“WHERE’S RAYMOND?” Jake asked the orderly, who was making Raymond McKinney’s bed. The question was useless, since Jake knew perfectly well where Raymond was. Pneumonia, the “old person’s friend,” had carried him off at three in the morning. This was the third roommate Jake had outlived, but when one of the staff called him Jake the Jinx, nobody laughed.
Jake took his time rising. He was 82 and took his time regardless of what he was doing. Moreover, here at Green Meadows Village in hot and humid south Florida, he had no timetable of any sort whatever, so he could rise when he wanted, or stay right where he was if that suited him. Jake had his bath and dressed, although he could stay in his pajamas if he preferred. He had made up his mind he’d remain active until the old person’s friend came for him. He had been a schoolteacher and the institution’s library, his destination now, was his favorite spot. It wasn’t large, but the collection was pretty good, and, in any case, Jake just liked being around books.
Jake plopped down at a table, waving hello to two ladies already seated. These were Mary and Frances, inseparable companions. Mary was old and Frances was older, the latter weighed 90 pounds. She had mere wisps of white hair where an abundant brunette had been, her splotchy skin was only just managing to fend off the determined emergence of her skeleton, and she knew, as one does, the banshee wasn’t far from her door. Neither woman could hear the better part of what the other said, which, however, did not inhibit a spirited conversation.
Jake got out his diary. “My dear roommate Raymond McKinney was called by Our Lord in the wee hours this morning. Raymond was a homebuilder from Cincinnati, Ohio, where he lived a long and decent, honorable life. God Rest His Soul.” Jake would have written this even if Raymond had been a liar and a cheat all his life.
Pleased with his entry, Jake set his diary aside and plucked a book from the shelves, titled “An Illustrated History of Chicago.” It was unexpectedly heavy, and Jake, whose grip was not entirely dependable, was obliged to guide it to a more-or-less crash landing on the table. It was a book of photographs.
Leafing casually through, Jake was brought to a complete halt by a black-and-white photograph of a man standing in front of an ornate, domed building, with a boy of about ten standing next to him. The man looked to be in his late thirties. He had a thick beard, wore an ill-fitting suit, and the derby on his head was set at a rakish angle. The boy held the man’s hand and smiled mischievously.
Good heavens! This was Jake’s father Daniel, and Jake himself, at the Chicago World’s Fair, 1893! Jake knew it at once, because a strikingly similar photograph of his father had sat atop the bureau in his bedroom many years. No doubt about it!
“Look, lookee here, lookee here,” he said to the ladies. “There’s a picture of my dad and me in this book. It’s us! At the World’s Fair!” Jake was thrilled. He shoved the book across the table, but neither of the ladies reached for it. What could old Jake mean, finding a picture of himself in a library book? “We went to the World’s Fair in Chicago! We were living in South Bend, Indiana. We rode the train. We were there all day. We saw everything. There were buildings and lakes and streetcars. We took a boat on the lake. There was a Ferris Wheel. It was gigantic. We rode it, too. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. It was gigantic.” Jake was out of breath.
“Isn’t that nice, to find that picture,” Mary said nonchalantly, assuming Jake was having a spell. A spell wasn’t how Jake regarded it. He made for the corridor, managing with difficulty not to be run over by the staffer vacuuming the carpet, which didn’t need it, but Green Meadows fudged on too clean rather than not clean enough. Holding the book, Jake was in search of Linda Harris, his favorite among the nurses. Couldn’t find her, so he took the elevator to the basement, where a dozen very old women sat in a semi-circle listening to a television which, though loud, was overwhelmed by their snoring. Linda was nowhere to be found.
Jake made for his quarters. Shuffling along, he was tired. He collapsed in a chair in his room and consulted the book’s index. There was a credit for the photograph, but it read only “Schwartz Photography, Chicago.” Not much of a clue, but an idea was already forming in Jake’s head. He would fly to Chicago. Find Schwartz Photography. Confirm this was a photo of his father and him, at the World’s Fair! Much remained to be worked out. He couldn’t possibly make the trip alone, and more than likely, not with an assistant. Plus, this was 1965, not 1893.
Linda finally showed up. Time to check blood pressure, take temp, etc. Jake figured his blood pressure was through the ceiling. He showed Linda the photograph and promptly announced he was going to Chicago.
“Oh, Mr. Kellerer, that really isn’t very practical, I’m afraid.” Linda liked Jake and was more than prepared to humor him, though this was a truly extravagant whim. “You can’t even be sure it’s the two of you, and this was so long ago.”
“I’m sure, and I’m going. Might need some help. Will you come with me?”
“Oh, Mr. Kellerer, what about my reputation?” Linda joked.
The impossibility of the journey was never in debate. So Jake did the next best thing. He made the necessary arrangements to get an 1893 Chicago City Directory mailed to him. Weeks went by. Finally, it arrived. Jake couldn’t open it fast enough. The staff were rooting for him, while acknowledging this was the craziest notion ever. Jake seemed younger and more vigorous.
The City Directory listed a Schwartz Photography at 432 Clark Avenue. There were two other studios by the same name. Could that be? Maybe Schwartz had a brother, or a son, but they’d be in business with him, wouldn’t they? Not competitors. There were phone numbers, but how conceivably could they still be current?
It was hopeless nonsense, by any measure. Jake called the numbers in the directory. None reached a working number. What he needed was a current Chicago phone book. This, too, he obtained, with less trouble than the City Directory. Dozens of people named Schwartz lived in Chicago. What could he do? Call every one of them?
Against all odds, his ninth call produced Jerome Schwartz, himself 80 years old, a retired accountant. His father had indeed been a photographer. Jake could hardly contain himself.
“Mr. Schwartz,” he said, “my name is Jake Kellerer. I am calling you from a retirement home where I live, in Miami. I taught high school in Oklahoma. You are going to conclude I’m witless for sure with what I am about to say, but I am not. I am in control of my senses, and I have something to ask you. A favor, really.” Jerome Schwartz listened patiently. The whole thing was absurd, of course, and when Jake was finished, Jerome said so, tactfully. But he had underestimated Jake’s determination.
“Mr. Schwartz,” Jake resumed when it was apparent the call was going nowhere, “I will send you $100 to go through your father’s files on the chance he kept that photograph he took of my dad and me ever so long ago. If you find it, you might mail it to me. If not, the $100 is yours to keep. No, not $100, I’ll make it $200.”
“Mr. Kellerer,” Jerome said, slightly irked, “you may count on me to do this. I am a man of my word.” He hardly realized himself he was agreeing to this preposterous undertaking.
The old person’s friend lacked the patience circumstances required. Jake died hardly a month later. Another month went by, and another. Then, one day, a package arrived in the mail. It was stamped “Fragile,” and the return address was a post office box in Chicago. Jake had left instructions to forward any such package to his daughter in Oklahoma City. Her name was Carole, and she had not always been as generous with her dad as she might have been. To her embarrassment, which had not lasted, her father had said in his will she would receive her full inheritance, pending a “good faith” effort on her part to confirm the identities of a man and boy in a photograph taken at the Chicago World’s Fair, 1893. Just her senile father’s latest prank.
She opened the package, trembling. She found a sepia photograph, wedged between two pieces of cardboard. It was the photograph of a man and a boy. They stood in front of a domed building. He had a beard and wore a suit and a derby set at an angle. The boy was grinning. On the back, written in black ink faded almost, but not quite, to illegibility, were the words, “Daniel Kellerer and son Jake, age 10, World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago, 1893.”
Sam Rennick is a retired lawyer with a flair for words.