Page 122 of Strangers She Knows

“Father said I was of no use to him if I refused to do his bidding. He pointed a pistol at me. He threatened to shoot me. I refused—and he did shoot.” Ruby’s voice wavered. “My mother leaped between us.”

Kellen remembered the headstone in the cemetery; Reika Morgade, died 1948.

“He killed her,” Rae whispered.

“Yes. He killed her. My mother, who had suffered to protect me.” Ruby accepted a tissue from Verona and wiped her eyes. “He murdered her. His wife. His slave. The mother of his children.”

Silence fell as everyone tried to comprehend the terrible act that had taken place so long ago. Yet the repercussions echoed down the years.

Rae snapped to attention, and snapped out the question. “Was he sorry?”

“Perhaps in his way, he was. The blood. Our tears. My outcry.” Ruby leaned against her pillows, closed her eyes, and was silent for so long Kellen wondered if they should leave her to rest. When Ruby spoke again, her voice was weary. “I had no way to report the crime, so I told my father to get out. He blustered. He said it was his house, and he was still in charge. Then he noticed Alfred had gone. Marriage to me, the daughter of a murderer, had lost its luster. My father’s dreams of power ended that day, and for five years he sat downstairs in his chair in his study, brooding, eating, growing fat—fatter—and bitter. When he died of a heart attack, I had the chair burned. I had his body removed to the mainland, and buried under a simple stone with nothing more than his name and the dates. I’ve never visited him. No one has. No one cares about Gerard Morgade. He made sure of that.”

Max leaned his elbows on his knees. “I guess there was no happy ending, no eventual marriage to Patrick?”

“I never heard from Patrick again. My mother died—”

“Was murdered!” Rae said fiercely.

“Yes. She was murdered in 1948. My father died in 1953. As soon as the vile man passed on, the servants let me know. I came down from the attic to search for Patrick. I had heard nothing from him since ’43, and I had to know…” Ruby rested her hands, palms up, on her lap, and stared out her window at the horizon. “I knew his hometown, you see, and I hoped to go there, to find him settled with a wife and children.”

“You wanted that?” Rae asked incredulously.

Ruby switched her attention to the girl who had rooted for the young couple who had lived long ago. “I loved him. Wasn’t that better than the alternative?”

Rae gave a short jerk of a nod.

“By then, I hadn’t been out of the attic for years. But I had money, so I made my way to Butte, Montana. Butte was a mining town, and the Irish moved there to work in those dangerous mines. Patrick had told me about his father, how he supported his family going down in the hole every day for years. His last name was Sullivan, his father’s name was John. Patrick had told me he lived on Franklin Avenue. When I got to town, I went to the library, and looked up John Sullivan on Franklin Avenue in the yellow pages. There were three John Sullivans.” She laughed. “I went to the first house, but that family of John Sullivan said no, they had no son named Patrick. Same at the second house. By the time I got to the third house, the whole Sullivan family stood in the yard, four sons, five daughters, countless grandchildren, and John and Aileen Sullivan.”

Max came to his feet and started pacing. “Patrick’s family?”

Ruby nodded. “Patrick’s family. I saw them, watching me in silence, and I knew. I opened the fence gate, and faced them. Some of them were angry, I could see it, and I knew that at least two of Patrick’s brothers had fought in the Pacific theater and might very well hate the Japanese. Hate me.”

Kellen felt her blood pressure rise as she pictured the scene. A peaceful working-class neighborhood, a white picket fence, a hostile family facing one lone Japanese-American woman.

“Mrs. Sullivan stepped forward, and she said, ‘Ye’re looking for Patrick, are ye, Ruby Morgade?’ I said yes, and she said, ‘Ye’ve come to the wrong place. He’s in the graveyard at the edge of town with a white cross planted at his head.’”

Kellen was aghast. “That was no way to tell you!”

“It was a test. I dropped to my knees and wept bitter tears.” Ruby’s voice choked.

Kellen teared up, too.

Verona sat with her hand over her heart.

“Aileen came to me, wrapped her arms around me, yelled at her sons to help me. I ended up on a lounge on the porch. The test was over, and they took me into their hearts.” Ruby sat quietly, gazing at a grave she’d seen long ago and far away. “Patrick had died in 1943, and why should anyone tell me?”

“The Sullivans should have told you!” Rae burned with outrage.

“He’d written them, said I no longer corresponded with him, and his heart was broken.”

“Your bastard of a father—” Rae said.

“Rae!” Verona said.

Rae subsided. “Well, he was,” she muttered.

Ruby fought a smile. “Yes, my father confiscated my letters, and Patrick’s. But Patrick also told his family he suspected foul play, and he feared for me and my fate. So the Sullivans were inclined to believe the best of me. They took me to Patrick’s grave, let me weep and place my flowers. They took me to their church and had another memorial service for him, so I could participate. When I told his mother about the baby—” Ruby developed a hitch in her voice “—she cried for me and wished we had that bit of Patrick in this world, and she prayed for the baby’s soul. I had never done that. I had cried, but never prayed. I had no surety of God or belief in another world. Turns out, I didn’t need it. Aileen Sullivan had enough for the two of us.” Ruby smiled with the remnants of lost hope. “All of her sons had gone to war. Patrick was the one who didn’t return. When I left, I had found a comfort of sorts, and a family. I corresponded with Mrs. Sullivan until her death in 1981. Then the Sullivans forgot me. As they should. That was a long time ago.”

---