The Lorrans- SSOPINM
They were an odd family, always dressed to the nines, hair slicked back and everything. And the way their daughter carried that fat orange striped cat around, well, it added to the illusion that they just seemed to be unaware of the world around them. The only person who appeared to acknowledge their existence was the mailman, and that was merely because he had to. They had the longest driveway in the county, with trees unevenly scattered up the sides of it, and their mailbox was an old wooden fruit basket attached to the side of the their house. Mr. McGregor would have to hike up the hill of lawn, walk across the porch and put the stack of mail in the rickety basket. Sometimes Mrs. Lorran would immediately pop out of the kitchen window and reach down into the basket. She nearly always said “Thank you.” or “Have a good day.” or something like that, and Mr. McGregor would reply with a curt nod each time.
Nobody knew much about them, they simply moved into the Edwards old mansion of a place one day in rainy spring and then kept to themselves each season since.
Martha McGregor tried to figure out what she could, getting her share of excitement in life from the rumors and gossip she helped spread. Sorting her husband’s mail was a favorite evening event, and she would look with extra scrutiny at each envelope addressed to “The Lorrans, 25 Burberry Lane, Kingsville Valley, IL —–”
Usually there was nothing particularly exciting. Occasionally a notice for a bill soon to be overdue, and one time a notice for a larger than believable library fine, but all in all every piece of mail was mild and uninteresting.
Until one evening, deep in the winter of ‘54.
“Scott! Come look at this,” a breathless Martha McGregor shouted.
Scott McGregor came running into the kitchen, questions in his eyes.
“It’s from some hospital in France! Who do they know in France do you suppose?!”
“Goodness Martha,” Scott grabbed the letter angrily, “it’s probably just a relative or something.”
“They don’t even look French,” Martha chuckled, grabbing the letter again and smelling the formal seal on the front. “It smells like the Alps,” she sighed.
Scott rolled his eyes, and sat down to continue sorting. Martha began to bounce delicious ideas around, “Maybe he has a mistress…”
“Who?” Scott asked, lost in piles of mail and not in any way amused.
“Mr. Lorran, of course dear. Perhaps some French nurse or something. Do you think I can re-seal this one?” Martha began to observe the envelope with a self-trained eye.
“That’s illegal and you know it.” Scott replied dryly.
“Well maybe it’s important. Maybe he’s a spy or something and communicating through an undercover hospital or-”
“So you even hear yourself?” Scott laughed out loud. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Maybe,” she said letting herself relax back into the chair, “or maybe not.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“One letter is nothing, but four- well,” Martha divulged at the following church luncheon, “four international letters in a week, that leads one to question.”
“Question what?” Maybell Harrison, a bored newlywed with a piece of sandwich in her cheek, asked.
“Question, oh, I don’t know,” Martha started, but she did know, she had spent the whole evening before coming up with every explanation she could think of, “whether or not Mr. Lorran is having some sort of long distance affair. Or if he gives charitably to this hospital, though that of course wouldn’t explain why four letters have arrived this week, and not last or whatever.”
Other woman at the table started to add their theories,
“Suppose he’s ill?”
“He’s not in France, why would a hospital in France be contacting him?” Martha pointed out.
“Suppose a relative’s ill!”
“He doesn’t even look French,” Martha pointed out confidently, as though she would know what a Frenchmen would look like.
“Maybe he has a bastard child or something.”
“Or a mistress!”
“That’s what I was beginning to wonder!” Martha said confidently.
“Or maybe a Mister,” added Maybell.
“Gross!” Martha chided, though excited at the thought nonetheless.
“What does that man do for a living anyhow?”
“I have no clue, never seems to leave the house. He occasionally goes on walks I think, but he doesn’t commute as far as I can tell.” Mrs. Fretti, their neighbor, piped up. “And they do seem like such an odd bunch, goodness with all those children.”
“How many do they have?” Maybell asked, eyes growing wide.
“At least ten,” Martha started, “No, maybe not quite that many. I tried counting once as they left the library but I lost count after 3.”
“And that one child of theirs always carries around a cat the way most girls her age carry around a purse.”
“Is she that old?” Martha wondered, not actually caring what the answer was. “They must go to the little Catholic Church, I never see them here.”
“Yes they do.” It was Mrs. Fretti again, “and I can’t imagine if that isn’t why they don’t mingle much with the village, they just like to be disconnected, I say.”
It was a successful luncheon as far as Martha was concerned. She had gotten to voice her ideas without Scott rolling his eyes and she had learned a bit more about them.
“They’re Catholic. That’s why we nearly never run into them.” Martha told him at dinner that night.
“Martha, do you actually think I care?”
“Well, I just thought it was interesting. Their children don’t go to school, do you think they’re all… well, you know…” And Martha pointed a finger to the side of her head with a swirl.
“No Martha,” Scott said, his voice rising slightly. “I don’t believe they’re cuckoo.”
She could tell she had started to reach a point in Scott’s patience that shouldn’t be crossed, but she couldn’t stop herself from letting out another question.
“Then why don’t you suppose they attend the school in town?”
Mr. McGregor set down his fork with a passion.
“Why don’t you go ask them?”
“What?!” Martha asked, “What do you even mean?”
“You know what I mean, dear,” He stressed the word with deep breath,” Why don’t you go discover if his mistress is writing him from France, why don’t you go ask instead of wondering and worrying yourself.”
Martha felt like she had been caged and set free at the same time. He was right, of course, she reasoned. The Lorrans’ home was just a road over and up a hill. She would walk over tomorrow with some hot cocoa and introduce herself. It was long overdue really, they had moved in nearly 6 months ago- or was it a year now…
The next mid-day Mrs. McGregor bundled herself up and prepared a basket of cookies and cocoa. Slipping a little bit on ice as she went, she eventually made it up the large winding driveway and stopped to rest for a moment in front of their large bright red door. It looked particularly mystical as the rest of their rambling white home blended into the snowy scenery.
She cleared her throat and knocked twice, before a little boy, not nearly five, opened the door and invited her in.
Mrs. Lorran walked into the front room with a “Hello” and “Thank you so much, we love cocoa” “I’ll let the Mr. Know you’re here” and “In the meantime, Eugene will show you around.” With a flurry of movement Martha ended up out of her coat and boots, into slippers, and with her long slightly wrinkled fingers in the hand of the little boy who had opened the door.
“Here Ma’dem,” he said, in imperfect English, and lead her through room after winding room. Martha had never seen the inside of the Edward’s Mansion, even before it became the Lorran’s. It was stunning.
The wood work alone caused Martha to feel transported into a Narnia of Kingsville Valley. Eventually Mrs. Lorran joined them again, half way up a staircase, and started to walk along behind the tour. Martha only caught pieces of what she had to say, focusing instead of incredible artworks hanging on the walls, and richly colored carpets beneath her warm feet. Mrs. Lorran seemed to speak in phrases instead of sentences.
“…Sorry about the wait…”
“Busy doing Annabella’s lesson.”
“Sebastien doesn’t enjoy English grammar, and I hardly blame him.”
“Thank you Eugene I’ll take her to Papa.”
“… It’s one of his worse days, they’ve been more frequent this winter, I hope you won’t mind…..”
“No,” said Martha waking up slightly from her trance, warm January sunlight hitting the side of her face through a large french window, “Of course I don’t mind.”
Mrs. Lorran just nodded and pushed further ajar a heavy oak door that lead into, what Martha correctly guessed was, a study.
“Mrs. McGregor has stopped by this afternoon James.”
Martha walked forward to shake his extended hand, and her jaw unhinged as he came forward in his wheelchair.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Scott McGregor couldn’t understand why, after 45 years in Kingsville Valley, Martha would be determined to leave. But he was close to retirement anyhow and had always wanted to travel- something Martha had consistently been against.
Years later he would put together the clues and realize that whatever she had seen, or heard at the Lorran’s had upset her to the point of wanting to leave her small hometown. When he finally asked her, as they vacationed near The Lake of the Ozarks, she would explain, with puddles forming in her eyes.
“I was wrong.” Scott couldn’t help but lovingly chuckle.
“No dear, I was really wrong, and after visiting the Lorran’s I became aware of just how awfully wrong I’d been my whole life.”
A reflective silence passed.
“Mr. Lorran and his family moved to Kingsville Valley from France, believe it or not.”
Scott smirked a little, “but I thought he looked nothing like a Frenchman?”
“Oh he doesn’t,” Martha agreed, letting herself smile for a moment, “No, he’s proudly born and raised American. So much so that he served. He is Major General Lorran, with honors, rightfully given I might add. He was injured on D-Day.”
Mr. McGregor couldn’t help but gasp. “He was there?”
“Yes,” Martha repeated with a sigh, “which is also why he rarely left his home, being bound to a wheelchair most days. And it’s why his children didn’t go to school, them speaking French more fluently and easily than English. I mean, France is where he and Elizabeth, an Army nurse, married and had their family rooted for nearly ten years.”
Another momentary silence, this time filled with awe, spread between them.
“So the French hospital letters….?” Scott began.
“His doctor, who by all accounts was phenomenal, continued to keep in touch. That winter the Major General’s injury seemed to be irritated worse than usual. His doctor wrote to him with exercises, diets and other things to try in order to help.”
They shifted in their porch chairs as a sudden warm wind came passing over.
“Do you understand now?” Martha asked, with the most humility her husband had ever witnessed. “I was so very wrong. It was easier for me to believe that he had some French nurse of a mistress or something. I have messed up families and hurt neighbors and even friends! All because what my imagination had to offer seemed better than anything reality could supply. And I was horribly wrong, Scott.”
Mr. McGregor put his arm around Martha’s quivering shoulders and allowed her head to rest on him. Little tears began to wet his shirt and he felt the need to say,
“Dear, it couldn’t have been that ba-”
“It was.” Martha interrupted. “Remember Maybell, and how I thought her husband’s long business trips were suspicious. They weren’t, the man just had a demanding job. But they’re divorced now, because I fueled any rumor that started.
“And remember Joel Harperson? I nixed his chance to buy the home on Main Street because I told the sellers he didn’t know anything about old houses. But that was his dream home, I mean his grandparents built it! And he didn’t know anything about old houses but I didn’t have to say it! And-”
It was Scott’s turn to interrupt, with a gentle peck on her lips. It’s true, he realized, all of the meddling and the wake of unhappiness she had left.
“I am so proud of you.” Martha looked up confused. “I am so proud of you,” Scott repeated, “for realizing that you weren’t thoughtful in your musings. I am so proud of you for wanting to leave and travel and start afresh somewhere. And,” he added softly, “I am so proud of the Lorrans.”
Martha nodded. “They proved to me that normal is just a collective misery the majority suffers in. Their lives were so different, but they were happy. I was no different from every other woman in town, but I was so unhappy. I just never knew why until I saw the joy Annabella got from holding her cat, forever grateful he had been able to relocate with them. It’s those little things, like spending more time together and reading every book in a town’s tiny library. I realized, we wanted that too … ”
It was with a profound contentment they watched the sunset that evening; it was with an undeniable happiness they lived from that day on.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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