Chapter 78: A Few More Family Visits

June 26, 1981

We got untangled in the morning, the angel in my bed and me, and woke, stretching. I noticed she was wearing panties. With a pad. She caught my look.

“Hey, it spared my birthday suit, anyway. Shower, big brother. Shared. C’mon. I’ve got a tampon, too. It won’t be ‘Psycho’ in there.”

So we showered. Again, it was ... behaving. It would’ve been easy not to, but we kept everything on the right side of the line. At least, where the line was for us. Mom would have drawn it somewhere else. But it’s hard to argue that we crossed it, anyway.

We were back to not knowing what was coming next. Science and Industry done, Art Institute done, birthday done. There were things I could guess — we’d have to see Robert. Have to see Grandmother again. Eventually, the Wisconsin relatives. There were more days left than it’d take to do that. Many more.

So, we’d see what happened. But for now, breakfast was happening. Dressing, we headed down to start the day.

Our first stop of the day was aptly timed, following the conversation last night. As soon as I realized where we were going, my hand squeezed Angie’s. She looked over, confused. Then she picked up on it. Squeezed back.

We drove through the green grounds, found the right place to park. Got out, walked.

There, on the ground: ‘Frank James Marshall. 1934-1979’ and next to it: “Alton Gilbert Marshall. 1898-1947’.

Mom produced some flowers she’d been hiding and gave one to Dad, one to Angie. Angie sniffled — just once — and laid hers on Frank’s stone. Dad laid his on his father’s stone. A little flag fluttered next to Grandfather’s stone; he’d been in World War I, and the Memorial Day flags were still there.

I was pretty sure our conversation yesterday was the reason for Angie’s having just the one sniffle. We both agreed: either Frank was gone, or Frank was watching from somewhere. And in either case, we would celebrate his life, not mourn his passing.

Dad drove over to the retirement community, and we met Grandmother and Professor Berman — A.K.A. Grandfather, to the kids who’d never known Dad’s real father — for lunch. I saw that Grandmother had new heels. I hoped they’d help until she got heeled slippers.

Grandmother seemed to move better. Dad let her know he’d visited his father’s — her husband’s — grave. It touched her, of course.

The Professor again extolled the virtues of Northwestern and urged us to give the campus a look.

Angie and I again went for a long walk, this time saying almost nothing, just happy to be together.

When we came back, Dad and Mom were saying goodbye. The Chicago portion of the trip was clearly wrapping up. We joined right into the goodbyes, promising to visit again as soon as we could, and to stay in touch.

The professor’s words were prophetic; that, or he’d prompted Mom and Dad. We parked on the Northwestern campus to stroll around a bit.

Dad smiled. “I always liked the campus, and for a long time I wanted to go here. But it was too expensive, so I went to Michigan. Which turned out to still be too expensive.”

“You should study something when you retire, Dad,” Angie said. “Sure, it’s not the same, but I think it’d make you happy.”

“Maybe, honey. I might just do that.” Even without foreknowledge, I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t. But I’m glad she tried.

We strolled around, commenting on the architecture, looking at the small clumps of students.

Angie looked out over the lake. “This’ll be brutal over the winter. The wind off the lake is unforgiving.”

“Pretty in summer, though, especially compared to home,” I noted. “Though I know it gets hot here, too. Much less often, though.”

“Yeah. And lower humidity even with the lake.”

I knew it was going to come up, and it did. “So, what was it that Professor Berman was talking about, honey?” Mom asked. “The summer program? That you said you knew about?”

“Northwestern does a summer program for high school students. It hasn’t started yet this year, otherwise I imagine you’d see a lot of kids. There are several tracks — engineering, sciences, music, drama. And debate. There are bunch of good debate programs; this is one of them. Marquette has another one, and Redlands, and a bunch more. I’ve been looking at it, and I’m pretty sure I’d like to do it.”

“Sounds expensive,” Dad noted. “But we can look at it.”

“I’d be willing to contribute. I’ve got the work I’m already doing on the side and with the computer, and with a printer, I could do a lot more.”

“How long is the program?”

“Six weeks, Mom. You live in a dorm; meals are in the cafeteria. There are some field trips to go out and see things in Chicago, too. Ravinia, the Cubs, stuff like that.”

“Six weeks is a long time. You’d be OK being so far away?”

“I’m pretty sure I would. I’d miss you, but I’d be really busy. And, of course, I could still call.”

Angie chimed in, which I wasn’t expecting. I’d guessed she might get interested, just not yet. “You know, I might want to go, too, Mom and Dad.”

“In what, honey? Has Steve finally talked you into debate?” Mom laughed, smiling at both of us.

“Almost. I’m still thinking. I’ll talk to Doctor Stanton again first. But, likely. But if I don’t do debate, I want to do something. I think that’s important. And like Steve says, they do a lot of programs. If he was going here, I think I’d like going here, too. If we’re doing the same thing, that’d probably be good. We’d be fine apart, but it’d be more fun to have each other.”

“Makes sense. We’ll definitely look into it,” Dad nodded. “I’m sure if Northwestern’s doing it, it’s a quality program.”

After wrapping up at Northwestern, we’d driven just a bit north when Angie bounced. “Oh! The Baha’i Temple! We have to stop!”

Dad laughed. “OK, honey. You know, I haven’t been here in years!”

We found parking and climbed out, looking up at the ornate, gleaming structure. The Baha’i started building their temple way back before World War I, taking until 1953 to complete the structure. It’s lovely and inspiring, with peaceful gardens surrounding the main building. I’d researched the Baha’i a long time ago (or a long time in the future, either way) and loved their vision for the world. In the end, I chose Unitarianism, because I couldn’t quite put my faith in a single, all-powerful deity, as the Baha’i do. The irony wasn’t lost on me; the name ‘Unitarian’ originates in the rejection of the Trinity in favor of a unitary God. However, as happens, they had later rejected that, too, in favor of what amounted to an official agnosticism, but kept the name.

The four of us strolled around and just soaked in the atmosphere. After a time, Dad put voice to thoughts similar to mine. “I’m pretty committed to our faith, but I can’t fault their ideals or their goals. They’re good people.”

Our last sightseeing destination turned out to be a little park on the shores of the lake. Angie protested that she’d have brought a bathing suit had she known. The two of us took off our shoes and strolled along the beach, enjoying the sand and the warm sun.