Clara Callan (37 page)

He seemed to be out of temper with me, and so I told him the hotel would be fine, but that Wednesday nights would be difficult for me once school resumed.

“Well then,” he said. “I suppose we can go back to Saturday afternoons or something. Once we close up the cottage, I’ll be in the city on weekends.” We were both a little cross with each other.

Hot weather continues. Milton phoned this morning to say that school opening may be delayed a week because of this constant threat of poliomyelitis. Apparently, the Toronto schools are waiting for the weather to break. Milton is going into Linden tonight for a board meeting and will let me know tomorrow.

Cooler weather at last, and Milton phoned to say that classes will begin as usual on Tuesday. But I can only think of Frank and of how much I want to be with him, even in that awful hotel. I should be preparing lesson plans. I have been so negligent this summer. I haven’t opened a schoolbook since June.

Nora phoned this morning. She and Mr. Cunningham had a “swell time” together this weekend; they went to some resort. I could not help feeling a little angry and jealous as I listened to her. Nora lives in an immense city where a woman can do whatever she likes with her life. Here it is “What will the neighbours think?” as Father used to say. What indeed? And wouldn’t it be restful not to care?

Then Frank phoned at suppertime and I was overjoyed to hear from him. He had just brought his family down from the cottage and was calling from a pay booth. He told me how much he missed me, and how much he was looking forward to seeing me on Wednesday night. He sounded so eager and affectionate that I became overwrought. I began to weep, there on the telephone. Told him I loved him so much and I knew that I was being silly, but I couldn’t help myself. I know others were listening, Cora Macfarlane or those Caldwell girls, but I didn’t care. What a grip all this has taken on my feelings! I must be the talk of the village.

Somehow I got through the day and it was not as bad as I had feared. This new grade system is simpler and should not be a problem. Getting back to work has been a relief. But I see Frank tomorrow night.

I have taken a few days to think about what happened last Wednesday night. In the hotel room, Frank did something that bothered me. He had thrown his jacket over a chair and was sitting on the bed. We had talked about my drive down to the city, and of how difficult it was going to be now that I was back in school.

“Yes, yes, my darling,” he said. “I understand all that and we’ll work something out. You musn’t worry.”

He then fell silent, and leaning back on his elbows, smoked his pipe and regarded me. His gaze was so intent that I wondered if I had done something that displeased him. Finally I said, “What’s the matter Frank? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” he said smiling. “Nothing’s the matter. It’s just that I want to show you something. Do you think you’d mind?”

“Why should I mind?”

He tapped his pipe into an ashtray, reached over for his jacket and withdrew a package of photographs from one of the pockets. “I thought,” he said, “it might be interesting for us to look at some pictures together. They’re a little racy, Clara. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“What kind of pictures are they?” I asked.

He came around to the other side of the bed where I was sitting.

“We’ll look at them together and you can tell me what you think.”

In the first photograph, a naked woman was on her knees in front of a man and she had taken his organ into her mouth while another naked woman fondled the man from behind. The other pictures also involved the man and the two women in various obscene postures. I found them both astonishing and revolting. As we looked at them,
Frank kept saying things like, “What do you think of that, darling? Wouldn’t that be fun? Wouldn’t that be exciting to try?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Another person? With us?”

He shrugged. “Well, why not?”

I didn’t know what to make of it all. The pictures aroused Frank, but only left me vaguely disgusted, and the idea of another woman sharing our intimacy was unthinkable. I wondered if Frank no longer found me desirable. Was I too dull for him? The experience upset me and I’m afraid I was ill at ease and unromantic. The whole evening was ruined and Frank could not conceal his disappointment.

“All right, Clara,” he said. “This is clearly a waste of time. You’re like a board tonight.”

But in that hotel room I felt so cheap and those pictures were so revolting. I don’t know what to make of it all. He said he would phone me, and I told him to be careful about what he said on the line. “Oh, that again,” he said peevishly.

“Frank,” I said. “Let’s go back to the little motor court by the lake. We’ve been happy there.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “We’ll see.”

I haven’t heard from him since. I wonder if I should write and tell him how I feel.

Spent all morning composing this letter and then didn’t feel I could mail it. This afternoon I wrote another, almost word for word, and sent it.

Dear Frank,

I am marking this letter personal and trusting to the professionalism of your secretary to pass it on to you unopened. For several days now, I
have wanted to write to you or talk to you about what happened last Wednesday night. Please believe me when I say that I want you to be happy with me. I want that more than anything in the world. And I think of how happy we have been in one another’s arms, and, Frank, I want that to continue. But I cannot bring myself to imagine another person sharing our intimacy. That is such a repugnant idea to me and please don’t think I am being merely prudish. It is more than that. What we have together is so special to me that I can’t bear the thought of soiling it with mere sexual games. Please try not to be angry with me about this. It’s the way I am and I cannot change my nature. I want to please you in any way I can, but it must be just us, we two, together, alone. I want to be with you.

Love, Clara

No word and I can think of nothing except that I have turned him away forever. I feel distanced from everything around me. A terrible day at school and finally at five o’clock I phoned his office. The secretary told me he wasn’t in. She was not the same woman I have spoken to before and she was very rude about it all. “Mr. Quinlan is not taking personal calls during business hours,” she said in this snippy voice. Has he given this woman instructions not to take my calls? I should never have mailed that letter. I have driven him away.

I have done nothing all weekend but walk about the house in this ridiculous wrapper. The phone keeps ringing and always it’s for the Macfarlanes or the Caldwells. Frank has walked out of my life without a word of explanation, and I feel as hollow as a reed, walking from room to room. Last night Marion phoned to ask if I wanted to go to the movies with her and her parents over in Linden, but I couldn’t face them.

After church today, Mrs. Bryden looked in because she hadn’t seen me all weekend and wondered if I were ill. But I just want to be alone. A pile of scribblers on the dining-room table to mark and I haven’t even glanced at them.

This evening Nora phoned. She was having a party for Evelyn’s forty-ninth birthday. I could hear the music and laughter and Nora was in high spirits.

“How I wish you were down here with us today, Clara!”

“Yes. Well . . .”

Evelyn came on the line, but I could scarcely concentrate. They all sounded so gay on this lovely September evening that when Nora was saying goodbye, I began to weep. Carried on like a madwoman there on the telephone and, of course, this sent Nora into mild hysterics.

“Clara, for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter?”

Lamely I told her not to worry, I would write. But I felt disgusted with myself. I’m sure I ruined her party. That was hours ago and it is now nearly midnight. I can’t believe I’ll sleep a minute.

How a mere day can make a difference in our outlook and expectations! I am writing this hurriedly, but perhaps at least these few poor words will remind me on some bleak Monday ahead that our fortunes can quickly change and for the better. All day I went through the motions, wondering whether I should tell Milton that I had a doctor’s appointment in Toronto tomorrow. I thought of going down there and waiting for Frank outside his office building. Try to talk to him about all this. But I didn’t and now I am glad, for as I got in the door, the phone was ringing and it was Frank. He has been on a business trip to Montreal. Told me he left instructions with the girl in the office to tell me this, but she didn’t and what does it matter now? Yet that woman cost me a weekend of despair, damn her eyes. Frank apologized for all this and told me how much he missed me and could we
meet tonight somewhere? He made no mention of my letter and I am just as glad. I am now going to have a cup of tea and drive
to Uxbridge station to meet him.

So tired and just now, at the door, Mrs. Bryden and the minister’s wife canvassing for the Parsons. Harold is coming home from the hospital next week. I was happy enough to contribute, but desperate to see them go. Yet they lingered with Mrs. Bryden studying my face, as if expecting to find there the secrets of my life.

“You looked tired, Clara.”

Is it any wonder? I got in this morning at four o’clock, as she well knows. I saw her light come on as I pulled into the driveway. The village is talking about me; I can sense it in people’s looks. Finally got rid of them and then phoned Nora.

“Where were you last night? I tried until midnight to reach you. What’s going on, Clara? Are you all right now?”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine, Nora, thanks. I’m sorry I carried on like that last Sunday. It was nothing. A mountain out of a molehill. I’m ashamed of myself.”

“I’m worried about you. You don’t sound yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me, Nora. I’m fine now, really.”

I can scarcely remember anything I said to the children today. Imagine coming in at four o’clock on a Tuesday morning! Imagine making love in the back seat of a car on the side of a highway! When I think of what might have happened I can only shudder. In love we abandon reason and embrace risk and sooner or later . . . Last night was a close call.

We met at the station and I followed Frank to the little river where we met months ago. We parked and I got into his car. The wind came up and it began to rain, a season-turning storm. But it was delicious there in the warm car in one another’s arms. Frank insisted that we
take off our clothes. I was reluctant, but the idea was exciting and so we did. We lay there making love until midnight. Perhaps we even slept a little, I don’t recall. We had just put on our clothes (thank the gods of good fortune) when a policeman came by. I shall not soon forget the sight of him getting off his motorcycle. The huge figure in a rubber cape, shining a light into the car, the rain slanting through the beam of his flashlamp. That voice on the other side of the glass.

“What the hell are you doing out here at this time of the night?”

I was terrified, but Frank wasn’t in the least intimidated. I suppose his manner, his clothes, his car were all reassuring; the policeman could see we weren’t hooligans. Frank told him we were trying to sort out some domestic problems. The policeman told us to move along and we did. But what if he had come by only a half-hour earlier and found us naked? How could we have talked our way out of that? I was so nervous I stalled the car several times before I finally got underway. What a strange, happy, frightening experience!

Frank phoned last night to say that he cannot meet me in Toronto. He and his brothers are taking the train to Sydney, Nova Scotia, to see about coal purchases for next year. He’ll be gone a week and said he would try to phone. Perhaps it’s just as well. These days I feel languid and spent. And so, a little holiday from love.

Frank phoned this evening. He was in a hurry and I can’t remember what he said. It was just good to hear his voice.

This came in today’s mail. For the past hour I have sat at the kitchen table with this before me. It is so hurtful to read, yet like a child picking at a scab, I return to it again and again. I’m sure I now know these awful words by heart.

Dear Miss Callan,

I want you to know that you are not the only woman in my father’s life. You are only one among many whom he has “entertained” in various hotel rooms around this city. I am sure he has told you how much he cares for you. Well la-di-da, but you needn’t waste your time believing him. He is certain to tire of you one of these days, just as he has tired of the others.

My mother suffered through this for years. My sister Anne and my brother Michael are also well aware of our father’s “habits.” Patrick, thank goodness, is still too young. I am not sure what you do, but I am guessing (judging from the letter you wrote) that you are either a schoolteacher or a secretary. Those are the kind of women he seems to prefer. Did he pick you up at the movies on Saturday afternoon? That is how he meets women. I followed him once many years ago. I was twelve years old, Miss Callan. I sat at the back of the theatre and watched my father leave with a woman. Can you possibly imagine how that felt at twelve years of age? Miss Callan, my father preys on women like you and then abandons them when he becomes bored.

All this is shameful to me, my mother, my brother and my sister. It is the main reason why Anne is now in a convent. She cannot stand being at home around him. My brother Michael too. He knows all about our father and stays away. I could tell you other things about my father, but I won’t. My sister and I have wished many times that he
would be taken from us by accident. I still live at home because I feel a great obligation to my mother who has suffered all these years because of my father’s weakness for women like you.