father to know the truth? It wouldn’t give you a family. It would have ruined his career, not to mention his marriage. And it would have robbed the world.
Because, of course, he became who he was. For years it’s been impossible to pass a newsstand and not see your father’s face, or hers. Don’t misunderstand – I didn’t, and still don’t, resent her. As impossible as it sounds, I don’t bear her any ill will at all, his pretty wife. Do you know that she and I are exactly the same age? She doesn’t look a thing like me though, so dark and fragile. Over the years, if I felt anything, it’s been pity. The year I had you, she had a miscarriage. I had such guilt, fearing she’d miscarried because he’d told her about me. A year later, she