The Secret of Rose-Anne Riley

The Secret of Rose-Anne Riley

Shaw J. Dallal

Hamilton Books

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Rowman & Littlefield

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2013942761

ISBN: 978-0-7618-6174-4 (paperback : alk. paper)—ISBN: 978-0-7618-6175-1 (electronic)

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This novel is dedicated to all victims of rape

and to their families, who inspired it.

Acknowledgments

I would like to express deep gratitude to three women:

The late Mrs. Emma Newman, my beloved elderly and kindly land lady, who hosted me in her home in Ithaca, New York, when I first arrived at Cornell University as a teen ager in the early fifties. She introduced me to rural America through her quaint kitchen, which included a woodstove. Through the unforgettable and evocative descriptions of her own life on a farm in Upstate New York, Mrs. Newman left an indelible mark on me that is reflected in this novel.

The late Mrs. Betty Irene Osborn Young, my beloved first boss and mentor at Cornell University, who shared personal memoirs of her life on a farm in Kansas with me. She edited several chapters which describe life in rural America, and she helped me integrate that life, including the woodstove in a rural kitchen and other valuable rural items in the context of this novel.

Finally, my beloved wife Diana, who repeatedly and patiently edited The Secret of Rose-Anne Riley. Her editing, patience and diligence were crucial to its completion. Through her elderly and gracious maternal grandparents, Owen and Mable Griffith, who lived in Remsen City, a tiny village of less than one thousand in Central New York, she introduced me to the very essence of rural America. The Griffith home included the quaint and fascinating rural kitchen with a white rusted woodstove, which I marveled at, admired during our many visits and utilized within the context of this novel.

I thank my friend Walter Oczkowski, who accompanied me during many visits to several farms in Oneida and Herkimer counties in upstate New York. He introduced me to gracious farmers who welcomed me to their rural homes and farms. These visits helped me describe rural America at its grandest. Walter was one of the early readers of the first version of this novel.

I thank my friend and former colleague at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University, Professor Stuart Thorson, who read and made helpful comments on a very early version of this novel.

I acknowledge the assistance of my beloved granddaughter, Justine Lindemann, who when she was barely fourteen, read and commented on the first, much shorter version of this novel. Justine’s comments spurred me to continue revising the early version of this novel.

I thank my friend and law school classmate, Frank Giruzzi, who read and commented on an earlier version of this novel.

I thank my life-long friends, Kevin and Nancy Kelly, who read, edited and commented on several versions of this novel.

I thank my friend, Professor Clare Brandabure, Professor of Comparative Literature at the University of Indiana, who read an earlier version of this novel, reviewed it for prospective publishers and wrote a very kind and helpful blurb for the book cover.

I thank my friend and former colleague at Colgate University, Professor Kira Stevens, who read and appreciated the latest version of this novel.

I thank my former student at Colgate University, Teresa Kevorkian, who read and commented on an earlier version of this novel.

I acknowledge the special assistance of my very good friend and former colleague at Utica College of Syracuse University, Professor Eugene Nassar, Professor of English Literature Emeritus, who read and critiqued in writing the present version of this novel, and who kindly provided a blurb for the book cover.

I acknowledge the valuable assistance of my friend and former colleague at Colgate University, Professor Jennifer Lutman, Professor and Director of English Writing, who read and critiqued the current version of this novel, and who provided a very kind blurb for the book cover.

I thank my friend Professor Austen Givens of Utica College, who read, critiqued and discussed with me in depth the latest version of this novel.

I thank my former student at the Maxwell School of Syracuse University, Captain Brandi Shaddick, who edited, critiqued and commented repeatedly and most helpfully on the final version of this novel.

I thank my friends Timothy and Sharon Smith of Colgate University, who read and discussed this novel with me and with my wife at length. I especially thank Tim for professionally setting and formatting the final manuscript.

The greatest gratitude, however, must be reserved for my beloved granddaughter, Ruth Lindemann, who dedicated last summer, reading and editing the last version of this novel, with emphasis on the dialogue.

Chapter 1

Alexia, my dear, Alexia dreams her Grandma Rose-Anne saying to her, I have something private I want to share with you.

What is it, Grandma?

I’ll tell you about it later, my dear, but I want you to stay away from those guns in the corner, the grandmother says in the dream.

But why, Grandma?

These guns are always loaded, sweetheart, and you mustn’t ever, ever touch them.

Alexia is frightened. Her dream becomes a nightmare. Why are they loaded, Grandma? Alexia screams, as she begins to see Grandma Rose-Anne trip and fall down then get up while the grandmother, young, strong and beautiful, frantically chases rabbits and squirrels on a farm in upstate New York. Horrified and worried about her grandmother, Alexia screams again: What’re you doing, Grandma?

The beasts are ruining Daddy’s crops, my dear.

You’ve got to be careful, Grandma, I’m afraid you will fall down again!

Don’t worry about me, my dear, I’m strong, I’ll be all right.

Her heart racing, Alexia wakes up. Bewildered and confused, she sits on the edge of her bed and rubs her eyes and face in an effort to regain her composure. She stretches and stares out the window, recalling her grandmother’s earlier conversations about rabbits and squirrels on a farm in upstate New York, where the grandmother grew up, and about loaded guns for hunting on the farm. She relaxes and stretches again. Oh, my Gosh, she then muses in amusement, Grandma Rose-Anne did look strong in the dream. She looked young and beautiful, as she once told me she used to be. Alexia rubs her face again, trying to fully awaken. I can imagine Grandma being strong, young and beautiful all right, she continues to muse, but chasing rabbits and squirrels! That was scary and hilarious, she smiles. And what’s that private thing Grandma wants to share with me? Grandma mentioned that a few times, and she mentioned it again just a few days ago. Mystified, Alexia scowls, stretches one last time and jumps out of her bed to get ready for school.

Alexia wakes up at 6:20 every morning before school. Tall, thin and blond, she is a high school senior, and will graduate in June. She showers and dresses, but has no time for breakfast. Her school bus is due at 7:05. It will take her to the Valley Town Senior High School, in Valley Town, a town of about a hundred and fifty thousand in the state of Virginia, where she and her family live. She rides the bus with her twin brother Johnny, who sits in one section of the bus with some of his male friends. Alexia sits by herself in another section, waiting for her best friend, Joan Atkinson, who as usual will join her at the next bus stop.

When the bus reaches the next stop, Joan is not there. Alexia begins to wonder about her friend. Maybe she’s sick, maybe she just overslept, maybe her mother will drive her to school this morning, maybe I’ll share the dream about Grandma with her, she reflects. No, I shouldn’t, I should just mention dreaming about Grandma, I’ll keep what I dreamed private, she decides. She thinks about the day ahead, the fourth Monday of the fall semester of her senior year. She and Joan are taking physics, government for half the year, and economics for the other half, honors calculus and English (American and English Literature.) In English, which is a college level literature course, they do extensive reading and writing. They are assigned to read several novels and write a thoughtful essay about each. The two also have classes in Spanish and music, but they like the English class the most. They usually have four 80 minute classes each day. The first period is English, which begins at 7:45 am.

Alexia is relieved when she sees Joan waiting for her outside the classroom. I wondered about you when you didn’t get in the bus this morning, she says, hugging her best friend.

I slept late, so Mom drove me. How was your weekend?

Great!

How’s your Grandma?

Just about the same, I love Grandma’s stories and she’s always eager to talk about when she was young, and about her life on the farm in New York State where she grew up.

Cool!

I’m enjoying it, but I feel sad.

But why?

I just know she won’t be with us very long, and I’m beginning to have crazy dreams about her.

You shouldn’t feel sad, Alexia. I know she’s your Grandma and you love her very much, but she’s an older person and has been quite sick, she’s had a long and great life.

I know, Alexia, blushes.

Did you finish Jane Austin’s novel? Joan asks changing the subject.

I have two more chapters to go, how about you?

I’m almost finished.

What a great title, ‘Sense and Sensibility.’

"It is a great title," Joan smiles. Thin and blond like Alexia, but a little shorter, Joan has hazel eyes.

Alexia’s eyes are sky blue. ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ it really fits the story.

Yeah, it does!

Thank God we didn’t have to submit our essays or discuss the novel today, adds Alexia.

We do that Wednesday.

I had a very busy weekend catching up on my homework and taking care of Grandma. As usual, that history assignment was too long.

Mr. Nelson always gives us long assignments for the weekend.

Does he think history is the only course we take?

He’s a real jerk.

Let’s go in.

Let’s, did you notice Mat’s new haircut?

It makes him look cuter.

I wish he didn’t smoke. Maybe if I bug him enough, he’ll quit.

The crew cut really makes him look like a fourteen-year-old.

When I first saw it, I teased him about coming to school with his mommy.

Alexia giggles. He’s nice.

Yeah, and he’s very good-looking.

He is.

The two girls walk into a crowded, noisy and unruly classroom, joining about thirty students. They sit next to each other and wait for the noise to subside.

Finally, the honors English teacher, Ms. Margaret Bates, enters and there is a sudden calm.

A petit, elegant and pleasant woman, in her middle forties, Ms. Bates is very dignified and attractive. She exudes confidence. She begins to speak distinctly and clearly. The two sisters in ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ Ms. Bates begins, are symbols of two types of women, one is measured and reserved, who weighs every move she makes, every word she utters. The other is passionate and emotional, living by her emotions and instincts. I want you to read this novel carefully and thoughtfully. When you write your essays, I want you to apply what you have learned, not only here at Valley Town Senior High School, but also elsewhere. I want you to apply your common sense. What do you think of these two sisters? Are they real? Have you encountered women like them? Where? Which of the two do you like more? Why?

Alexia is fascinated. She sneaks a look at Joan.

After class, the two girls walk to their homeroom for attendance and morning announcements.

I like the sister who lives by her wits, Joan says.

I guess most of us are like that, Alexia smiles.

What type do you think Ms. Bates is?

Just see how she dresses and how she lectures.

That may not be the whole story. I wonder why she assigned us this particular novel.

She has a lot of sense!

That she does, Joan smiles.

After homeroom, they go to second period and then head to lunch.

We should get to lunch, the line’s going to be long today.

Yeah, we should, they have chicken tenders.

What are you going to get?

I’ll just have salad, you?

I didn’t have breakfast, and I’m very hungry, I’ll probably have tenders and French fries.

Good choices.

Where do you want to sit?

Let’s sit with Mat and Phil.

Do you think we’ll find them?

They’ll find us.

At lunch, Alexia and Joan sit by themselves. They are soon joined by Mat Dodson and Phil Baker, both of whom are taking Ms. Bates’ Literature class.

I knew you would wait for us, Phil cracks.

And we knew you would find us, Joan retorts.

I love Ms. Bates, says Mat.

She’s cool, says Joan.

Very, Alexia agrees.

She’s a great teacher, Phil says. I really admire her.

Are you guys going to the National Honor Society meeting after school? Joan asks.

Mat and I are, Phil says.

Are you going, Alexia?

I can’t, Phil, I need to go home to help my grandma.

And you, Joan?

Yes, Mat, I’m coming.

But I might go see Ms. Bates briefly for extra help, says Alexia. Why don’t you all come?

Yes, let’s all go see Ms. Bates, says Joan.

What do you think, Phil? Mat asks.

I can go.

I can too, Mat agrees. Let’s all go see Ms. Jane Austin.

After school the four go to Ms. Bates’ office briefly then Alexia takes the bus home.

Chapter 2

Is that you, Alexia? Grandma Rose-Anne asks in a feeble voice.

Yes, it is, Grandma, Alexia says. Need a pill?

I guess I do, Grandma Rose-Anne says. The pain is coming back.

Widowed and struggling with terminal cancer at the age of seventy-one, the fragile Rose-Anne Riley Perry looks much older than her years. Her face is pale and wrinkled. She tries to sit up, but is unable to on her own. She had finally relented and moved in with her daughter and son-in-law, Carla and Michael Hartley and their seventeen-year-old twins, Alexia and Johnny. They live in a modest two-story home. Grandma’s second floor bedroom is next to Alexia’s.

After coming back from school, Alexia, who has been caring for her frail and ailing grandmother, peeks into her room, and finds her sleeping. Not wanting to disturb her, she leaves, but hearing the quavering voice, she comes back and reopens her grandmother’s door. Do you want it right now?

Yes, please.

Cherishing memories of the ailing woman’s past favors, Alexia wants to return them. This attentiveness brings Alexia ever closer to her grandmother. Quietly closing the grandmother’s door, Alexia hurries to the kitchen, fills a glass with water and places it on a tray with one large pill. She picks up a letter from a table in the hall and adds it to the tray. Here you go, Grandma, she says, putting the tray down on a table next to her grandmother’s bed and she helps her sit up.

Thank you, dear.

It’s next to the water, Grandma.

The elderly woman reaches for the pill, puts it in her mouth, takes a sip of water and swallows it. Thank you, Alexia. I'll feel better soon, says Grandma with a sigh.

You will, says the smiling granddaughter.

Out of the corner of her eye, Grandma peeks at the letter on the tray. What have we got here?

Do you want me to open it, Grandma? Holding the letter, Alexia sits down on the edge of the bed next to her grandmother.

Yes, please, where's it from?

New York.

From the farm, from one of my brothers, either from Cliff or from Don, I’m sure.

It’s from Donald Riley.

Please, hand me my glasses.

Alexia does as her grandmother requests. Then she notices the ancient eyes misting then tearing. What’s the matter, Grandma? She rubs her grandmother’s hand.

I’m just being sentimental, sweetheart, remembering the hills and meadows where I was a little girl. I haven’t been to New York in years, but someday I’d love for you to see the family farm. Maybe you’ll go to college in the Northeast and visit the Riley homestead.

Which college are you thinking of now, Grandma?

I’m thinking again about Ivy University, in Byron, New York, my dear. It’s a really internationally outstanding university, Alexia. As I mentioned before, with your excellent academic record and high tests scores, you should keep it in mind.

I will, Grandma. Alexia continues to hold her grandmother’s trembling hand. Do you honestly think I could get in?

I am sure you could. It doesn’t hurt to apply, and apply for a scholarship my dear.

I will, Grandma. She rubs her grandmother’s hand gently. Are you warm enough now?

Yes, dear, when I think about the Riley Farm and when I was young, I always think of you. You remind me of myself at your age.

How is that? Alexia smiles.

Well, you’re now seventeen, tall, blond and very pretty. You bring back a flood of memories and I sometimes worry about you.

You mentioned that before, Grandma, and why do I bring back memories? How’s that, Grandma?

Because you’re lovely, and I want you to be careful, always very careful, Alexia.

I always am, Grandma.

I’m an old woman and old folks always worry about the young.

You’re still young at heart, Grandma. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be O.K.

Of course you will be. Grandma sighs again, and looks lovingly at Alexia.

Grandma, what’s your earliest memory?

Taken aback by the question, she pauses, clears her throat and begins. Well, my earliest memory is being stung by a wasp in my crib. So vivid is that recollection, Alexia, that I still close my eyes when I remember myself, a very young, curly-headed blond child screaming in my crib, which stood in a corner of my parents’ room. I must’ve been a three-year-old at the time, because I had not been moved from my crib to share the bedroom with my older sister. Marilyn, your great aunt, was nineteen years older than me. She married when I was ten. Well, when I was seventeen, I was more outspoken than you.

Alexia smiles again, enjoying the newest recollection.

Yes, I was outspoken, and I would express myself in earthy, even coarse vernacular, which arose from the farm environment I was born to. I lived with my parents, Carl and Juliana Riley, your great grandparents, on a dairy farm eight miles from Hamlet, New York, about two hundred miles south of Canada. As you know, I had four brothers and one sister. Hamlet was a small village of about four hundred. Around the countryside you would see hills, woods and lakes. And there were scattered white houses and red barns beside pastures and cultivated land. It was fifteen miles or so south of Stratford, home of a famous horseracing track, which attracted thousands of racing fans and tourists from many parts of the state. Stratford had a population of about thirty thousand in those days, some of whom worked in factories. Stratford was an industrial town twenty miles north of Ashton, New York. Ashton was a bigger city, about a hundred thousand. Most of Hamlet's population farmed but many worked in Stratford’s industrial and agricultural factories, manufacturing equipment and tools that were marketed in New York City and in Canada. Our farm outside Hamlet was small and isolated, and life was very primitive, my dear. And it was especially challenging during World War II. Earnings fell sharply during the war. Many foods and other goods were in short supply and were rationed. My father, your great grandfather, Carl Riley, was in his seventies during the war. He was a big, rugged-looking, tall man, but a very sensitive soul. His furrowed, heavily wrinkled face hid his sensitivity. My mother, Juliana, was much younger and better educated. She was short and slender, less emotional, less vulnerable than Daddy. Mother only went to high school. She never went to college, and neither did Daddy. I don’t think Daddy even finished high school. He was a farmer all his life.

Grandma pauses. The farm was about seventy-five acres. It was situated near a bumpy country dirt road. As I said, it was surrounded by rolling hills. At the entrance to the farm, a few feet from the dirt road, stood two unpainted weather-beaten wooden silos near the shabby red barn, likewise coarsened and tanned from exposure to the weather. There were about thirty black and white Holstein cows in the barn. Attached to the barn, there was a small milk house, with an ice cream making room.

They really made ice cream on the farm? Alexia asks.

"Yes, Daddy made and sold ice cream on the farm. I still remember the big, handwritten sign posted on the outer door of the ice cream room: ‘Carl’s Premium Ice Cream: Produced by the Riley Farm Dairy.’ As a child, I loved living in the farmhouse near the creek and several yards back from the road. To me it seemed very large and grand. That is quite different from my present, adult perception. Actually, we had a modest house, considering our family size, and the fact that we had various relatives who came to stay with us from time to time. We only had three bedrooms, one for Marilyn and me, which my parents called the girls’ room, one for my brothers, Floyd, Clifford, Donald and James, which was the boys’ room, and my parents' room in the older part of the house. A living room, a kitchen and a screened porch made up the remainder of the house. My parents moved to Hamlet from Illinois in 1922. They converted most of the small house on the original property to those three bedrooms. The shed room, later my brothers’ bedroom, had been a kitchen, a big walk-in closet and a pantry for previous residents. I always thought that closet to be an exciting place. It contained things that we didn’t use all of the time. I loved to watch Mother get out the winter bedding from a large wooden chest which had been our family’s kitchen wood box in Illinois. Sometimes I was allowed to get my older sister's beautiful china doll from the closet. There also was a strange looking musical instrument called a ukulele on one of the shelves. Mother and Daddy purchased it soon after my oldest brother Floyd died. They bought it for $14 from a traveling salesman and gave it to my brother Clifford, hoping it would cheer him up after the loss of his older brother. Cliff was never interested and he couldn't bring himself to touch that instrument. It was sad."

Grandma pauses again. Remember, this all happened many, many years ago. The big closet and my brothers’ bedroom were pretty much off-limits for me as a little girl.

Her mind still on the grandmother’s brother who died young and on the brother who could never touch the ukulele, Alexia stares out the window, then her thoughts drift back to her grandmother.

Not only did my brothers share this small room, but when we had male visitors they slept there, too. Even a hired hand occasionally occupied one of the beds. Grandmother smiles and touches Alexia’s hand. I remember Mother complained about Alfred Huxley, a hired man they called Fred. He was so huge and tall that he constantly pulled all the bed covers loose each night. Mr. Huxley’s height reached six foot seven inches. He was the tallest person I remember when I was a child. His great stature left such an impression on me, I once remarked that I wanted to grow up to be as tall as Mr. Huxley and as slender and pretty as Cousin Sandy.

Alexia is now intrigued by the characters her grandmother described.

Sandy was quite slender and very pretty as a young woman. She and her sister, Heather, were daughters of Mother’s brother, William. They lived in Farmington, in Hamilton County and stayed with us a lot after their mother died. From my brothers’ bedroom, Grandmother continues, there was a door into our parents’ bedroom, which was rarely opened, and another door leading to the screened porch. Over that door to the porch, Alexia, as I mentioned the other day, were kept the family guns."

Yes, I remember that, Alexia says smiling, and thinking about the dream she had a day or two earlier. She is still surprised that they would have guns on the farm. What for, Grandma?

Family guns, dear, resumes Grandma calmly. As I told you the other day, my brothers used the guns for hunting, or other necessary use around the farm. It was understood, dear, that those guns would never be touched, except for hunting. They were always loaded. One time I remember that rule being broken by a visitor in our home. A boyhood chum of my brother Donald, Tim Brooks, who had been in a mental institution for a time, found the rifle shells that had been hidden from him. Our family was asked to keep him during his rehabilitation because our farm was a less likely place for him to get into trouble than his parents’ home in town. Well, somehow Tim found the loaded rifle and the shells, and he took the rifle out to the chicken yard where he started shooting at chickens’ feet to watch them jump. Mother heard him and was frantic. She was afraid he would shoot her or Jimmy or me. Fortunately, she persuaded him to give her the gun, and the crisis ended. I don’t believe I ever saw Mother shoot a gun, although I heard her talk about doing so in earlier years. Daddy didn’t do any real hunting after I was big enough to remember, Grandmother sighs. But as I may have told you yesterday, he did shoot rabbits that were damaging trees or shrubs around the place, or squirrels that were eating the corn crop. Grandma takes a deep breath. Then she continues.

Our family ate a lot of rabbit and squirrel meat. We used the meat from such game even when we weren’t actually depending on it. I really liked squirrel meat. I still remember the aroma of squirrel and dressing baking in the large oven heated by wood burning. The elderly woman looks out the window and sighs again. That’s why we had guns on the farm, my dear. My brother Floyd was the chief user of the guns and was the one who taught me and Jimmy about them. Cliff and Don didn’t hunt as much. I vividly recall when and where we did this. It was a few feet behind our house, on a high bank overlooking the creek that he taught us to shoot a rifle using leather-back turtles as targets.

Alexia bites her lip and stares at her grandmother.

I was especially fond of Floyd, the grandmother continues. He was fifteen years older than me and thirteen years older than Jimmy and I delighted in the fact that he would take us hunting. I tagged along with him on night hunting trips to get possums and coons, with his dog, Skipper, at our heels and Jimmy and I carrying the gunny sack for the game. It seemed that we walked most of the night, through woods and fields. But I never was afraid because I was with Floyd. One night I remember wasn’t so pleasant when Skipper tangled with a skunk.

A skunk? Poor Skipper. Alexia is amused.

Yes, Skipper stirred up the creature so that it sprayed the dog and us and the whole area around us with its offensive odor.

Alexia laughs with delight.

When we got home we had to leave our clothing outside the house. Poor Skipper, for many days after the hunting trip he was boycotted by the whole Riley family. He really stunk for days. On another hunting night, the grandmother resumes, Skipper attacked a raccoon in the creek. My brothers and I watched helplessly. The raccoon nearly drowned Skipper. Floyd couldn’t shoot the raccoon for fear of shooting Skipper. Finally Skipper maneuvered the coon to the bank of the creek and Floyd was able to shoot it."

Alexia squirms.

Grandma Rose-Anne pauses and glances at Alexia. Then she continues.

I was very trusting of your great uncles as a young girl, but I wonder now how I could’ve been so trusting of my brother Donald, because he used to tease me unmercifully. Donald is nine years older than me. One dark cold night he took me snipe-hunting. He asked me if I would like to go and of course I wanted to go anywhere with him. We went out of the house and beyond the chicken coop. There he told me to hold the bag while he rounded up snipes. I stood still in the dark waiting patiently until I heard Don’s voice and laughter back at the house. Suddenly, I realized I had been fooled by my big brother. That snipe-hunting was a joke, and he was inside laughing at me. It was so dark and I was so alone that I was afraid to move. After some time I got up the nerve to break loose and run for the house, crying all the way. Arriving at the house, I heard Mother’s usual rebuke: ‘Donald Riley,’ she said sternly, ‘you shouldn’t do things like that to your younger sister.’ Such teasing never made me unhappy for long. I idolized my brothers. I loved them very dearly.

Chapter 3

I love your stories, Grandma, they’re so interesting, Alexia tells her grandmother when she returns to her room that evening.

I’m glad you do, my dear.

It’s great that you still remember all the details about your family and the Riley Farm.

Yes, I remember a lot. That was the only life I knew. How did it go in school today, my dear?

School was great, Grandma. I love my English literature class. We’re reading Jane Austin’s novel, ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ and I have to write an essay about it.

That’s a great piece of literature, Alexia. I read it many, many years ago.

Maybe you can read the essay I have to write about it and tell me what you think, Grandma. I have to submit it to Ms. Bates.

I can, if you wish, my dear. Do you like your teacher?

I love her.

That’s good.

"Grandma, tell me more about your parents and about your brothers and about your life on the farm. Do you want me to ask Johnny to come in