The Stone Diaries Part 9

Well, maybe; no one's come out and put the question to him.

He has the self-confidence of a man who expects others to applaud his most outlandish projects. He's taking his time, too; this is a major construction, slightly more than two million tiny stone pieces to set in place. In the exact center, buried under the foundation, is a time capsule. He wrote to his three grandchildren in Ottawa for contributions. Something small, he said, and representative of the times. Little Joan, encouraged by her father, sent a two-penny postage stamp with the king on it. Warren sent a pressed maple leaf. And Alice, after much thought, sent a headline cut from the local newspaper: PRINCESS ELIZABETH TO MARRY PRINCE PHILIP IN NOVEMBER.

These items-stamp, leaf, and paper banner-Cuyler Goodwill has placed in a sealed metal box. Maria, his second wife, has contributed an envelope of fennel seeds. Goodwill himself, that eccentric old fool, has added, at the last minute, the wedding ring that belonged to his first wife.

The ring is of yellow gold with a fine milled edge. The wedding date, June 15, 1903, is engraved inside, as well as the initials of the bride and groom. Goodwill recalls exactly what he paid for the ring, which was four dollars and twenty-five cents. Eighteen karat gold too, ordered through the Eaton's catalogue. He remembers that when his young wife died in childbirth two years later, he agonized about whether or not to remove the ring before burial; what was the common practice? What did people do? He had no idea.

It was the doctor's wife, a Mrs. Spears, who urged him to preserve the ring as a keepsake; she also helped him in the removing of it, first rubbing a little lard on his dead wife's finger, then easing it off. Mrs. Spears' voice as she performed this act had been most tender. "Keep it, Mr. Goodwill," she said, her face empty of calculation, "so you can give it to your daughter when she grows up."

And this is what he has always intended to do, to present it to his dear child, making a ceremony of it, a moment of illumination in which he would for once join the separate threads of his life and declare the richness of his blessings.

But he feels, recently, that he has lost his way in life. Old age has made him clumsy in both body and spirit, and he is unable finally to bring the scene to actuality or even, of late, to imagine it. What words would he find to invest the moment with significance? And what words would his daughter offer in return? Thank you would not do. Grat.i.tude itself would not do. Speech and gesture would not suffice, not in the thin ether of the world he now inhabits. Far less troubling to bury this treasure beneath a weight of stone-his pyramid, dense, heavy, complex, full of secrets, a sort of machine.

His statement of finality. Either that, or a shrug of surrender.

Mrs. Flett's Old School Friend

Fraidy Hoyt and Daisy Goodwill Flett went to school together back in Indiana. They sat on the Goodwills' front porch in Bloomington and shared bags of Jay's Potato Chips. They went to college together too, and pledged the same sorority, Alpha Zeta, and ever since that time they've stayed in touch. That is, they've corresponded three or four times a year, and sent each other jokey presents on their birthdays and at Christmas. They haven't actually seen each other for years, but, finally, in August of 1947, Fraidy got herself on a train and went up to Ottawa for a week's visit.

While she was there she thought: here is Daisy Goodwill with a distinguished husband and a large well-managed house and three beautiful children. Daisy's got all that any of us ever wanted.

Whereas I've missed out on everything, no husband, no kids, no home really, only a d.i.n.ky little apartment, not even a garden. Oh, Daisy's garden! That garden's something else. She can get up in the morning and spend all day if she likes tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and weeding and transplanting and bringing beauty into the world. While I'm sitting at work. Tied to a desk and to the clock. Missing out on this business of being a woman. Missing it all.

Or else Fraidy Hoyt thought: oh, poor Daisy. My G.o.d, she's gone fat. And respectable. Although who could be respectable going around in one of those G.o.dawful dirndl skirts-should I say something? Drop a little hint? Her cuticles too. I don't think she's read a book in ten years. And, Jesus, just look at this guest room.

Hideous pink scallops everywhere. I'm suffocating. Four more days. And this crocheted bedspread, she's so gee-dee proud of, no one has crocheted bedspreads any more, it's enough to give you nightmares just touching it. I'd like to unravel the whole d.a.m.n thing, and I could too, one little pull. These kids are driving me crazy, whining and sneaking around all day, then dressing up like little puppets for the return of the great man at the end of the day.

Putting on a little play every single hypocritical day of their lives.

And: what can I say to her? What's left to say? I see you're still breathing, Daisy. I see you're still dusting that nose of yours with Woodbury Face Powder. I observe your husband is always going off to "meetings" in Toronto or Montreal, and I wonder if you have any notion of what happens to him in those places. I notice you continue to wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. Now isn't that interesting. I believe your life is still going along, it's still happening to you, isn't it? Well, well.

Mrs. Flett's Intimate Relations with her Husband Deeply, fervently, sincerely desiring to be a good wife and mother, Mrs. Flett reads every issue of Good Housekeeping. Deeply, fervently, sincerely desiring to be a good wife and mother, Mrs. Flett reads every issue of Good Housekeeping.

Also McCall's and The Canadian Home Companion. And every once in a while, between the cosmetic advertis.e.m.e.nts and the recipe columns, she comes across articles about ways a woman can please her husband in bed. Often, too, there are letters from women who are seeking special advice for particular s.e.xual problems. One of them wrote recently, "My husband always wants to have our cuddly moments on Monday night after his bowling league. Unfortunately I do the wash on Mondays and am too exhausted by evening to be an enthusiastic partner." The advice given was short and to the point: "Wash on Tuesdays." Which made Mrs. Flett smile. She laughed out loud, in fact, and wished her friend Fraidy was here to hear her laugh. Another woman wrote: "My husband has a very strong physical drive, and expects intimate relations every single night. Is this normal?" Answer: "There is no such thing as normal or abnormal s.e.xual patterns. What goes on in the bedroom of married people is sacred." This advice struck Mrs.

Flett as less than satisfactory; as a matter of fact, she isn't entirely sure what was meant.

She does believe, though, that "every night" would be a lot to put up with.

Nevertheless she always prepares herself, just in case-her diaphragm in position, though she is repelled by its yellow look of decay and the cold, sick-smelling jelly she smears around its edge.

It's a bother, and nine times out of ten it isn't needed, but it seems this is something that has to be put up with. "Try to make your husband believe that you are always ready for his entreaties, even though his actual lovemaking may be sporadic and unpredictable."

Unpredictable, yes, although there are two particular times when Mrs. Flett can be absolutely certain of an episode of ardor: before her husband goes out of town (as a sort of vaccination, she sometimes thinks) and on his return. And tonight, a Wednesday in mid-September, he will be returning on the late train after a few days spent in Winnipeg. The house is orderly, the children asleep, and she herself is bathed, powdered, diaphragmed, and softly nightgowned. "The wearing of pajamas has driven many a man to seek affection elsewhere."

She wonders what his mood will be.

Lately he has been depressed. Not that he's said anything, but she can feel it. His sixty-fifth birthday is approaching; she knows retirement worries him, the empty width of time ahead and how he will cope with it. Worse than idleness, though, is the sense of being cut off in the world. Lately he has been speaking more frequently of his two brothers in western Canada, and always their names are mentioned with a ping of sorrow. Simon in Edmonton, a drunk, has been out of touch for years, and between Barker and his brother Andrew in Saskatchewan a coolness has fallen. In the old days Andrew wrote frequently, usually, to be sure, asking for hand-outs, but the last two years have brought only an occasional brisk note or a holiday greeting.

Mrs. Flett knows, too, that her husband thinks often about his father in the Orkneys. He wonders if he should write and make inquiries, but the months go by and he puts off writing, almost as though he can't bear to know what has happened. She, too, thinks often about her father-in-law, Magnus Flett, whom she has never met but who stands in her mind as a tragic figure, abandoned by his wife, dismissed by his three sons, despised, attached to nothing. In a way she loves him more tenderly than she loves her husband, Barker. What exactly had Magnus Flett done to deserve such punishment? The question nudges at her sense of charity, never quite disappearing from view.

Yet now-too late-his son, Barker, pines for reunion.

Recently, another of Barker Flett's family ties has been rekindled, the most important of life's ties-that which exists between son and mother. These last few days Barker has been in Winnipeg not for his usual round of agricultural meetings, but to attend the dedication ceremonies of the Clarentine Flett Horticultural Conservatory, a great gla.s.s-domed structure set in the middle of a.s.siniboine Park. The benefactor is one Valdi Goodmansen, the well-known millionaire meatpacker and financier. (Clarentine Flett, who was Barker Flett's mother, had been run down and killed by a speeding bicycle back in the year 1916, and the rider of the bicycle was Valdi Goodmansen himself, then a lad of seventeen.) "The terrible guilt I felt at that time has never lifted," Mr. Goodmansen told Mr. Flett over dinner at the Manitoba Club.

"One moment of carelessness, and a human life was erased. If only I had dismounted while turning the corner. Or if I had been traveling at a more reasonable speed. The image will be with me all my life, tied to me in my dreams and in my waking hours, your mother's poor helpless body thrown against the foundations of the Royal Bank Building, her head striking the edge of the corner stone. If only that stone had been rounded, but, alas, it was sharp as a knife. My life has been altered as a result. I've prayed to my Lord, I've tried in my way to serve others, and I've thought long and hard about a suitable monument." (Here he pulled out a handkerchief that was truly snowy, and blew into its starched folds a loud, prideful honk.) "Always, always I came back to the fact that your mother had loved flowers. You might say that she was responsible for bringing flowers to our great city, for making us aware of the blessings of natural beauty in an inhospitable climate. Of course I can never make full amends, but I do hope this little ceremony will give testimony to my terrible and continuing remorse in the matter of your mother's demise. I am only sorry that your wife, I believe her name is Daisy, could not be with us today. Of course, I fully understand how difficult it is for her to leave a family of young children to travel across the continent, and I understand, too, yes I do, how emotional an experience this would be for her. We are bound forever to those who care for us in our early years. Their loss cannot be compensated. Our ties to them are unbreakable."

But Mrs. Flett in Ottawa, lying in her bed and awaiting her husband's return, is thinking not so much of Clarentine Flett, her dear adopted Aunt Clarentine, as of her own mother who died minutes after her birth. How slender and insubstantial that connection now seems, how almost arbitrary, for what does Mrs. Flett possess of her mother beyond a blurred wedding photograph and a small foreign coin, too worn to decipher, which according to her father had been placed on her own forehead at birth-by whom she cannot imagine, nor for what purpose. She has never experienced that everyday taken-for-granted pleasure of touching something her mother had touched. There is no diary, no wedding veil, no beautiful hand-st.i.tched christening gown, no little keepsake of any kind. Once, years ago, her father had mentioned a wedding ring that would one day be hers, but he has not spoken of it since.

Perhaps he has given it to his wife, Maria. Or perhaps it has merely slipped his mind. Tonight, lying under a light blanket and awaiting the return of her husband, a man named Barker Flett, she feels the loss of that ring, the loss, in fact, of any connection in the world.

Her own children are forgotten for the moment, her elderly father is forgotten, even his name reduced to a blur of syllables. She is s.h.i.+vering all over as if struck by a sudden infection.

She's had these gusts of grief before. The illness she suffers is orphanhood-she recognizes it in the same way you recognize a migraine coming on: here it comes again-and again-and here she lies, stranded, genderless, ageless, alone.

Tears have crept into her eyes and she dabs at them with the blanket binding. The darkness of the room presses close.

These are frightening times for Mrs. Flett, when she feels herself anointed by loneliness, the full weight of it. Wonderingly, she thinks back to the moment when as a young woman she stood gazing at Niagara Falls; her sleeve had brushed the coat sleeve of a man, a stranger standing next to her; he said something that made her laugh, but what? What?

Her loss of memory brings a new wave of panic.

And yet, within her anxiety, secured there like a gemstone, she carries the cool and curious power of occasionally being able to see the world vividly. Clarity bursts upon her, a spray of little stars. She understands this, and thinks of it as one of the tricks of consciousness; there is something almost luxurious about it. The narrative maze opens and permits her to pa.s.s through. She may be crowded out of her own life-she knows this for a fact and has always known it-but she possesses, as a compensatory gift, the startling ability to draft alternate versions. She feels, for instance, the force of her children's unruly secrecies, of her father's clumsy bargains with the world around him, of the mingled contempt and envy of Fraidy Hoyt (who has not yet written so much as a simple bread-and-b.u.t.ter note following her summer visit). Tonight Mrs. Flett is even touched by a filament of sensation linking her to her dead mother, Mercy Stone Goodwill; this moment to be sure is brief and lightly drawn, no more than an impression of breath or gesture or tint of light which has no a.s.signed place in memory, and which, curiously, suddenly, reverses itself to reveal a flash of distortion-the notion that Mrs. Flett has given birth to her mother, and not the other way around.

And as for Mrs. Flett's husband-well, what of her husband?

Her husband will be home in an hour or so, having in his usual way taken a taxi from the train station. He will remove his trousers in the dark bedroom, hanging them neatly over the back of the chair.

These trousers carry an odor of sanct.i.ty, as well as a pattern of symmetrical whisker-like creases across the front. Then his tie, next his s.h.i.+rt and underwear. Then, unaware of her tears wetting the blanket binding and the depth of her loneliness this September night, he will lie down on top of her, being careful not to put too much weight on her frame ("A gentleman always supports himself on his elbows"). His eyes will be shut, and his warm p.e.n.i.s will be produced and directed inside her, and then there will be a few minutes of rhythmic rocking.

On and on it will go while Mrs. Flett tries, as through a helix of mixed print and distraction, to remember exactly what was advised in the latest issue of McCall's, something about a wife's responsibility for demonstrating a rise in ardor; that was it-ardor and surrender expressed simultaneously through a single subtle gesturing of the body; but how was that possible?

The brain, heart, and pelvis of Mrs. Flett attempt to deal with this contradiction.

The debris of her married life rains down around her, the anniversaries, pregnancies, vacations, meals, illnesses, and recoveries, crowding out the dramatic-some would say incestuous-origin of her relations.h.i.+p with her partner in marriage, the male G.o.d of her childhood. It seems to her that these years have calcified into a firm resolution: that she will never again be surprised. It has become, almost, an ambition. Isn't this what love's amending script has promised her? Isn't this what created and now sustains her love for Barker, the protection from rude surprise? The ramp of her husband's elongated thighs, her own b.u.t.tocks-like soft fruit spreading out beneath her on the firm mattress-don't they lend a certain credence? House plants, after all, thrive in a vacuum of geography and climate-why shouldn't she?

It's quite likely, with Barker Flett still rocking back and forth above her, that her thoughts will drift to a movie she went to see when Fraidy Hoyt was visiting last summer, The Best Years of Our Lives, a post-war epic in which a soldier returns from battle with crude hooks where his hands had once been.

What would it be like to be touched by cold bent metal instead of human fingertips? What would it be like to feel the full weight of a man on her body, pinning her hard to the world? She will ponder this, relis.h.i.+ng the thin spiral of possibility, but then her thoughts will be cut short by an explosion of fluid, and after that a secondary explosion-of grat.i.tude this time. Mixed with the grat.i.tude will be her husband's shudder of embarra.s.sment for his elderly tallowcolored body and for the few blurted words of affection he is able to offer. That men and women should be bound to each other in this way! How badly reality is organized.

"Sleep tight, my dear," he will say, meaning: "Forgive me, forgive us."

Mrs. Flett's House and Garden

The large square house at 583 The Driveway is overspread with a sort of muzziness. The furniture, the curtains, the carpets, the kitchen floor-all have grown shabby during the war years. And now, in the post-war upheaval, there is a worldwide shortage of linoleum, though it is predicted the problem will ease fairly soon.

(Mrs. Flett is already dreaming about a certain Armstrong pattern of overlapping red, black, and white rectangles.) The gla.s.s curtains in her dining room have been washed once too often, but she (Mrs.

Flett) is talking about ordering pull drapes (or draperies, as she's learned to say) in a floral fabric, something to "pick up" the room, give it some vitality. What's more, she's sick and tired of the morning glory wallpaper in the living room with its numbing columns of blue, yellow, and pink; she's planning on a solid color next time around, Williamsburg green, maybe, with white enameled woodwork for contrast. And that shabby old carpet gets her down, the way it's worn along the seams so that the backing shows through, awful, like a person's scalp seen up close. To tell the truth the whole room looks undernourished and underloved, though she can't help feeling just a little proud of the coffee table which she has recently altered by topping the walnut veneer with a sheet of gla.s.s, beneath which she's positioned photographs of her three children and a copy, slightly yellowed, of her marriage announcement:

Mr. and Mrs. Barker Flett Wish To Announce Their Recent Marriage in Ottawa, August 17, 1936

She got this coffee table idea from Canadian Homes and Gardens, an article called "Putting the Essential You into Your Decor."

Every room in the house, even the upstairs bathroom, has a gathering of ferns at the window, maidenhair, bird's nest, holly fern, rabbit's foot. (These indoor ferns, in the year 1947, have an old-fas.h.i.+oned look of fussiness, though they are destined to achieve a high degree of chic, and ubiquity, in the mid-sixties.) The fact is, green plants and coffee table aside, Mrs. Flett is not much interested in her house. Some insufficiency in herself is reflected, she feels, in its structural austerity. Its eight highceilinged rooms four up, four down, have a country plainness to them, being severely square in shape with overly large blank windows. The light that falls through these windows is surprisingly harsh, and in winter the walls are cold and the corners of the downstairs rooms drafty.

She lives for summer, for the heat of the sun-for her garden, if the truth were known. And what a garden!

The Fletts' large, rather ill-favored brick house is nested in a saucer of green: front, back, and sides, a triple lot, rare in this part of the city, and in spring the rounded snouts of crocuses poke through everywhere. Healthy Boston ivy, P. tricuspidata, grows now over three-quarters of the brickwork (it has not prospered on the north face of the house, but what matter?); then there are the windowboxes, vibrant with color, and, in addition, Mrs. Flett has cunningly obscured the house's ugly limestone foundation with plantings of j.a.panese yew, juniper, mugho pine, dwarf spruce, and the new Korean box. And her lilacs! Some people, you know, will go out and buy any old lilac and just poke it in the ground, but Mrs.

Flett has given thought to overall plant size and blossom color, mixing the white "Madame Lemoine" lilac with soft pink Persian lilac and slatey blue "President Lincoln." These different varieties are "grouped," not "plopped." At the side of the house a border of red sweet william has been given a sprinkling of bright yellow coreopsis, and this combination, without exaggeration, is a true artist's touch. Clumps of bleeding heart are placed-placed, this has not just happened-near the pale blueness of campanula; perfection! The apple trees in the back garden are sprayed each season against railroad worm so that all summer long their leaves throw kaleidoscopic patterns on the fine pale lawn. Here the late sun fidgets among the poppies. And the dahlias!-Mrs. Flett's husband jokes about the size of her dahlias, claiming that the blooms have to be carried in through the back door sideways. A stone path edged with ageratum leads to the grape arbor and then winds its way to the rock garden planted with dwarf perennials and special alpine plants ordered from Europe. This garden of Mrs. Flett's is lush, grand, and intimate-English in its charm, French in its orderliness, j.a.panese in its economy-but there is something, too, in the sinuous path, the curved beds, the grinning garden dwarf carved from Indiana limestone and the sudden sculptured wall of Syringa vulgaris that is full of grave intelligence and even, you might say, a kind of wit. And the raspberries; mention must be made of the raspberries. Does Mrs. Barker Flett understand the miracle she has brought into being in the city of Ottawa on the continent of North America in this difficult northern city in the mean, toxic, withholding middle years of our century? Yes; for once she understands fully.

What a marvel, her good friends say-but it seems no mention has been made of Mrs. Flett's many good friends, as though she is somehow too vague and unpromising to deserve friends.h.i.+p. (Biography, even autobiography, is full of systemic error, of holes that connect like a tangle of underground streams.) The fact is, there are many in this city who feel a genuine fondness for Mrs. Flett, who warm to her modesty and admire her skills, her green thumb in particular. Her garden, these good friends claim, is so fragrant, verdant, and peaceful, so enchanting in its look of settledness and its caressing movements of shade and light, that entering it is to leave the troubles of the world behind. Visitors standing in this garden sometimes feel their hearts lock into place for an instant, and experience blurred primal visions of creation-Eden itself, paradise indeed.

It is, you might almost say, her child, her dearest child, the most beautiful of her offspring, obedient but possessing the fullness of its s.p.a.ces, its stubborn vegetable will. She may yearn to know the true state of the garden, but she wants even more to be part of its mysteries. She understands, perhaps, a quarter of its green secrets, no more. In turn it perceives nothing of her, not her history, her name, her longings, nothing-which is why she is able to love it as purely as she does, why she has opened her arms to it, taking it as it comes, every leaf, every stem, every root and sign.

CHAPTER SIX.

Work, 19551964

W. W. KLEINHARDT, SOLICITOR Ottawa, April 25, 1955.

My dear Mrs. Flett, I am happy to say your late husband's will is now filed, and all dispersals made. Matters have been settled fairly rapidly since the doc.u.ment was, as I explained to you on the telephone, remarkably clear in its intention and without any troublesome conditions attached. I believe you will find everything in order.

Please feel free to contact me should you have any questions.

Enclosed here along with our final report is a sealed envelope which your late husband instructed me, in writing, to pa.s.s on to you.

Yours truly, Wally (Kleinhardt) Ottawa, April 6, 1955 My dear, Time is short. Dr. Shortcliffe says it will be a matter of days, doesn't he? This is not, of course, what he tells me, but what I overheard him saying to you last night, whispering in the corridor, after I was moved to the General. My hearing has remained oddly acute.

My mind, while less acute, is at ease about financial resources for you and for the children. The house, of course, is secured-for I feel sure you would be reluctant to leave familiar surroundings, particularly your garden-and there are sufficient funds as you know for the children's education.

But you will want money for travel-why is it we have not traveled, you and I?-and for small luxuries, and it has occurred to me that you might wish to offer for sale my lady's-slipper collection. I am certain it will bring a good price. I suggest you contact Dr.

Leonard Lemay of Boston University whose address is in my pocket diary. I expect you will sigh as you read this suggestion, since I know well that Cypripedium is not a genus you admire, particularly the species reginae and acaule. You will remember how we quarreled-our only quarrel, as far as I can recall-over the repugnance you felt for the lady's-slipper morphology, its long, gloomy (as you claimed) stem and pouch-shaped lip which you declared to be grotesque. I pointed out, not that I needed to, the lip's functional cunning, that an insect might enter therein easily but escape only with difficulty. Well, so our discussions have run over these many years, my pedagogical voice pressing heavily on all that was light and fanciful. I sigh, myself, setting these words down, mourning the waste of words that pa.s.sed between us, and the thought of what we might have addressed had we been more forthright-did you ever feel this, my love, our marginal discourse and what it must have displaced?

The memory of our "lady's-slippers" discussion has, of course, led me into wondering whether you perhaps viewed our marriage in a similar way, as a trap from which there was no easy exit. Between us we have almost never mentioned the word love. I have sometimes wondered whether it was the disparity of our ages that made the word seem foolish, or else something stiff and shy in our natures that forbade its utterance. This I regret. I would like to think that our children will use the word extravagantly, and moreover that they will be open to its forces. (Alice does worry me though, the ferocity of her feelings.) Do you remember that day last October when I experienced my first terrible headache? I found you in the kitchen wearing one of those new and dreadful plastic ap.r.o.ns. You put your arms around me at once and reached up to smooth my temples. I loved you terribly at that moment. The crackling of your ap.r.o.n against my body seemed like an operatic response to the longings which even then I felt. It was like something whispering at us to hurry, to stop wasting time, and I would like to have danced with you through the back door, out into the garden, down the street, over the line of the horizon. Oh, my dear. I thought we would have more time.

Your loving Barker Ottawa, May 20, 1955 Dear Mrs. Flett, I beg you to accept my sincere condolences regarding your sad loss. In the course of these last few years I have had the honor of becoming acquainted with your late husband, and very quickly I came to value his weekly contribution to the Recorder. You may be sure that the many readers of his column-and they are legion-will sorely miss their esteemed "Mr. Green Thumb." His dignified tone contributed a rare sense of scholars.h.i.+p to these pages, and yet was never condescending.

In acknowledgment of your husband's contribution, the staff here at the Recorder has a.s.sembled two specially bound copies of his articles, one to deposit with the National Archives, with your permission of course, and one which we would like to present to you and your family during the course of an informal memorial ceremony we are planning to hold at our offices here on Metcalfe Street.

Can you let me know if June 1, 4:30 p.m., is agreeable to you?

Yours in sympathy, Jay W. Dudley, Editor P.S. Mr. Flett's demise seems particularly poignant at this time of the year when the city is ablaze with tulips. His articles on the annual Tulip Festival were among his most lyrical.

Climax, Saskatchewan, May 24, 1955 Dear Auntie, We sure were upset to get your letter about Uncle Barker pa.s.sing away. Mom and Dad and the girls send their deep felt sympathy and say to tell you they will remember all of you and him too in their prayers. But as Mom says, it can't be too great a shock for you, what with him being so much older in years. I've been thinking lately that it won't be easy for you with three kids only half grown and that big house to look after, a regular mansion if I remember right, but then I was only there the once. It seems like a dream, in fact, looking back. So in the next little while if you happen to find you need a hand in the house, maybe you could drop me a line. I'm looking at moving East now that my husband and I have called it quits. Drink was the main problem there. And general laziness. Someone with my kind of pep gets driven straight up the wall by another person just laying around. I'd be willing to work for my room and board and forty dollars a month. I'm a pretty fair housekeeper, if I do say so myself, and just crazy about baking cakes, pies, buns, what have you. Also laundry, ironing, etc. Also, I can type, as you can see, thirty-five words a minute, it was through a correspondence course, otherwise I might of got up to sixty.

With love from your niece, Beverly P.S. Mom doesn't know I'm writing in regards to this matter, so if you write back, send to Box 422, that way it doesn't go to their place.

Bloomington, Indiana, May 29, 1955 Dearest Daze, I wish to h.e.l.l I could pour some good liquid cheer into this envelope. I know how down-and-out rotten you must be feeling these days. Well, no, I don't exactly know-how could I?-but I can imagine what a misery it is to find yourself alone after all the time you and Barker have been together. What has it been?-I make it twenty years. Lordy, it does go by, time that is, the filthy robber.

And Alice off to college next fall! And all this so soon after your dad dying.

Anyway I'm not going to go on and on about "remembering you in my prayers" (ha!) and "time's healing balm" and all that razzmatazz-you'll get plenty of that from dear old Beans-who grows more pious and plat.i.tudinous each day. When Ma died she sprayed me with enough perfumed cliches to clog up my sinuses for a month. This note is just to remind you, old pal, that you've got lots of years left. Personally, I'm finding that being fifty isn't half as bad as it's cracked up to be-the old visage may be a bit pouchy and cross-hatched, but "everything that matters" is still in good working order, and no d.a.m.n getting the curse either. So don't climb into your widow's weeds and wither away just yet, kiddo! What do you say we treat ourselves to a week in Chicago this winter. We could see a few shows, stay at the Palmer House, and eat like pigs. January would suit me-the gallery here is planning to close the last week of the month, and we're "encouraged" to clear off. Lordy, remember the terrific time we had in New York three years ago, or was it four?-that hilarious waiter and his bouncing baby lobster!-I wonder, did you ever report all that to Barker, item for item? Yes or no?

Never mind replying-I can guess.

So let's. .h.i.t Chi-town and put a little life into our life, what say?

Surely there's someone who could keep an eye on Warren and Joanie for a few days. Give it some thought.

Love, Fraidy Ottawa, May 29, 1955 Dear Mrs. Flett, We are delighted you will be able to attend our little tribute to your late husband. I should add that we would be very pleased to have your children in attendance as well.

And I thank you very much for your suggestion about the coverage of the Tulip Festival. We would indeed be honored to have a few words from you; about five hundred words would be ideal. I wish I had had the wit to suggest it myself since rumor has it you are a famous gardener in your own right.

With sincere good wishes, Jay W. Dudley, Editor Bloomington, Indiana, June 1, 1955 My dear old friend, Our hearts ache continually for you these days. Your burden has been unutterably heavy, losing your father in April, bless his soul, and now your dearly beloved mate. I feel sure that the many happy memories of your life together will sustain you in the dark days ahead, as will the presence of your loved ones and the prayers of your dear friends. Time does heal, that is what you must keep in mind, though of course we never really forget those who have played such a large part in our lives. d.i.c.k joins me in these few rushed words of sympathy. (After much pressure, he has accepted the transfer to the head office in Cleveland, and now we must face the sadness of putting our dear old house up for sale-unfortunately the market is not booming. It seems limestone has become a lemon.) Lovingly, "Beans"

Ottawa, June 5, 1955.