Clara Callan (13 page)

And Marion, game to the end, had hung onto me through all this, her bad foot doubtless tired and throbbing. Now she wanted to hear her singer, but I was steadfast too, rooted to the ground by the Ferris wheel, watching the tramp leap across the guy ropes and poke at the engine with his oiling can.

The great wheel jolted to a halt, the seats rocking back and forth, and I looked up at the August sky darkening now, astonished anew that he was there. My tramp, my nightmare, and only yards away. The other man was lighting his pipe and then he eased the lever forward, and the wheel again began to move. Then stopped, and two girls got out, their seat taken by a young man and his sweetheart. The wheel again churned forward and I heard the tramp say something to the engine man, but his words were lost in the grinding noise of the machinery. Marion was tugging at my arm like a cranky child, but I said to her, “Let’s take a ride on the Ferris wheel.” I might just as well have suggested we take off our clothes and jump into Lake Ontario.

“Clara, I’d be frightened to death in that thing.”

I told her I was tired and wanted to sit down for a while, hoping thereby to make her feel stronger and whole; I was the flagging one, not she.

“We can’t, Clara. We’ll be late for his second show.”

But I was having none of it. I had seen the tramp and my heart was racing. “Very well, I’ll go by myself.”

“Clara, what’s got into you anyway?”

“I want to ride on the big wheel.”

And so I joined the lineup and there was nothing Marion could do but accompany me. I knew she was too timid to stand by herself in the midway. So we were settled finally by a rough-looking young man into a swaying seat. He dropped the safety bar across the front, and we
were carried aloft with Marion’s fingers digging into my arm and her cries of “Oh! Oh!” accompanying us skyward. She was frightened, of course, but confounded too. Imagine that such things should come to pass! I guessed that that was what was going through her mind. And I too was astounded to find myself there wheeling around in the sky. At the summit we plunged, as we had to do, and Marion screamed.

Then we rose again, passing the tramp who was wiping his hands on a piece of waste and staring out at the crowd. Looking down at him as we climbed, I wondered what I could do about it. What could be done about the tramp? I concluded that nothing could be done. There he was, but the time for doing anything had long passed. Nothing could now connect that man with what had happened to me three months ago by the railway tracks near Whitfield, Ontario. It was my fault entirely because I chose not to tell anyone, and we must live by our choices. The tramp would carry on with his various labours, laughing and joking with his wide monkey mouth. Not even divine retribution would strike his black heart.

Those were my thoughts as the rough-looking fellow lifted the bar and helped us onto the platform. Marion was delighted with her adventure.

“That was something, wasn’t it, Clara? I never thought I’d see the day when you’d get me on that thing.”

As we walked away, I looked back once more at the tramp who was smoking a cigarette and coiling a length of rope, chattering again at the engine man. The lineup for the second Rudy Vallee show was impossible; it snaked across the fairgrounds with no end in sight, mostly young people. Marion and I had ten or fifteen years on them and I felt foolish. They had set up loudspeakers so we could hear the great man singing about love, forever and ever. Marion was stoic about not seeing him and I think that her foot was sore. We joined the others at the Food Building and drove on home arriving just an hour ago.

I don’t know why I did what I did yesterday. What was I hoping to accomplish? Still I did it. I took the train down to Toronto and returned to the Exhibition. It is Labour Day weekend and so it was very busy. By late morning the buildings and fairgrounds were jammed. But no sign of the tramp. I walked by the Ferris wheel and the pipe-smoking man was at his levers, but he had another fellow helping him. Yet it was early and I wondered if the tramp came to work late in the day. So I left and spent some time in the Automotive Building, admiring the new motor cars and listening to men ask questions about them. Everyone stood abashed and respectful before these gleaming machines, and the salesmen in their blazers had set aside their newspapers to answer the hesitant questions about torque and horsepower. They knew that none of the men asking could afford a new Packard or Studebaker, but they were good-natured fellows and fielded all questions.

In the early afternoon I returned to the Ferris wheel, filled now with screaming youngsters circling in the grey close air. Still no tramp, but I was determined to wait. Around two o’clock the pipe-smoking man was replaced by another and made his way through the crowd. I hurried after him along a path behind the sideshow tents. I could hear the shuffling feet and the murmuring voices from the other side of the canvas as people moved past the cages of snakes and monkeys. I called out, “Excuse me,” and he turned a surly face my way. I was sympathetic to his confused and angry look which seemed to say, who are you and what is it now? He was a man used to trouble but tired of it all the same. Yet I could see his surprise at the respectable-looking woman standing behind the monkey tent. I was surely no carnival tart. He took the pipe from his mouth, the baffled, unfriendly face composed into a stare.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for a man who might be working at the Ferris wheel and I noticed you there a moment ago. I am a nurse and the man’s sister is a patient at the
hospital where I work. The woman is gravely ill. She has no family except her brother and she has expressed a desire to see him. He’s in his thirties, dark-haired, with a wide mouth. A friendly man, according to the woman, and filled with stories. She told me he was going to look for work at the Ferris wheel down here. That’s what she told me. It’s really very important that he come to the hospital to see her before it’s too late. Can you help me?”

This outlandish story had presented itself as I was calling to the man. I don’t know where it came from. Who knows where such tales abide and why they make their appearance on demand? He continued to stare at me.

“I don’t know anybody like that,” he began, “unless you mean the fellow who worked with me yesterday. Charlie! An awful gabber. I couldn’t shut him up. Is that who you mean?”

“Yes,” I said, “Charlie. That’s his name. Can you tell me where he lives? He moves around a lot according to his sister. Will he be back to work today?”

The man sucked on his pipe.

“No, no, no. He just came by yesterday morning and asked if there was any work. Turned out my helper was sick so I took this man for the day. But he wasn’t much good. I paid him off last night. He told me he knew all about four-stroke engines. Why, that man didn’t know any more about four-stroke engines than probably you do. I had to let him go. About all he could do was use an oil can. A comical fellow. Liked to talk.”

The pipe-smoking man didn’t know anything more about Charlie.

“Not even his last name?”

“Nope. He just came by and I took him because I needed someone. But like I said, he wasn’t much good.”

So there was nothing more to be done, and I may have felt some relief in that. On the train home I thought of how foolish I had been to go back there and hope that I could find something useful. And what if I had? What could I have done? Then I started thinking that maybe it
wasn’t the tramp at all; maybe my eyes had played tricks on me in the summer darkness of Friday night. All the way home I doubted whether I had really seen the tramp, and it made me feel better about not being able to do anything. Yet now I really do believe it was him.

Dear Clara,

Thanks for your letter. For goodness’ sake, take it easy on yourself. You shouldn’t be cleaning a house after what you went through. Why don’t you hire some girl in the village to help you with that kind of thing? Anyway, thanks for the money for the train ticket, but it really wasn’t necessary. For the life of me, I can’t understand what you’ve got against sleeping on a train.

I am glad to hear, however, that you are feeling “gay and buoyant” because I’d heard that women often become depressed after those operations. So I hope the blues don’t hit you. I suppose you’re just glad that it’s all over, and I can certainly understand that. You’ve always kept everything to yourself, that’s your nature of course and I can appreciate that. But I just hope that you don’t keep everything bottled up forever. Sometimes you have to talk about what happened or it will just kind of fester inside you. What I’m thinking about here is the man. I hope you are over him and don’t become involved again. After what you went through, the heel doesn’t deserve another chance, so I hope you will take that advice in the spirit in which it is offered.

I can imagine the fuss the people in Whitfield made about your visit to New York. If they only knew the reason, huh! Anyway, Cora Macfarlane is full of it. That woman never had a kind word to say about me when I was going to school. She always thought I would come to no good. Not for a moment would she ever had believed that
“I would some day make something of myself.” What baloney! She was always complaining to Father that I was bothering her Ralphie. You remember Ralph Macfarlane? That drip! He used to sit beside me and stare at my legs. But his mother was so worried about her Ralphie. He is in Toronto now, isn’t he? And married? It makes you wonder.

By the way, and I meant to say this right off the bat — we are going full network next month and the agency has sold the program to a number of Canadian stations including Toronto, though I can’t remember which one. So, you can tell the good folks in Whitfield that they can tune me in and let Cora Macfarlane put that in her pipe and smoke it!!!

Have to go now. Les is taking me to the new Ginger Rogers movie at the Loew’s. I get such a kick out of looking at her in those gorgeous gowns. You’re probably thinking that it’s now my turn to get mixed up with a married guy, but don’t worry, I’ve been burned before. This is just a date. Once in a while it’s nice to go out with a man. I like the smell of their shaving lotion and the way they can steer you through a crowd. Those are little things I miss. Anyway this is not serious. I told Les that it’s just a friendly date and not to get his hopes up for anything “hot and heavy.” Please take care of yourself, sister!

Love, Nora

P.S. I was talking to Evelyn and she said that it might be a good idea for you to have some kind of examination in a few weeks. Just to make sure everything is okay “down in the wheelhouse,” as she puts it. Maybe you could go to Toronto and have that done. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.

Dear Clara Callan,

My, aren’t we formal and “standoffish” when we apply our signatures to letters to friends! Well, Clara Callan, I am glad that you are safely back in your little village of “six hundred souls” and are busy “putting things in order.” Why do I imagine that you spend a good deal of time “putting things in order.” Not that I couldn’t use a little bit of that around here (thank God for Eunice). But you do strike me as the type of gal who is inordinately fond of tidiness, though obviously you have an intriguing secret life.

Never mind, I am only kidding. This is just old half-sloshed Evelyn speaking and you musn’t take offence. Let me just say this and I mean it. I very much enjoyed meeting you even under the difficult circumstances surrounding your visit. Yes, you are a tidy severe person and English or Canadian or Canadian-English or something. But you are also quite a nice person and the funny thing is you don’t realize it. I hope you have been told by someone besides me just how nice you really are. There now, you are shocked, but you shouldn’t be. You see yourself as the dry spinster schoolteacher, but you are obviously much more than that and you should know it. What do you do for amusement on say, a Wednesday night in that village?

You and that sister of yours! What a pair! And how different! Yet you complement each other so remarkably well. Let me tell you about Nora and me since I could see by your furrowed brow that you were trying to puzzle out what was going on between us. Nora is beautiful in her own way; she turns men’s heads, and women’s too, believe me. She is also a wonderful trooper with the proverbial heart of gold. She is tough but innocent. Of course, she can be an utter birdbrain. She is far too simplistic and actually believes in the stuff I write for her. She thinks it helps a lot of people get through their day, and for all I know, she may be right,
though God help the nation if she is. But Nora is also shrewd and honest. The radio business is filled with ambitious but dishonest people, but even the most corroded hearts down here like your sister.

Never sell Nora short! I saw you looking at her a few times and probably thinking, “My, how my sister has become a vulgar little American broad!” Of course, you wouldn’t have put it in so many words, but you know what I mean. And yes, it’s easy to see Nora as just a pretty little thing acting in this dopey radio show for housewives. But the fact is that she puts so much of her own goodness (I can think of no other word) into those fifteen minutes every day, that the damn thing sounds almost authentic. Innocence like that can be truly frightening. Well, I guess you can now see why I am so fond of her.

Now to other things. I’m glad you enjoyed the poetry books. I like Bogan too. She writes with a clear unsentimental voice and that is what appeals to me in her work. Millay’s latest poems are a little spongy for my taste. You would probably enjoy Elinor Wylie. And let’s not forget the boys! How about Eliot and Pound? Have you read anything by them? Or Wallace Stevens? He’s interesting and intricate. A little cerebral for me but he’ll put your brain to work. Maybe you could look for some of their stuff in Toronto. What a funny name for a city by the way! Is it Indian or what? And how far away from this city are you? Nora keeps reminding me that Canadians do not live in the bush, and of course I realize that, but I just wondered how close you were to bookstores and concerts and things like that. I was only up to Canada once. I was twelve. Good Lord, that was thirty-five years ago! My father, a kind, gentle wonderful man (unfortunately I take after my mother) took me up to Montreal on
the train and then we had a boat ride down the St. Lawrence River. We stayed in a big hotel on a cliffside in Quebec City and I thought it was all thoroughly enchanting. It was like living in a castle and the French-Canadian maids were so nice to me, though I’m sure I must have been an awful brat. But that’s my only experience of your fair country. Perhaps one of these days I will get up to that village of yours and see how it matches Meadowvale, U.S.A.