Clara Callan

by Richard B. Wright

  “I’m sure you must have guessed that,” he said. “My wife and I have not been close for years.” He looked out the streaked window of the restaurant at people hurrying past. “This started some time ago. After our last son was born. She seemed to go into decline. She has seen doctors about it.”

  Then he told me that he has four children. Michael is twenty-three and lives in Kingston. I have forgotten what he works at, but he went to Queen’s University. He may be an accountant or a bookkeeper. The other three still live at home. Theresa is twenty, and Frank says she doesn’t know what to do with herself. One minute she wants to write a novel, and the next minute she wants to go off to Spain or China and save the world. She takes courses at the university. I gather she has been a difficult child to raise, but from the way Frank talks about her, I think she is her father’s favourite. Anne is eighteen and thinking of entering the religious life this summer. That is how he phrased it, “the religious life,” by which I take him to mean that she intends one day to be a nun. The youngest child, a boy, is only eleven and I have forgotten his name.

  Frank was forthcoming about all this. He also told me about the family business. They are coal merchants and seem fairly well-to-do. Frank has two older brothers in the business, and their offices are on King Street. “So there you have it,” he said. “I want to be honest with you, Carrie. I am not a very complicated man. I work in an office. I look after my children. I tolerate my wife who is not well and who no longer cares for me. I go to the movies on Saturday afternoons because I am unhappy and I want two hours to myself. Edith thinks I am working at the office, but I don’t believe she really cares where I am. When I’m not around the house, she finds it easier to drink. She’s usually asleep in her bedroom by the time I get home. Then she drinks some more before dinner and falls asleep early, waking in the middle of the night to read or wander about. She drinks then too.”

  “Why does she drink so much?” I asked. “Why is she so unhappy?”

  Frank took his time replying. “I don’t really know,” he said finally. “Her father was a drinker. Perhaps it’s in the blood. I’m worried about Michael too. When he comes home for a visit, I can smell it on his breath.”

  In the taxi to the train station, Frank took my hand and asked if I would be there next Saturday and I said I would. So now I am seeing an Irish Catholic who has four children and a troubled wife. I like Frank Quinlan and I must stop lying to him.

  Saturday, May 1

  Today he did not appear, and I felt such a letdown sitting there alone in Loew’s theatre that I could have wept. I know I was very close to tears, and then before the newsreel began, this happened. The lights had just dimmed and I was watching the usher with his flashlamp bending across the seats in front of me talking to women who were sitting alone. There weren’t many. Then the young man approached me and whispered, “Are you Miss Hughes?” I was going to say no, but then I remembered my foolish imposture and said yes and he gave me an envelope. I knew it had to be from Frank, and all through the picture (I can’t even remember the name of it) I clutched the envelope and wondered what it contained. I was sure that he no longer wanted to see me and I tried to think of what I may have done to discourage him. From among others, he had chosen me, but then I had done something to make him change his mind. What? Such disappointment there in that darkened theatre this afternoon! Then, once on the train, I opened the envelope, and like a schoolgirl who has been passed a note, I have read his words a hundred times.

  Dear Carrie:

  I am sorry, but I can’t make the movies today. I am at the office and Theresa just telephoned. Something has come up at home and I have to be there. Please forgive me. I’m going up to Loew’s theatre now (it’s nearly twelve o’clock) and see if I can get an usher to deliver this for me. I hope you’re wearing the same coat, because I have to tell him what you look like. I will see you next Saturday. Please don’t disappoint m

  Fondly, F.

  What happiness I felt upon reading those words on the train this afternoon! I cannot continue to lie to him, and when we meet next Saturday, I will tell him who I really am. I wonder what the trouble at home was; probably something to do with the neurasthenic wife.

  Wednesday, May 5

  After supper I walked west of the village along the township road. The evening sky was streaked with red and gold. As Miss Matheson and Miss Weeks would have said, “God is unfurling his banners.” In the summer of my tenth year, Father sent me to a Bible camp on Lake Couchiching run by the Methodist church. At the end of the day, we gathered on the shore of the lake, a hundred little girls, to watch the brilliant sunsets; and always Miss Matheson or Miss Weeks would announce that God was unfurling his banners. And I would think of Mother somewhere behind those sun-touched clouds with God.

  A hundred yards or so ahead of me on the road were Ella Myles and Martin Kray. I had seen them walking together earlier in the day and felt downcast by the sight. Of all the boys in the village, she has settled for Martin Kray, a seventeen-year-old tough who is just back from a year in reform school at Bowmanville. But perhaps no one else expressed interest in her. At fourteen the heart is hungry for affection and will find it where it can. But I fear he will hurt her, perhaps get her into trouble. I watch them walking ahead of me arm in arm, a moment of happiness for both of them under the spring sky. Wondered too what Frank might be doing at that hour of the day. Wondered what Edith Quinlan looks like. He said, “She’s usually asleep in her bedroom,” so they must sleep apart now. Oh, Miss Matheson and Miss Weeks, sleeping now yourselves alone in narrow plots! If you could only know the tangled thoughts and wishes of all those little girls who passed and still are passing by this way!

  Saturday, May 8

  Today we saw the newsreel of the German airship that burned last Thursday somewhere near New York. The announcer was weeping and we saw the huge ship engulfed in fire and smoke. How terrible to be trapped in all that! Around me people were transfixed by the images. Yet how quickly we all soon forgot the tragedy of those lost lives. Within a minute we were laughing at the antics of a cat and mouse and last Thursday’s dreadful accident had vanished.

  I am doubtless too morbid about such things and Frank reminded me of this in a gentle way. We were in the restaurant and, amid the clatter of the plates and cutlery, I was talking about the people in that airship; how a week ago they were making plans and so on and now everything was over. He took my hand in both of his and told me I was too serious about such matters, but he liked that side of me anyway. Then I told him my name was Clara, not Carrie, and I lived in Whitfield, not Uxbridge; that I had no aunt and I was sorry for having deceived him. I said I came down to Toronto on Saturdays because I was tired of seeing the same faces every day. And then Frank did something; he kissed my hand there in the restaurant. I remember the waitress was laying the cups of tea before us and she was smiling. She was envious of me, I think, and it was wonderful to be sitting there and having my hand kissed like that. I very nearly missed my train.

  Before we parted, Frank said, “Why don’t we do something different next Saturday? We could go for a drive in the country. I could come up and get you.” But I am afraid of gossip in the village and so suggested that we meet somewhere along the way, and that’s what we are going to do. He will drive up from the city and meet me at Uxbridge station next Saturday morning. It then occurred to me that someone on the train from the village would see me meeting him and that would set tongues wagging, so we agreed that he would stay in his automobile until the train left the station. Frank also gave me a book today. Favourite Poems Through the Ages. I was touched that he remembered I liked poetry.

  135 East 33rd Street

  New York

  Sunday, May 9, 1937

  Dear Clara,

  Thanks for your letter. My, don’t you sound gay! It must be this spring weather. This afternoon Evy and I went walking in Central Park and was it ever lovely! The trees and flowers are all out now and young people are lying
on the grass (Ha, ha). Evy and I just walked and talked about everything — the show and where it should be going over the next few months, and this new program that she’s writing. There’s a part in it that she thinks I could do. It’s a detective show and she says it has a little zip and bite and she hopes she can get it past the agency. They don’t like anything too unconventional. Evy is quite lonely these days. It’s hard for women like her to find suitable companionship. It’s not that there aren’t plenty of lesbians in New York, it’s just finding the right one. Well, when I think of it, I guess it’s no different with normal women. Anyway, she is quite restless these days and is talking again about going out to California. A number of the studios are after her.

  We’re still planning to come up to Canada this summer, and we thought the last two weeks of July would be best. Evy will write me out of the script for that time and so we’ll drive up to Whitfield in her mother’s Packard. How about that? We’ll pick you up and then go north to see the little girls. We’ll stay in awful tourist courts and eat terrible food in roadside diners and generally have a whale of a time. What do you think? Doesn’t it sound like fun? I hope you are still on for this adventure because I’m sure looking forward to it. Drop me a note one of these days. It’s great to hear you sounding so cheerful.

  Love, Nora

  P.S. Wasn’t that an awful tragedy the other day with the Hindenburg burning over in Lakehurst? It was in all the papers and on the radio.

  P.P.S. Evy heard that Mr. Crumb’s book will be out this summer and I’ll get a copy for you.

  Wednesday, May 12

  The new King’s coronation and so we got a holiday. At five o’clock this morning, people were listening to the ceremony from England. Houses are adorned with flags and this afternoon there was a parade and a tree planting at the fairgrounds. Unfortunately for the revellers, it rained off and on most of the day.

  Friday, May 14

  Today, a letter from Frank.

  305 King Street East

  Toronto, Ontario

  Tuesday

  My dear Clara,

  I’m writing this during my lunch hour. My brothers were after me to go out with them to the hotel for lunch (we generally go to the King Edward two or three times a week), but I would much rather sit here at my desk and think about you and of how happy I am that we have met. I hope, by the way, that you can read my handwriting. I haven’t practised my penmanship for years. Miss Haines does all my letters on the typewriter.

  What shall we do on Saturday? Would you enjoy a picnic lunch or would you rather a meal in, say a hotel in one of the towns along the lake? Cobourg or Port Hope? I can’t imagine it would be very grand, but we could try a hotel dining room. I think that would be best, don’t you? We’ll try some old hotel where the roast beef will be overcooked and the gravy salty and they will give us some terrible rice pudding for dessert. But we won’t care about any of that because we’ll be enjoying one another’s company. I have so many questions I want to ask you. Who are you, Clara Callan, and why have I been so fortunate to meet you? I know you will tell me the truth about yourself because you’re not the sort of person who lies (not for very long at any rate), and I find it refreshing to know someone who so values honesty. I can see it in your clear, dark eyes and your grave expression. Now, you may think that’s an odd statement since I am a married man, and if we are to go on seeing one another, I will have to invent another life for myself, and that, of course, will involve deceit. It has to, I’m afraid, or others whom I care about (my sons and daughters and, yes, Edith in a way) will be badly hurt. So I can see no way around that. Yet it seems to me that when you are lucky enough to find someone who you think is good and true, then the lies you tell others are forgivable. That may sound strange, but I think it’s true.

  Well, my dear, I am certainly looking forward to seeing you on Saturday morning, and I shall be waiting in my car at the Uxbridge train station. According to the schedule, your train arrives there at 10:10 so I shall be there waiting. My car, by the way, is a dark green Pontiac sedan (though I can’t imagine there will be many others there), and I will be behind the wheel reading a newspaper. Isn’t that how it is usually done in the movies? I very much look forward to our day together, my dear, and I hope you do too.

  Fondly, Frank

  P.S. I never bothered to ask whether you have a telephone, and when I tried information for your region, they had no listing. Don’t you find the lack of a telephone a terrible inconvenience?

  Saturday, May 15 (2:00 a.m.)

  A fitful sleep because of a toothache that started after supper and now has wrenched me awake. I have tried cloves and a hot towel to my face, but nothing seems to appease the wretched thing. I will have to see a dentist in Linden soon. This neglect of my teeth; it’s gone on for years and now I am paying for it, as pay we must. It’s a wonder they are as presentable as they are. And so I lie in bed and read F.’s letter for the twentieth time. He called me “my dear” twice. Staring at the clock face and waiting for daybreak or sleep. I will surely look a wreck by morning.

  Sunday, May 16

  Yesterday morning I took the train and got off at Uxbridge station. I wore a skirt and blouse and tied a sweater around my shoulders though the day was mild. There was no one else from the village on the train and I felt wonderfully alive and whole except for the cursed toothache. “There are always ants at the picnic,” as Father used to say. From the window of the train, I could see Frank sitting in his dark green car and I felt so happy seeing him there. It was as if I hadn’t really expected him to appear, but there he was. When I got into the car, he smiled and squeezed my hand. His car is new and I could smell its newness. He told me he has had it less than a month and enjoyed his drive up from the city. We drove out along the highway past villages and farms. I could smell the earth. I worried about making conversation, but talking comes easily to Frank. At one point he rested his hand on my arm and looked across at me. “I’m glad you decided to come, Clara,” he said. And I was glad too. We stopped by the side of a road and walked along a stream, listening to the water rush over the stones. That gurgling sound and the smell of lilacs and I felt so wonderful except for the toothache which pestered me like the devil. Frank asked if he could kiss me and I was worried that my mouth would taste awful, but then I thought perhaps it wouldn’t matter and it didn’t, I think. His mouth tasted of tobacco. His lips were softer than I imagined and his moustache felt odd against my lips, but I liked it. Holding hands, we walked back to the car like schoolchildren, and I thought of Ella and her young man on the township road.

  “Is there anything the matter?” Frank asked. “You seem preoccupied, Clara.”

  I didn’t want him to think that I found his company tiresome, and so I told him about my toothache.

  “Ah, well then,” he said, brightening. “We must do something about that.” He seemed charged suddenly with energy and I get the impression that Frank is one of those persons who likes to have things to do. He was now all business. “We’ll find a druggist in the next town.”

  “It isn’t necessary,” I said.

  “Of course, it’s necessary. You don’t have to suffer with a toothache in this day and age. You need looking after, Clara,” he said. “Everyone needs looking after once in a while.”

  As we drove along the highway, I thought about that and had to agree. We all do need to be fussed over now and then. In the next town we parked the car and walked along the main street like a married couple. Frank insisted that I take his arm and I did. Then we went into a drugstore and Frank said, “My wife has a toothache. What have you got for that?” It felt so peculiar hearing him say “my wife,” but the druggist didn’t bat an eye. He sold us some drops which took away the ache in no time. I felt so relieved to be free of it that I wanted to kiss Frank again there on the street.

  In the dining room of the hotel we were the only patrons except for a frail elderly man in a suit who sat at a corner table. The waitress served us a full d
inner with soup and roast beef and potatoes and gravy, just as Frank had predicted in his letter. When I reminded him of this, he laughed. “Well, yes,” he said. “I have eaten in these places many times.”

  I’m afraid I left a good deal of it on my plate. Frank put it down to my toothache, but really I was too nervous to eat much. I imagined the old man in the suit eating his dinner in this hotel dining room every day at twelve o’clock. I saw him as a widower, a wealthy merchant or perhaps the owner of a local mill. I imagined him having no family and living in a large brick house with a turret somewhere on a leafy street and coming to this hotel every day at a quarter to twelve for his roast beef. And one day he would surprise everyone by leaving his fortune to the pretty young waitress. And again it felt strange when the waitress asked Frank, “Would your wife like some pie?”

  When we came out of the hotel it had clouded over, and Frank said, “Let’s go to the movies,” and we both laughed because it seems that this is what we end up doing on Saturday afternoons wherever we are. So we lined up on the main street with all the children and moved along into the little theatre which was crowded and noisy with all those youngsters shouting and climbing over the seats. Amid this clamour Frank and I held hands. When the cartoon lighted the screen, the children settled down, and we all sat and watched Mickey Mouse and then the fat and skinny comedians and then a picture with cowboys and Indians fighting one another. From time to time Frank squeezed my hand and once he leaned across and kissed my cheek.