Clara Callan (46 page)

I’ve talked the producer into writing me out of the show for a few days, and so I can come up to see you this summer. How about Labour Day weekend? Can you drop me a line and confirm? I hope you’ve seen a doctor by now. Have you told anyone? I can just imagine the tongues wagging around Whitfield by now. It must be awful just walking down the street and knowing all those eyes are on you. But, I’m proud of you and I mean it. Did you know that right now your baby is approximately two inches long? I found this out in a book I’m sending you for your birthday (Happy Birthday, by the way). It’s called
The Complete New Mother’s Guide to a Healthy Baby
and it has all kinds of information on what to eat and what to expect over the next few months. It’s fascinating what happens to your body when you’re having a baby. I really had no idea.

You may think this is nonsense, Clara, but in a way I envy you. Let me know how you are getting along, okay?

Love, Nora

Dear Nora,

Thanks for the book, which arrived yesterday. It must have cost a fortune to mail this tome, but I appreciate the thought. As you said, it has all kinds of information that I didn’t know I needed to have. Rest assured that I am taking care of myself. I really don’t feel that different yet, though I’m beginning to grow “quite the little bosom.” I tend to get a bit tired so I sleep in later. Now, at first light, I just roll over and doze for another hour or so. I feel entitled to indulge myself like this. I’ve never paid much attention to my body. I’ve always regarded it as something that gets me around, but now I suppose I’m thinking of this child too, and so I am more conscious of being a living “body.” I have a good appetite and that morning nausea seems to be over, thank goodness. Yes, I do have a doctor, and I am going to see him again in a couple of weeks. Murdoch is an elderly Scot and seems to have that nationality’s dour and stern manner.
But I like him. He’s a no-nonsense fellow. I was supposed to see this new man (handsome as a movie star), but he happened to be out on the day I went, and so I had to make do with Murdoch. But as I said, he’s fine. I’ll stick with him.

Now that the heat wave has passed, I am enjoying the summer. It must have been awful last month down in New York; it was bad enough up here; the gardens and lawns were in ruins and are only now beginning to recover after some good rains.

I have gone back to the piano. I got away from it for a while. Spent too much time listening to that pernicious radio of yours. It does seduce us in our idle hours. But now I am thinking that I may teach this child to play the piano. I doubt whether I’ll be able to afford
lessons. Perhaps playing the piano is no longer as important in a youngster’s life as it used to be. When we were young, so many girls wanted to play. Still it is an accomplishment. If I have a boy, I still think I will teach him. He will probably play jazz music instead of Schubert, but that will be all right too. When I am an old woman, he can bring in his friends for a night of jazz music while I sit in the corner. He will have to have some qualities or gifts to attract friends. If he takes after me, I can’t imagine that he will be athletic. But perhaps he will inherit some of his Aunt Nora’s athleticism. Do you remember how you used to play softball and hockey with the boys when you were eleven or twelve? And how I
used to sneer at you for this! Now I believe that I secretly envied you, for I was so clumsy as a child. I still am for that matter.

I am sorry to hear that you and your friend have parted ways but perhaps it’s for the best. We’ve both been down that road and so we both know what’s at the end of it. There comes a day when it’s all over. It’s a story that has to end badly, isn’t it? Men must return to their wives, Nora; it is the way of the world. And we must — let me turn that into a humble little couplet:

Men must return to their wives,
and we must get on with our lives.

A little lame, I admit, but it might be a useful reminder if we were to dress it up through handicraft: hand-stitched on fabric, and nicely framed to hang upon the kitchen wall next to the dairy calendar.

It’s Dominion Day and there is hardly a soul to be seen in the village. Many have gone over to Linden for the parade this afternoon. The Premier will be there, I am told. Others have gone to their cottages for the weekend. Marion and her parents left for Sparrow Lake yesterday and I already miss her. It’s so odd because she was getting on my nerves. Since she’s learned of “my condition,” she’s been over nearly every day fussing about me and asking whether she can do anything.
Of course she means well, but at times I felt I was quite prepared to take her by the throat and kill her for her kindness. Yet now, knowing that I won’t see her for six weeks, I miss her. What an impossible person I am! Well, in any case, you musn’t worry about me, Nora. I intend to take good care of myself. Thanks again for the book.

Clara

P.S. I will look forward to seeing you on Labour Day weekend.

A visit to Murdoch who weighed and measured, and poked and prodded. The peculiar medicinal smell of him and the immaculate part in his grey hair as he bent across me. What an odd way for a man to make his living! Feeling the privates of a virtual stranger and peering into unlikely orifices! All in a day’s work, of course, and thank goodness for those who are prepared to spend their working hours doing such things. I appear to be in good health. Murdoch, stern of mien (as old-fashioned authors used to describe such types) is a man of few words, but at the end of his examination he did lay a hand on my shoulder and said not unkindly, “Now, Miss, you are going to be just fine.” His words made me feel like a young girl. Briefly.

At the library I took out
The Scarlet Letter
. I tried to read this when I was fifteen or sixteen, but it defeated me. Perhaps now Hawthorne’s genius will shine through all the verbiage. Twenty years ago I found him a terrible old windbag. Now that I can truly identify with poor Hester however. . .

A bad day. Two letters, one confirming the consequences of my moral turpitude, and the other, a rancid denunciation of my character. Written in pencil, badly spelled and, of course, anonymous.

Dear Miss Uppity,
Well it looks like youve been foundout doesn’t it. Maybe this will teach you not to give yourself such airs in this village. There are plenty of us around who are just as good as you and arent to snooty to say hello on the street. Just because your father was principle of the school and your sister is a bigshot on the radio in New York dont mean your so hot. There are plenty of people in Whitfield who think you have no business near there children. There are places for the likes of you down in the city so why dont you just get on your high horse and skeddadle down there where you belong. Im speaking for lots of folks in this village. You always thought yourself so high and mightyt didn’t you. Well it turns out your just baggage.

Dear Miss Callan:

At a meeting of the Board of Trustees for Whitfield Township Schools on Wednesday evening, July 13, it was decided not to renew your contract for the coming school year. As Chairman, it is my duty to inform you that your services will no longer be required as a classroom teacher at the Continuation School in Whitfield. Your salary will, of course, be paid until the end of August. On behalf of the Board, I thank you for services rendered over the past several years.

Yours truly,

John H. Morrison

Dear Evelyn,

Forgive a dilatory correspondent. It must be six weeks since I received your last letter and I have no excuse for not writing before this other than laziness. These days I am quite idle, rising late and frittering away the hours playing the piano and reading poison pen letters. Actually I have only received one, though one is enough, thank you very much. I am thinking of framing it and placing it over the mantel in the dining room. I think it would make an interesting conversation starter with dinner guests. If I ever had any dinner guests!

I have been to the doctor, a surly old Scot in the nearby town of Linden. I drive over there once a month and he pokes and prods me; apparently I am as healthy as any of the young mares he sees in the course of his daily rounds. This is a farming community, Evelyn, and we are apt to use rustic imagery. Curiously enough, I am happy. Or to be more precise, as happy as someone with my temperament can be. Some mornings I awaken and for a few seconds forget what has happened. Life will just go on as it has in the past; then, of course, I say to myself, Well, it won’t because I am pregnant and in a few months I will have a child to look after and live with. Then I begin to feel a bit overwhelmed by it all and this might last a minute or two. I lie there feeling stupidly sorry for myself, perplexed and anxious about everything that lies ahead. My life is certainly veering in a new direction. How will that work itself out? I don’t know yet. How could I? Yet it is exciting and makes me almost happy. I suppose
I am like someone who is embarking on a mysterious adventure and feels fearful yet exhilarated. I’m afraid I haven’t described my state of mind very well, but it’s the best I can do on this summer afternoon with only the cicadas and the rattle of a neighbour’s lawn mower to disturb the drowsy peace.

Your Hollywood sounds fascinating. Can you tell me more about
it? Do you see any famous movie stars? If you have a few moments in your glamorous life, I would love to hear from you.

Clara

What thoughts course through my mind and at unlikely hours! At seven o’clock this morning I was cleaning the windows in Father’s room, watching the sunlight pour across the backyard onto the Brydens’ garden. Mr. Bryden was hoeing his potato hills. In an old suit coat and with a straw hat on his head, he was whistling “Yours Is My Heart Alone.” An elderly man in his garden on a summer morning and I thought of his words about Mother; about how all the young men in the village had envied Father when he married her. Father used to say that after they were married they sometimes went dancing with the Brydens at the Orange Hall in Linden.

I like to imagine them returning from such evenings, pausing to say good night down there in the driveway, then entering these houses. Two young couples climbing the stairs to their bedrooms, the scent of lilacs through a screen and moonlight spilling across the bedroom floors. Hanging up suit coats and dresses in closets, unfastening braces and straps and pulling on nightclothes. Climbing into bed. It must have been something like that. The elderly man now hoeing his garden and whistling was once young; he must have been caught up on some long-ago summer night in all the erotic commotion, the tangled, frantic embraces of love. Naked. Splayed and thrusting. What thoughts for a mother-to-be who is washing windows at seven o’clock in the morning!

Dear Clara,

Glamorous life! You bet! In my cell at Mr. Mayer’s workshop. As I may have said before, I am a well-paid slave out here among the comely lasses and handsome lads and men with hairy brown arms in short-sleeve shirts who smoke cigars. The reek of cigar smoke out here is as dense as the mimosa in the evening. Well, it now looks as if this damn serial that I have concocted is going to go into production in the fall. Mr. M. seems to like my portrait of ideal family life, and so we’ll be inflicting this on the public in another few months. We are still looking for the ideal girl to play our pert Miss Brown. The Garland kid would be ideal, but she is not available. They want her for the lead in a picture based on Frank Baum’s
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
, which they are hoping to shoot in September.

You want a glimpse of my “glamorous world”? Sometimes they allow us to unchain ourselves and go to the bathroom. Or stand by a window and stretch the muscles of an aching back. So the other morning I witnessed two scenes which will give you some idea of the contrasts in my world. I saw both through the bars of my garret window.

Scene One

Ten o’clock in the a.m. and a certain Mr. Big’s Cadillac drives into the lot. Several flunkies get out and then Mr. Big emerges, all five feet two of him in a cream-coloured suit, two-toned shoes, cigar, of course. Then from the side of our building comes this young woman, a delicious-looking blonde (she works on the third floor as a stenographer or typist), and approaches Mr. Big. She is obviously upset and there is a flurry of something going on. Flunkies move in and surround her. Hustle her into the big car which drives away while little Mr. Big
adjusts his necktie and disappears below me. Now what do you imagine has happened? So, not a good day for the pretty typist.

Scene Two

An hour later on this morning of sunshine and orange juice, and who is crossing the lot under my window but Rooney and Garland, our mythical American kids. He is making her laugh with some of his antics. He is a brash little guy, but he can sure make the girls laugh. So there you have it! Heartache and success and all within footsteps of one another. As Fred keeps reminding me in that sensible Midwestern tone of his, the currency out here isn’t money, it’s dreams. Wonderful fantastic dreams of seeing your name in lights and being worshipped in darkened theatres across the country by millions of adoring fans. I find this perfectly acceptable, by the way, because I am a tough old broad and illusions and fakery don’t bother me in the least. It’s what we’re all about. Working all those years in radio taught me that. And when I stand in front of the cashier’s cage on Fridays and receive my cheque, I feel that I am not only being handsomely rewarded, but I am also doing my bit to keep
my fellow citizens permanently inoculated against the ugly realities of life (and death). It is possible therefore to see myself as someone who is performing a kind of civic duty.