Tell (24 page)
Authors: Frances Itani
He heard a shout from behind the opening in the windshield.
“What the hell kind of direction is that? Do you want … fly … right up off … road?”
Am was having trouble with his speech. The words were bumping into one another, skewing his thoughts. He should have carried the big flask down with him, but it was probably empty. Was it? Had they finished it off?
Kenan was still trying to fly on the hood. Am heard him give out a whoop of laughter and he tried to stop the car, but again, the effort took some doing. They both felt a large thump. When the vehicle came to a halt, it was halfway up the boardwalk, directly opposite the theatre. There was no starting it up again.
The doors of the theatre opened. People, young and old, spilled out of the foyer and down the steps on either side of the entrance. They collected on the street, some still singing “Auld Lang Syne,” which they’d begun inside. Others were peering through the fog and up toward the clocks, waiting for the reconnected bell to reverberate in the tower and send its echoes out over the streets as it chimed in an untarnished new year.
Dermot was one of the first people out of the theatre, Agnes right behind him. He saw his own car through the fog, saw his laughing brother playing the fool, saw his son-in-law collapsed
in laughter on top of the hood. He came striding across the street and left Agnes to walk home along the boardwalk, following the crowd.
Tress was still inside, waiting to congratulate her aunt. People from the town were trying to decide if that was Kenan Oak sliding off the hood of Dermot’s car across the street. The tower clock struck twelve and the bell began to ring. All eyes looked up to the tower. Am stared up, too, as if he were new to the town, glad to be present while a bell chimed in the new year. And then he realized it was his clock, his tower, his bell, and he said aloud, to no one—as no one was listening—”At least I got one goddamn thing right.”
Maggie was spared the sight. She and Zel and Luc and Andrew and Corby and the entire choral society had begun to celebrate on the open stage. They were hugging and laughing and shaking hands, heady with the elation that accompanied their success. Luc was already beginning to plan, talking about a more ambitious choral work for a spring concert.
It was only when Maggie was home again, only when she removed her green velvet gown, that she realized she had lost her locket. It must have become unfastened. Or the chain had broken. It must have slipped from her neck.
She retraced her steps in the apartment, put on her coat, went back down the stairs, opened the side door. Am still wasn’t home; he would have gone back to the hotel with Dermot and the limping auto. She didn’t know where Kenan was. He might be with Am and Dermot, but she suspected that her nephew was at home with Tress. Maggie had been told about the commotion outside the theatre, about Dermot taking charge of his auto, but
she had remained onstage, where, for this one evening, she felt she belonged. She had stayed and celebrated with her friends.
Now she checked the snow-cleared path leading away from the door of the building. She took a few steps farther out into the street. The locket was in none of those places. She would have to return to the theatre tomorrow. She would have to look there.
She put her hand to her throat, and wept.
J
ANUARY 1920
Local Items
Your editor and his wife announce, with great delight, the arrival of their baby girl, Breeda Calhoun, born January 1, only moments after the bell in the clock tower rang in the new year.
Special note: Immediately after the esteemed T.S. MacIntosh gave his excellent recitation, which opened the New Year’s concert at Naylor’s, I was called away from my reviewer’s seat because of my wife’s condition. Therefore, and to my regret, I am unable to report on the evening’s entertainment. If someone with nib in hand cares to step forward to write up the grand occasion, I shall be happy to meet with said person. The performers, singers, soloists, musicians, as well as the high school students who created the tableau, deserve to have their efforts lauded. Also, those citizens who were unable to attend deserve to read an account of the evening. Drop in at the office of the
Post
and let me know if you would like to write a review.
An ice boat recently made the distance from Trenton to Belleville in one hour.
The town’s annual masquerade party will be held on the rink on the bay in late January. That event is only a few weeks away, so start planning your costumes. People are expected from near and far to join the celebrations. As happens every year at this time, bodies will be whirling hither and thither in all directions, by means of the skate.
Found on Main Street: A woman’s gold locket upon which the letter
H
is inscribed. The finder has conferred a favour on the owner by leaving it under lock and key at the office of the
Post.
The owner of the locket may present herself to the editor in order to identify and claim said item.
One Year Later
J
ANUARY
1921
Deseronto: January 1, 1921
Dear Maggie,
You asked me not to write until I heard from you. So you will understand how relieved I was to receive your letter when the post office reopened after Christmas.
It is New Year’s Day. How could I not think of you today? I think of you every day, my dear friend.
So much has happened during the past year, so many decisions were made, and yet, at this moment, I am thinking of how you sang onstage exactly one year ago. All of those beautiful notes, well-rehearsed lines, all drifting out into the theatre air and vanishing. Those were moments of triumph. You captivated not only your audience but also the rest of us, your colleagues, who stood beside and behind you. No matter what else we do with our lives, Maggie, music will soothe and calm
us. Music will last, and outlast, and cast its spell and enter our souls and connect us across time and distance. We must believe this, both of us, all of us.
Now, having thought of last year’s concert, I must add what a shame it was that no one took up Calhoun’s offer to review the concert for the Post. A write-up would have endured in print. Or perhaps not. Even so, for years to come, people who were privileged to be in the audience will remember the wonderful soprano voice of Maggie O’Neill. (I’d have written the review myself if I hadn’t been one of the singers!)
But the news you await is Hanora’s news, of course. I visit as often as I can, not only to send a report, but because she creates so much happiness around her. She is healthy and plump-cheeked and beautiful, just as she was in Toronto in November. It goes without saying that she brings her new parents more joy than they have known since Kenan came home from the war. Tress has stopped working for the time being, though she visits her parents at the hotel every couple of days. Agnes and Dermot, with two grandchildren to love, have embraced their new roles without partiality. They bestowed new carriages upon the offspring, and for a few short weeks before snow fell, the town was treated to occasional glimpses of two young cousins being wheeled about, side by side—the elder of the two crowing with delight, the younger, little Hanora—it seems almost certain that her eyes will be green—staring up at all who stopped to greet her. Grania gets to town frequently, as her new home is not so far away.
I visit Tress and Kenan at their home, which is where I see Hanora. No one discusses what so few of us know. You
wondered, in your letter, about the rest of the town. Not a person, I believe, has made the connection to you. Especially as it’s generally known that you moved to Oswego so early last spring, to be close to your sister’s family. Hanora has been accepted as any other child is accepted. Nothing is known except that the adoption took place “away,” in the city. When I think of that day, I believe we live in the Dark Ages. Of one thing, I am certain: everyone involved is capable of closing around this secret.
My concern is for you, Maggie, and I will be more than happy to see you when we meet again—perhaps in Oswego, perhaps in Toronto when steamer traffic resumes. I do want you to know that Lukas was able to hold Hanora in his arms before he moved away in the fall. He adores and loves the child, as he does you. As difficult as this has been for both of you, I believe he understands your decision.
I, too, am trying to understand, now that I know the entire story. I try to understand what you are going through, knowing that Am was unable to accept the child as his own. You tell me that you stay with him because of what you both had, because of what you were together in the past, because of what you both lost. Tragedy, it seems, is measured out in unequal parts among us. I know that your heart must be broken yet again.
If, whenever you travel to Toronto, you meet with Lukas, I will probably never know. Perhaps your life in Oswego has settled into a bearable pattern, with your sister near and with Am having found work. You must create something new for yourself, Maggie, and I hope you will continue to sing. I hope
that you will find a way to carry on, and that music and song will always be included in your life.
I will continue to see Hanora as often as I can. I have passed on the locket to Tress, and she understands that it is to be given to the baby when she is older. She understands that she is to tell Hanora the locket arrived with her at birth, a gift from her birth mother. Someday, who knows, Hanora may own her life story.
Tress and Kenan will send their own news. I know you will destroy this and all of my letters as they arrive, as we agreed. I wish I were there to help support you, Maggie. But we will meet soon. My house and the workroom are completely filled with boarders, and I shall have some income to spare for travel.
Several of us have worked at keeping the choral society going, now that Lukas has moved away. And though we had no New Year’s concert last evening, we hope to prepare a spring performance. A new music director will eventually be found.
I’ll end this letter now, and will go directly to the piano, which has found its way back to my dining room. I will play something peaceful and beautiful by Chopin, and I will think of you.
Write again soon, my friend.
With love,
Zel
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
The following important books (among many) contributed to my knowledge of the period:
Winning the Second Battle: Canadian Veterans and the Return to Civilian Life, 1915–1930
by Desmond Morton and Glenn Wright;
Paris 1919: Six Months That Changed the World
by Margaret MacMillan;
Letters of a Canadian Stretcher Bearer
edited by Anna Chapin Ray;
Testament of Experience
by Vera Brittain;
Melodies and Memories
by Nellie Melba;
A History of Music in Canada, 1534–1914
by Helmut Kallmann. I’m grateful to have had access to the few surviving issues of the 1919
Deseronto Post
, as well as an issue of
The Napanee Express.
CBC audio recordings of First World War soldiers were helpful (at Library and Archives Canada).
The epigraph is from a poem by Helen Humphreys: “For Jackie, Who Will Never Read This” in
Anthem
, published by Brick Books, 1999, used with permission.
The four lines from the poem about “War and Love” are cited from a yearbook in the Deseronto Archives and date to
1858, perhaps earlier. The choral adaptation of “Annabelle Lee” is based on Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee.”
The great Australian diva Nellie Melba sang for the Heliconian Club, founded in Toronto in 1909, but not at the present Heliconian Hall, which was purchased by the club in 1923 and renovated. The club met elsewhere until acquiring the present building, a former church in Yorkville.
The sausage story (about Enrico Caruso and Nellie Melba) is recorded in several places, including on the website of the Victoria and Albert Museum: www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/e/enrico-caruso/.
THANKS TO:
Jackie Kaiser, always supportive friend and agent; my good friend Phyllis Bruce, who listened to my ideas about this story and encouraged me from its beginnings; Jennifer Lambert at HarperCollins, for her enthusiasm, editorial suggestions and follow-up; managing editor, the truly professional Noelle Zitzer, who never lets me down; art director Alan Jones; copy editor Janice Weaver; the informed, innovative and exemplary Amanda Hill at Deseronto Archives, for professional help with historical references, and for responding in detail to my questions about 1919 Deseronto; Norman Takeuchi; Marion Takeuchi; Cathie Vick; Howie Wheatley; Ann Moore; Yehudi Wyner; Terry Flynn; Jack Granatstein, for pointing me in the direction of post-war books; Margaret McCoy (Soprano) and Mary Gordon (Alto), for agreeing to meet with me to discuss their love of singing; Matthew Larkin; Jordan de Souza; the Ottawa Choral Society, for permitting me to sit in on rehearsals; Barbara Clubb, for making
arrangements for me to visit the Bytown Voices. A huge thanks to Eric Friesen, for meeting me in a café off Highway 401 and helping to plan the concert. Thanks to the late Barbara Adams, born 1913, who recounted stories of her early life on PEI’s north shore; also to her son, Don Adams, of Sea View. The first sanatorium in PEI was at Emyvale, built in 1915 and closed 1922 (http://www.lung.ca/tb/tbhistory/people/dalton.html).
Tuberculosis, a major problem for returning soldiers across Canada, during and at the end of the Great War, remained an issue well into the 1960s, when I worked at a sanatorium in Sainte-Agathe-des-Monts, Québec. The incidence of tuberculosis decreased for a time, but it has again become a global concern.
Love and thanks to: my daughter, Samantha Leiko Itani, for proofing; my son, Russell Satoshi Itani, Flautist, for advice about music; Aileen Jane Itani, Soprano—who sang in my office, sang in my dining room, sang to me over the phone, and responded to my barrage of questions about “voice” while I created Maggie; Dorothy Mitts; Joel Oliver, for jumping on the ice on the Bay of Quinte with me, and for skating photos and prints found in antique stores and flea markets; Larry Scanlan, my shadow-skater, who gets out there every week on Kingston winter ice and has the words to describe. I must also acknowledge here extended family members who have discussed with me the sad facts of infant and child mortality in our own early pioneer families—proof of which becomes all too real when one visits old graveyards across this country.
Finally, I thank Sally Hawks, who insisted.
