An Uncommonly Good Man 26

The Journal of Julian Corsair,

An Uncommonly Good Man

Julian Corsair – Chapter Twenty-six – "The human heart has hidden treasures, in secret kept, in silence sealed." – (Charlotte Bronte)

After that first weekend, you became a regular weekend inhabitant at my house. I enjoyed sharing the university life with you, having dinner together, enjoying a glass of wine with it, the comradeship, all of which was bringing about a significant change in both of us. I began seeing you as mine, not someone else's child, knowing it's so wrong for me to feel this way, you had your family and me, well, I had none, now that John was gone.

As Thanksgiving grew closer I became concerned you hadn't mentioned going home for the holiday. One evening, after finishing our meal and retiring to the living room, I asked what your plans were. Your answer seemed too quick, too pat, but I accepted it, for the time being.

"Oh, I'm going home. Dad probably won't be there since Thanksgiving's a busy holiday for airline travel. If he has any delays, he might not make it home at all that weekend. It won't be the first time, but Mom will have most of her family there and a couple of aunts and uncles on my Dad's side. There's always lots of people and plenty to eat."

Wondering how you'd return to the Cities, you volunteered, "A friend of mine in the dorm lives in St. Louis Park, so I'll ride with him. We leave after my last class Tuesday morning."

After you trotted off to bed I sat in my chair for some time, concerned, doubting your story concerning your holiday plans, but I had nothing to pin it down with, only a niggling feeling that something just wasn't right! Perhaps it was the way you seemed distracted all weekend or quickly delivering answers to my simple query concerning your holiday plans, sounding, and well, almost rehearsed in anticipation of it being asked. You never mentioned any friends from Minnesota, or for that matter, friends at all, and you were pictured in my eyes as a "loner," someone who had no friends, in fact, I'd not heard you mention your parents either since the first day we met. The comfort level you exhibited in my home seemed to indicate, to me, you had little in the way of family or a home life other than here with me.

In the morning I gave you a hug, wished you safe journey and return, and sent you on your way.

Thanksgiving Day is a special day for me since each year, as you now well know, I assist the volunteers and staff at the Salvation Army shelter in the preparation and serving of Thanksgiving Dinner for those homeless, the less fortunate, the lonely, or anyone who, for whatever reason, wanted the meal or company. I'd do anything to assist in the dinner celebration, and if there were enough servers, find something else to keep me active. Generally, this was hauling out the garbage, a task others found distasteful, but was necessary. The large crowd expected every year always included a few university students, who for one reason or another, did not or could not go home, therefore the dinner and fellowship was a special treat for them as well as some of the foreign students who had little time to fly home during the short break.

The shelter director opened the doors when the appointed hour arrived, the first of many people began the slow, but appreciative, walk through the serving line and, with plates full, they filled up the tables, and enjoyed their meal. As a place was vacated at a table, it was quickly cleaned up; another diner was seated to enjoy the free meal and company of others, while I busied myself cleaning up after each finished diner. All went well for me until about 2:30 p.m., while I was preparing to carry a couple of filled garbage bags to the dumpster, I glanced out into the dining area and spotted you coming through the serving line.

"Oh, my God!" I thought. "What in the world are you doing here?"

Quickly turning my head, preventing you from recognizing me, holding the two bags of garbage a little higher to shield my profile, I scooted out the back door! After disposing of the garbage bags, I cautiously made my way back to the kitchen where I could observe the crowd, yet remaining unseen, and slowly scanned the seated diners, I soon located you, seated in the midst of a family group, eating and conversing with them.

Seeing you at the shelter shocked me, to say the least, and raised so many questions in my head, causing me to be concerned for you, wondering, if you'd missed your ride home, if you were ill, or, perish the thought, perhaps something tragic happened at home causing a cancellation of family plans?

I sat quietly in my chair that evening, after arriving home from the Center totally exhausted and extremely troubled, sipping a brandy, staring at the spot on the sofa you ordinarily occupied. Your situation was confusing; I was fearful of confronting you with my observations perhaps driving you away from me, something I certainly didn't want to happen. After considerable thought, I decided I'd let you broach the subject yourself, in your own good time but, in the meantime, I'd do some investigating to see what I could discover about my young protégé.

The next morning, after hearing a forecast of snow for later in the day, I drove to the supermarket near the big shopping mall on the outskirts of the town to pick up some groceries for the weekend. While there, I decided to go the mall, to shop a bit, to lunch, and, spending longer than I intended shopping and at lunch, hurried home as snowflakes began to filter down and darkness gathered in the late afternoon. Pulling into the drive, preparing to enter the garage, I noticed a light on in the living room, silently berating myself for wasting energy. Once parked inside, I gathered up the frozen items, placed them in the upright freezer in the garage, then filled my arms with bags of other groceries and entered the kitchen.

You were standing by the sink and greeted me with a huge smile; to say I was surprised would be an understatement!

"Hi, Dr. J.," you said happily in greeting, "Let me help you with those. I hope you don't mind, but I let myself in with the key you gave me and was just going to check my laundry, when I heard you drive in."

Before I could react and ask why you were here and not at home, you jabbered on, "When I told Mom you were spending the holiday alone, she insisted I hop a bus and come back to keep you company. She said that no one should spend holidays alone, so here I am!"

I sputtered a bit, but quickly recovered my wits replying, "I'm very happy to see you, although you needn't have cut your own holiday short. Since you're here, please help me with the rest of the groceries I have in the car, then tell me about your Thanksgiving."

I thought it should be an interesting tale and, knowing you as I do, wondered how long you could keep up the charade before changing the subject.

"Oh, it was like most others," you rambled on as we brought things in from the car, "lots of food and people and good conversation. Dad didn't make it home, his flight was delayed, but I had a good time. I couldn't wait to get back here once I understood Mother's concern and intentions. What did you do?"

That didn't take long; less than six sentences and the focus turned to me. Now, I had to conjure up a way to conceal the fact I saw you at the Shelter, but not outright lie to you, although clearly you were prevaricating to me!

"I went out to dinner to a place I've been going to for years. The food's good, the price's right, and I come away quite satisfied. Be that as it may, I say again, it's good to see you here. Your mother was right, no one should spend a holiday alone, whether an old man or a young one."

After the groceries were stored away, I fixed us each a sandwich, poured two glasses of wine, and we retired to the living room to eat and enjoy the evening together.

The rest of the weekend progressed as had all of the previous we'd experienced together only, this time on Monday after you departed for class and the dorm, instead of lazing about the house, I drove to the campus to meet with a friend of mine in Student Services.

After explaining to her you were a protégé of sorts and was spending a great deal of time at my home, I felt it was important to know more about you in order to `assist you with your studies.' There was no need to tell her of your prevarication concerning Thanksgiving, but secretly hoped my inquiry at Student Services would assist me in determining the `why' behind it. My emeritus status, along with having your student identification number (which I copied from some papers I found in the room you used at the house), relieved her of any guilty thoughts of breaking any rules of confidentiality when she gave me a copy of your student file.

At home, while drinking a cup of coffee, I perused the printed copy of the dossier, noting your name was indeed William Sutton Burroughs, but you were from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, not White Bear Lake, Minnesota and attending the university on funds provided by a special Chancellor's Scholarship, one that is usually granted to students with little or no ability to pay, with extremely high grades, and with high intellectual potential. Your grades from all of the high schools you attended were "A" and your test scores indicated you ranked high among all students in the nation intellectually. You hadn't received any local scholarships, but had been recommended for the Chancellor's Scholarship by a guidance counselor, which was reinforced by a further recommendation from a caseworker with the State Department of Health and Human Services. I noted, from that information, you began to constantly change schools at age fourteen, remaining only a short time in each.

Laying the dossier aside, pondering the material I'd read through, it was clear you were not what you led me to believe. My observations and conclusions concerning you convinced me you were someone eager to learn, bright, had potential, and as much as I wanted to be angry with you for your untruthfulness, I just couldn't be, feeling instead a sadness in my heart and a sinking feeling in my stomach!

Sighing, I took another big step and picking up the telephone, called your last high school, asking to speak to the guidance counselor who'd recommended you for the scholarship. When the counselor answered I identified myself saying quite officially sounding, "The university is in the process of doing additional follow-up on the recipients of the Chancellor's Scholarship," knowing from past experiences, high school staffers were notorious for divulging confidential information concerning students. They couldn't keep their mouths shut even if it was stitched tight by a world re-known surgeon, aboriginal headhunter, or Marie Antoinette's dressmaker!

Proving me right, the counselor was quite willing to oblige my request, and spoke quite freely.

"We're so happy he's doing well," he said. "As a ward of the State, Matthew was placed in foster home after foster home until he finally landed in our school district. I think he's one of those kids that nobody wanted. He didn't qualify for any of our local scholarships since the district has a policy that students must be in attendance here for at least four semesters and Matt entered our school after his senior year started."

"I asked him one time why he'd moved so much and I really didn't get much of an answer. He avoided talking about any of his foster homes. I did ask him how long he had been in the system and he told me since he was fourteen."

I pressed the counselor further concerning you, but he could offer no more than what was already in the file and, doubting very much if Social Services would provide anything and not wanting them alerted to the fact I was checking up on you, I decided to forego giving them a call, satisfied with what I already gathered. It didn't, however, stop further probing I was going to make.

The next few weeks, prior to Christmas break, continued as if there were little concern on your part regarding our relationship and spending so much time at my house, but the closer the Christmas Holiday break came, the quieter and more introspective you became. I was anxious to hear your explanation concerning the upcoming holiday this time!

The last weekend before the break the time you was spent with me was enjoyable, until Sunday dinner was completed and we were seated in the living room preparing for an evening of pleasant discussion. I strolled over to my desk, instead of introducing a topic, opened it, bringing out a small gift-wrapped package, and gave it to you.

"Open it, please, Matt," I instructed. "Christmas isn't until Thursday, but break starts on Tuesday and I want you to have it now."

Looking up at me, then down at the gift, taking the gift, then with slightly trembling hands, you began to unwrap the package. The colorful wrapping fell away, revealing a small box with a jewelry store insignia on it. Upon opening it you found and removed a man's silver necklace with a small medallion attached to it with the inscription on the medallion, "Matthew S. Burroughs from J. C."

"Matt," I explained, " you've come to mean so much to me since you came here so, when you go home for Christmas break or anytime in your life you have a need, this'll be a little reminder of a safe place for you to go and a friend who'll be here for you."

Standing, walking over to me, with tears welling in your eyes, hugging me tightly, you whispered a simple, "Thank you," stood a moment, wiped your eyes with your sleeves, and said quietly, "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to go to my room now."

After the ten o'clock news and weather, I retired to my own bedroom, donned my pajamas, picked up a book of poetry, and retired to bed to read. I read about twenty minutes and growing tired, I reached over to the nightstand to turn out the light, when I heard your bedroom door open, your soft footsteps pattering in the hall, and waited until you entered my bedroom.

Clad only in a T-shirt and under shorts, you walked over to my bed, standing beside it with tears streaming down your face you choked out, "I lied to you. I didn't go home for Thanksgiving. I stayed here and I won't be going anywhere for Christmas because I have nowhere to go!"

I looked up, my heart broken, at a sad, agonized, deeply lonely boy who lost his childhood somewhere along the way, in some manner similar to my own life, saying softly "Matt, you're always welcome here."

Patting the bed beside me, much as a father would to his son, I continued, "Why don't you sit down and let's talk about it?"

God, I about died when you didn't sit down on the bed, instead crawled in under the covers, wrapped your arms around me, continued to sob, shoulders shaking, your face buried in my neck.

"On second thought, Matt, why don't you just crawl in and cover yourself up," I said lovingly.

I put my arms around him, pulled him closer, and listened to, felt, you cry as if you hadn't done so in a very long time or as if you'd lost the most precious thing in your life. Hugging you, I noticed the silver chain I had given you hanging around your neck, a reminder to me I promised I'd be here for you.

You collected yourself, sat up, pulled away from me, but not far, leaned against the headboard, and looking me in the eyes said, "I'm so sorry I lied. If you're mad at me and tell me to go, I will."

"Matt," I responded, "you're not going anywhere and no, I'm not mad at you, but I'm disappointed you felt a need to invent a story about Thanksgiving, however."

"How did you find out?"

"I ate at the same place for Thanksgiving Dinner that you did and I saw you."

"And you didn't say anything? Why?"

"Matt, it's your place to tell me and not my place to confront you. I care too much for you to cause you that kind of pain."

With a choked sob, ashamed, as if you were drowning in the abyss of human misery, despair, and destitution, then clawing back to the surface, grasping, inhaling the fresh air of life anew, and seeking atonement, your life story began flowing, hesitantly at first, then confidently, allowing me to comfort you as a father would a son, long gone, returning from the night, giving him sustenance, strength, and forgiveness. It was then I made up my mind to do some further investigating; there was no way I was going to let you drift apart from me or a good life if I had anything to do with it. The more I thought about it, the more determined I was going to do something about it. Your story and your middle name raised certain questions in my mind that I needed answers to.

I contacted my attorney who, in turn, contacted a well-known private investigative agency in Milwaukee. Once I'd engaged their services, I passed on the information I'd gleaned from my own preliminary investigations and from what you'd told me. From that they were able to locate a copy of your birth certificate, your school records, and all other pertinent information concerning your young life. I am sad to say they also discovered your mother was deceased, approximately the time you were evicted from the apartment and moved in with Ms. Elli (Jacobsen was her last name by the way). The details of your injuries and treatment were somehow uncovered by the investigators along with the full police report. I was horrified at the injuries your assailants inflicted on your young body! I didn't ask how they obtained the information and I really didn't want to know.

Why was I so interested in your history? You see, dear Matthew, your middle name absolutely intrigued me; it's the same as my mother's last name. You know from reading thus far in my journal why I was named Corsair and not Sutton so I won't reiterate that story again here. The agency also uncovered some information I was completely unaware of.

After my own mother left me with Miss Harrison in Prairie du Sac, I assumed she'd disappeared from the face of the earth, dead more than likely since I never heard from her again. How wrong I was! She birthed another child, a girl, in 1948 and named her Jacqueline Sutton. My half-sister Jacqueline, when older, married Kenneth Burroughs and they had two daughters; your mother, Sena, and a younger sister, Esther. Your mother left home at an early age, for what reason I haven't a clue and neither did the investigators, headed for Milwaukee, and began working the streets. You were the results of her activities. Evidently, she still had some sort fondness or memory of home since she used her grandmother's maiden name for your middle name.

So, Matthew Sutton Burroughs, you are my great-nephew and the pride of my life! I should've told you before, but you were so happy and I really didn't want to dredge up sad memories. I treated you as what you were, a member of my family; a family neither you nor I had until we came together. Now you know why almost everything, except for the charitable bequests I made in my will, was left to you. You are the most deserving and truly a blood relative. (This sounds rather morbid thus far, doesn't it? I'm not even dead yet as I write this, but my old heart probably won't tick many more years or days for that matter, if the doctors are correct).

I had the agency check on the other daughter my half-sister produced. Her name, Esther, married Ezra Fuller, an evangelical, conservative Christian from Southeast Iowa, somewhere near Burlington, as I remember (the full report of all of this is in the files should you care to read any more). They have several children, all your cousins obviously, and apparently live a rather austere, but not radically different, life-style; attending church, promoting their brand of religion, shunning government interference in their lives (except when it comes to medical, food, and other assistance they receive) claiming "God will provide for the just" and "punish the unjust."

I wrote several conciliatory letters of inquiry to them, requesting the opportunity to visit with them concerning your and my relationship with them, offering to meet with them. I felt it might be good for both of us to know our extended family. After several months I received a rather stilted letter in reply indicating they had their church brethren investigate me, checking my bona vides and they outright rejected any sort of reconciliation. As far as you were concerned, Ezra and Esther claimed her sister Sena was dead to them after seeking a life with the "Evil One," a "Jezebel," whose "fornication" produced a "bastard child," a "creature of Satan," They further accused me of being a sodomite. I guess you just can't win them all! At any rate, I wrote several more times, each time giving my address in La Crosse and also the address of the house in Fox Creek, just in case they changed their minds. I doubt if they ever will.

I had really hoped I could reunite you with some family, perhaps cousins, at least, but I wasn't successful. Whatever you do now concerning them is your decision, but don't get your hopes up. Please know I love you and entrust to you, my dear nephew, my history, my wealth, and my legacy.

Love,

Uncle Julian

To be continued:

***

Thank you for reading Julian Corsair– Chapter Twenty-six -""The human heart has hidden treasures, in secret kept, in silence sealed." – (Charlotte Bronte)

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