Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  I walk into the minerals exhibit where there are some extremely impressive minerals on display in a dazzling array of colours and shapes.

  The display case for the Hope Diamond is in the centre of a room. A group of middle-aged women with English accents are crowding around the case and I stand behind, waiting impatiently for them to move.

  One of the ladies makes a predictable joke about stealing the ring and someone else sings a line from ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’.

  At last they move and I can see the Hope Diamond. I suppose it’s quite big for a single stone, and it is a very interesting shade of blue, but it’s nowhere near as impressive as the other lumps of minerals in the exhibition. I look at it from different angles trying to see it sparkle to best effect. As I crouch down I see there’s a scattering of dust particles across the top surface of the diamond. Surely a curator wearing white gloves should wipe them off with a tiny feather duster. But then again, maybe they’re worried it could be stolen. Curators are probably very vocationally driven but it would be tempting.

  I continue through the exhibition but I’m disappointed; it’s not as dazzling as I expected.

  When I walk into Reading Beyond Bars, the first person I see is Eric. He doesn’t usually talk to me, but today he walks over. ‘Clara,’ he says. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Last time you left, you seemed pretty upset.’

  ‘I’m over that now.’

  I don’t want to talk about it. I’m embarrassed enough already about rushing out like I did.

  ‘Is Campbell here?’ I ask.

  ‘He went out to buy more tape. We’re all out.’

  I take a letter from the pile. It’s boring. Hank has asked for true crime, just like half the other letters we get. I go to the true crime shelf. There’s nothing there. On the shelf below are a row of Number 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency books.

  Belle comes over to the shelf. ‘Damn,’ she says. ‘No crime?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I’m sending this instead.’ I hold up In the Company of Cheerful Ladies.

  Belle laughs.

  I hear the door squeak open and I turn quickly, but it’s not Campbell.

  I sit down at a table to write my letter.

  Dear Hank,

  Unfortunately we do not have any true crime books at the moment. I hope you will enjoy this book even though the crimes are made up.

  Best wishes,

  Clara

  The door squeaks open again and this time it is Campbell. His arms are full of brown Wholefoods paper bags and tape rolls. He takes them across the room and dumps them on the table. There is an empty seat next to me. I wait for him to come over, but he goes straight to the bookshelves.

  I pick up tape and a paper bag and go back to my table to wrap up my book. I glance behind me to the bookshelves and I see that Campbell is sitting at a table with Eric. He hasn’t even said hello to me. We haven’t seen each other alone since New Year’s Day, which was two weeks ago. He says he’s too busy working on the inauguration protest with Eric.

  I’ve never had a boyfriend before, so I don’t know if this is normal.

  There’s an enormous thump on the table. Belle has dumped a huge pile of books onto the tabletop and is sitting down beside me.

  ‘Do you have scissors?’ she asks.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, handing them to her.

  I try to focus on what I’m doing and not keep watching Campbell. I don’t want to seem clingy. I’m sure he’ll come over to talk to me when they’ve finished working.

  I’ve wrapped five parcels when Campbell finally comes over to me. ‘Hey, Belle. Hey, Clara,’ he says. ‘Eric and I are heading off now. Will you be right with the parcels, Belle?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she says.

  ‘Bye then,’ I say and then he’s gone.

  I notice that the room is almost empty now. There’s only Belle and me left at the tables and Joy is at the shelves.

  ‘I should probably start packing up,’ says Belle.

  ‘Can I help?’ I ask.

  ‘That would be good.’

  Belle and I put all the materials in boxes. Belle rearranges the chairs and I sweep the floor. Joy helps too and the three of us leave together and carry the boxes of parcels down to Belle’s car.

  Joy hurries off, probably to feed her cat or call a grandchild.

  ‘I’ll post them tomorrow,’ Belle says as she slams the boot.

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘Hey, Belle,’ I add, although I’m not quite sure what I’m going to say. I want to know if Campbell still likes me, but do I really want her to tell me if he doesn’t?

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Is Campbell alright?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He seems to be acting a little strange.’

  ‘You’d have to talk to him about that,’ she says.

  Obviously Belle isn’t going to give me any information about how Campbell feels, and maybe I don’t want to know.

  I say goodbye and walk off quickly down the street. I know Campbell has been really busy with the inauguration. I hope that after the protest things will be better again.

  I’m blending pumpkin soup when I remember that there is a massive pile of laundry and I won’t have any socks to wear if it doesn’t get done tonight.

  ‘Mum, would you mind putting the washing on?’ I ask. She doesn’t respond so I repeat it.

  ‘I’m very busy,’ Mum replies. She is sitting at the table surrounded by papers and files.

  ‘You need a break. Putting on the washing will refresh your mind,’ I say. I don’t know why I bother with this. It takes just as long for me to convince Mum to help with housework as it would to do it myself.

  I tip the pureed soup back into the pot and pour another scoop of chunky soup into the blender. Mum gives a big sigh and stands up. She clumps over to the laundry.

  ‘What should I wash?’ she shouts.

  ‘I don’t care, use your initiative.’

  Mum pokes her head into the room. ‘You say that, but then you always tell me I’ve done it wrong.’

  ‘Do a load of darks and make sure you put all the socks in. And wash my black jeans. I want to wear them tomorrow.’

  I keep blending soup. Why is Mum so hopeless? I guess having a cleaner who comes in three times a week hasn’t helped but Dad says she’s always been messy.

  I walk over to the laundry.

  ‘Don’t forget to turn my jeans inside out,’ I say.

  My black jeans are sitting on top of the washing machine and Mum is looking at a crumpled piece of paper.

  ‘What’s this about?’ she asks. She’s holding Eric’s pamphlet. ‘Smash democracy?’ she asks. ‘Is that what you’re spending your time on?’

  ‘It doesn’t say smash democracy,’ I say. ‘It says smash sham democracy.’

  ‘Are you going to this protest?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I don’t know about this stuff, Clara. Violent protests – it doesn’t seem like you. What if you’re arrested? You’ll be deported and it’ll be on your record forever. You won’t be able to be a lawyer.’

  I laugh. ‘Mum, you’re being ridiculous. I wouldn’t be arrested. There’s not going to be any violence.’

  ‘What about all this smashing?’

  ‘It’s just a phrase. You’re not supposed to take it literally.’

  ‘I really don’t think you should go.’ Mum looks worried. ‘You think you don’t care about law now, but you shouldn’t throw your whole future away to impress a boy.’

  ‘I might not go. I’m just thinking about it – not that it’s any of your business.’

 
In the kitchen I keep blending the soup. I wonder if Mum’s right about not being able to practice law if I got arrested. At least that would solve the problem of deciding whether I wanted to study law or not.

  ‘Don’t forget to put the detergent in,’ I call out.

  When Mum told me she had tickets for a show at the Kennedy Centre I was surprised but pleased. I love going to shows but Mum finds it difficult to sit still for more than an hour so I usually go with Dad.

  It starts snowing on the walk from train station to the Kennedy Centre. I don’t have an umbrella so the snow lands on the shoulders of my jacket, resting lightly for a few seconds before it melts.

  The Kennedy Centre comes into sight. It looks bright and welcoming and I notice that everyone starts walking a bit faster.

  When we reach the white steps and can see the opulent red and gold furnishings twinkling inside, my anticipation builds. I have visions of boxes at the opera, champagne and violins. Then I see a poster.

  ‘We’re seeing Legally Blonde: the Musical!’

  ‘That’s all I could get tickets for,’ said Mum. ‘The ballet was sold out.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be having an evening of culture!’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob, Clara. This is culture.’

  There is no way that I am going to tell Campbell about this.

  The show is very upbeat and almost unbelievably pink. At the interval I insist that Mum buys me a glass a wine.

  While she’s in the queue I stand near a pillar and try to count how many panes of glass there are in the enormous windows looking out over the Potomac River.

  ‘Clara!’

  I look up and see Brad waving at me. He is very tall so his head sticks up above the crowd. Brad and Emily make their way over to me.

  ‘Are you enjoying the show?’ asks Emily.

  ‘Well . . .’ I say. ‘It’s pink.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Brad hates it too.’

  Mum arrives back with the drinks and I introduce her to Brad and Emily. Mum is her usual charming self and she and Emily talk about their favourite parts of the show. I can’t believe they both like it. I thought they were intelligent.

  Brad tells me about his next big project, which is assessing disability access at the National Museum of the American Indian.

  The bell rings and we have to go back to our seats. Walking up the stairs Mum says, ‘They’re very nice.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Emily says she invited you to an inauguration party at her house.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I mutter. I’m getting sick of Mum interfering in my social life.

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Why?’

  I wish she would let this go. ‘Because I’m going to Campbell’s thing, remember?’ I snap. I call it a ‘thing’ because I can’t quite bring myself to say protest.

  Back in the theatre I sit in my seat and feel sick. For the first time I’ve said out loud that I’m going to the protest. I wish I could take the words back. Now I’ve told Mum I’ll have to go. I try to imagine myself chanting and waving placards, linking arms and shouting at the police.

  I slump down further in my soft chair, close my eyes and try to pretend I’m a caterpillar wrapped in a cocoon, but one that won’t ever have to come out.

  Mum’s voice smashes into my chrysalis. ‘Clara, you are aware that university placements come out tomorrow?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I had no idea it was so soon. When I decided not to check my results I thought a month was forever, but now it’s nearly over and I’m no closer to making a decision about studying law.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You still don’t want to know how you went?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Right now all I can think about is getting through the protest on Tuesday. I know I need to make a decision about doing law though. After the inauguration I’ll do some more research into university courses and I’ll make a decision, I promise.

  The curtain comes up on another peppy, pink number and now I’m enjoying the show, which medicates my brain with its easy cheerfulness.

  Chapter Twelve

  Whose streets?

  Our streets!

  Anarchist protest chant

  I’m finding it hard to concentrate on the piles of clothes spread out across my bed because my stomach is shuddering with nerves. I’ve never been to a protest before and I’m not sure what to wear. When I try visualising protesters I can only see big woollen jumpers and ripped colourful tights, which I don’t own.

  I pull on black jeans and a black shirt with a red cardigan. Red is radical. Fabric-covered buttons probably aren’t, but there’s not much I can do about that.

  I wonder what Liam is doing today. Probably watching the inauguration on television with his housemates, prattling on about symbolism and transition policy and eating corn chips. Campbell would say that it’s a media spectacle and they may as well watch Survivor.

  In the kitchen, Mum is eating a bowl of cereal at the bench. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come to the potluck?’ she asks. ‘There will be people your age there. Pete’s nieces and nephews from Maryland are coming.’

  ‘Will there be chips and dip?’ I ask.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘That sounds very tempting,’ I say. I sound sarcastic, but I wish I was going to Pete’s house with Mum. I wish I was going anywhere except to the protest. I just can’t admit that to Mum, I won’t let her feel right about this.

  ‘Where are you going today?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re meeting at Dupont Circle,’ I say.

  ‘It will be very busy in town,’ says Mum. ‘Be careful.’

  I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit down on the couch to eat. I don’t feel hungry, but I know I have to eat because I might not get another chance for hours. My phone beeps in my room and I run down the corridor. It’s a message from Campbell: Change of plans. Meet at my house.

  Eric answers the door at Campbell’s. So they haven’t left without me. I don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

  ‘Hi, Eric,’ I say.

  He doesn’t reply but leaves the door open and walks back down the corridor and I follow. A dozen or so people are sitting in the lounge room. Piles of Eric’s pamphlets cover the coffee table.

  Campbell is standing in the kitchen doorway talking on his mobile.

  I sit on the floor next to Belle. ‘What’s happening?’ I ask her.

  ‘We’re not sure where we should set up the protest,’ says Belle.

  ‘I thought we’d decided?’

  ‘Yeah, but no one will notice us protesting at Dupont Circle.’

  ‘I guess not,’ I say. It’s a good point, but it seems a bit late to change plans now.

  Campbell finishes his call. Everyone looks at him expectantly.

  ‘We’re still waiting for confirmation on the positioning,’ he says.

  ‘What?!’ exclaims Eric.

  ‘Derek’s calling me back. His group will choose a spot and then we’ll meet them there.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ asks Eric. ‘We should be out there now.’

  ‘We’ve agreed to work with the Socialist Libertarians,’ says Campbell. ‘We agreed that we’d join in with their arrangements.’

  ‘You can sit around here waiting for your orders. But I’m going to actually do something.’ Eric stands up and glares at us all. He grabs a stack of his flyers from the coffee table. Belle stands up and follows him out.

  The rest of us sit in an awkward silence. Someone suggests, ‘Could we watch what’s happening on television?’

  There are murmurs o
f agreement and Bernard leans across to turn on the TV.

  A helicopter shot shows the National Mall carpeted with people. The reporter estimates that two million people are attending the inauguration. It’s like the shots of the Mall during the Vietnam War protests, except that this time people are happy.

  We watch the coverage mainly in silence. Occasionally someone shouts something indignant about the commentary. When the reporter describes Obama as ‘the living embodiment of the American dream’ Bernard throws a handful of wasabi peas at the screen.

  Campbell sits completely still, staring at his mobile phone, which doesn’t ring. I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘You mean apart from the whole thing being a complete shambles?’

  ‘I thought we were leaving soon?’

  ‘Well I doubt it, because Derek couldn’t organise his way out of a paper bag.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I have to call Derek again.’ Campbell walks into the kitchen.

  When he comes back into the room a few minutes later, he doesn’t look any happier. ‘Hey, can you guys turn that down?’ he asks, waving his hand at the television.

  Bernard leans over again, and presses the volume button.

  Campbell clears his voice and then speaks as though he’s making a formal announcement. ‘Derek has informed me that the Eastern Seaboard Socialist Libertarians have decided not to protest today. In place of the protest action they will hold a radical reading at the Socialist Book Collective. We’re all invited to attend.’

  No one speaks. We’re all in shock. I notice the pile of pamphlets in the middle of the table. It took me ages to staple those together.

  Campbell’s blonde dreadlocked cousin exclaims, ‘That’s bullshit!’

  ‘It’s disappointing,’ Campbell agrees, ‘but that’s the situation.’

  ‘Can’t we go on our own?’ asks Bernard.

  ‘Yeah, we could. Except all the banners are at Derek’s house in Silver Spring,’ says Campbell. ‘It would take us at least an hour to pick them up. Anyway, I doubt we’d get anywhere near the Mall at this stage. I’m going to tell Eric.’