A Celibate Season. Carol Shields
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. What lentils? I can’t find them—probably because I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.
4 Old Town Lane
Ottawa, Ont.
Sept. 18
Dear Chas,
I love getting letters from you—do you realize that we’ve been married twenty years and have never written to one another before? I feel as though I’m catching glimpses of a whole new you that’s been lurking there all along and that I didn’t even suspect. Do you feel that way? Actually it’s even a bit scary.
This is just a quick note to let you know I’ve found a place. Not grand (understatement), but not dreary either. It was advertised as a bachelor apartment, but it’s a cut above that. It has a separate bedroom—the smallest in the Western World, but separate. In it is one double bed—which takes up a lot of room, but I cherish the hope you will visit at least once—and a night table that clears the door by exactly three centimetres. Tucked into the corner by the foot of the bed—with a whole twelve inches of clearance—is a shabby, brown, scarred dresser. Clothes cannot be hung in the bedroom but must go in a tiny closet at the top of the stairs—I know that sounds unlikely, but bear with me.
The combination living room-kitchen is small, but there is a little wooden balcony off it that looks out on a tiny park. Ottawa is full of parks—remember how we noticed that when we came with the kids? Dr. Grey pointed out in his gentle way that I should enjoy them to the fullest, since it’s the taxpayers of Canada, not Ottawa, who pay for them.
In the distance, on the other side of the park, you can see City Hall, and if you were to lean way out over the balcony (only second floor, not too risky), you could see along Sussex Drive. When I mentioned to Austin—Dr. Grey—that the Prime Minister’s house is almost within spitting distance, he said he didn’t think he’d be able to resist the temptation if he were in my shoes.
He’s actually quite nice. Yesterday I really boobed—changed Jessica’s response to a brief on pay equity to conform to what I thought were the regulations. Turns out my source was two years out of date. Jessica slapped the hole in the knee of her jeans and yelled, “Christ, what kinda stuff are they passing off as law in Lotusland?” I really was mortified, felt so stupid I couldn’t eat my dinner. This morning I found Austin’s copy of the new regulations on my desk and a poem:
These rules are meant to ease the lot
Of women out for hire,
And if you say you know them all
You just might be a liar.
Anyway, just because my “pad” is close to the PM’s doesn’t mean the neighbourhood borders on posh. It doesn’t. Do you remember that wonderful market in Ottawa that we took the kids to? Well, there is an area beyond it called Old Town that has a mixture of very modest frame and brick buildings, and some of them are being restored by the National Capital Commission. Mine is in one of the unrestored two-storey frame buildings, within walking distance of Parliament Hill (about twenty minutes) and very close to Rideau Street. So, location couldn’t be better.
Back to the living room. Well, as I say, it’s small. The furniture