Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  “I wanted to explain how I feel about you still,” he said, “even after all these years.”

  “This is absurd.”

  But he would not be quietened. “There was no single moment,” he said, “when I understood I had lost the greatest opportunity of my life. But maybe a man can never see who he is until he has enough years behind him on which to look back.”

  I shall not burden you with all that passed between us, dear F____, nor could I claim to remember it with any great precision. It was distressing beyond words. The more he spoke, the more I came to see that this impulsive visit was similar to a last throw of the dice by a desperate gambler. He was trapped in an unhappy and unsuitable marriage. Beneath the facade of the wealthy businessman and proud father, a demon was running riot. This demon was clutching at straws in his past, of which I happened to be one. I don’t doubt there were others. My suspicion was this, that the younger version of myself he had once known, unwed and childless, had surfaced in his daydreams. He dared to imagine my marriage had also been a failure, or perhaps that my husband was no more, that I might offer him a second chance, and that everything could go back to how it had been twenty years ago. It was the thinking of a creature with the body of a man and the mind of a child. I’m afraid I had to tell him so.

  When I did, he responded in Latin. At first, I did not realize what it was he had said.

  “You don’t remember? Not even that?” From the pocket of his waistcoat he brought out a silver watch on a chain and turned it around to show me the inscription on the back. His face was a picture of melancholy.

  I remembered it, of course. It was the silver watch he gave me, which he then bought back at the auction to raise funds for missionaries in China. “Meanwhile it is flying,” he said, “irretrievable time is flying.” He replaced the watch in his pocket. “I always carry it with me.”

  I said I did not see the relevance of either the watch or that quotation to our conversation. We were acquainted for a short time many years ago. Our lives had taken very different paths and our responsibilities had multiplied. There was no useful purpose to be served by the kind of reminiscences in which he seemed bent on engaging. I reminded him how it is written in Ecclesiastes, that everything has its due time: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the Heaven.”

  I confess I was beginning to lose patience with him, especially when it emerged that in spite of boasting about his work and support for Normal schools, his own children were being educated privately. How could that possibly be, I demanded to know? Because his wife, he admitted shamefacedly, had insisted.

  “And I suppose your wife also insists that you keep slaves?”

  For a moment, he said nothing. He stared at the floor. I repeated the question. Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded his head.

  You can imagine how angry this made me. “Are you telling me, Mr. Wright, that you are a man who keeps slaves in your home, after everything that was said on that matter between us? After all the promises you made?”

  After saying this was indeed another concession he had made to his wife, he sheepishly owned up to a further act of unparalleled vulgarity. Some years ago he paid $40,000 to buy a ship that would take to Liberia all those slaves in the employment of Mrs. Jane Washington (his wife’s aunt) who wished to go there.

  “Then you are a colonizer too?”

  He looked down, wringing his hands. “I had to tell you,” he murmured.

  That was the moment when it struck me he might be seeking my forgiveness (but why mine?) as though he were a Catholic at confession and I was his priest. In your opinion, is this a possibility, dear F____? You were always so much more attuned than I to the peculiarities of human behavior. I recounted for him the tale you already know, about how my husband risked his life and reputation when he kept secret in the belfry of his church for four days and nights a family of slaves seeking freedom in Canada. “You cannot have it both ways,” I told him. “We all have to take a moral stand.”

  We were both seated again by now. He looked dejected, and at this point I went further than I should. It is one of my great faults, dear F____, with which I seem to make no headway, that my tongue will often outrun my tact. “I always hoped,” I said, “that you were one of those people who would make a significant impact on the world. The reverend and I play our little part in our little corner, and with that blessing we are content. But I always thought you, Mr. Wright, had the ability and ambition to go much further. I tried—and perhaps I tried too hard—to alert you to what I still consider, twenty years on, to be the greatest problems of our time because I hoped you might take them up as causes of your own. I knew you had the wit and the energy to achieve almost anything”—I fear I may have paused at this point, as if I were raising the hammer to take one last blow—“if only you had the will.”

  Our talk was interrupted by a knock at the door. You know my sister is the kindest soul, and a dear aunt to little Robert, but she is also an insatiable gossip. Doubtless, she was eager to know why we were engaged in such animated conversation. Her pretext was to ask whether Mr. W would like more coffee, but before he could say anything, I thanked her and told her he would not. I indicated, with a look, that she should leave us on our own. The door closed behind her.

  Mr. W took to his feet again. His mood was altered. He spoke differently now, with eerie composure and a distant look in his eye. “You are right, Mrs. Porter,” he said, “as you always were.” He apologized if his visit had caused me distress and expressed admiration for my husband’s courage and resolve. “Before I go, though, there is one more matter for which I would like to offer my regrets.” He cleared his throat. “That afternoon, a long time ago, when it was raining…”

  As it happened, rain was at that very moment beginning to spit against the window. And as he talked, I could not stop myself remembering. The vividness was horrifying and I was filled anew with shame. What could have possessed me to behave as I did in that Chicago schoolroom? Such was my distraction that I heard little of Mr. Wright’s apology. He was shuffling his feet, a nervous tic of his I remembered from long ago. He had often wondered, he said, how his life might have been nobler and more fulfilled had he only been worthy of me.

  “Mr. Wright!” I pleaded.

  “But I know I was never worthy enough to share your life, Mrs. Porter,” he said. “My mother in her heart knew that too, however much she would have wished otherwise. I have no doubt it was for this reason that the Lord judged it fit and proper to send us out into the world on our separate paths.”

  I did not know how to respond to that.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Porter,” he said. “My greetings to Reverend Porter and your family. May God be with you all. I apologize for this visit, which has clearly been upsetting for you. I should not have come, and I swear I shall never trouble you again.”

  He put his hand on the doorknob and turned his head my way. His eyes were clear but distant. “You are right, Mrs. Porter,” he said. “I fear I have never believed profoundly enough in anything that really matters.”

  I stretched out an arm toward him. “Wait!” I whispered. “There is something I want to say.”

  I had been unfair, and for this I wanted to apologize. Nobody has the right to speak to another as I had just spoken to him. He had already achieved more in his life than most of us, and I should have had the grace to commend him for this. I wished to tell him I would always remember him with great affection, that I was as much to blame for what happened that afternoon as he was, that I was glad to have had a chance to see him once more after all these years, that I hoped one day the Lord would finally grant him true happiness, that I would always include him in my prayers, that we were all imperfect before the Lord but he should rest assured I knew—as well as anyone, perhaps—that he had always been, in his heart, a goodly, generous man.

  Mr. W, though, had not heard me. He turned the doorknob before I managed to say any of these things. There was the noise of
my sister stumbling on the other side. She had been eavesdropping again. The moment was lost and I said nothing of what lay in my heart.

  Your sister-in-Christ,

  Mistress Eliza Porter

  1857

  YOU CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT

  THERE IS SUCH a high tide on the Lake today that parts of the road are flooded. Wave after wave surges ashore, striking the land in a cascade of surf. Farther out, thousands of white crests skim the swaying water. A strong, warm wind whips ashore. As his brougham careers along the lakeshore in the direction of Evanston, swinging from side to side, John removes his hat and lets his hair fly loose. He has told his driver that the other wagon can come along at its own pace. He wants to take the road at a good clip. He has always enjoyed the sensation of speed. He sprawls across the leather seat, hanging on with one hand, rolling with the bumps and relishing the breeze on his face that comes tinged with the occasional whiff of horse. A few thin clouds are racing across a blue sky. Normally, fine windy days like this fill John with hope. They are a reminder from nature that we should never fail to move on and refresh ourselves, because the alternative is stagnation. And how many times has he warned readers that it is stagnation, not money, that is the source of all evil? Don’t just seize the day, my friends, seize the future.

  Today, though, the wind and the blue sky fail to work their magic on his spirits. The foaming, churned-up Lake, as it bucks and spits, reminds him of one of the Potawatomie myths Augustine has insisted he read to him again. In this story, a monster that lives beneath the Lake creates a storm whenever man’s behavior becomes offensive. The shipwrecked are taken underwater and never seen or heard of again. If only that were to be the fate of those spiteful Eastern pens that have spent the last three months talking up a depression in the West. Their lies have been repeated with such frequency that people think they must be true. In contradiction of all the facts, a depression has been created out of thin air. And what motivates those Easterners to do this? Their envy of Chicago is so deep-seated, they will do anything to try to undermine the city. That is what this is all about, and John takes it personally.

  As they draw close to Evanston, the road narrows and winds inland and he feels the dust thickening on his throat as the horses slow their pace, trotting past ruined fields of dry, shriveled wheat. Who could have predicted that, on top of all the other problems with the Automaton, there would be a drought this year? Everyone agrees it has been the driest summer in living memory. He is reflecting on this, and on the fact that however hard you try, the world will sometimes throw its weight against you, when he sits up straight and grips his temples, screwing his eyes tight shut. From nowhere has come a shuddering jolt of pain. It feels as though a nerve inside his brain has snapped. His eyes water. He holds his head tight until the pain begins to subside. His sight, for a few moments, is starry and blurred.

  He has not had an attack like this since New York. He should see a doctor again. Anxiety, he tells himself. That’s what it must be. Too little sleep and too many worries. He is not himself. He knows he’s not, and that should put him on his guard. When on edge, he feels vulnerable. He is liable to let his emotions get the better of him.

  They are nearly there. But how pleasant it would be if the wind could blow him past Evanston, deep into the prairies, into the middle of nowhere. And when it died down, he would stretch out on the hard, warm earth, close his eyes and fall into forgetfulness. By the time he woke up, he would feel rested, his problems would have vanished, and he could start over. He would leave Kitty. She could have whatever was left from this mess and he would then have a clean slate and the prospect of a fresh beginning. He has always been at his best, at his most daring and visionary, when there is everything to go for.

  He claps his hands. What balderdash, he tells himself. You don’t run away at the first sign of trouble. Pull yourself together, John S. Wright.

  The brougham comes to a halt in front of the Sage and Atkins residence. He replaces his hat and steps to the ground. Pausing, he does his best to collect himself by taking a moment to admire the house, with its one and a half stories and steeply pitched roof. He found the site for them, and Jearum then designed it after the manner of some colonial buildings he said he had once seen as a boy in Cape Cod, Massachussetts. John has not been here for some time. He had forgotten how striking it was. The slope of the tiled roof is like a hat pulled down low, shading the house’s brow. Dark brown gables overhang the tall windows and the walls gleam with whitewash. The Automaton has done well, he thinks, in providing them with this splendid house. That is one fact Jearum will not be able to challenge.

  Aureka opens the door. The moment he sees her, he feels a tightening in his chest. One of the things he has been contemplating on the way over is whether he should try to clear the air between them. A crisis in one’s life is not all bad. Imbalance can create new perspectives. Those old cupboards, where embarrassments and failures are hidden, can be opened up. In all these years, they have never talked about what happened. What would there be to lose in apologizing to her, now that it is all in the past? Although the awkwardness that once prevailed between them is over, the fact—or perhaps it is the memory—of their liaison lies beneath the surface of every word and look they exchange.

  Their eyes engage briefly before she glances away.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sage. I am sorry. You were not expecting me.”

  She raises her hands, still white with flour. “I was baking. You are welcome, Mr. Wright.”

  He wonders what she thinks when she sees him. He had been relieved by how quickly she recovered afterward—if that is the right word—and put him behind her. Her marriage to Mr. Sage, which seemed hasty at the time, appears to have prospered. She has matured and gained in confidence. Gone is the shy, apprehensive look in her eyes that he remembers. She has filled out and become almost matronly. Self-possessed, she is the mistress of her own house.

  He follows her into a small, bright parlor. There is a mirror on the wall, two or three rather gaudy landscape paintings, and some easy chairs around a low rectangular table on which stands a vase of freshly cut flowers. Everything seems a little too neat and in its place, as if the mistress is trying hard to impress. He positions himself with his back to the window.

  “You are well?” he says.

  “Quite well, sir.”

  “And Stephen?” He had glimpsed the boy when the door opened. “He has your looks. More of you in him than his father, I’d say.” She blushes. The truth, though, is that he rarely gets it right. People say Augustine is more like Kitty than like him, but he cannot see it.

  “And the baby?” Her name eludes him.

  “Mildred is growing and in good health.”

  “And Mr. Sage?”

  She hesitates. “He is well, given the circumstances.”

  “He runs a fine store. I am certain,” he says, before adding with emphasis, “I am quite certain that he will pull through.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She looks down. “And you, Mr. Wright?” she asks.

  “I … er…” His first reaction is to say, as he always does, that things are not nearly as bad as some people claim and that they will soon get better. “Darn it!” he says, shaking his head. “You must have heard what’s happening over there.” He juts his chin in the direction of Chicago. “A few months ago, everyone was behaving normally. Now they’re running around like headless chickens.” He is about to say more, to start raging against Eastern pens and spineless bankers, but he stops himself. He has no right to inflict such a tirade on her. He takes a deep breath. “A false depression is under way, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.”

  She looks straight at him with a boldness that disarms him. Her voice is low, but clear. “If anyone can stop it, Mr. Wright,” she says, “surely you can?”

  He is rendered momentarily speechless. A clock ticks. A baby—Mildred, he remembers—yells in another room. He is trying to analyze what she has just said and the tone
in which she said it. “Well. I thank you for your confidence in me,” he says, “but I fear it is too late now, Aureka.”

  Her first name hangs for a moment in the air like a secret between them. He has not called her that for years. She bites her lip before turning abruptly. He cannot tell whether she is more discomfited by the response he gave, or by the little gesture of intimacy.

  At the door, she says, “I shall tell Mr. Atkins you are here.”

  * * *

  Who does she see, five years on? Someone who took advantage of his position to seduce an impressionable young woman? Or a gentleman with whom she had been on respectable, friendly terms until, one day, things went too far? Might she still, distantly, feel something for him? Not in any sexual way, but might she remember fondly—as does he—some of their exchanges in the cramped little house on Kinzie Street, whenever there was a moment’s peace from her insufferable mother?

  She was miserable then, as he was often miserable himself. Looking back, he can see that his behavior demonstrated only his own weakness. It comforted him, after another battle with Kitty, to have a pretty, admiring and sympathetic female ear in which to confide. He began to buy her little gifts and enjoyed too much the pleasure she took in them. Yes, but he brought gifts for Jearum too, didn’t he? Indeed, he did. He also, though, told Aureka more than he should have done. And he complimented her in ways that overstepped propriety. In short, he encouraged her to believe that she might be able to mean more to him than she ever could. But did he behave like that because he truly intended to make something happen between them? After all, he had a wife and three children at home. He was nearly twice her age. It would have been quite wrong of him to try to seduce her.