Chapter 81

Hubert Bailey to Honey Sutton, Nov. 9, 1938

Aunt Grace and Grandmother arrived in Toronto today. It is no surprise that Aunt Grace will be staying with Uncle Bob and Diana until their passport applications are approved, but Grandmother will be doing the same. No pitching her tent in the King Edward to avoid sleeping under the roof of the woman she blames for breaking up her son's marriage. Apparently, being with her daughter in her time of grief matters more to her than her sense of propriety.

You weren't kidding when you told me over the phone that Aunt Grace has been hit hard by her loss. She looks and speaks as though something vital in her has been snuffed out. The only thing that lightened her gloom, even for a moment, was Cousin Jimmy. As she cuddled her nephew and talked baby talk to him, Diana said to her, "He's always glad to see his Aunt Grace. You're very good to him."

Grace looked up at her with a bright smile that didn't last long. "Van and I talked about having children … someday."

The bleakness of that last word had more sorrow in it than the most piercing wail. I don't think that there was a person listening whose heart didn't ache with pity. We all need to pray that Our Father brings Aunt Grace healing and comfort.

May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan, Nov. 10, 1938

No doubt you have already heard the sickening news from Germany of Nazi storm troopers and crazed mobs burning Jewish synagogues and wrecking Jewish homes and businesses. I suppose it is only a matter of time before word of murders reaches the newspapers. Hitler, of course, is cheering the mobs on. Because it takes more than one snake to make a nest, Mussolini has announced laws stripping Italian Jews of their civil liberties. Everyone in the family is horrified by the barbarism.

We have all renewed our efforts to persuade Grace to give up her plan to go to Spain to bring Van's body home. With Europe degenerating into a madhouse, it is simply too dangerous. The arrival of the morning newspaper sparked two hours of nonstop argument which resumed off and on throughout the day.

Even Doris, when she and her husband visited for lunch, told Grace tearfully that she didn't want to lose her. Of course, the alcohol I could smell on her breath when she bent over to kiss me on the cheek might have made her a little maudlin. However, I choose to believe that in vino veritas applies here and hope that drinking during the day isn't becoming a habit with my granddaughter.

Unfortunately, as Van's widow, Grace is the only one who can have his body buried in Spain and call off her trip. This she adamantly refuses to do. Doris' husband is using his and his father's contacts in the government to speed up the process of obtaining passports. Grace and I can expect them in the next couple of days.

Bob, admitting defeat in his efforts to persuade his sister not to go to Spain, asked her to at least wait until Lionel Marshall could return from his buying trip to Mexico and accompany us. Grace insisted that there is no time. She may be right. No one knows how long we have before Barcelona falls to the fascists.

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

When Mother and I reached New York, I insisted on contacting a man whom I had never met and who I knew might be very unhappy to see me. Mother warned me that this was a bad idea. However, he was Van's father. It wouldn't have been right not to at least offer him the chance to go with us to Spain.

The day after our arrival found us in the impressive foyer of Jonathan Marshall's Long Island mansion. A middle-aged butler with a strong air of skepticism went to carry news of our presence to his master. He took his time returning. We were able to study the whitewashed walls, rich oak floors and masterfully crafted colonial era furniture at our leisure.

Finally, steps sounded to my right and a tall, elegantly dressed man with a broad chest and iron grey hair emerged from the hall. This was my first glimpse of my father-in-law. His firm jaw was set in an expression of stern disapproval which deepened into distaste as he turned his gaze on Mother and me. He coldly acknowledged our presence by speaking first Mother's name and then mine. He pointedly did not offer to conduct us to a more comfortable room or ask us to sit in the high-backed Windsor chairs that stood against the wall behind us.

I tried to express my regret that our first meeting was under such tragic circumstances. The hint of a sneer played at the corners of his mouth as he waved my condolences away.

"So, you're the poor fool who married the liar, cheat, and swindler who used to be my son," he responded. "I assume he married you for your family's money or to involve you in some dishonest scheme."

Even after all the bad things I had heard about this man, I still hadn't been able to make myself believe that anyone could be so cold and heartless towards his own child. I almost couldn't speak, I was so shocked by the reality, but I managed a hurt protest. "He married me because he loved me."

Jonathan Marshall's smile was scornful. "I'm sure he did his best to convince you of that. Did he tell you that he reformed because of your love? If he had, he would have stayed with you instead of helping Communists overthrow order and stability. I wouldn't call that turning over a new leaf, even if he did have the decency to get himself killed doing it. Perhaps, now, you understand why I disowned him."

I just stood there too stunned by the man's ugliness to speak. Mother, however, suffered from no such constraint. She looked Jonathan Marshall straight in the eye and rebuked him with a fierce dignity. "You, Sir, are a fool! I know because I was the same kind of fool once. I drove my youngest son away out of misplaced pride because I disapproved of his marriage for reasons that make me ashamed to think of them now. We didn't speak for twelve years. When we finally did, our last words before he died were angry ones."

Her voiced softened slightly. The undertone of pain in it only became more heartrending. "That is something I will bitterly regret to the end of my days. When he came back after he lost his business, I should have been more understanding. I should not have dismissed him as an irresponsible failure who returned home begging when he couldn't make his way in the world."

My father-in-law listened without a trace of sympathy and commented dismissively. "If he couldn't shift for himself, then he was a failure."

"He was nothing of the kind," Mother shot back instantly, "even if it took the loyalty of his wife and the fine character of his children for me to see the truth. He was a splendid success where it mattered most, as a devoted father and a loving husband."

"I'm delighted for you," came the sarcastic rejoinder, "but an honest failure is still a failure. My son wasn't even honest."

His words left me trembling with hurt and shock. All I could do was whimper, "How can you say that?"

My father-in-law refused to answer. He just stood there watching with an expression of mild distaste. Seeing that I was on the edge of tears, Mother put a firm but kindly hand on my shoulder. She spoke to me gently. "Don't give him the satisfaction."

Her words seemed to come from far away. Nonetheless, I somehow kept myself from weeping although, at that moment, it was the one thing I wanted to do more than anything else in the world. Instead, I just stood there in my misery. I had hoped that there might be some kind of reconciliation, some kind of comfort, in this meeting.

Instead, that hope lay in pieces at my feet like so many others. It was Mother who calmly addressed my tormentor. "You misjudge Van as I misjudged my Jack. He was not an honest man when he first met Grace. Because of that, he almost lost her. However, he loved her enough to take a long, hard look at the selfish, deceitful man he was. To his credit, he decided that he didn't want to be that man anymore."

My father-in-law looked bored. "Is there a point to this lecture?"

"There is. The new man Van became risked his life for others in a terrible war. He gave his wife the true, honest love she deserved. He not only tried to be a better man, he died trying to be a better man. If he were my son, I would be very proud of him."

"He wasn't your son."

"No," Mother responded sadly. "He was yours and it's your loss as a human being if you haven't enough decent, fatherly feeling in you to mourn him."

My father-in-law looked down haughtily at us. "I don't require your pity. I refuse to shed tears for a worthless black sheep turned idealistic idiot. He ceased to be my son a long time ago. You and your daughter are wrong if you believe him worth a second's anguish, no matter how pleasing a façade he maintained for you. Only a fool mourns an illusion."

"That isn't true," I lashed back at him and then the moment's anger passed leaving only the grief. "He loved me … and I loved him."

This time, I couldn't hold back my tears. They burst out of me in a torrent. Mother put a protective arm around me as I leaned my head against her shoulder. When she spoke to my father-in-law her voice was low, but also tense with barely restrained fury. "You should be ashamed of yourself, speaking like that to your son's widow. We will mourn Van as the good man he was at the end. When your time comes, I strongly doubt that anyone will mourn you at all."

Next Week: Barcelona