Clara Callan

by Richard B. Wright

  In the middle of the night, there was a tremendous storm with several fierce strikes close by. We all got up to watch. The sky was filled with lightning and the thunder was deafening. I think Evelyn was a little frightened by it all though she joked about it. “You Canadians sure know how to put on a show for a New York girl.” Perhaps we were all a little shaken by the tumult and relieved to see it pass.

  This morning we drove to Callander for a look at the five little girls. Nora was beside herself with excitement, and Evelyn took pictures of the signs and souvenir shops. There was a long lineup with crying children and mothers and men smoking. It was a grey warm day with the threat of more storms in the air and the body odour and bad breath in that lineup gave me a terrible headache. There is something fundamentally wrong with lining up to gawk at these youngsters as if they were freaks in a carnival show. I felt foolish about it all. We saw them finally in a kind of compound. They were playing with sand pails and shovels and there were little swings and a teeter-totter. A nurse was in attendance. In the lineup, we inched forward behind a plate-glass window and gazed in at the five of them in their overalls. Around me the whispered trite expressions of wonder. “Gosh, aren’t they adorable!” “Oh, look at them! They are so cute.”

  After this, Evelyn said she needed a drink though it was only eleven o’clock. We ate lunch and supper at a log cabin restaurant and went to sleep early. I think we were all a bit dispirited by the vulgarity surrounding the quintuplets. There were more thunderstorms in the night and I lay in my bunk, aching for the sound of Frank’s voice and the feel of his kisses on my throat.

  Monday, July 12

  A long drive home through the little towns celebrating “the glorious twelfth” with bunting and parades: elderly women in white dresses and bugle bands. We took side streets to avoid the commotion and got turned around a few times. I could not help thinking how ironic that I was desperate to phone my Catholic lover on this of all days. If poor Father only knew! Evelyn was feeling unwell (too much drink?) and after supper went right to bed. Nora and I sat on the veranda and talked until past eleven; this affair with her announcer friend is going nowhere and now she has had two or three “nasty calls” from the man’s wife. These have upset her and she doesn’t know where to go from here. She longs for marriage and children — “just a quiet normal life.” Yet I wonder if either of us will ever have that. I wanted to tell her about Frank, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I too am caught in this marital flytrap. It all seems a bit hopeless when looked at late at night.

  Tuesday, July 13

  Nora and Evelyn left about ten o’clock; they plan to sightsee in Toronto and Niagara Falls over the next day or two before returning to New York. Before she left, Nora told me that Lewis Mills’s book will be out some time this month, and she will send me a copy. After they left, I phoned Frank at his office. It was so good to hear his voice. We are to meet this Saturday and then he is spending two weeks at the cottage. What shall I do for the rest of July?

  Sunday, July 18 (10:00 p.m.)

  Frank has just dropped me off, and I could see Mrs. Bryden at her front window watching us. Soon she will want to know who was driving me home at this hour and so on. More lies. Yesterday morning we returned to the cabins near Port Hope. We scarcely left the place all day; just two brief walks along a road by the lake and into town for something to eat. Our bodies again so slick with perspiration. It must be like this on honeymoons when newlyweds discover one another. How wonderful and frightening it all is! Last night we both awakened at the same time and became so caught up in ourselves that Frank did not bother with a rubber and I didn’t care. It was foolish of me, but I remember thinking at the time, It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. I think I said that to him in the midst of it all. But, of course, it does matter. It matters a great deal and now I am a little concerned; not much, for I think I am all right at this time of the month, but we simply must be more careful. An instant of carelessness and my life will be turned upsidedown. How quickly it could all change! I don’t know what I would do if I became pregnant again. I could not go back to Nora for another “operation,” and I’m sure that, as a Catholic, Frank would oppose it anyway. What then? Have a child and give it up for adoption? Unimaginably complicated. We must be more careful. Yet how transporting erotic love can be! Is it because I have come to it so late in life that I feel this way? Yet the young also become unhinged by it. What of Ella Myles and that awful Kray boy? They too must be lost in all this rapture. A man and a woman with their clothes off — it is nothing less than unconditional surrender to the senses.

  Thursday, July 22

  Relief this morning. I was fairly certain I would be all right, but it’s good to have it confirmed. So I shall live to love another day and how childishly happy I have been through the hours of this ordinary midsummer Thursday! A mouthful of egg at breakfast, the light through my kitchen window, the clatter of a lawn mower and everything registered in a higher key.

  This afternoon a chat with Mrs. Bryden across the fence. It went like this:

  “We haven’t see much of you lately, Clara.”

  “Well, I’ve been rather busy.”

  “Mr. Bryden tells me that you’ve finished with the dentist now. I’m sure you’re glad that’s over.”

  “Yes, I am. It was something of an ordeal.”

  “And what about the car? Will you be driving that soon?”

  “Yes. Joe is giving me a final lesson after supper and thinks I should be ready for the test next week.”

  “Well, that will be nice for you, Clara, having your own transportation like that. I see you got a ride home last Sunday night.”

  “Yes, I did. An old friend from the city.”

  “Isn’t that nice?”

  This evening Frank phoned from a public booth up north to say that he had written me on Monday and I should get the letter by tomorrow or Saturday. He sounded so happy and full of endearments. I think, however, that someone was listening to us. Very likely Cora Macfarlane or one of the Caldwell girls.

  Muskoka

  Monday

  Dear One,

  How I miss my sweet Clara! Do you know that I cannot get through an hour of the day without thinking of you? This morning, for example, I took Patrick fishing. We got up at five and the lake was so beautiful and still. We could hear the loons and the sun was only a red eye rising through the mist. We rowed out several hundred yards and dropped our lines. It was a wonderful moment with my son there on the lake on a fine summer morning, and yet, my darling, I was far, far away in that little room with you and covering you with kisses. How delightful you were and what heaven it was to wake up and find you there beside me! What pleasure we took in each other! Don’t you agree? Please tell me that you were as happy as I was in that cabin last Saturday?

  Can we return there on the seventh of next month? I know it is a long time away, and I hate these intervals between meeting one another, but I just don’t see any remedy for it at the moment. I can’t ignore family things, especially this coming weekend because we are having a get-together this Saturday with my brothers and their families. My daughter Anne is going off to the convent next week, and we won’t be allowed to see her for six months, so everyone will be here to celebrate her vocation. Even my oldest son, Michael, who isn’t fond of family gatherings, is coming up from Kingston. He and Anne have always been close. She is the only one in the family Michael seems to care about. Anyway, it will be a busy time, but I want you to know that my thoughts will be with you always.

  I’m writing this in the car in a nearby village where I have been sent to fetch supplies. So I must now mail this and get back. Please take care of yourself, and I will see you on the seventh. I cover you with kisses, my darling Clara.

  Love, Frank

  Saturday, July 24

  This evening I sat on the veranda and thought about Frank and his family “get-together.” I wondered what he was wearing. A short-sleeved shirt probably and I pict
ured the fine hair on his arms. And a week ago at this time we were lying in one another’s arms.

  Across the street the Reverend Jackson and his wife were taking their evening promenade. Bats were swooping in the darkening air (the days are getting shorter) and Helen Jackson was leaning against her husband’s arm. I wonder if they will make love tonight. Henry Jackson seems to be such a cold man when he isn’t in the pulpit hectoring his congregation. I can’t image him being as passionate as Frank. I think Henry Jackson would be ashamed to be ardent. He will no longer walk on this side of the street past my door; perhaps he feels that a heathen like me may contaminate his soul. The sight of the Jacksons on this summer evening left me feeling a little “blue,” to use one of Nora’s favourite words. And here is something else. Why has the urge to write poems dried up within me? I thought love inspired poetry, yet I feel emptied of any words that would make sense.

  Tuesday, July 27

  Absurdly proud of myself today. At 3:25 this afternoon in Linden, I was granted permission to operate a motor vehicle on the streets and highways of this province and presumably the rest of the Dominion. Hurrah! The test was not nearly as difficult as I had imagined, and Joe had prepared me well. He was so proud of me. “There now, Clara, you could do it. Didn’t I tell you so?” Yes, he did, bless his heart! He gave me the confidence I needed. To celebrate, I bought Joe his supper at a restaurant in Linden. Poor Joe; he appreciated the gesture, but he was plainly ill at ease in that restaurant with his hot beef sandwich and raisin pie. I drove the Chevrolet home and it is now safely stowed in the garage. In a fit of foolish pride, I phoned Nora with my news. That call will cost me.

  San Remo Apts.

  1100 Central Park West

  N.Y.C.

  21/7/37

  Dear Clara,

  I thought I should drop you a note (seeing as I was supposed to have been properly brung up) to thank you for the hospitality. I enjoyed my little visit to the “True North strong and free.” A little quaint in places but, in most respects, not unlike our own fair republic. Toronto reminded me a bit of, say, Hartford, Conn. You don’t have your own Wallace Stevens in one of those insurance buildings, do you? You don’t expect much to happen in such places, just folks getting on with their dull, decent lives. But that village of yours? Are you sure I didn’t invent it? It seemed to me that I had pictured just such a place when I sat down to imagine “Chestnut Street.” All those Uncle Jims and Aunt Marys behind their curtains, and I’ll bet they are nearly as nice as mine! Just plain folks with all their bitchiness, nosiness, guilt tremors, backbiting gossip and general all-round orneriness. In other words, the salt of the earth. I’m not saying we don’t have such people in this city of ours. We do, a few million of them as a matter of fact. It’s just that you’re not bumping into them all the time. You can safely ignore your neighbours and get on with your life. I suppose an intelligent woman like you learns how to handle all that rancorous intimacy, but it would drive me nuts. I suppose you have to be born into it.

  I expect you have been talking to Nora by now about the cute little tykes and the souvenir shops up in that town we visited. Speaking of carnivals, I really enjoyed Niagara Falls. That place is wonderful, and as I walked around and looked at the jumbo waterfall and everything, I was reminded of what Oscar Wilde said about the place. Something about the falls being the second biggest disappointment of the honeymoon.

  “Chestnut Street” continues to roll along as does my little nighttime mystery show. Our Nora is in the swing of things, standing by that microphone with script in hand, “enduring the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.” Anyway, I’ve got her doctor back to her. Poor Dr. Harper does have the worst luck. And so he had this nasty car accident on the way to the wedding. But Alice is now by his side at the hospital. And we are left only with a nagging question these days? Was the doctor’s car tampered with? Did Alice’s sister Effie have something to do with that? Will Alice and Dr. Harper ever find true happiness in the wedded state? Will I ever win an Irish sweepstake? Stay tuned and buy some of our soap!

  In “real” life, Nora and her announcer friend are having some problems too. He doesn’t know whether to divorce his wife or go back to her. The wife is a nasty piece of work, believe me, and Nora will have her work cut out for her with this dame. Les just doesn’t know which way to turn these days, and you can see the look of puzzled distress on his big handsome mug. All the girls around the place are crazy about him. He’s a bit of a chump, but nice enough. Les can wear a suit and he’s got a cute little Don Ameche moustache. He’ll never win any prizes for brains, but I don’t think Nora is exactly interested in his brain.

  I just hope Les treats her better than Lewis Mills, whom I saw yesterday by the way. This was in a swanky restaurant on Fifty-fourth Street and he was “dining” and “hand-holding” with his latest conquest, a young, pretty Vassar type (maybe Hunter College). Short dark hair and very shapely legs. She’s supposed to be the latest hotshot poet around. She has at least twenty years on Lewis Mills, who really is an old goat, God bless him. Someone once told me that he’d had an operation somewhere (Switzerland) for monkey glands. I don’t think I believe that, but I do remember Nora saying that he wore her out with his “demands.” Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind having a little Hunter College hotshot of my own. Ah well, perhaps in due course.

  It was great seeing you again, my dear, and I hope that in the not-too-distant future you will find your way down here to wicked old Gotham.

  Best always, Evelyn

  Friday, August 5 (midnight)

  In less than twelve hours I will see Frank again. It seems ages since we were together though it’s only three weeks. I’ve told him to phone after ten o’clock when the lines are generally free and so he called two hours ago to say how much he’s looking forward to tomorrow. As we began to speak, I distinctly heard a click on the line. I can’t bear the thought of those Caldwell girls listening and giggling over Frank’s expressions of love. It makes everything ludicrous and shameful. It will be awkward, but this telephone will have to be removed.

  Sunday, August 8

  I was going to drive down to Port Hope and meet Frank there, but I became a little nervous at the prospect. Perhaps next time. So we made our usual arrangements at the Uxbridge station. And what a joy to be again in our little motor court by Lake Ontario. We were both so consumed in our need for one another that I feared others might hear us. There was a family in the next cabin and we could hear them talking and moving about with their young children; the usual family fussing over what to do. Should they go down the road to the lake or into town? Should they bring bathing suits or not? Could they buy a brick of ice cream somewhere? “I want an Eskimo Pie,” said a small voice. We went into Port Hope for supper and then saw a movie about the Irish politician, Charles Parnell (Clark Gable), and his paramour Kitty O’Shea (Myrna Loy). Parnell’s affair with O’Shea brings about his political ruin, and on the way back to the cabin, Frank kidded me about the seductive power of women. He called me his Kitty O’Shea, but I don’t think our passion for one another will bring down a government. At which he laughed, “You never know, Clara.”

  He was in such a good humour all evening and when we returned, the cabins were all in darkness. I am afraid, however, that the people next door may have been kept awake by our cries in the night. We couldn’t help ourselves and after a while we decided we didn’t care. Is this not what tourists courts are made for? And if they make them with such flimsy walls, will strangers then not hear sounds in the night? Certainly the woman gave me a good looking-over this morning while we were putting our bags into the car. I thought I could detect the following: curiosity, envy, resentment, perhaps a kind of guarded admiration. I noticed her eyes scanning my hand for a ring. It felt quite wonderful standing there in the morning sunlight after a night of love, feeling the woman’s eyes upon me. Each day I seem to be getting better at playing the “fallen woman.” On the way to the station, Frank told me that
we can’t be together next weekend because he must again go up to the cottage. This provoked a quarrel between us. It was my fault really, because I mildly protested that our time together was so far apart. This seemed to set him off. “I can do nothing about that, Clara,” he said. “In the summer I have to spend my weekends up there. You know that. It’s expected of me. You have no idea what I had to go through to arrange this weekend. The damnedest lies I had to tell.” I was surprised by his outburst. He had been so happy all weekend and now this sudden exasperation. Still I foolishly persisted.

  “But when can we see one another again?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  We left it at that and then I mentioned the possibility that someone might be listening to my telephone while we were on the line and this set him off again.

  “Why not get a private line, Clara?” he said. “Good heavens, it only makes sense. Do you want me to help you pay for it? Is that it?”

  “No, no, of course not,” I said, but I was stung by his implication that I am close with money. Perhaps because it’s true.