Aunt Gertrude

Aunt Gertrude

I come from a small family without a lot of Old World tradition except a Presbyterian religious background that is not binding to church attendance.  The God I knew was a distant one and when I opened my travel agency, I was convinced that God would not interfere with my daily life or so I thought. My sister and only other sibling, Mandy paid a bit more attention to bringing her three sons up in a more traditional religious atmosphere, but I continued to resist any sort of affiliation that would bind me to something I did not necessarily believe in.  Agnostic was the closest thing I had to a personal belief.  

So when the holidays came caroling in, I would endure the commercial sentimentality to both the Christian and pagan roots stirred and mixed like a warm, stiff egg nog and ugly sweater.  Bah-Humbug as one of my favorite Yuletide characters would quip. My nephews knew me as Mr. Grinch and I did little to dissuade them from the practice and chagrin of Mandy and her husband Todd Bates or Norman, as I often referred to him.  Oh God, Todd was filled with the joyous spirit of the holidays, always wanting me to partner with him in his ad agency as my travel agency was barely keep afloat. Todd use the Bible like a finely crafted weapon and in my ignorance, I was the perfect target for lessons of a higher cause.  Drown him in the punch bowl was always lurking in the dark recesses of my mind, but restraint and love of my sister prevented me from turning my more sinister impulses into reality, but each occasion the impulses would get stronger.  

I did love Mandy.  She was sincere and honest as I had once been before becoming cynical and jaded after two childless marriage to selfish self-centered women who found what I had to offer them was not enough to satisfy their needs.  I kept the notes they left after packing their bags and walking out to a cab waiting to whisk them away to a better happily ever after. Mandy held the box of Kleenex as I spilled out the broken shards of my heart.  

Dad was the first to leave.  It was while I was in college and his heart attack was instant and fatal.  I envied him in his painless exit. One night I had tried to cut my wrists, but the pain was too much to bear.  We had never really been close and when I went home for his funeral days after Christmas, I peered into his coffin at a pasty white imposter and wondered who this man was.  After the service, I drove back to the house past all of the homes decorated in festive holiday apparel wondering what it must be like to be so joyous during this time of year.  When I got home, mom was cooking still dressed in her mourning outfit with her black hat tilted on her gray head with the vail partially over her baggy eyes.  

“Mom, let me help.” I took the spoon from her hand.

“You father will be hungry... “ Her voice fade as her eyes met mine.

“Dad is gone.” I dared to speak the truth that she was avoiding by busying herself in her domain of meal preparation.  Then the tears came and I held her for the better part of an hour. Deck the halls and all that crap.

Three years ago after working relentlessly in the upkeep of the church, Reverend Houseman found her collapsed on the altar with a dustrag in her hand.  She had been gone for the better part of an hour. It was almost Easter, but my mother would not rise from the dead and after her funeral, Mandy and I went to the Easter service mom would have gone to and we both shed a few tears for her before leaving.  

Now that I have taken you on a long path to the main point of my strange story, I will tell you that I was in my office renovated from my modest home with a sign in the window reading, “Rickerson’s World Travel Service”  It used to be neon at one time, but the neon escaped from the tubes and I replaced it with a less lively display. In order to enter the tiny office with a desk and computer, you have to enter through the front glass door, about three quarter glass that is, and there would be an open waiting area with a couch and chair and some ancient magazines, not a single shelf elf or ornament to be seen.  Todd suggested that I put at least a tree in the corner, but like all of his suggestions, I made one of my own on where he could stuff his suggestion. My sister hissed her disapproval, but she knows me and she was not surprised by my crude remark. Anyway, I had hours on Saturday that would be Christmas Eve. Snow was falling as if to add a final touch to the festivities, but for me it meant the wood frame of the door would stick and each progressive weather change, it would stick even more.  So I pushed the door and nearly slipped and fell in the accumulating snow. I cursed and put my shoulder into it this time. I felt the water logged wood buckle a bit and the glass groaned, but with a stiff shoulder, the door gave way and I stood inside the chilly interior that I never kept heated unless I was at my desk. Like Scrooge, I would not waste my money on keeping this work space heated unless I was occupying the room. I blew into my hands as I turned on the heat. Like a giant beast from the deep bowels of the house, the fire breathing dragon came to life.  In the matter of minutes, the room was tolerable and I could feel my fingers once again.  

With a quick move over the counter, I was sitting at my desk where I pushed the button to turn on my dated computer with a dial up modem.  Todd had suggested I upgrade my computer, but once again I had made a counter-suggestion that made Mandy roll her eyes. After my usual song and dance of giggling the wired until I my screen filled with my website, I was assuage that I actually was able to reach my destination before my opening time of 9 am. The bare fluorescent bulb overhead flickered and buzzed for a moment or two once my digital clock read 9:00 am. 

Most of my business had been done in the prior weeks, but I found that in keeping my doors open on Christmas Eve, I could get what I called, the desperate traveler who was willing to pay a little extra from anything that would get him or her to their destination in time for Christamas.  Don’t judge me on my entrepreneurship since shipping companies do the same in order to get gifts under the Christmas tree on time and you don’t think twice about it. It’s the same only I’m getting human traffic home for the holidays and I think that makes me a holiday saint, by most standards. 

Snow fell as the hour dragged painfully by and I was afraid in the accumulation that I might be trapped if it continued.  Snow plows flew on by as I played a radio station playing golden oldies and if one Christmas song came on, I would change the station in a micro-minute.  Bah-Humbug.  

Ebenezeer Scrooge!  

I woke up from dozing off when I heard the bell on the door ring.  Looking up, I saw an elderly woman dressed in a long coat, knitted hat, and dainty gloves with a flowers sewn into the wrists.  Removing her snowy hat and gloves, I saw her to be a bit older than previously thought as her hair was white as the snow falling outside and her face was mapped with deep lines of experience.  Before I could say, “Can I help you?” she introduced herself properly, “Hello, I am Aunt Gertrude.” 

“Aunt Gertrude.” My mind whirled as I tried to remember perhaps a distant relative that I would refer to as Aunt Gertrude.  Finally I shook my head, “Aunt Gertrude? Surely you are no aunt of mine.”

“Posh!” she hissed shaking off the snow from her coat, “You don’t remember me?”

“Can’t say I do.” I shook my head slowly knowing that my business with her might be a phone call to the authorities, “If you are here for illicit purposes, I assure you I will call the police.” 

“You are my sister’s boy, Darrel.” She held her chin up as if looking down on me from the mountain.

“Yes, I am Darrel Rickerson, but then anybody would know that as I am a member of the Lion’s Club.” I pointed to the plaque I received some years ago.

“Rickerson.  My sister was Marge Blithe.”  She nodded. It was mom’s maiden name, but she seldom used it around us, so I had forgotten all about it.  “My baby sister.”

“My mother.” I began to have an uneasy feeling gurgling up from below.

“I did as requested.” She sat in one of the chairs in the waiting room, “I stayed out of sight, but now she’s gone and I thought this would be a good time to catch up.” 

“Catch up?” I belched.

“Certainly.  She told me that after she was gone, I should come to visit you.  Here is the letter.” She handed me an envelope with a handwritten letter inside; it was my mother’s handwriting with graceful loops and carefully formed perfect calligraphic writing as a person could ever write.  In her exquisite prose, she spoke of the family secret they shared and how Aunt Gertrude was to find the time to reveal it. 

I hate secrets, especially family secrets like the ones in tales by Faulkner, Williams and Capote, the ones that show us we are not who we think we are, the secrets that remove the solid ground beneath our feet.  There was no escape from Aunt Gertrude. The snow was trapping us both in my small place of business. What skeletons had she thought to bring to me on this Christmas eve?

“Perhaps this is not a good time.” I suggested thinking of my brother-in-law Todd and his million and one discarded suggestions.

“Your mother was a young innocent thing.” She ignored my suggestion as so often I had ignored Todd that I figured this was fair play. “She and I come from a working-class stock near Sheffield, England where the smoke becomes the air we breathe.  She was introduced into a world of scripture and lofty ideals by the Vicar Stafford who was old enough to be her own father. In fact he and me dad was mates. He called Marge a work of art while sitting at me dad’s elbow in the pub. While Vicar Stafford was not what one might call a drinking man, me dad was since he worked in the foundry. Life is dirty there and only good ale will wash away the disgusting aftertaste.  That vicar was married, but gossip said that he had a wandering eyes since his wife disdained the vulgar thought of intercourse.” Her laugh was deep and sultry, but she continued, “So, he found his treasure. They would go on walks through the gardens together and she would tell him how she wanted to get out of Sheffield and breathe clean air. He told her he would find a way for her to get away. He used her innocence and took what God had not given him.  He was greedy, he was."

I knew my parents were both immigrants from England who came after the Second World War, but they fed me the story the met after Ellis Island. This woman was now shaking the very foundation of my proud heritage and I hated her for it at this moment.

"The vicar was in a panic when me sister told him she was in a family way.  He would arrange an excursion to the back alleys of London to remedy the problem, but she was terrified about the prospects." She shook her head as if this story was being told in present tense, "Even then she loved you."

She startled me when she grasped my hand on the counter, but the look in her hazel eyes reminded me of my mother and her smile warmed the chill that was lingering in my heart.  I could see my mom clearly in distress and I wanted to let her know that it would all turn out all right, but my proof was not so convincing.

"The vicar hired local brutes to persuade her to take a trip to London or make her disappear, but there appeared an angel and his name was Charles Rickerson." She closed her eyes now filled with tears and took a deep breath,"He paid for their passage to the states and she gave birth to a healthy boy.  That was you, me boy."

It was suddenly hard to swallow, but I managed and in a croaking voice, asked, "So my father is the vicar?"

"Aye, me boy. And I made Vicar Stafford's life a living hell.  A year later he made a tearful resignation and left for a mission in Africa where he disappeared in the jungle and was never heard from again. But Charles Rickerson was your father in every possible way except Nature, but I have never been a big fan of Nature.  Nature is cruel without any sense of empathy whatsoever, but it is up to us to make sense of such an unsupervised institution. And in doing so, we create our own reality that suits our purpose and no one has the right to question our reality."

"But why did you come and tell me this story? Now that I know the truth, how can I restore what I once believed was the truth?" I felt a great weight pressing against my chest, crushing me, forming me into someone I did not know or even felt at ease with such a person whose own father was willing to silence my mother.

"She requested as I've stated before." She let a smile flash across her face, "One day you will make peace with this.  But now it's time for me to make my partings." 

She winked at me as she opened the door with ease against the heavy wet snow that was becoming a thick white blanket.  With a final turn and wave, Aunt Gertrude walked out of my life as suddenly as she appeared.

I was still shaken when I got into my car later after closing up my office and heading over to the Bates' for the traditional Christmas eve celebration, but my spirit was not as Bah Humbug as it had been before Aunt Gertrude's visit.  I put the gifts for my nephews in the trunk and pulled out of the driveway. Thank goodness the snow had curtailed and though the roads were slushy, they were not impassable and I arrived just in time for dinner. No matter how tedious I often found this fete to be, the ham and fixings were well worth the trouble.

"You seem to be in a festive mood, Darrel." My sister toasted me with her glass of red wine.

"I had an unusual visitor to my office." I sniffed.

"On God, you didn't open your office, did You?" She grimaced while the boys pawed over the wrapped gifts I had put under the tree upon my arrival.  

"Yes I did, but I only got one caller and she changed my life in the process." I raised my glass to her.

"Oh yeah, Do tell." She raised an eyebrow.

"I had no idea mom had an older sister." I explained as Mandy changed her expression to bewilderment, "I was perplexed as well when she told me she was Aunt Gertrude."

Mandy's face went white and she carefully swallowed a mouthful of wine as she found her voice, "Darrel, Aunt Gertrude, mom's sister died twenty years ago in Sheffield, England."