Shadow of Ashland (Ashland, 1) by Terence M. Green Read Free Book Online

shrugged, wondering how to explain.
    "Jack Radey hasn't been here for fifty years. When he was here, he was just one of dozens passin' through."
    "But he stayed awhile here."
    "Lots did that."
    I didn't know how to tell her about the letters. "This is the last address that I have for him."
    "But he's gone. Long ago. It's a big world. He could've gone anywhere. You're wasting your time."
    I studied her face, lined with valleys, scoured by drought, healed with soft rains, then watched her fold her hands in her lap as her daughter had done. I glanced at the radio once more. "Does it still work?"
    "The radio?"
    "Yes."
    The wooden shell hid dust-covered tubes that lit and warmed slowly, an ancient carriage of corroded metal cubes and spools and looping wires.
    "Good," I said.
    "Evenin'."
    I turned to see Stanley Matusik standing in the parlor entranceway.
    "Evening, Mr. Matusik," I said, standing briefly as I spoke, then sitting back down.
    He came in and sat beside his wife. "Been thinkin' about a lot of things since you showed up here, young man."
    I smiled at being considered a young man.
    "Things I haven't thought of in years and years."
    "Not all bad, I hope."
    "Bad. Good. Them words don't seem to fit. Just things that happened. The way they happened. Things you can't change. Things you lived through. You know what I mean?"
    "I think so."
    "Mm." He sighed, put his hands on his knees.
    My eyes strayed to the aging, patterned wallpaper, the child's portrait in the elongated oval frame above the two of them. I wondered if it was Emma.
    "Some years I can't keep straight in my head. Just a blur. Others, they just seem to stand out clean and polished. You got years like that?"
    "Yes, I do." I thought of 1969, the year I got married, and of 1972, the year it ended. I knew '84 was going to be one of those years, too.
    "Thirty-four, thirty-five. They're pretty clear to me. We'd just bought this place. A big step."
    "I can imagine."
    "My father was a coal miner. Died young. Didn't have nothin'. Teresa's folks were more genteel."
    She clucked her tongue. He smiled.
    "They owned the Blossom Restaurant here in Ashland," he continued. "That's where I met Teresa. Workin' there. Lamb and oxtail stew, with a coffee, fifteen cents. Remember?"
    She nodded. "Yes."
    "Her parents loaned us the down payment for this place, but shouldn't have, 'cause they had to close their own restaurant down not too much later. Teresa ended up workin' at Wool- worth's. I tried a few things myself. We all did." He filtered memories behind his eyes, retrieving them. "Had to." Turning to Teresa, he said, "I told him some about Jack and that business in Toledo, this afternoon. Young people got no idea."
    Teresa looked at her husband. "Mr. Nolan and I were talking about folks listening to the radio back then."
    He almost smiled. "I remember the first radio I seen. Jimmy Robinson had it. He didn't have any electricity. We hooked up a coupla car batteries. Got 'Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons.' Was a serial." He nodded. "Remember it well." A pause. "Radio was big. No question. 'Death Valley Days' on Fridays, 'Chase and Sanborn' show on Sundays."
    " 'Chase and Sanborn'?" Coffee was all that came to my mind.
    "Music. Comedy. Don Ameche, Edgar Bergen, Dorothy Lamour, Armbruster's Orchestra. Like that. Sunday evenings."
    "Jack's Sunday was different," said Teresa Matusik. "He went to church most weeks. He was Catholic. Then he'd listen to something else." She slowly separated her own memories.
    Stanley looked at her.
    "Father Coughlin."
    Stanley looked stricken. "I'd forgotten," he said.
    "You know who he was?" she asked me.
    I shook my head.
    "Broadcast every Sunday from the Shrine of the Little Flower at Royal Oak, Michigan. Started the National Union for Social Justice. Five million listeners signed up within two months. Real angry speeches, especially against Roosevelt. People were ready to listen to what he had to say."
    "Haven't thought of him in years," said