...One
Saturday earlier this year, I drove out to Wallum Lake.
...I
liked visiting Frank Beazley on weekends, when life at Zambarano
Hospital slowed down. I often took along my two-year-old
granddaughter, Isabella, who called our destination ‘‘Frank’s
house.’’ She was charmed by Frank — and
he by her. A visit from Isabella made for a beautiful day.
...Evening
was approaching, and we found Frank in his room. He was
finishing dinner. I apologized for interrupting.
...‘‘That’s
OK, don’t mind one bit,’’ he said. ‘‘So
how are you, Isabella? Did you have supper yet?’’
...Frank
collects singing plush toys, and his latest additions were
a bird, a gorilla, and a dog.
...‘‘Do
you want a little chickadee to take home with you?’’
he said to Isabella.
...He
asked me to place the toy in her hand. It began to chirp.
Isabella was delighted.
...‘‘Bring
the gorilla over,’’ Frank said. ‘‘Put
it on the table. Squeeze the paw.’’ The gorilla
sang a Louis Armstrong tune. Isabella watched uncertainly.
...‘‘I’ll
show you another one,’’ Frank said. He asked
me to put the dog on the floor. It danced.
...‘‘Wow!’’
Isabella said. She was enchanted.
...‘‘You
like that? You can take that home and have it, too!’’
...Despite
rehearsing, I was anxious with what I was about to say.
I didn’t want to tell this man who loved children
and toys what I had just learned.
...During
the months that I researched Frank’s story, I shared
every discovery with him, as he wanted. Many pleased him.
I tracked down several childhood friends, including one
who intended to visit Wallum Lake. I obtained a biography
and photo of Sister Rita Marie, the kindly nun who had given
him advice that he’d embraced for life. I learned
that the current police chief of Halifax, also named Frank
Beazley, was a relative. I located photos of Frank with
Louie Pafundi and Mike Saporito, The Three Musketeers, whose
time together in the 1980s and ’90s was a sort of
golden age at Zambarano.
...Not
every revelation had been uplifting, but I knew nothing
would hit like this.
...‘‘I
found your mother’s obituary,’’ I said.
...‘‘Did
you. Wow.’’
...Frank
had suspected that the former Edna Beazley was dead, but
there was a chance she was still alive — a woman in
her nineties.
...Frank
asked me to read the obituary
from a Halifax newspaper. It named Edna’s first husband,
who died in World War II, and her second, a man she married
after Frank came to America (and who died in 1986). It named
Edna’s late parents, Nellie and Francis L. Beazley
— Frank’s maternal grandparents — and
her two sisters, including Stella, the infant who died in
1908. It listed Edna’s brother-in-law. It listed Edna’s
daughter, Helen. It listed Edna’s grandchildren and
great-grandchildren.
...It
did not list Frank.
...‘‘Hard
to believe,’’ Frank said. ‘‘No son.’’
...‘‘I’m
sorry,’’ I said.
...‘‘She
would never recognize me, that was the whole problem.’’
...‘‘Right
to the end.’’
...‘‘Right
to the end. Ninety-one years old.’’
...‘‘I’m
sorry.’’
...‘‘That’s
all right.’’
...‘‘But
I wasn’t not going to tell you.’’
...‘‘I’m
glad you did,’’ Frank said. ‘‘It
just goes to show how much quietness, how much secrecy,
goes on with the whole family of mine.’’
...AND
YET, FRANK felt no bitterness toward his half-sister
or his mother. He’d forgiven. Life had gone on.
...Frank
had recently re-read the letters that Edna had sent to the
nuns when her son was a young orphan, and he believed that
she, like him, had been the victim of a judgmental culture
— and of a cold-hearted woman, Nellie Beazley, who
put propriety before love. She’d gone to the grave,
in 1975, without realizing how blessed she could have been
if she’d embraced her grandson, not cloaked him in
shame.
...‘‘I
have to give my mother in one way a lot of credit,’’
Frank told me. ‘‘She was struggling to send
what little money she could for my board at the orphanage,
whether it was five dollars, ten dollars, God bless her.
I just wanted her to call me son — if there was anything
in the world I wanted, that was it. But she couldn’t
do it. There was a shadow and that shadow was my grandmother.’’
...Nor
did Frank bear ill will for the nuns at St. Joseph’s
Orphanage who had been so harsh.
...‘‘Nuns
are nuns,’’ he said.
...‘‘You
don’t hold any malice or anger?’’
...‘‘You
can’t. You’d only be hurting yourself.’’
...And
that was another of Frank’s philosophies: life is
what you make of it.
...‘‘Do
you want to make your life miserable — or do you want
to make your life happy? If you make it miserable, you’re
only hurting yourself.’’
|
| Frank
watches the greyhounds at Lincoln Park.
Journal photo/Mary Murphy |
 |
Frank
and Joyce Bulger look over a racing form. The dogs are one of Frank's joys in life.
Journal photo/Mary Murphy |
...SOME
WHILE after giving Frank his mother’s obituary,
I returned to Wallum Lake. Frank had arranged for a van
to take us to Lincoln Park, where he liked to bet on the
greyhounds and then play the slots. It was our second trip
together to Lincoln.
...As
we waited for the van to arrive, I showed Frank another
of my discoveries: a photograph of him with his classmates
at the one-room schoolhouse he attended in the early 1940s,
when he lived at a foster home. To our knowledge, it is
the first photo ever taken of him — and one of only
two that survive before a Polaroid taken at Zambarano in
late 1980.
...Frank
remembered most of the children in the photo, which we showed
to everyone he encountered that morning at Zambarano.
...‘‘Which
one is Frank?’’ a secretary said.
...He
was second from the left, rear row.
...‘‘Always
the tall one has to be in back. Unreal. How nice.’’
...‘‘He
was thirteen years old,’’ I said.
...‘‘You
were handsome!,’’ a nurse said. ‘‘Oh
my god! Still are!’’
...The
van arrived and we headed toward Lincoln Park. I had another
discovery to share with Frank.
...‘‘It’s
the obituary for your father,’’ I said.
...‘‘My
stepfather?’’
...‘‘Your
biological father.’’
...I
read the
obituary for Ralph W. Flemming, who died in 1984 at
the age of 76. He was survived by a wife, a son, two daughters,
eight grandchildren and a great-grandchild. His third daughter
was deceased.
...Frank
was not mentioned.
...‘‘Wow,’’
Frank said.
...I
explained how I had happened on Flemming. I had telephoned
every Flemming (and Fleming) in the Halifax area, more than
100 calls in all. One of Ralph W. Flemming’s relatives
was among those who called me back.
...‘‘You
finally found him,’’ Frank said. ‘‘Oh,
my.’’
...‘‘He
was 19 when you were born.’’
...‘‘Another
piece of the puzzle.’’
...Frank
wondered if his father had ever tried to visit him, if he
knew where his child had gone — if he even knew the
baby’s gender.
...‘‘I
have no way of knowing,’’ I said.
...‘‘We’ll
never know.’’
...‘‘Nellie
just shut everything off.’’
...‘‘She
was the boss and that was it.’’
|
| After
a long battle, Frank finally gets to
watch cable TV in his room at Zambarano.
Journal photo/Mary Murphy |
...SUMMER
WAS almost upon us when I paid Frank another visit,
at noon on a Thursday. That very morning, technicians had
connected cable to his TV. Before the week was through,
every patient at Zambarano would finally have the service.
...I
congratulated Frank on his success in leading the two-year
campaign for hospital-wide cable, but, typically, he deflected
the praise — numerous people, he said, had worked
with him and they each deserved a share of the credit. But
Frank did have a personal agenda: replacing his ten-year-old
TV.
...‘‘I
want a little bigger one,’’ he said. ‘‘This
is only a 21-inch!’’
...A
sunny day beckoned. We left the hospital and traveled to
the crest of the hill that Frank often visited. The American
and orange-caution flags on the back of his wheelchair snapped
in the breeze, and this man who had spent more than half
of his long life at Zambarano was reminded of the good times
he’d shared here with Louie Pafundi, Mike Saporito,
and other friends. They were all dead now.
...‘‘I
love to meditate here,’’ Frank said. ‘‘I
look up at the sky and I see all my friends and I always
say: ‘I hope you’re looking down at me —
I’m the only one left now...’
...‘‘It’s
a beautiful spot,’’ he said. ‘‘The
only thing is I have to be careful of the sun, so I’d
just as soon come up here in the evening, and thank God
for another day.’’
...We
descended the hill, passing an apple tree and the flower
gardens that Frank helped plan and tend. Honeysuckles and
azaleas were in bloom, and lilacs scented the air. From
the flowers we traveled to the vegetable gardens, on the
shore of Wallum Lake. Lettuce, cabbage and broccoli had
just been planted, and corn, peppers and tomatoes would
soon follow.
...Another
growing season was here.
 |
At Lincoln park, the
windows and dog track are reflected in Frank's
glasses.
Journal photo/Mary Murphy |
Untitled Document
Read
about the series
Source
notes
|
