Clara Callan (24 page)

Oh, I tormented the poor girl with larky tales of handsome men. Told her that I almost took a lover, there among the ancient stones of Rome. A swarthy, young man who wore a black tam and rode a bicycle.

“Clara! You didn’t!”

“Well, I might have. He was very good-looking.”

“You are really something, Clara Callan.”

“Am I really, Marion?”

To Toronto on the train and then the streetcar to the Exhibition. Walked past the kewpie doll stands in search of my errant knight. There are women who work at these carnivals and I wondered about their lives: the rough lovemaking in the caravans behind the tents, the smell of onions and frying meat in the air, the cheap glitter of this world where men and women fight and couple and carry on as others do before they vanish into oblivion. No Charlie this year!

The scrubbed faces of the children on opening day. The smell of soap and ironed pinafores in the classroom. For as long as I can remember, I have always felt renewed at the beginning of another school year. What do I feel this year? I feel wayward. Here came the word out of
nowhere. Wayward! I love its sound and may even have said it aloud this morning. Two or three pupils glanced my way, I think. While they were doing their first lesson, I looked up the word in the dictionary.

Wayward
: 1. Disposed to go counter to the wishes and advice of others or to what is reasonable; wrong-headed, intractable, self-willed, perverse. 2. Capriciously wilful; conforming to no fixed rule or principle of conduct.

Exactly. Sleeping poorly these nights. Mrs. Bryden asked after supper whether I was all right. Saw my bedroom light at three yesterday morning. Up, I suppose, for her nightly tinkle.

Dear Clara,

I trust all is well and you’re settled in for another school year. I’m back in business too and everybody was glad to see me. You should have seen the mail while I was gone! Well, Italy wasn’t everything we thought it might be, was it? Some experience, huh? I might have known Lewis would behave the way he did. I could see signs of it long before we left New York. I guess I was just dazzled by the big-shot intellectual. But then I’ve always had bad luck with men. Why can’t I just find a nice ordinary guy who wouldn’t be so mean or such a show-off? Such fellows seem to have dropped off the face of the earth.

His Lordship sent me a postcard from Paris saying he didn’t think we were suited for each other and thanks for the memories. Couldn’t even face me to say goodbye. What a crumb! Him and his fancy friends! Remember that awful little fruit with the yellow hair in Rome? I should have slapped his face that night. Thrown his wig onto the floor or something. Oh well, we live and learn. Now that I’m back on the shelf, I’m spending my nights reading or listening to the radio. Evelyn is also feeling blue. Her showgirl friend from Texas “has taken
a powder,” to use Evy’s phrase. She went back home after getting a letter from her high school sweetheart who said he was still in love and wanted to marry her. How about that? Anyway, Evy is pretty glum about it all and she’s now talking about a change in her life. She is thinking very seriously of moving out to California to write for the movies. Apparently a number of the studios have been after her. Gee, I hope she doesn’t
go because I can’t imagine living down here without Evy. At the same time, I hate to see her so unhappy. She really fell hard for that girl and she’s taking all this badly. Why don’t you drop her a line? She thinks the world of you, and I know she’d be tickled to hear from you.

Well, I have to wash my hair. Evy and I are going to the movies tonight. Any chance of you coming down here for Christmas? I’d love to have you and I know the three of us could have a great time. Why not think about it?

Love, Nora

Dear Evelyn,

I am writing this in the midst of a terrible storm. Such wind and rain! I feel like one of the three little pigs being blown at by the wolf. Thank goodness I’m the one in the brick house! This tumult must signal the turning of the seasons. We always have unsettled weather at the equinox, but this afternoon is unsurpassed in my memory. Sheets of rain against the windows and it seems to be coming at me horizontally rather than vertically. An astounding display of nature in commotion. Not a soul on the streets. Whitfield truly is the deserted village on this wet autumn afternoon.

I have been wondering how things are with you. No doubt Nora has told you of our Italian holiday. I don’t think she enjoyed it as much as she thought she would. But then does reality ever meet our
expectations? I, on the other hand, enjoyed it more than I dared to hope (the pessimist’s occasional reward). Rome was so utterly different from anything in my admittedly limited experience that I was caught up in its vividness. I felt so alive there, even though I was often frightened by the sheer maleness of the culture. The streets seemed to be filled with young men in uniform prowling with a hungry eye, while the women covered their heads with kerchiefs and fled to the nearest church. But what churches and ruins there are to see!

Of course, speaking of maleness, we had the redoubtable Mr. Mills for company, and though Lewis Mills may be a brilliant man, he can also readily play the role of buffoon. Did Nora tell you of our singular adventure with the police in Rome? All of it brought on by Mr. Mills and his encounter with what dogs leave behind after dinner. How is that for a euphemism? Of course, we ended up in the police station. It was fascinating, but also more than a little alarming. At one point, I watched them bring in a young man; he was obviously poor and he certainly didn’t look like a serious criminal. But the way they treated him was so brutal. It was perhaps a glimpse of how life is for some under Mussolini. Yet, the country has a compelling lustre to it and the ordinary people were friendly and helpful. Certainly I shall never forget it. I saw an Englishwoman in Rome. At Keats’s house, the house where he died. I pitied the woman, but then later I envied her. Ah well! Perhaps I will tell you about it another time.

Nora has mentioned that you might be going out to California to write for the moving pictures. Such a life seems to me impossibly remote and glamorous. For years I wasn’t interested in the pictures, but lately (perhaps on Nora’s urging; she seems addicted to them), I have been looking at some of them. After I have finished shopping in Toronto on a Saturday afternoon, I will sometimes go to the picture theatre. We do not have such a place in the village and in the nearby town of Linden all the movies are about men chasing Indians on horses. When I am in Toronto and waiting for the afternoon train
home, I particularly enjoy the gangster pictures. Not very inspiring, I admit, but entertaining. I suppose I am like one of those country dogs that for some reason will eat a mouthful of dirt now and again. I too seem to need to enter a world of vice and corruption. Does that strike you as odd? I sometimes wonder if that’s normal. Not that I’ve ever made any great claims to being normal.

I’ve just been holding my breath as another of these great gusts has shaken the windows of this old house. I feel like jumping into bed and burrowing beneath the covers like a child. Well, never mind, this storm will pass as do all manner of things. In time. Do take care of yourself.

Kindest regards, Clara

Dear Nora,

Thanks for your letter. What a day we are having here! Such wind and rain! The heavens are truly in turmoil. It must have something to do with the changing seasons. I heard on the radio this morning that there have been many deaths from this weather down in your part of the world.

So, it’s goodbye to Mr. Mills, is it? Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised, and it’s probably just as well, don’t you think? L.M. is an intelligent and interesting man, but like all such rare creatures, he is difficult and ultimately incomprehensible. The way he behaved in Rome that day was inexcusable. I am sure you will be better off without him. Remember what I said on the boat ride back?

School has returned to its routines and Milton and I will have plenty of work to do this year. Well, there was another gust of wind against the house. I fear for the trees on our street though they all seem to be upright. But the roads and sidewalks are a mess, littered with leaves
and fallen branches. However, I am warm and dry and hope to ride out this rough weather. Do take care of yourself.

Clara

P.S. As you suggested, I have dropped Evelyn Dowling a line.

Foolish, foolish, foolish! Why do I agree to do such things? Outside the post office today, Ida Atkins persuaded me to address the Women’s Auxiliary a week from next Tuesday. It seems I cannot say no to this woman, and now I must invent some nonsense about travelling with my Normal School “friends.” Then, I must face all those women.

Henry Hill lurching about and singing in the streets, still wearing Father’s overcoat with its velvet collar. From the front window I watched him pass the house a few minutes ago. Manley and Melvin Kray and two or three other boys were taunting the old man and throwing stones at him. I got up to look at this after trying all afternoon to gather some impressions of Italy for this damn talk.

Fell asleep too early and then awakened at ten. I could not get back to sleep and so I have been reading
Startling Detective
: “Mismatched Lovers Want to Die Together.” A thirty-five-year-old woman in California runs away with a nineteen-year-old boy who worked for the woman’s husband as an usher in a movie theatre. The woman went to the movies several nights a week and the two became “acquainted.” She persuaded the boy to murder her husband, and so
he beat him to death with a hammer one night in the projection room. The pair fled in the family sedan, but the police caught up with them in a tourist court near the Mexican border. “I’m glad I did it,” the woman says. “I don’t care what you do with us now. I want to die with him. We want to die together.”

Both of them sentenced to the electric chair. With dulled eyes the woman stares at the camera in her prison smock. The youth has a torpid, sexual look to him, slack-faced, defiled, brimming with seed.

Dear Clara,

Great to hear from you. Yes, we got that storm down here too. The tail end of a hurricane, it seems. According to the
Times
, the Empire State Building was actually moving in the gale. Apparently it was designed to do just that, but I find the idea a little horrifying. When you look up and see this huge chunk of steel and concrete and glass, you just expect it to stay in place when the wind is blowing. But, swaying back and forth! Jeez! Anyway, it was quite the blow and we had buckets of rain too.

For the past several weeks I have been suffering “the pangs of disprized love.” My little June bug, all five feet ten of her, lit out for Texas where she was reared. She is going to marry some drip she went to high school with. I hope you don’t mind my ending a sentence with a preposition. You have to be careful when you’re writing a schoolmarm. Anyway, Junie left me and my heart has been rent in twain. Can you imagine leaving me for a Studebaker salesman? I could have shown her the world. Offered it, in fact, on a fairly good-sized platter. But no dice. Oh, the powerful appeal of the front porch and apron! Well, there is nothing to be done about these passions except try to get
over them. Your sister and I have been commiserating with one another since her return from Europe. She’s told me all about the trip and Mr. Mills’s nutty behaviour. What an experience for you both! Please do not judge all Americans by what you saw and heard from Lewis Mills. Believe it or not, some of
us do manage to travel quietly and stay out of trouble when we go abroad. Nora said she didn’t know what she would have done if you hadn’t been along. Gee, I wish I had a big sister!

“The House on Chestnut Street” continues to garner any amount of lavish praise in the trade journals.
Radio News
called it “the best-written afternoon serial on the air.” So there! Nobody is going to win a Pulitzer writing this stuff, but I’ll take what I can get and it’s always nice to be recognized by people in the industry. We are currently in the top five, but we can’t seem to catch old “Ma Perkins.” We’ve come close, but we can’t close the gap. Exciting, huh? I’ve been busy with two other proposals: one, another weeper for the ladies of the afternoon, and the other, a detective show set in Manhattan. That one is more fun to write. I’ve submitted both to the agency, but haven’t heard anything back yet.

Yes, I am thinking of going out to California. MGM has offered me a lot of money and I am thinking about it. In many ways, it’s appealing. I feel I could use a change of scenery. On the other hand, I love New York and I know I would miss the place. So, I continue to dither. Dithery old Evelyn!

Nora said she asked you down for Christmas. Why not take her up on it? It would be fun to see you again. The three of us could do the tourist stuff: Macy’s windows, Radio City, a Broadway show. Nora loves all that, and I love watching her love it. Love and chaste kisses, Clara.

Evelyn

A showery evening. I walked over to Ida Atkins’s house to tell her that I can’t speak to the Women’s Auxiliary tomorrow night. I just can’t do it. It’s impossible. But the garage was empty and the house in darkness. Returned in damp clothes and spent the rest of the evening cobbling together some impressions of Italy: the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel, priests, beggars, soldiers, the vineyards of Tuscany, the light on the stones of Venice. Horrible trite stuff! What can I say to these women that has any ring of truth? How will I ever sleep tonight?

Cobble:
to mend or patch coarsely; to make or put together roughly or hastily.