a voice that would have frozen Hawaiian rain, Vance said, “Catherine is the only flame I’ll ever need.” Catherine? Must be his wife.
Jessica was not frozen. “Lucky Catherine,” she drawled, “and unlucky all the rest of them. Let’s get the hell out of here. Slurping up the government booze isn’t helping the godamn starving women of Canada.”
“Surely no one is starving,” I said, sounding about as assertive as talking Jello.
Jessica turned and glared—or no, she didn’t exactly glare. I’ve been trying to analyse that look. I’d expected accusing or hostile or contemptuous, but that wasn’t it. It was some sort of challenge, as though she were testing me to see if I was a fellow woman. I don’t think I am. She scares the hell out of me.
She asked me where I was staying, and when I said I was still at the Chateau Laurier but was looking for a bedsitter she said, “I live in a group home—always room for one more.” I told her I had a line on a place.
“Suit yerself,” she said. “Holler if you change your mind.”
When hell freezes over, I thought—but didn’t say. (I do have a line on a bedsitter. Keep your fingers crossed.)
Know what? Writing letters is turning out to be therapeutic as well as economical. It helps me feel closer to home and also to sort out my own impressions. The phone just isn’t a substitute. God, I’m lonesome! I wish we hadn’t decided against Thanksgiving—is it too late to change? Although I haven’t got the moola for a ticket at the moment. Have you?
Anyway, I’ll look forward to talking to you this weekend—maybe you’ll have my letter by then. They say the postal service is improving. They lie. At the moment I feel low. Why did it have to be Jessica on the Commission?
Much love,
Jock
P.S. Your letter just arrived. The hotel clerk phoned me! He sounded so excited I thought maybe he’d opened it. Thrilled about the Sanderson thing—what’s happening? Phone if you get work.
29 Sweet Cedar Drive
North Vancouver, B.C.
15 September
Dear Jock,
Nothing yet on the Sanderson thing. A week since I sent the application—typed it on the drafting table, which I have in the down position to accommodate the computer. I spent two hours revising and typing the CV, shaping it along the lines you suggested, puffing up that bit about the airport job and playing down the university gold medal, which, all things considered, is now more of an embarrassment than anything else. I then wrote a long, obsequious, and painfully composed letter about how extraordinarily electrified I was by urban harbour projects—this will surprise you, Jock, as much as it did me—and how wonderful and competent and original an architect I am. All I needed was a young, aggressive, and modern-minded firm to hitch myself to and thereby channel my abilities. On and on, yards of it.
I think, to tell the truth, I got the right formula: about three-fifths self-congratulation and two-fifths professional grovel. At the age of forty-seven I don’t suppose I should find it this easy to grovel, but it seems I have a knack for it, especially after nine months full time in the basement. I mentioned, of course, my fourteen years with Bettner’s, disclaiming all connection with the Broadway-Peterkin lawsuit, and I also detailed my last eight years with Robertson’s (note how cunningly I omitted mention of the free-lance year in the middle—what the hell) and pointed to “harsh economic realities” as the reason for my termination. I thought that sounded more forceful than “the recession” or “the present financial climate.”What do you think? “Harsh economic realities” seems to me to have a slightly embittered tone but one that is moderated by the brand of pragmatism suitable for the New Unemployed Me I’m trying so hard to sell. God, I hope this works out. Even a temporary contract, six months or a year, could lead to something permanent, and even if it doesn’t, we can get caught up on the household bills. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything definite.
I made the mistake of leaving the computer on, and when Greg came whistling in at suppertime he read it. “Are you really going to send this?” he asked me. “Or is this just the rough draft?”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked. I was in the middle of serving up the eggplant casserole your mother brought.
“Oh, nothing.” He said this in that maddening airy way that you surely remember. “It’s okay, I guess.”
I could tell he didn’t think it was okay. He slunk out of the kitchen and into the family room with his plate. I asked myself, what does a seventeen-year-old kid know about business letters? Nevertheless, I pursued him. “What exactly is wrong with the letter?” I demanded.
“That jazz about ‘harsh realities,’“he said. “It’s sort of, you know, sort of—”
I had to prod him. “Sort of what?”
“Well,” he said, “sort of like begging.”
I told him as calmly as I could that I had considered the phrase carefully, weighed it, and decided it was the best possible choice. “Suit yourself,” he said, and settled down to watch a re-run of Archie Bunker, whom I am sure, if he had a choice, he would prefer for an old man.
Anyway, the letter must be there by now, the die is cast, and now all I have to do is sit back and see what happens next. Waiting around is the worst—the walls seem to press closer and closer, and often I think of how you must have sat in this kitchen and waited for the kids to grow up and go to school and then waited around to hear if you’d been accepted for law school. What did you do with yourself all day?
By the way, we saw your Senator Pierce being interviewed on The Fifth Estate last night. I think your Robert Redford comparison is a mite flattering considering the good Senator’s bobbling paunch and his stertorous huffing into the microphone. Mia said, all incredulity, “Is that Mom’s new boss?” and Greg said, “If that turkey doesn’t watch out he’s going to injure someone with those cufflinks of his.” He did make a certain amount of sense, though (Pierce, that is), especially that bit about the plight of widows.
We look forward to your further adventures. Yes, I agree that our letters seem to be working out better than the damn telephone. Doubtless it was our puritan mothers, bless the two of them, who plied us with guilt about the heaviness of long-distance phoning. Otherwise, why, when I pick up the phone, am I suddenly speechless or reduced to inanities about the rain and the roses?
I’m off to bed early tonight. Tomorrow I’m driving out to Capilano College to sign up for the communications course Gil Grogan recommended—might as well brush up on a few skills while waiting to hear from Sanderson, etc. And in the afternoon I’m interviewing a lady who answered my ad for cleaning help. The woman your mother found didn’t work out at all; she wanted seventy bucks for six hours’ work—robbery—and said she was uncomfortable working in a house unless the Mister and Missus (that’s you, lovey) were out. I explained that I would do my best to be inconspicuous and quiet, but she said she had more jobs than she could handle anyway. Maybe this new woman will fill the bill. She sounded cheerful on the phone, and God knows a little cheer wouldn’t hurt. We do need someone to organize things a bit. Our shoes are sticking to the kitchen floor, a most peculiar sensation.
Love,
Chas
P.S.
