Ollie's Cloud (39 page)

Chapter 33

At three o’clock in the morning on the first day of 1843, Ollie awakens to the creaking of floorboards downstairs. It would be wise to check the main floor, he decides. Lighting an oil lamp, he begins shuffling to the door. All is quiet now. He slowly walks down the hallway, the oil lamp casting an eerie glow around him. He softly steps down the eight stairs to a landing, turns right, but before he can navigate the five remaining stairs to the front room a soft voice startles him. A half-whisper.

“Would you be so good as to douse the light?” Herbert says.

Ollie can see the outline of the man. He is seated in a chair that has been pulled over to look directly out a window.

Ollie puts out the light.

“Come over here, then,” Herbert says.

Ollie steps down to the main floor and walks to the window, pulling another chair alongside Herbert and sitting down. “Indigestion?” he asks Herbert. “I’ve had a spot of it myself tonight.”

He can smell the sharp odor of alcohol.

“It’s snowing. You can see it better in the dark,” Herbert says. He is still dressed in his shirt and pants.

Ollie looks out the window. The moonlight through the clouds is faint but still illuminates a scattering of snowflakes. “Beautiful,” he says.

“Remember that night in London?”

“What night.”

“We went to the theater to see that dreadful pantomime—”

“The Surrey, you mean?”

“Yes, the Surrey.”

“Mons. Gouffé, the Man-Monkey.”

“That’s it—the wooly beast who invaded our box. It was snowing that evening as well.”

“And afterward we were crossing the bridge and—”

“The body in the river. Very dramatic that was. The Priest Pennick, wasn’t it? Yes, I’m sure of it.” Herbert pauses. His right arm rises and Ollie can see a bottle float to Herbert’s lips—brandy smuggled into an otherwise booze-free house.

Herbert swallows deeply then coughs and sighs. “Did you know, Ollie, that your mother and that furry Man-Monkey—or rather the unpretentious bastard who played the part—did you know they became lovers? Oh yes, they did.”

Ollie is not surprised. He had known that his mother had backslid into sinful ways after the humiliating evening at Almack’s, though he had never heard the details.

“Can’t blame her, really,” Herbert says. His speech is slowing down, becoming slurred. “Her life—I’m sure she thought her life was over. The
ton
would never accept her as a genuine… a genuine member of London society after such a—” he seems to be searching for a word— “such a
scandal
. The only way she could survive—such an inventive woman—the only way, I’m sure, was to play the part. Become an actress. And you know theatre people. No morals at all. Anything to claim center stage.”

Herbert takes another slow sip of brandy.

“You must have hated her for that.”

“Oh no, no,” Herbert says, turning to look at Ollie for the first time. He smiles gently in the dark. “I never stopped loving her—your mother.” Herbert turns away and stares out the window again, pausing for such a long time that Ollie wonders if he has fallen asleep. Just as Ollie extends a hand to touch Herbert’s arm, the man speaks again, startling him. “It was your father I hated, truth be told. Ruined all our lives.”

“I suppose you must blame someone for your misfortune,” Ollie says.

“And whom, my son, do you blame for your misfortunes? You’ve had your share.”

“I’ve learned not to blame. I’ve learned to forgive.”

“Forgive
me
, then, because I’m not up to hearing that evangelical balderdash this evening. You hate just as I hate. I can see it in you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Oh yes, I can see it. You’ve always had hate in you. You hated your mother. You hated your father.”

“I forgave them.”

“Did you hate
me
, Ollie?”

“Never. I loved you. I love you now, you know that.”

“After Mary Rogers was murdered—after your mother drowned—who did you hate then? You can’t tell me that you suffered these tragedies without hating
someone
.”

Ollie stands and walks to the window. “Oh yes, I hated someone,” he says. “With such intensity, such passion that it drove me mad for a time.”

“Yes, I understand that kind of madness.”

“The fact that I could not directly attack the object of my vengeance drove me madder still.”

“Yes, it was Gordon, wasn’t it? That’s why you came to America. That’s why you followed this… this dreadful sawdust trail of tent meetings. To seek your revenge.”

“Yes, I wanted to hurt Gordon, it’s true. To humiliate him.” Ollie turns to face Herbert. Even in the dark he can see that Herbert’s eyelids are sagging and moisture is filling his eyes. “But my true target was much bigger,” Ollie continues. “Much
much
bigger.”

Herbert’s eyes widen in understanding. “You blamed
God
.”

“And all those who spoke for Him.”

Herbert blinks once, twice. He thinks about this. “Yes, I can see it,” he says. “It makes sense in a terrible sort of way. And here I was, plotting my revenge against a mere mortal.”

“What do you mean
revenge
?” Ollie stares hard at Herbert, who looks away.

“Do you think you’re the only one driven mad by your tragedies?”

“You traveled to Persia,” Ollie says, trying to reshape his memory into a useful pattern. “Mother wrote that you went there to beg my father to divorce her.” He kneels down in front of Herbert, who is suddenly avoiding his gaze. “But you were prepared for revenge in case he refused, weren’t you? Tell me, Herbert, when my father said
no
—when he laughed at you as I’m sure he did—what did you do?”

Herbert takes a swig of brandy, but Ollie swipes the bottle from his hand.

“Tell me, Herbert. How did my father die?”

Herbert’s eyes finally jerk sideways to look at Ollie. He stares into Ollie’s dark face, speechless, lips quivering, holding back a flood of emotion. At last he reaches upward with both hands, cradles Ollie’s face, and begins to cry.

“I love you, Ollie,” he says. “You’re all I have left.
Don’t make me do this
.”

Ollie continues to stare.

“Herbert, tell me.”

Tears stream down Herbert’s face. His nose is running. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve.

“Yes, as your mother told you I traveled to Persia. I went with a companion—Eardley Pickwick.”

“Pickwick!” The mention of this name startles Ollie. “But he—”

“—was released from the Marshalsea prison when I paid his debts.” Herbert sniffs and leans back in his chair. “At first I only meant to help the wretched man. But later he became useful when I traveled to Persia.”

“Of course—he spoke the language.”

“The longer I was separated from your mother, the deeper my pain grew. Like you, Ollie, I was nearly driven mad with hatred. To me, your father was a devil. I longed for his destruction. In Tehran he was easy to find.”

Herbert leans forward now. The tears have stopped. Putting his story into words seems to bring back his passion for vengeance.

“Eardley was able to arrange a meeting. But I knew even before I left London that your father would never agree to a divorce. Your homeland, Ollie, is a savage place. It cost me considerably less than I expected to hire an assassin. And when it was done, no one mourned him.” Herbert stares coldly into Ollie’s eyes. “Not even you, I suspect.”

Ollie sits back on his heels.

The coldness drains from Herbert’s eyes and he begins to sob. “Forgive me, my son.”

Ollie stands and looks down on his mentor. “It is not my forgiveness you need,” he says. And then he leaves Herbert alone in the dark.

Chapter 34

It is early March, 1843. During the previous evening, cold air had passed over the warmer waters of the big lake to the north, picking up moisture and heat. Eight inches of unspoiled whiteness now blankets Ollie’s farm this morning.

This is a big day indeed, with the wedding at the house and dress-up clothes and a grand meal afterward. An exciting day!

Ollie and two neighbors are shoveling a path to the front door. Rev. Samuel Ezekiel Albinson, an old friend of Rev. Crenshaw, has just arrived by carriage and is kicking his way through the windswept mounds of snow to the front door. He curses softly as cold particles of snow creep into his loose-top boots, then notices Isaac listening and begs forgiveness. “Cold feet bring out the beast in me,” he explains.

Jonathon is madly setting up chairs on the front porch and perching his large camera obscura on the awkward tripod, its feet stuck into a snowbank in the front yard. “It couldn’t have held off for another day, this snow,” Jonathon says to the Reverend as he passes by.

“Can’t talk,” the Reverend says, “got snow in my boots. It’ll be pneumonia for sure.” He moves stiffly, stomping his feet on the porch before entering the house.

“Isaac! Are you dressed?” Jonathon shouts.

“Underneath, yes,” Isaac says, meaning that beneath his outer garments he’s ready for the wedding.

“The only one who’s ready, I’m sure.” Jonathon replies. “Ollie! Leave the shoveling, will you, and get the bride and the others. I want to make this picture before the guests begin arriving. This is the most disorganized event I’ve ever seen.”

Ollie chucks his shovel blade-first into a snowbank and gallops into the house. “Be just a minute,” he says, grinning. “Have patience, my friend. You’d think it was your wedding, the way you’re so nervous about it.”

“Just trying to keep things moving around here.”

Isaac picks up the shovel.

“Leave the shoveling, will you?” Jonathon shouts at the boy. “And peel off that coat. As soon as the others appear, we’re going to make a group picture and that’ll be done. The rest of the day is someone else’s worry. And hurry up the others, will you? That’s a good lad.”

Isaac enters the house and closes the door. Jonathon levels the camera, but just when he seems pleased with the shot, the front leg sinks more deeply into the snow, lowering the camera’s front. He fiddles, moving the legs, pushing them firmly into the snow, playing with the focus, then consulting his watch.

Another carriage shows up—friends of Rev. Crenshaw and Alice.

“This is what I was afraid of,” Jonathon barks to himself before stomping up the front stairs to the porch and pushing open the door. “The guests are arriving, I hope you’re satisfied!”

“We’re coming, dear,” Mrs. Rogers says. Her words are spoken in a melodious, disembodied voice. She is nowhere to be seen. But then, as if expertly choreographed, the entire wedding party materializes at once and even Jonathon can’t help but smile as he sees their beaming faces.

“All right, then,” Jonathon says. “Onto the porch—and no boots. We’ll make the picture and then you can get on with the wedding.”

Jonathon leads the group outdoors, gestures to the chairs, and gives instructions as to where each person should stand or sit. He pushes his way through the snow to the camera and blows a faint dusting of snowflakes off the ground glass, which instantly fogs. “Damn!” he says. But the fog lifts quickly and he fine-tunes his focus.

Ollie and Alice are standing behind the two chairs, Alice in a striking black silk dress with white fur trim. Isaac stands to the right of Ollie in a smart wool suit and dark tie, and Rev. Albinson, looking far too much like an undertaker in his tall black hat and black suit, stands to the left of Alice.

“We’re ready for the bride and groom,” Jonathon says.

Rev. Crenshaw, gently assisting Phebe Rogers by the arm, guides her into one of the chairs, then sits down beside her. He has lost perhaps thirty pounds, and his groom’s face is radiant in the outdoor light. Phebe, though five years older than the Reverend, looks ten years younger in her gray silk gown and white fur.

“This is the last time any of us will be able to call you Mrs. Rogers,” Rev. Crenshaw says to Phebe with a wry smile. “From now on, Mrs.
Crenshaw
!”

Jonathon covers the lens with a cap and slides the plateholder into the camera. “You must be very still now,” Jonathon explains, then uncovers the lens. He counts off the seconds and then replaces the cap onto the lens with a sigh. “Very good. Thank you very much.”

“One more,” says Ollie. “With you in it.”

“But I’m the photographer,” Jonathon says.

“You’ve shown Isaac how to do your magic. I insist.”

Isaac grins and leaps from the porch into the snow, slashing his way to the camera. With a look of resignation, Jonathon marches up onto the porch and peels off his coat and boots, taking Isaac’s place in the grouping.

“You must be very still now,” Isaac says, irreverently repeating Jonathon’s instruction. “How many seconds today?”

Jonathon holds up fingers. Isaac nods and makes the picture. Everyone laughs when it is over, even Jonathon, for he has never had his own picture taken. “I don’t like it much,” he says, “having to stand still.”

Chapter 35

No sooner have the Crenshaws settled into the Reverend’s comfortable house but another wedding seems to sprout from the moist April soil, this event much simpler than the last. Alice has decided upon a small family wedding and on her special day she descends Ollie’s creaking staircase in a brownish-green pelisse—a spartan day-dress with a high neck and long sleeves—and a dark green bonnet. A veil clouds her face like a puff of her father’s cigar smoke.

For just a moment, the veil whisks Oliver back to Bushruyíh and the magnificent image of his veiled mother reposing on silk cushions in the anderun.

Reverend Crenshaw presides over the short service, with Jonathon as Best Man and Phebe Crenshaw as Matron of Honor. Oliver and Alice stand before the Reverend as Isaac sings the
Twilight Hymn
. The boy has perfect pitch and an angelic voice that astonishes Oliver, who has never heard the boy sing. In this atmosphere of expectation for the imminent Return of Christ, the words of the hymn provoke shivers in all present:

Yes, when the toilsome day is gone,

And night with banners gray,

Steals silently the glade along

In twilight’s soft array,

I love to steal awhile away

From every cumbering care,

And spend the hours of setting day

In gratitude and prayer.

I love to meditate on death!

When shall his message come

With friendly smiles to steal my breath

And take an exile home?

I love by faith to take a view

Of blissful scenes in heaven;

The sight doth all my strength renew,

While here by storms I’m driven.

When the hymn is finished, the Reverend turns to his daughter and reminds her that she is the Bride of Christ. “In Revelation 19:7 we are told that the bride makes herself ready for the marriage and the marriage supper by providing herself a garment of good works,” he says; this is the only part of the sermon that Isaac will remember in future years.

“My dearest daughter, all Christians do not work for Christ, therefore all will not be the bride. The absence of this garment will cause an unfaithful Christian to be ‘put away’ as it were, in the darkness outside the wedding feast. It is the darkness outside the feast where the unfaithful will be, while those who have been faithful will be enjoying a communion and fellowship not shared by all. Be faithful always.”

To Oliver the Reverend says, “My son, you have brought great joy to my daughter and to our home. This marriage may last only a day, perhaps just an hour, because Jesus is coming soon to take us all from the earthly storms that are driving us, as that stirring hymn reminds us. But in heaven your marriage is eternal. You will be together always.”

Afterward, Jonathon photographs the wedding party. He does not believe that Jesus is coming, and he suspects that Ollie and Alice will cherish the picture in their old age on earth. Anyway, if Jesus
does
come and abduct his friends from earth, Jonathon is quite certain that he will be left alone to care for the farm. This picture, then, will be a memorial to his friendships after they are gone.

A wet April quickly becomes a hot and muggy summer. Now that school is out, Isaac is free to pester Ollie with his newfound passion—learning Farsi, his father’s native tongue. On evenings when Ollie is not traveling to gather material for his articles, Isaac demands lessons. He wants to be like his father. He wants to communicate with him in the language that was Ollie’s boyhood language. He wants nothing to be lost in translation.

At first he finds his mouth and tongue ill-suited for the foreign sounds he tries to duplicate, but before long he has mastered the odd nasals and glides, the unfamiliar labial stops and palatal affricates and high-back rounded vowels. His early vocal gymnastics make Ollie smile, but bemusement soon changes to pride as Isaac’s harsh New York accent melts into the caramelized textures of the Farsi tongue. An incessant exchange of utterances becomes a secret language between father and son. The intimacy and exclusivity of it strengthens a bond that neither of them has ever experienced before. By autumn, Isaac and Ollie are speaking to each other primarily in Persian, with Alice defensively picking up a few words here and there to fling into a conversation, often inappropriately.

Isaac’s linguistic immersion floats above the strong ebb and flow of religious emotion. Expectation of the rapture causes tension, even among those who long for it. At times the anticipation manifests joy and euphoria, but sometimes—usually in the stillness of night—emotion turns to anxiety, even fear. The thought of being snatched up bodily, plucked like a ripe orange from the tree of life, separated from all that is familiar and known, to face the fearsome countenance of God—this can be terrifying. What will it feel like? Will sins be exposed to everyone?
What if I am left behind?

Mornings, of course, can be even worse than the nights.

On a Wednesday morning in late October, as Isaac prepares for school, Alice suddenly awakens alone in bed. Panic-struck, she screams and runs from the bedroom, pale and trembling. Seeing Isaac downstairs, she cries out, “No, Isaac—not you, too!”

Alice stumbles down the stairs and Isaac rushes to her. “Ollie’s been taken!” she shouts. “He’s been taken and we’ve been left!” She seems still to be dreaming.

Isaac grabs her shoulders and shakes, but she starts sobbing and repeating the words, “My God, Isaac, we’ve been left behind!”

Isaac turns at the sound of a door creaking open. Ollie, who has been drinking tea on the porch, has entered.

“It’s all right, Alice,” he says. “I’m here.”

Confused, Alice turns to Ollie and says, “You’ve been left, too?”

“We are all here, Sweetheart. All of us,” Ollie replies. “The time has not yet arrived for any of us to be taken.”

Alice stares at her husband and tries to gather her thoughts. Isaac releases her. She rakes her fingers through her matted hair and shakes her head as if this will encourage clarity. “Oh,” she says weakly.

And then they have a nice breakfast of tea and eggs.

Several weeks later, on a Thursday evening, the Crenshaws come to the Chadwick’s farmhouse for dinner, an occurrence that takes place several times each week. Phebe brings a freshly baked chocolate cake. After dinner, Phebe retires to the living room to read her magazine while the Reverend reports statistics about the number of recent local converts to Alice and Ollie.

“Five more souls to join us on the day of rapture,” the Reverend declares. “Old man Fogarty is still a hold-out, however, despite the efforts of his entire family to save him. Tough old coot. Satan’s got a firm grip on him.”

“That’s wonderful news, Papa,” Alice says. “I mean about the five converts, not about Ben Fogarty.” She looks unusually plump and happy. She leans and burrows into Ollie’s chest on the sofa. Ollie wraps his arms around her.

“Any day now,” the Reverend says somberly. “It will happen soon, I can feel it in my bones.”

“Maybe it’s your arthritis,” Jonathon says, teasing the old man.

“You should take this more seriously, Jonathon.” The Reverend puffs out his chest and his voice takes on the officious intonation of the preacher. “In these last days, I tell you all, we should be tireless in our efforts to save every soul that can be saved. I’m afraid that we may be holding up Christ’s return because there are souls to be saved that we have not yet reached. Alice, we need you back in the pulpit.”

“Papa!” Alice cuts off her father with a gentle word. “God has called me to another purpose right now.”

“My dear, no other purpose can be so noble as to use your gifts for evangelism…”

“Papa, listen to me!” The smile is gone from Alice’s face. She pulls away from Ollie, arches her back, and then takes Ollie’s hand. With a tender glance at her husband she says, “I’m going to be a mother.”

Ollie is as surprised as the Reverend.

Isaac grins radiantly.

“Are you sure?” Ollie asks.

“I saw Doctor Malcomb. There’s no doubt.”

Ollie sits, dazed, as the Reverend springs from his chair and lumbers to his daughter, embracing her.

“That’s wonderful news, my dear. But it’s early—I’m sure that God will give you the strength to…”

Alice interrupts him again. “The Doctor said that I have a very frail framework—as he put it—and a constitution that, for whatever reason, will make bearing this child somewhat risky for both the baby and me. He cautioned me to eliminate physical and emotional stress wherever possible. I think that traveling and preaching is out of the question for now.”

As if just now coming out of a trance, Ollie stands and shouts, “Did you hear that Isaac? Jonathon? I’m going to be a father!”

He steps to his son and his friend. They shake his hand and pat him on the back as the Reverend retakes his seat, somewhat sadly.

The Reverend says, “Such joyful news, and yet—”

“And yet what, Papa?”

“And yet… what’s the point? Surely we’ll all be taken into the arms of Jesus before the child will be born.”

The group’s joy drains away.

“Oh Papa, surely there is a reason that I was given this gift.”

The Reverend’s expression turns even sourer. “Oh God, why do you test us in this way?”

“In what way, Papa?”

“This child of yours is conceived in sin. You know the Psalm. It says, ‘Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity, and in sin my mother conceived me.’ Until baptism, a child is condemned to suffer the consequences of humanity’s sins. If Jesus should come before it is born, it cannot come with us.”

Alice had not considered this complication.

“But Grandpa,” Isaac says, “it doesn’t seem fair that an unborn child could be condemned to hell. How can a child that’s not even born be held accountable?”

The Reverend is too invested in his theology to invoke common sense, yet he makes an attempt at logic when he replies, “
The unborn child, the infant, and young children have not had the time or the life experience necessary to understand the requirements of salvation. Would you agree? I thought so. They are unable to understand the awesome responsibilities of making a covenant with God. Therefore, the spiritual condition of the unborn, the infant, and young children is the same as any unconverted person who has never had the opportunity for salvation.”

Unhappy with this opinion, Isaac curses in Persian. Ollie glances at his son, wondering where Isaac could have learned such a thing, then remembers the time he ran his shin into a railing in front of the boy.

“Papa, baptism is surely a way to salvation for children, is it not?” Alice pleads.

“Yes, of course, but this child is not yet born.” There is a long silence. “Wait a minute. Are you suggesting…?”

Ollie immediately understands the direction of his wife’s thinking. He interjects, “I want my child to be baptized tonight.”

With an enormous sigh, the Reverend puts his hands to his temples, rubbing them so hard he leaves fingerprints. His brow wrinkles and his face reddens as if he is lifting a heavy weight. Then he says, “This is a rather technical issue.”

Phebe, silent until now, loudly puts down her magazine and says, “For goodness sake, Theodore, baptize the child. God is the judge here, not you.”

“I agree with Phebe,” Jonathon says. “Never believed in all this dunking and sprinkling, but unless baptism can be a sin, I don’t see what harm it can do. In fact, if you really believe that Jesus might come any minute, you might hurry it up a bit.”

And so the Reverend agrees to improvise a baptism ceremony for the unborn child. That evening, the group surrounds Alice, who remains seated on the sofa next to Ollie. The Reverend pulls some random scraps of scripture out of his memory, a few of which relate to the unfolding event. And then he unbuttons Alice’s dress over her abdomen, exposing white skin. Taking a handful of water from a teacup, he drizzles her belly and she coos “Oooh!” as the cool water drips onto her warm flesh. After a few more words from the standard Baptism ceremony and a short prayer, the service is over and Phebe fetches plates of dessert—the “most important part of the ceremony,” according to Jonathon.