Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

There are pastries for breakfast this morning. They were donated by the deli I go to on Connecticut Avenue, so they’re really good. Most people are pleased except for Mary. She has cereal instead.

  I tell Emily and Brad that I’m going to the Ford Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was shot.

  ‘You know, you could write the definitive guidebook on DC when you’ve finished here,’ says Emily. ‘Seriously, it’s great how many places you’ve been to.’

  The Ford Theatre is smaller than I imagined and not as gilded. I join a guided tour with about thirty other people. The tour guide tells us what happened on that night, pointing to the box where Lincoln sat, explaining how John Wilkes Booth entered the box and shot Lincoln and then jumped onto the stage, injuring his leg. I wonder if stricter gun control might have stopped Booth, but it seems unlikely. Gun licensing is probably difficult to enforce after a civil war.

  Booth was an actor and he knew the play being performed really well. He timed the shooting for a moment when the audience was laughing and there were only a few actors on stage. He then escaped out the back and rode away on a waiting horse.

  Across the road from the Ford Theatre is the house where Lincoln was taken after he was shot. It’s very small. People stand respectfully around the tiny bed where he died. Lincoln was very tall so his feet hung over the end of the bed.

  Downstairs at the Ford Theatre is a museum. There are a lot of grizzly artefacts from the shooting, including blood-splattered pillowcases and the clothes Lincoln was wearing when he died.

  I read about John Wilkes Booth. He wanted to assassinate the president to keep the civil war going and he hated the idea of ending slavery. He believed he would go down in history as a hero for shooting Lincoln. Instead, people like me visit the museum and think he was a racist psycho who was very much on the wrong side.

  I look at a photo of Booth. Apparently he was considered very handsome at the time. I can’t see it. Maybe it’s because of his moustache.

  Walking up the stairs on my way to Reading Beyond Bars I realise that it’s been three weeks since I came to a meeting here. A lot has happened in that time. Last time I was here, Campbell and I left together and kissed in Dupont Circle. Now we’ve done a lot more than that, but I’m not sure if we’re any closer.

  When I walk in Campbell is standing near the pile of letters.

  ‘Hi, Campbell.’

  ‘Hey, Clara,’ he says without looking up from the pile.

  Eric comes over. ‘Hi, Clara,’ he says. He’s being unusually civil. ‘You’ve got a letter.’

  Campbell says, ‘I thought we weren’t passing on letters like that?’

  ‘Come on, Campbell,’ says Eric. ‘She’s not a kid. She can handle it.’

  The envelope is from Bastrop Federal Correctional Institution. I open it and unfold the letter. It is very short and says:

  Dear Clara,

  I don’t give a shit what a middle-class white-girl like you studies at college.

  Dave

  I fold the letter back into the envelope. ‘Have you read this?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ says Campbell. ‘We read all the letters.’

  ‘It seems a bit harsh,’ I say.

  ‘Well, maybe it was a bit insensitive to thrust your petty little problems on someone who’s probably had the shit kicked out of them every day by prison guards for the last two years,’ says Eric.

  ‘Come on, Eric,’ Campbell says. ‘This isn’t about John.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ I say. ‘I think I’ll leave.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ says Campbell.

  I keep walking towards the door and he doesn’t follow me.

  On the train I sit opposite a lady wearing a post office uniform. Tears come into my eyes. I lean my elbow on the window sill, and stare at the window. Dave was right. I am stupid, self-centred and over-privileged. No wonder Campbell doesn’t want to spend time with me.

  The lady catches my eye in the reflection in the window. She says, ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say but there’s a tremor in my voice.

  ‘I’m sure you will be fine,’ she says firmly.

  Her conviction takes me by surprise and I manage to smile.

  I keep thinking about the letter, but I try to put it in perspective. I imagine what Emily would do if someone was rude to her. She would refuse to go down to it. I guess in some ways Dave’s letter was so rude it was almost funny. It might be a good story to tell one day.

  When my alarm goes off I’m relieved that it’s finally time to get up. I’ve been awake since four in the morning. I couldn’t get back to sleep because I was thinking about Campbell. Is he my boyfriend or not? I thought things were going well, but now I’m not sure.

  Maybe if we could have a proper talk again, like we did the night he came back from Baltimore, things would be okay again. But I never see him alone. Every time I suggest we do something together he says he’s too busy planning the inauguration protest. He doesn’t even seem to want to sleep with me again. Perhaps I was really bad at it. Perhaps there’s something sickeningly wrong with me that he was too polite to tell me about.

  I’m over lying in bed worrying about it. I’d rather be up doing something useful.

  The first thing Brad says to me is, ‘You look awful.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, Clara,’ says Emily. ‘He didn’t mean that. But you do seem a bit tired.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I really don’t want them to tell me to go home. I do not need to spend more time on my own thinking.

  While we’re serving Emily asks, ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘I might go to the Museum of American History.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Don’t you have to work?’

  ‘I have a meeting downtown at ten. I could visit the museum for an hour, keep you company.’

  I can tell Emily feels sorry for me because I’m always on my own. I think about telling her that I’m not a charity case. She doesn’t know I have Campbell, although I’m not sure that I do.

  At the museum Emily suggests we visit an exhibit on the first ladies.

  We look at a photo of Hilary Clinton standing beside Bill. I wanted Barack Obama to win but now I can’t help thinking it would have been inspiring to have a woman run for president. It would make a change from women being in the background collecting china and wearing memorable dresses.

  I glance at Emily. ‘Who did you prefer, Clinton or Obama?’ I ask.

  ‘How do you know I’m not a Republican?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was rude, I shouldn’t—’

  Emily cuts me off. ‘I was joking. I was happy that Obama got the nomination.’

  ‘Was it hard to choose?’

  ‘You mean because I’m a woman, and I’m black?’

  I don’t know how to answer that. I guess that is what I meant, but I don’t want to admit it. I shrug.

  ‘I didn’t vote for him because he’s black, I voted for him because I liked his policies. If Hilary had gotten the nomination it would be the same.’

  Of course, Campbell would say that it doesn’t make any difference who is president.

  I stop and look at a photo of Jackie Kennedy.

  ‘Why can’t I be like that?’ I say.

  ‘Like what?’ asks Emily.

  ‘Calm and poised like Jackie Kennedy.’

  ‘She was pretty unhappy.’

  ‘I know,’ I say, but I can’t quite believe that someone so elegant could be really unhappy.

  My phone rings. I should have turned it off before I came into the museum. I fumble in my bag for it. I’m intending to hang up straight away, but I see that the call is from Campbell. Maybe I can finally see him on my own.

 
‘Sorry, I have to get this,’ I say to Emily, and hurry out into the corridor.

  Campbell says, ‘Hi, Clara. I need to be quick. We’re meeting up on Saturday to prepare for the inauguration protest. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I guess so.’ I’m disappointed; this isn’t what I was hoping for.

  I must not sound very convinced because he says, ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I want to but I’m still not sure if I fit in.’

  Campbell sounds impatient. ‘Clara, the best way to become radical is by being radical. Direct action will be good for you.’

  ‘Okay. What will we do?’

  ‘Paint banners.’

  Campbell tells me the details and then hangs up in a hurry because he has to call other people.

  Mum is sitting at the bench drinking coffee when I come into the kitchen.

  ‘Clara, do you want to come to the Air and Space Museum today?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve already been,’ I say.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last week. Word of advice: don’t pat the moon rock. There’s a lot of finger grease, not much rock.’

  ‘How about one of the other museums on the Mall?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I’m going out.’ I’m pleased that, for once, I have plans and she doesn’t.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Just around.’

  ‘Very mysterious.’ She asks, ‘Do you have plans for the inauguration?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Pete from work invited us to an inauguration potluck at his house.’

  ‘What’s potluck?’

  ‘It means you bring a plate.’

  ‘I might be busy.’ I haven’t decided whether or not to go to the protest yet. I can’t imagine myself waving a banner and shouting, but I don’t want Campbell to be disappointed in me.

  ‘Is Campbell having an inauguration party?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Mum pauses, as if she’s deciding whether or not to say something. She says, ‘Clara, if you’re still mad at me about Tony, you know, we’re not seeing each other anymore.’

  This is news to me. She went out to dinner with Tony on Thursday. She must have broken it off then. I wonder if she’s upset. I want to find out what happened, but I don’t want to ask.

  Mum continues, ‘He was a little too . . .’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘I was going to say fastidious.’

  Mum doesn’t seem too upset about the breakup. I was expecting everything to come to a head in a dramatic scene complete with wailing, recriminations and a plate-smashing wife. Then I’d be able to nobly refrain from saying ‘I told you so’. I didn’t expect things to calmly fizzle out.

  When I leave the house I think about telling Mum where I’m going. But I can’t be bothered explaining why I’m making anti-Obama banners.

  Well, they’re not really anti-Obama, it’s more like anti-Obama-hype. It’s not Obama as an individual that’s the problem it’s the whole system. It’s tempting to hope that everything will be better with a new administration, but there will still be homeless people, domestic violence and wars. It’s the system. That’s what the anarchists say, at least, but I still find it scary to imagine a society without governments. Campbell says it’s because I’ve been conditioned to think that way.

  Anyway, just because I’m helping with the banners, doesn’t mean I’ll go to the protest.

  I’ve never been to the church hall in daylight. The sun shines through the red-and-green stained-glass windows in the stairwell and casts coloured patterns onto the white walls.

  Upstairs about ten people are sitting around the tables. Campbell, Belle and Bernard are there but I don’t recognise anyone else. I walk over and look at the banner they’re working on. Someone has painted a very good picture of Obama. The banner reads: Stop Obamamania.

  Campbell doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right beside him.

  ‘Um, hello,’ I say. ‘I came.’

  Campbell is working on the banner, tracing around the black lettering with red paint. Without looking up he says, ‘Hey, Clara.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’ I ask.

  ‘Good question,’ says Campbell. He puts down the paint brush. ‘We’ve pretty much got the banners covered now. But we need someone to fold the leaflets.’ He picks up a big stack of paper off a chair and dumps it on the end of the table. He then gets another stack of paper and a stapler.

  ‘This is Eric’s pamphlet,’ says Campbell. ‘Put the two sheets together and staple them in the middle, then fold.’

  ‘Okay.’ I start on the pile. There must be at least 500 sheets. This will take awhile.

  ‘Is Eric coming?’ I ask.

  ‘He couldn’t make it.’

  Bernard says, ‘Now that there’s work to do.’

  Belle, who is sitting beside him, shoves him with her elbow. ‘That’s not fair. Eric was up till four last night finishing the pamphlet.’

  Bernard mutters, ‘He can work when it suits him.’

  ‘Is this still about the marmalade?’ asks Campbell.

  ‘The marmalade?’ I ask.

  ‘Eric and Bernard went into a joint marmalade-making venture,’ explains Campbell. ‘It didn’t go so well.’

  ‘It was not a joint venture. It was my venture that Eric hijacked,’ says Bernard. ‘I bought all the marmalade-making equipment and the sugar. I bought the oranges. I made the marmalade. Then one Sunday morning I wake up to find that Eric’s taken all the marmalade to the Extremely Free Market and swapped it with the Maryland Organic Whole Growers for a four-volume set of The Collected Works of Nineteenth-Century Irish Anarchists.’ Someone at the other end of the table laughs but Bernard’s not amused as he continues, ‘The worst part was, the next week I saw those Maryland Organic Whole Growers at the Eastern Market selling my marmalade for ten bucks a jar.’

  Campbell shakes his head. ‘Those Maryland Organic guys have no principles.’

  ‘What about Eric?!’ says Bernard.

  ‘To be fair, you didn’t need all that marmalade,’ says Campbell.

  Bernard looks pissed off. His anger over the marmalade incident has clearly not faded with the passage of time. ‘I was going to use the money for equipment for the food co-op. We’ve got nowhere to store the legumes.’ As Bernard speaks he waves around a brush and accidentally swipes his beard with a streak of blue.

  Campbell tries to placate him. ‘I shouldn’t have brought up the marmalade. Let’s talk about something else.’

  ‘Typical,’ says Bernard, slamming his brush into one of the glasses of water. ‘I need some fresh air.’

  He stomps out of the room. With each step the floorboards shake.

  ‘Will he be okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ says Campbell. ‘He’s got a short fuse but he calms down fast.’

  I smile and nod but secretly I don’t blame Bernard for hating Eric. You can’t swap other people’s preserves without asking. It’s not on.

  I start work putting together the pieces of paper and stapling. It’s boring but purposeful and I enjoy watching a small stack of collated pamphlets build up. And at least I’m getting involved in some direct action. Hopefully my inner activist is being released as I staple.

  Bernard comes back into the room only a few minutes later, transformed back to his usual self.

  ‘Hey, do you guys remember when we held the mock coronation during George Bush’s inauguration?’ he says cheerfully.

  They all begin discussing past anarchist events. It sounds fun, lots of costumes and running around screaming – a bit like Rock Eisteddfod.

  I arrive early at the centre so Emily and I have time to talk after we’ve set out all the condiments and put the oatmeal on t
he warmer.

  Emily asks me, ‘Do you have plans for Inauguration Day?’

  ‘Not really,’ I say. When I’m with the anarchists I think I can be brave and have the courage of my convictions, but standing here in the kitchen under fluorescent lighting talking to Emily, who is wearing one of the most sensible skivvies I’ve ever seen, I find it hard to own up to the fact that I might be protesting the inauguration instead of celebrating it.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask.

  ‘Brad and I are having some friends over. Do you want to come? I know it’ll be all boring old people like us, but you’d be welcome.’

  I now have three conflicting appointments for Inauguration Day. I don’t mind missing Pete’s potluck but I would like to go to Emily’s house. I sometimes fantasise about their house. I imagine Brad and Emily living in a converted warehouse apartment with a galley kitchen where Brad makes his own pasta. Emily would draw up plans of tunnels in a study with abstract art hanging on the distressed concrete walls and a Newton’s cradle pendulum sitting on her desk. I would much rather go to their inauguration party than the protest but that might ruin everything with Campbell.

  Reluctantly I say, ‘I might be seeing my friend that day. I’ll have to get back to you.’

  Emily shrugs. ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’

  Hilda has stood up to say the prayer before breakfast this morning. She’s wearing a dress that looks like it’s made out of bath towels. She says, ‘Thank you, Lord, for these things. Thank you for this meal. And I am grateful for electing Obama.’

  A few people clap but some people are muttering. Tiffany says, ‘Thank you, Hilda, but remember, no politics in prayers, please.’

  I’m walking up the steps to the Museum of Natural History, which is the only museum in the Smithsonian that I haven’t visited yet. Like all the buildings on the National Mall, the architects aimed to impress. The first thing I see when I walk into the museum is a massive dome with an elephant in the centre. A group of screeching and pointing schoolkids seem to find this extremely exciting.

  I want to see the Hope Diamond just so I can say that I’ve seen the most famous diamond in the world. At the information desk I get a map and follow the curving staircase to the first floor, picking my way past a group of primary-school children who have spread out across the entire staircase.