Flying With Amelia

by Anne Degrace

  For the next few days Murphy is preoccupied, his nights sleepless or dream-filled, his days fretful. On Monday, he does what he knows he must do. He waits on the bench for George, who is happy to write him personal introductions to his bank manager and his broker.

  “You won’t be sorry, Murphy,” George tells him. “This is your lucky day.”

  FOR A WHILE, there’s a period of calm. Helen’s cousin Agnes is away, and Helen is content to wait it out, seeing Murphy on weekends and attending Glee Club and political meetings, helping her mother, and patronizing her father. In the weeks that pass Murphy’s impatience subsides, replaced with a sure hopefulness. George winks when he sees Murphy in the station lobby; it seems every time Murphy sees George, George is wearing a new suit. Even Mme Langille remarks on Murphy’s good humour, but “a little quieter with the whistling, s’il te plait,” she says.

  On October 18th the morning paper’s headlines could not have been clearer: WOMEN DECLARED PERSONS. Murphy buys a copy and reads the story right there, with the morning flow of city workers all around him. Emily Murphy, Henrietta Muir Edwards, Louise McKinney, Irene Parlby, and Nellie McClung were successful in their challenge, even if the words of the British Lord Chancellor were less than memorable: “. . . to those who ask why the word ‘persons’ should include females, the obvious answer is why should it not?”

  He can imagine laughing over the quote with Helen later, but now, he’ll be late reading that very news if he doesn’t hurry. Walking at a clip, he remembers the promised dinner date. If George is as good as his word, there will be two things to celebrate.

  “Looking good today, Murphy!” calls the technical operator when Murphy enters the studio. “Something different about you . . . what is it? New suit?”

  “Just that the world is full of possibilities, Bob, that’s all.” Murphy hangs up his coat, the newspaper rolled in the pocket. He sets his hat on the stand, then sits at his desk to review the teletype sheets and reading list prepared by the story secretary.

  “Congratulations, Eloise,” he says when she puts a late item on his desk. He waves at the teletype announcing the Supreme Court ruling.

  “Think it’ll get me a raise?” Eloise quips. “Otherwise, I don’t half care.”

  Bob leans over the board. “Your girlfriend won’t be taking no guff after this,” he teases. “Isn’t she some kind of suffragette? You marry her, Murphy, it won’t be you wearing the pants.”

  “Oh, I think there’s enough pants to go around.” Murphy smiles into his sheaf of papers. A happy Helen is a Helen who might just say yes.

  “Three minutes,” warns Bob.

  Murphy nods. “George in today?” Maybe he’ll wait around. His first investment statement hasn’t arrived, and it was supposed to be in his mailbox on the fifteenth.

  “Don’t know. He’s been out all week. Fred Bennett’s replacing him.”

  ON FRIDAY, MURPHY places a call to the broker, the one George set him up with. The secretary tells Murphy that “Mr. Richardson is busy. He isn’t taking calls.” Murphy can’t keep the frustration from his voice as he insists, and in any case there’s nothing to be done. “Call back tomorrow,” she tells him.

  Murphy wants to make the dinner date with Helen, but he wants to be sure of his news. If the numbers on paper are indeed what George had promised they would be, he’ll be able to show them to Helen — and then present the ring. He’s put away rent money for that, what with the first investment payout scheduled just before month’s end. It’s waiting for him at Birks, half down already. Today is payday; he has the rest in his pocket.

  But with nothing concrete, he doesn’t want to call Helen — not yet. In any case, she’s in Ottawa for the weekend visiting her cousin Agnes, “just to see.” Still, he can’t shake the feeling of hopefulness. It puts a jaunt in his step; it makes heads turn. He touches his hand to his hat at a matronly woman who smiles — not the smile of sympathy he’s used to when people see his missing arm, but the smile of infectious recognition that comes spontaneously when one spots a fellow creature who’s on top of the world.

  As he heads for his apartment it occurs to Murphy that he hasn’t had a nightmare for weeks.

  When Murphy sees Helen on Friday, she’s fresh from her trip to Ottawa and full of admiration for her cousin Agnes. The late October air is cold, and they stop in an almost-empty diner, sliding into a booth where they blow steam across their coffee cups.

  “We talked about everything Murphy. We talked about marriage —” there’s a pause in which Murphy holds his breath “— and do you know what she said to me? She said: ‘I don’t want to be the angel of any home. I want for myself what I want for every woman — absolute equality. Once we have that, men and women can take turns at being angels.’ I told her she should use it in a speech.”

  “Helen —”

  “She’s just so inspiring, Murphy. There’s an opening in her office in a few weeks. I can have it if I want it.”

  “Helen —”

  Helen turns to face him. “Yes?”

  He places his hand on her shoulder, keenly wishing the other was there, fearing — ridiculously — that without two hands to anchor her she might spin away from him.

  “It’s not an angel I want. It’s you. However you want that to be.”

  She kisses him briefly, a butterfly touch. He has no idea what it means.

  IT’S HELEN’S MOTHER’S fiftieth birthday, and so Helen is obliged to be at home during the weekend to help entertain family members from Smith’s Falls, Kingston, and Cornwall. Even Cynthia has come from Dauphin, Manitoba, bringing her son, Stephen, but leaving her husband behind. Murphy isn’t invited. But on Saturday, he finds he needs to hear her voice. He calls her on the telephone from the station, apologizing to the security man as he lets himself in with his key and ascends to the third-floor studio. Not many families have their own telephones, but Westmount homes do as a matter of principle; he’s seen the set in their big front hallway. He waits while the operator connects them, imagining Helen picking up the phone, delighted to hear his voice.

  But, “Murphy? Why are you calling?” she asks. In the background he can hear voices and laughter. He must have called right in the middle of her mother’s party.

  “I just — I’ve been thinking about that dinner. Remember? We said we’d go out to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” There’s a burst of laughter behind her, on the heels of a punchline to some joke.

  He allows himself to chuckle. “Your newfound personhood. And I’ll have some news.”

  “Sure. Sure, Murphy. That would be really nice. But after everyone leaves on Sunday.” Another crescendo of sound in the background. “I have to go now, all right?”

  “Sure. Monday?”

  “I’m sorry — there’s a Glee Club rehearsal Monday night. I can’t miss another one.”

  “Is it really a Glee Club rehearsal?”

  “Yes. I don’t lie to you, Murphy.” Her tone is offended.

  Murphy presses on. “Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday. Yes, all right. Tuesday would be wonderful.”

  “Helen —”

  “I’ll see you then, Murphy. Pick me up at seven?”

  “Yes. Helen — ?”

  “What?”

  “I may have figured something out. This is — it’s important. To me. For us.”

  “The cake’s coming out, Murphy. Don’t worry —” Helen lowers her voice. “I love you.”

  Murphy stands smiling in the dark, empty office.

  ON MONDAY MURPHY asks again about George. He asks Hal, because he knows Hal was also talking to George about getting into “the investment racket” as Hal called it — laughing, but you could tell he was really interested.

  “I don’t know what’s up with George, Murph. Don’t know anyone who�
�s seen him. What do you want him for?”

  They’re standing in the lobby of CFCF. Murphy takes a few steps out of the flow of business so they can talk in a corner, away from reception and near a large potted fern. He feels ridiculous, and yet he doesn’t want someone walking by to hear his words, although he couldn’t have explained his reasons if he’d had to. Murphy keeps his voice low.

  “Hal, you invested with George’s broker. Have you received a statement?”

  “Nah, I never invested. Just didn’t sit right, plus I knew if anything happened to our savings the wife would never let me forget it. Thing is, I hear it’s a good thing I didn’t listen to George.”

  For Murphy, the floor beneath them sinks slightly, a small but ominous shift. “How so?”

  “Heard he was getting a commission for every joker he sent over. Know what else? You know Cy Thibodeau, works in accounts? He also does accounts for the Veteran’s Commission. Says Landry never even served! Got himself excused for medical reasons. All that talk of his? Hot air.”

  ON TUESDAY, MURPHY rises far too early from a troubled sleep, the slightest glow staining the still-dark sky. The dreams of the night stay submerged, a murky underpinning to his morning as he moves about the kitchen. It’s October 29th. Three days until the rent is due. Fourteen days since he should have heard from the broker. Still, he’s picked up the ring, a leap of faith. He has played out their conversation over dinner, honing his words, imagining her response.

  There must be good cause for the delay, he’s reasoned again and again; the broker is a busy man. He’ll call today, as soon as office hours begin. He’ll get verbal assurance, at the very least, as to his growing wealth, and put his fears at rest. When he thinks about it, he knows it’s preposterous to imagine anything could have gone awry. He’d seen the office, seen the framed certificates on the wall. Witnessed the efficient professionalism of Richardson’s secretary, her desk positioned as guardian to the opulent inner office. Heck, he’ll go right over there after work. He can’t think why he hasn’t just done this before.

  Everything is fine, Murphy thinks; the market is growing by leaps and bounds, so it stands to reason that a small-time investor like himself might not merit a quick return on his calls. And as for George, well, it’s not about George, is it?

  He has the ring. He can imagine telling her: you can do whatever you want to — study anything, be anything, travel to Timbuktu if that’s what you want —

  I’ll make sure of it. We’ll take turns being angels.

  He’ll ask her tonight.

  As he boils an egg on the gas element, Murphy considers how to fill the time afforded by his early waking. He’s too alert to return to bed. He’ll go in to work early, he decides. Arriving on time as he usually does, he misses the early-morning office banter, and suddenly that water cooler camaraderie is exactly what he wants. Dressed and presentable, he’s out the door and at the streetcar stop before the news agent even opens. There are few travellers on the early car, so he watches the sun as it illuminates the tops of the buildings along Rue Ste Catherine. It’s a beautiful day. And tonight, dinner with Helen. The ring is a hot weight in his pocket.

  Bob Claridge is just coming out of the lobby washroom as Murphy heads in before going upstairs.

  “You hear the news?” he asks.

  “What news?” Murphy doesn’t want to chat in the door of the men’s washroom, but something in Bob’s voice stops him. “Shouldn’t you be setting up already?”

  “In a sec. It’s early. Anyways everyone’s talking, even though nobody’s supposed to know.”

  “Know what?”

  “George Landry shot himself.”

  MURPHY CALDWELL STANDS in the studio looking at the darkened On Air light that, in a few minutes, will be red. The day has taken on a surreal quality; there’s a dull roaring all around him, as if he was entirely surrounded by ocean. He has today’s news in his hands, but he hasn’t yet reviewed it. On the other side of the glass he can see Bob, Eloise, and Cy from accounting gathered around the teletype, reading the words as they appear, letter by letter, on the curling paper. There is some excitement, but he can’t hear anything from where he stands in the soundproof room. He peers over the disc of the microphone as Eloise hurries towards him, paper in hand. “Top story,” she whispers as the red light goes on.

  STOCK MARKET CRASHES are the first three words.

  Murphy can’t imagine getting through the morning’s newscast, and yet he does. The feeling in his chest is not so far removed from the sinking dread of his nightmares. His lips move; words emerge. Page after page, from the top story on down, he utters word after meaningless word until the red light goes dark and he looks up to see Helen on the other side of the glass. She has the morning paper in her hands. A sudden memory of Helen’s father, talking investments in the den after dinner, swims before him. An earthquake levels everything equally.

  There is a wall of glass between them, and a thousand miles of space. He can’t look at her; he has no idea what she’s even doing here. What can he possibly say to her?

  But when he meets her eyes, all at once Murphy sees what Helen sees: a whole man. An equal partner. Her face is wet, and she presses her palm to the glass. There is no thought involved: his own hand is there to meet it, palm to palm.

  FIVE

  FLYING WITH AMELIA

  ·1934·

  September 23, 1934

  Dear Mr. Penner,

  I am writing in response to your advertisement in the Yarmouth Herald for a pen pal. You requested a woman, and I guess I fit the bill.

  I started this letter four times, trying to find just the right tone, and no matter what I do it comes out awful, formal. This was my best try so far. So I think I will just keep it at that, but this time I’ll go on in what I hope will be a friendlier tone. If we are to be pen pals, then it seems important that we strike the right tone, and that it be an honest one. And so I will pledge, Mr. Penner, to be as honest and forthright as I can be if you will promise the same. Honesty is the least we can give one another in these times, generally speaking, and quite often it is probably the most. Although things are for sure a little better here than they are for you there, where I hear the farms are dust if they’re not grasshoppers. I’ve seen the newsreels at the movies, and I’ll tell you, I won’t complain about the weather. Can’t buy a new pair of shoes, but at least there’s always a fish in the pot.

  But see, I’m nattering on, which is what my friend Sally says is my very worst trait. Sally works at the desk right next to mine at the Herald, which is how I saw your notice, right away before it was even printed, because I have become right good at reading backwards and in reverse. In fact, at our last Christmas party at the newspaper we had a contest to see who could read our publisher’s editorial for the next edition (which of course, was still set in its lead type, and so reversed) the fastest, and without stumbling, which I can tell you was hilarious, especially with some of the men who just might have consumed a little too much eggnog. I won, which tells you I have one talent, at least.

  So now you know two things about me: that I live in Yarmouth (but you knew that, didn’t you, or did you place your advertisement in all of the Nova Scotia papers?) and that I work at a newspaper, and I’ll tell you now that I’m not doing anything glamorous but simply typing letters to the editor (outrage at the state of things, mainly) that have come handwritten so that the typesetters can read them to set them (this is harder than you’d imagine. Or maybe not, since my mother tells me my own penmanship leaves something to be desired) as well as letters to advertisers who have not paid their bills (and I do hope that you are not among them. Wouldn’t that be funny?) and other dull things right short of any kind of interest or creativity.

  And what else do you know about me? Well, if you’ve skipped to the bottom of this page (and I suppose you might have. I would have)
you know my name is Peggy McGrath. And you know that I read the papers and watch the newsreels and that I have a good idea what’s going on in the world, not like some. I hope you do, too, Mr. Penner, because correspondence can be such a lot of fun when you really get to discuss things.

  Now, I think I’ve said enough. If you really want to correspond, you will have to tell me enough about yourself for me to be convinced that you will be honest and forthright. And you will need to be very clear about your position (by this I mean whether or not you are married, because if you were I would not continue writing), your age and occupation, your intentions as far as this correspondence goes, as well as your thoughts and dreams.

  I await, with anticipation, your reply.

  Sincerely, Peggy A. McGrath

  Yarmouth, Nova Scotia

  October 1, 1934

  Dear Miss McGrath,

  I can’t begin to tell you how delighted I was to get your letter, and to get to know so much about you all at once! I will tell you right off that my intentions are honourable, friendship through correspondence my only goal.

  You sound like a very charming and very intelligent young lady. Of course, you didn’t give me your age, although I noticed you asked mine, and since I am responding to your letter I suppose you could take that as agreement to your plea for forthrightness, and so I will tell you that I’m 27 years old, and unmarried. And in keeping with that promise, I will also tell you that I am unfortunately unemployed, my position as a schoolteacher here in Ernfold having ended when they shut down the school, because so many families have now moved into the city or just left Saskatchewan altogether. You can’t be a farmer if you can’t farm. I taught just four children for the month of September, all of them the Moresland children, and when they left . . . well, it was a sad day, watching the backs of them as they left the schoolhouse to walk down the lane, the smallest, Maisie, without even shoes on her feet, all of them holding hands in order of age and height with Sarah at the left, Maisie at the right, and the twins, Perry and Paul, in the middle. Their father has relatives in Regina and the promise of a job at a machine shop. I walked past their place last week after they had left. They didn’t even take the time to board it up, just walked away, a dishtowel still hanging on the line. And now I am writing this in my landlady’s house, the Ministry of Education having paid my room and board three months in advance and so in my spare time I am teaching my landlady, Mrs. Wolyniak, to read while I apply for teaching positions elsewhere, when I know there are none. So you see that your letters will offer me some distraction from life’s mundanities.