The Fugitive

The rich, reddish topsoil showed the grave was fresh. The rectangular shape stood out against the verdant grass, like a gash where the ground had been wounded. At the head was a black, marble tombstone. It shone in the sunlight. A few raindrops from the night before were the only evidence it had spent any time outside in the elements. Cut flowers lay at its base.

As the man approached the site, the arthritis in his knee made him walk a little stiffly. He saw a woman who looked about his age beside the headstone. He noticed she was hatless but wore a dark blue coat and a heavy stole against the late-November chill. In a few weeks the ground would probably be frozen too hard to dig here. He took a piece of paper from his coat pocket. It was a map of the cemetery and he consulted it quickly. Satisfied he was in the right place, he put the map back in his pocket and crossed the grass toward the grave site.

She had her back to him and didn’t see him approach. He stopped just behind her. Then she turned slightly and he knew she’d seen him out of the corner of her eye, but she said nothing.

He heard his voice break the silence. “Good morning.” He sniffed and nodded, a little uncomfortable meeting a stranger in these circumstances.

“Good morning,” she replied tonelessly.

“William Ferguson,” the man said, introducing himself. He pointed to the name on the headstone. “He was my father.”

There was another stretched silence while they both studied the inscription: Arthur Ferguson. Under that were the dates 1923 – 2013. And under that: In loving memory of a husband, father, brother, friend.

“I never met him, though.” He paused. “Did you know him?”

Behind her stole, she made a sound that might have been a cough and then she raised her chin out of it and looked around. She looked off into the distance. “Sure. I’ve lived in this area my whole life, so I know a few people here.” A light wind came up and teased some stray grey hairs that framed her face.

He followed her gaze. And for a moment neither spoke. Then she turned back to him and he continued. “When I found out he’d passed away I wanted to come to his funeral. I’m from Canada. I drove down as soon as I heard, but I missed it. I guess it was yesterday.”

She murmured acknowledgement, then turned to face him. “It was a nice service. We look after our own here.”

“He was from this part of Michigan, originally. He left when he was 38. Came to Ontario.”

She nodded silently, saying nothing.

“He must’ve liked the rugged life because he ended up in a little mining town in the north-east part of the province. Place called Haileybury.”

She stared implacably at the fresh earth.

“He met my mom there. She was 19, a waitress in a diner. I guess he was quite a flirt. Must’ve swept her off her feet. By all accounts, she fell head over heels in love with the guy and married him within a couple of months.”

The woman nodded. A smile played on her lips.

“Yeah. That would’ve been in the Fall of ’61. And I was born in the Summer of 1962.”

“When did he return here?”

“Well, that’s the thing. They lived together with their little baby for about a year. My grandfather told me it was the happiest time of her life.” The man looked over and smiled at his graveside companion. For a moment, their eyes met. Then he looked back at the name on the stone.

“But one day this woman shows up, Katharine something. She’s a few years older than my mom. Starts asking questions around town. She’s looking for this guy, my dad, ‘cause she’s had a daughter with him. Followed him all the way from here. Turns out she’s his wife.”

“What happened?

“Arthur confronts my mom, admits he’s a bigamist, and then skips off with her, with his American wife, before the authorities can discover him or press charges. He comes back to Michigan and they raise a family here. My mom never sees him again. She’s left to raise me on her own.”

The woman murmured something that sounded mildly consoling and shook her head slowly.

“You gotta remember, this is a small town in the early 60’s. The whole place is shocked. My mother’s a social outcast.”

The woman nodded with understanding, saying nothing.

“I guess she tried to keep it together.” He paused. “But she can’t. She has a breakdown and gives the baby up to her father, my grandfather. Within a year she dies.”

The man stopped for a moment, thinking. “My grandparents raised me,” he said. “I never knew my mother or my father.”

He looked back at the headstone again, perhaps trying to find some emotional connection to a past he was too young to remember.

“What a remarkable story,” said the woman.

There was another moment where neither of them spoke. Then the woman looked up at the sun rising now into the mid-morning sky. “Well, I’d better be getting along. But I must say, I’m really glad I got to meet you, Mr. Ferguson.”

“Nice to meet you …”

“Oh, I’m Sally Millbank,” she said. “My mother was Katharine Ferguson.”

__END__