"A Happy Ending of Sorts"

A HAPPY ENDING OF SORTS
(written for my sister)

JULY 24, 2005
The story begins with a photograph. Originally a black-and-white print, now yellowed slightly, it measured perhaps two inches by three inches. It featured a winter scene of three individuals. A little boy in winter clothes—mittens, snow pants, a coat, wool hat—stood in the middle-bottom of the frame, staring down at the snowball he held in his right hand. Behind him, to the left of the frame, stood a girl who appeared to be 10-12 years old; she wore a light-colored winter hat and a light-colored dress under an open, dark winter jacket that came to about mid-thigh. In her right hand was a snowball, too, but her right hand and arm were up and cocked into throwing position, as she seemed about to hurl her projectile toward another girl, a little older, standing facing her on the far right side of the frame. The girl on the right appeared to be a teen-ager. She wore glasses, a light-colored and closed winter jacket, medium-tone winter cap, a flower-print dress that extended to just below her knees, and light-weight winter boots. She, too, held a snowball in her right hand, but it was positioned out to her right side and about shoulder height, in the way one might hold an ice-cream cone between licks. On the ground were a couple of inches of snow. In the background were two buildings (probably a house and some other rectangular brick building, perhaps a shop), a dark car of mid-1930s vintage, and two tall trees (perhaps maple) completely bare of leaves. On the back of the picture were three names: Calvin, Jean Burrous, and Dorothy May.

Calvin (Dad) was the little boy. Jean Burrous I do not know, but I did recognize the Burrous name from my visits to the cemetery near Walton, Indiana. Dorothy May, however, was a name with which I was completely unfamiliar at the time. A couple days later I asked Dad about the picture. He said that Jean Burrous was his cousin, the daughter of his mother’s sister (Cora). He said that Dorothy May was a girl who had lived with his mother and father for a while. “How long?” I asked. “A few years,” he said. “A few years?” I said. “Why?” I’d never heard anything about her. Dad said, “I think she needed a place to stay. You’ll have to ask your Aunt Joyce if you want more information.”

And there it stood, a tantalizing family mystery, unsolved for me until two days ago. Who was Dorothy May? Why had she needed a place to stay? Where had she come from? Was May her last name or her middle name? Why had my grandparents taken her in? Why had she left after a few years? Whatever happened to her? Was she still alive?

Two days ago, I called Aunt Joyce. Here is what she had to say:

Our grandparents (Lowell and Mary Fair) were married in 1925. At the time, Lowell was 27, and Mary was 24. For a few years they tried to have children and then, unsuccessful in their attempts, they began to believe that perhaps they couldn’t have any. So, in the late 20’s, they began to consider adoption. They spoke with some friends from Chicago, who said they knew of a young girl whom they might be able to get. The girl was Dorothy May—Joyce couldn’t remember Dorothy’s last name—whose mother had walked out on her father, and whose father wasn’t interested in being a single parent. According to Joyce, he told our grandparents that he didn’t want to keep her, wasn’t interested in taking care of her, and would sign any papers necessary if they were keen to take her off his hands. So he signed the papers. However, the mother, according to Joyce, either couldn’t be reached or wouldn’t agree to sign anything. I got the impression that she was either a drunk or a drug-user, perhaps both. Same with the father, I think—but I’m not sure.

So Dorothy came to live with the Fairs, and she apparently did well and liked her new home. Then early in 1932, Mary learned that she was pregnant, and in late September our father was born. But just because the family pipes now appeared to be in good working order, the Fairs had no intention of getting rid of Dorothy. Basically, they thought of her as their older daughter. Dorothy’s biological mother, on the other hand, had different ideas. About seven years after Dorothy came to live in Walton, her mother showed up and demanded her daughter back. Although she was clearly an unfit mother, she apparently had no desire to see her offspring grow up being any happier or more successful than she was. There was a terrible argument, according to Joyce, and in the end—probably because the Fairs had no legal leg to stand on—they had to let Dorothy go.

Unfortunately, this led to several bad things: (1) Dorothy blamed the Fairs for letting her go. She thought—probably poisoned by the words of her bitter mother—that the Fairs had not wanted her any more and were glad to see her go. (2) Although Lowell and Mary tried to contact Dorothy many times in the future—letters, visits, presents, money—Dorothy’s mother lied and diverted (or subverted) all attempts. Aunt Joyce has some of the letters they sent and had sent back, marked RETURN TO SENDER. (3) Dorothy’s mother did not really even try to raise her daughter. Joyce said Dorothy basically lived in the streets of Chicago, sometimes spending nights in public restrooms to stay warm, stealing food to eat, pilfering whatever else she might need to survive. Eventually, when she reached adulthood, she married and had a son (named Jerry), then got divorced and remarried (to a guy named Ralph).

Before Grandpa Fair died in 1953, she did visit her former “parents,” but always, according to Joyce, she acted aloof and different. Once, she even showed off her “thieving skills” to young Joyce, and Joyce reported the crime to her father, who said he didn’t want to say anything to Dorothy and that he would return the stolen merchandise himself the next day. Finally, Dorothy simply disappeared from the lives of the Fairs entirely….

Then 20 years ago, out of the blue, she called Joyce and asked to come to town for a visit. Joyce said to come on down, figuring that Dorothy and Ralph would hang out for a few awkward hours and then go away. Instead, the two, both chain-smokers and owners of what Joyce referred to as a “damn dog that ran through the house,” stayed for a week. But during that week, Dorothy’s bitterness faded away at last. Confronted by photographs, Joyce’s own testimony, and the old returned letters, Dorothy finally learned (and accepted) the truth.

For the next five years Joyce heard nothing from her. Then Dorothy called again, this time to announce that she had lung cancer. After that, Joyce never heard from her again.

About five years ago—again out of the blue—Jerry contacted Joyce. Now a lawyer and interested in his family history, he sent a letter addressed to SOMEONE IN THE FAIR FAMILY, WALTON, INDIANA. Fortunately for him, Joyce’s 35-year tenure in the Postal Service and lifetime residence in Walton boded well for his ambiguous mailing, and the letter came to the right person. Joyce called Jerry, and they met. He told her that he had tried to get information from his father and his step-father, but neither wanted anything to do with him. He said that his mother had died of her lung cancer, and that he was left with nothing but questions. Joyce gave him photos and information and stories.

Some stories end happily enough.