Love, Nora
Whitfield, Ontario
Friday, July 1, 1938
Dear Nora,
Thanks for the book, which arrived yesterday. It must have cost a fortune to mail this tome, but I appreciate the thought. As you said, it has all kinds of information that I didn’t know I needed to have. Rest assured that I am taking care of myself. I really don’t feel that different yet, though I’m beginning to grow “quite the little bosom.” I tend to get a bit tired so I sleep in later. Now, at first light, I just roll over and doze for another hour or so. I feel entitled to indulge myself like this. I’ve never paid much attention to my body. I’ve always regarded it as something that gets me around, but now I suppose I’m thinking of this child too, and so I am more conscious of being a living “body.” I have a good appetite and that morning nausea seems to be over, thank goodness. Yes, I do have a doctor, and I am going to see him again in a couple of weeks. Murdoch is an elderly Scot and seems to have that nationality’s dour and stern manner. But I like him. He’s a no-nonsense fellow. I was supposed to see this new man (handsome as a movie star), but he happened to be out on the day I went, and so I had to make do with Murdoch. But as I said, he’s fine. I’ll stick with him.
Now that the heat wave has passed, I am enjoying the summer. It must have been awful last month down in New York; it was bad enough up here; the gardens and lawns were in ruins and are only now beginning to recover after some good rains.
I have gone back to the piano. I got away from it for a while. Spent too much time listening to that pernicious radio of yours. It does seduce us in our idle hours. But now I am thinking that I may teach this child to play the piano. I doubt whether I’ll be able to afford lessons. Perhaps playing the piano is no longer as important in a youngster’s life as it used to be. When we were young, so many girls wanted to play. Still it is an accomplishment. If I have a boy, I still think I will teach him. He will probably play jazz music instead of Schubert, but that will be all right too. When I am an old woman, he can bring in his friends for a night of jazz music while I sit in the corner. He will have to have some qualities or gifts to attract friends. If he takes after me, I can’t imagine that he will be athletic. But perhaps he will inherit some of his Aunt Nora’s athleticism. Do you remember how you used to play softball and hockey with the boys when you were eleven or twelve? And how I used to sneer at you for this! Now I believe that I secretly envied you, for I was so clumsy as a child. I still am for that matter.
I am sorry to hear that you and your friend have parted ways but perhaps it’s for the best. We’ve both been down that road and so we both know what’s at the end of it. There comes a day when it’s all over. It’s a story that has to end badly, isn’t it? Men must return to their wives, Nora; it is the way of the world. And we must — let me turn that into a humble little couplet:
Men must return to their wives,
and we must get on with our lives.
A little lame, I admit, but it might be a useful reminder if we were to dress it up through handicraft: hand-stitched on fabric, and nicely framed to hang upon the kitchen wall next to the dairy calendar.
It’s Dominion Day and there is hardly a soul to be seen in the village. Many have gone over to Linden for the parade this afternoon. The Premier will be there, I am told. Others have gone to their cottages for the weekend. Marion and her parents left for Sparrow Lake yesterday and I already miss her. It’s so odd because she was getting on my nerves. Since she’s learned of “my condition,” she’s been over nearly every day fussing about me and asking whether she can do anything. Of course she means well, but at times I felt I was quite prepared to take her by the throat and kill her for her kindness. Yet now, knowing that I won’t see her for six weeks, I miss her. What an impossible person I am! Well, in any case, you musn’t worry about me, Nora. I intend to take good care of myself. Thanks again for the book.
Clara
P.S. I will look forward to seeing you on Labour Day weekend.
Thursday, July 14
A visit to Murdoch who weighed and measured, and poked and prodded. The peculiar medicinal smell of him and the immaculate part in his grey hair as he bent across me. What an odd way for a man to make his living! Feeling the privates of a virtual stranger and peering into unlikely orifices! All in a day’s work, of course, and thank goodness for those who are prepared to spend their working hours doing such things. I appear to be in good health. Murdoch, stern of mien (as old-fashioned authors used to describe such types) is a man of few words, but at the end of his examination he did lay a hand on my shoulder and said not unkindly, “Now, Miss, you are going to be just fine.” His words made me feel like a young girl. Briefly.
At the library I took out The Scarlet Letter. I tried to read this when I was fifteen or sixteen, but it defeated me. Perhaps now Hawthorne’s genius will shine through all the verbiage. Twenty years ago I found him a terrible old windbag. Now that I can truly identify with poor Hester however. . .
Saturday, July 16
A bad day. Two letters, one confirming the consequences of my moral turpitude, and the other, a rancid denunciation of my character. Written in pencil, badly spelled and, of course, anonymous.
Dear Miss Uppity,
Well it looks like youve been foundout doesn’t it. Maybe this will teach you not to give yourself such airs in this village. There are plenty of us around who are just as good as you and arent to snooty to say hello on the street. Just because your father was principle of the school and your sister is a bigshot on the radio in New York dont mean your so hot. There are plenty of people in Whitfield who think you have no business near there children. There are places for the likes of you down in the city so why dont you just get on your high horse and skeddadle down there where you belong. Im speaking for lots of folks in this village. You always thought yourself so high and mightyt didn’t you. Well it turns out your just baggage.
Morrison, Evans and Ross
Barristers and Solicitors
29 King Street
Linden, Ontario
July 14, 1938
Miss C. Callan
48 Church Street
Whitfield, Ontario
Dear Miss Callan:
At a meeting of the Board of Trustees for Whitfield Township Schools on Wednesday evening, July 13, it was decided not to renew your contract for the coming school year. As Chairman, it is my duty to inform you that your services will no longer be required as a classroom teacher at the Continuation School in Whitfield. Your salary will, of course, be paid until the end of August. On behalf of the Board, I thank you for services rendered over the past several years.
Yours truly,
John H. Morrison
Whitfield, Ontario
Monday, July 18, 1938
Dear Evelyn,
Forgive a dilatory correspondent. It must be six weeks since I received your last letter and I have no excuse for not writing before this other than laziness. These days I am quite idle, rising late and frittering away the hours playing the piano and reading poison pen letters. Actually I have only received one, though one is enough, thank you very much. I am thinking of framing it and placing it over the mantel in the dining room. I think it would make an interesting conversation starter with dinner guests. If I ever had any dinner guests!
I have been to the doctor, a surly old Scot in the nearby town of Linden. I drive over there once a month and he pokes and prods me; apparently I am as healthy as any of the young mares he sees in the course of his daily rounds. This is a farming community, Evelyn, and we are apt to use rustic imagery. Curiously enough, I am happy. Or to be more precise, as happy as someone with my temperament can be. Some mornings I awaken and for a few seconds forget what has happened. Life will just go on as it has in the past; then, of course, I say to myself, Well, it won’t because I am pregnant and in a few months I will have a child to look after and live with. Then I begin to feel a bit overwhelmed by it all and this might last a minute or t
wo. I lie there feeling stupidly sorry for myself, perplexed and anxious about everything that lies ahead. My life is certainly veering in a new direction. How will that work itself out? I don’t know yet. How could I? Yet it is exciting and makes me almost happy. I suppose I am like someone who is embarking on a mysterious adventure and feels fearful yet exhilarated. I’m afraid I haven’t described my state of mind very well, but it’s the best I can do on this summer afternoon with only the cicadas and the rattle of a neighbour’s lawn mower to disturb the drowsy peace.
Your Hollywood sounds fascinating. Can you tell me more about it? Do you see any famous movie stars? If you have a few moments in your glamorous life, I would love to hear from you.
Clara
Saturday, July 23
What thoughts course through my mind and at unlikely hours! At seven o’clock this morning I was cleaning the windows in Father’s room, watching the sunlight pour across the backyard onto the Brydens’ garden. Mr. Bryden was hoeing his potato hills. In an old suit coat and with a straw hat on his head, he was whistling “Yours Is My Heart Alone.” An elderly man in his garden on a summer morning and I thought of his words about Mother; about how all the young men in the village had envied Father when he married her. Father used to say that after they were married they sometimes went dancing with the Brydens at the Orange Hall in Linden.
I like to imagine them returning from such evenings, pausing to say good night down there in the driveway, then entering these houses. Two young couples climbing the stairs to their bedrooms, the scent of lilacs through a screen and moonlight spilling across the bedroom floors. Hanging up suit coats and dresses in closets, unfastening braces and straps and pulling on nightclothes. Climbing into bed. It must have been something like that. The elderly man now hoeing his garden and whistling was once young; he must have been caught up on some long-ago summer night in all the erotic commotion, the tangled, frantic embraces of love. Naked. Splayed and thrusting. What thoughts for a mother-to-be who is washing windows at seven o’clock in the morning!
4880 Barton Street
Hollywood, California
26 / 7 / 38
Dear Clara,
Glamorous life! You bet! In my cell at Mr. Mayer’s workshop. As I may have said before, I am a well-paid slave out here among the comely lasses and handsome lads and men with hairy brown arms in short-sleeve shirts who smoke cigars. The reek of cigar smoke out here is as dense as the mimosa in the evening. Well, it now looks as if this damn serial that I have concocted is going to go into production in the fall. Mr. M. seems to like my portrait of ideal family life, and so we’ll be inflicting this on the public in another few months. We are still looking for the ideal girl to play our pert Miss Brown. The Garland kid would be ideal, but she is not available. They want her for the lead in a picture based on Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, which they are hoping to shoot in September.
You want a glimpse of my “glamorous world”? Sometimes they allow us to unchain ourselves and go to the bathroom. Or stand by a window and stretch the muscles of an aching back. So the other morning I witnessed two scenes which will give you some idea of the contrasts in my world. I saw both through the bars of my garret window.
Scene One
Ten o’clock in the a.m. and a certain Mr. Big’s Cadillac drives into the lot. Several flunkies get out and then Mr. Big emerges, all five feet two of him in a cream-coloured suit, two-toned shoes, cigar, of course. Then from the side of our building comes this young woman, a delicious-looking blonde (she works on the third floor as a stenographer or typist), and approaches Mr. Big. She is obviously upset and there is a flurry of something going on. Flunkies move in and surround her. Hustle her into the big car which drives away while little Mr. Big adjusts his necktie and disappears below me. Now what do you imagine has happened? So, not a good day for the pretty typist.
Scene Two
An hour later on this morning of sunshine and orange juice, and who is crossing the lot under my window but Rooney and Garland, our mythical American kids. He is making her laugh with some of his antics. He is a brash little guy, but he can sure make the girls laugh. So there you have it! Heartache and success and all within footsteps of one another. As Fred keeps reminding me in that sensible Midwestern tone of his, the currency out here isn’t money, it’s dreams. Wonderful fantastic dreams of seeing your name in lights and being worshipped in darkened theatres across the country by millions of adoring fans. I find this perfectly acceptable, by the way, because I am a tough old broad and illusions and fakery don’t bother me in the least. It’s what we’re all about. Working all those years in radio taught me that. And when I stand in front of the cashier’s cage on Fridays and receive my cheque, I feel that I am not only being handsomely rewarded, but I am also doing my bit to keep my fellow citizens permanently inoculated against the ugly realities of life (and death). It is possible therefore to see myself as someone who is performing a kind of civic duty.
I must also tell you a little about my social life which up to this point had been somewhat sparse. Now, however, it shows signs of promise. Fred, whom I discovered to my delight is another incorrigible invert, has taken me to a couple of parties and I met an interesting woman the other night. Now, my dear, I don’t like to drop names, but she happens to be Aldous Huxley’s wife. Do you know Huxley’s books at all? Antic Hay, Point Counter Point, Brave New World? He is a Britisher who is out here for the money. As are we all, of course. His wife Maria is European, French or maybe Belgian, though she has an English accent. Anyway, she was very nice to me and, as it turns out, we happen to share similar tastes. She has promised to introduce me to some friends, and so at last I may actually have some fun out here. After all, that’s one of the reasons I emigrated to this benighted state.
I’m glad to learn that you are coping so well with your “situation.” By all means, frame and hang that letter by your mantel. Then invite your fellow citizens in to see what kind of homespun neighbourliness exists in hamlets like yours.
Your sister phones once a week to give me all the news from New York. As I’m sure you know by now, she has broken up with Les Cunningham who is going off to Chicago. I think that’s for the best. I wish Nora could find a decent feller and settle into family life. It’s what she really wants. The problem is she has lousy taste in men. Well, I should talk? I have lousy taste in women. Maybe our luck will change. Maybe everybody’s luck will change! Let’s hope.
Love and luck, Evelyn
135 East 33rd Street
New York
Sunday, July 31, 1938
Dear Clara,
I have some wonderful news and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Last Thursday we had a going-away party for Les, and I know it’s over between us, but I couldn’t help being a little blue about things and so I had a let-down there in the studio. Had to go into the ladies’ for a damn good cry and then was so horrified by how I looked that I left early. I went home and was moping around the apartment when I got this phone call from Harry Benton, a producer at CBS. They are planning a new dramatic series for the fall called “American Playhouse on the Air.” They are going to dramatize “classic” American novels. Full network on Sunday nights. Benton said he liked the sound of my voice and would I be interested in reading for the part of Aunt Polly in their first production of Huckleberry Finn. Would I?
It’s just what the doctor ordered. Not only to take my mind off Les, but also for my career. I love “Chestnut Street,” but it does get a little tedious day after day and this would make an exciting change. And who knows, it could lead to other things! Of course, I have to clear all this with the agency, but I don’t think there will be a problem. Sometimes they are fussy about people on their shows taking on other roles, but this will be an evening program and a different audience. I think I can persuade them to give me a chance. Wish me luck, okay?
Marjorie has written me out of “Chestnut Street” for a few days, and so I’ll be able to come up and see you on
Labour Day weekend. I’m leaving on Thursday evening’s train. Don’t bother driving into the city to pick me up. It will be so busy with the Ex on. I’ll catch the afternoon train to Whitfield. I hope you are taking good care of yourself.
Love, Nora
Wednesday, August 10
Turmoil in Murdoch’s waiting room this afternoon just as I was leaving. Three men and a boy, country people in overalls and work shirts, had come into the room. The boy was clutching a blood-soaked towel, his eyes dulled with pain. He was helped to a chair by one of the men who looked like an older brother. The oldest (father? grandfather?) was apologetic for all the fuss and inconvenience. Shrugging at Murdoch. “He lost his hand. We were sawin’ firewood.”
Murdoch was already reddening with rage. “Why didn’t you take him to the hospital, you damn fool? Where’s the hand?”
The man shrugged again. “There’s no use to it now, is there?” His face and neck were as brown as leather, a tough sinewy old man inside the baggy overalls.
“Get him into my office, for God’s sake!” said Murdoch and the other two helped the boy through the doorway. I thought of Frost’s poem about the youngster who lost a hand on a sawing machine.
In the library I saw Ella Myles holding an armful of books. So at least she was still reading. She had obviously heard the news about me and tried not to stare, but I could see it was difficult by the wary look she gave me. When I approached her, we talked only briefly; she asked me no questions but merely answered my inquiries about her. I was disappointed to see that all her books were romance novels. A sullen prettiness lingers in Ella’s face, but she has coarsened since I last saw her; there’s a pale slatternly look to her now. She told me she candles eggs at the creamery and boards with a family in Linden. She still sees the Kray boy and they are planning to marry next spring. As far as I could tell, she has at least managed to stay “unpregnant.”
Clara Callan Page 38
