Читать книгу The Reincarnation of Clara - Kevin J. Todeschi - Страница 9

A slight breeze circulated the air around the porch but it was hot and dry, and in spite of the proximity of the Great Salt Lake, there was no moisture anywhere to be found. The few tomato plants Clara Cabot had found time to plant that year appeared straggly and neglected but instead of rising to address the situation, Clara simply shook her head, turned toward the driveway, and continued rocking. At 85, it was sometimes hard to find the energy to do much of anything. Besides, she wanted to save her strength for the interview. At long last, it was time to tell the story.

She rocked back and forth on her big, white Victorian porch and waited. The porch table had been laid out with a pitcher of lemonade, two glasses, and a small plate of those chocolate mint covered Oreos that Clara saved for special occasions. A very worn map of the state of Idaho had also been set on the table. On the porch next to her rocker, Clara had placed a very large hatbox.

There wasn’t any need to look at her watch—Clara knew how soon the woman was coming. She had known when the interview would take place a very long time before even the paper or the reporter had known. That’s just the way it was with Clara—she seemed to know things way ahead of everybody else. Her late husband, Joe, had loved that about her. He had loved the fact that she could look back on the past with considerable skill, as well.

From where she sat, she could see the large signs “Huntsville Air Force Base” and “Government Property: No Trespassing” on the enormous chain-link fence that stood just beyond her property line. The base was nearly abandoned now as a result of U.S. military base shutdowns. There had been a time, however, when the noise of jet engines had been as common as the rustling of tree branches that now came to her ears.

“That damn noise nearly drove me crazy!” Clara reflected aloud.

Just then the Toyota pulled into her driveway; Clara rose and stood, waiting for the reporter, her niece, to come to her.

“At long last, it’s time,” the old woman whispered to herself.

As Joan got out of the car, it was obvious that the thirty-something woman was at least eight months pregnant. Clara had known that Joan was expecting, but hadn’t considered the possibility that the birth might take place right in the middle of her interview. She thought about it for a moment and then shook her head to the contrary, “Eleven days to go,” Clara spoke with certainty, although it was well before her niece was within earshot.

With some measure of difficulty, Joan lugged a large bag with the logo and header of the “Salt Lake Tribune” emblazoned on one side. The woman’s name: Joan E. Stuart, appeared as script lettering in the lower right. When Clara saw the script, she was reminded that she had seen her niece’s name in the paper many more times than she had actually seen the woman herself. “These are regrets,” Clara whispered, as she pushed the thought from her mind. She stood until her niece climbed to the top of the porch.

“I’m glad you could come, Joanie,” Clara extended a hand, and Joan shook it dutifully before Clara sat back in her rocker.

Joan pulled out a small digital tape recorder, a pen, and a writing tablet, and responded just as she placed the bag on the floor. “To tell you the truth, Clara, this is not really my kind of assignment but Martin, my editor, thought he was doing me a favor because of my condition.”

“You’re also my niece, Joanie.”

Joan simply nodded, took her seat, and stated somewhat reluctantly, “Martin thought it might make an interesting Sunday feature, what with you being an eyewitness to this area for sixty years.”

“I’ve outlasted the base. That noise nearly drove me crazy. But this is where I’ve belonged. You know, Joanie, I’ve been wanting to get you out here to talk with me for a very long time.” When there was no response, Clara added: “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry that your boyfriend . . . Larry, isn’t it? I’m sorry that Larry wasn’t interested in marriage and a baby. I’m also sorry I was never as close to you as I was with your folks, but I’m hoping that by working together on this we can have a fresh start.”

Joan looked at her watch and replied: “Let’s just get on with it, Clara. How do you want to begin?”

“I want very much to tell my story. I think many people could learn something from my life, Joanie; you see, there are ‘patterns’ that have become so clear to me. Patterns that go back way before I was ever even born. There may not be another story like this in all the world.”

“Just tell me how you want to start.”

In spite of Joan’s obvious disinterest, Clara simply nodded her head, took the map from the table, and unfolded it. When the map was open, she pointed to a small town listed in the southeastern-most portion of Idaho and moved it back in Joan’s direction. “Maybe we should start here, at the very beginning, way back even before I got to Huntsville?”

Clara reached across the table and tapped the location again with a long, boney finger: “The story starts here, but you’ll no longer find it on any map. There was a place about fifteen miles outside of Malad; it was called Samaria City. That’s where I was born.

“For all practical purposes, all traces of that town are gone. You might say that I was born into a world that no longer exists, in a town that has long since disappeared. It was so different then, like living in another century.”

Clara took a bite out of one of the Oreos and continued: “Samaria City sprang up where it did because of the Southern Pacific railroad. Along the tracks, land could be had for $4 an acre and so by 1900 a village had sprung up near that station . . . though, in truth, there were less than thirty houses even by the time I decided to come into the world. I think it’s important to make the point that people built near railroad tracks for convenience and not because of the beauty of the train going by.” She chuckled.

“Papa bought some land on the outskirts of the town—even Samaria City considered us country-folk. By the late 1930s that little city would grow into a community of nearly two hundred homes. It is hard to believe that by 1960 what remained of the city was consolidated into Malad and Samaria City had all but ceased to exist.

“I was born in the log house that my father built. In all, my poor mama would birth seven children but only four of us would grow to adulthood. My father was Everett Stuart, and my mother Mabel. I had a grandfather that I loved dearly.

“When I was born, I had two brothers, Benjamin and your father, Jason—who was so handsome—and a sister Emily. Later on my parents would have Sara. There was also Nathaniel, who came before me, and Michael, who came after, but they both died the same month they were born. It could be a very harsh time to be alive . . .

“Back then it never even occurred to me that I would see Mama and Papa and all the others dead and buried—these just aren’t the thoughts of a young girl growing up on a farm in Samaria City.”

Joan looked up from her blank writing tablet and sighed. It was obviously going to be a very long interview. As though oblivious to her reaction, Clara continued her narration:

“As I grew up and became a young woman, I had the adventure of watching that small village become a city. We had our own schoolhouse, a beauty parlor, a grocery store, a barber shop, a tailor shop, several garage and service stations, a few restaurants, even a volunteer fire department. For the most part the churches were Mormon, but there was one Baptist church and that’s where Mama and Papa belonged. Benjamin used to say that the good Lord had made us all Baptists just so we wouldn’t be getting out of line.

“As a family, we were often together at the Baptist church—that was our social life; whenever the doors were open we were there. Mama had the most beautiful voice . . . she just loved to sing.

“My little sister, Sara, and I were just inseparable, which was fine with me because Emily and I never seemed to be able to get along.” Clara looked directly at her niece as if to emphasize this second point before continuing:

“Papa was strict with all of us but he seemed the worst with your father. In fact, Jason was more familiar with that woodshed and the switch than all the rest of us put together. You see, your father was quite a looker, and all the girls in Samaria City had a thing for him, which was improper ‘cause no Mormon girl should be setting her sights on a Baptist. I think Papa figured Jason would get into girl trouble early on and he was trying to head things off at the pass.

“It was an innocent time but it was a strict time. We were the frontiers’ type people. Life was simple but it could be hard. Free time was the exception rather than the rule. There was no such thing as TV. We had chores, and Papa made certain that the rules were followed to the letter. I cleaned the house and mother did the cooking. I did the ironing, the sweeping, the dusting, and I brought flowers in when they were in bloom. Emily and I were always responsible for doing the dishes.

“Emily was a good cook, in spite of herself. She also did the wash and would hang the clothes out on the line, which ran from the corner of the porch to the big oak tree where Papa had made us a swing. I remember Mama used to say, ‘nothing looks homier than a line of drying sheets hanging in the sun.’

“I was close to both of my brothers in different ways, but having Emily for an older sister was a real struggle. You never met Emily—she died of lung cancer before you were born. The two of us shared a bedroom, which made being sisters all the more challenging, but I pretended my bed and my side of the room was my own chamber—just as she had hers. We even drew a line across the floor with chalk. She had this doll that I really wanted. Lord, how Emily was attached to that doll. Mama told me I could have a doll just like it when I was older—it had a porcelain face and everything—but by the time I was older I didn’t care no never mind about dolls. I wanted it then . . . ”

Finally, Joan interrupted, “Clara, it’s really your connection to Huntsville that the paper is interested in.”

Clara was only slightly frustrated by the interruption. “I know that, Joanie, but some of this story is important to just me and you. You can skip over this part if you want when you write the article for Martin.” The old woman nodded, took another bite of Oreo, seemed to recollect her thoughts and then stated, “Now where was I? Oh yes, mostly, I remember all the work we had to tend to back then. There was always something to be washed, or cleaned, or hoed. There was always something that had to be weeded. We grew sweet potatoes and it was a real job making certain that those weeds didn’t overtake them. I also had to pick bugs off the potato vines. Every day I had something to do. But it seems to me that even with all those chores, kids back then depended more on their imagination than they do now. At the time, I think my greatest concern seemed to be wondering how to get out of doing those damn dishes . . .

“But it would all pass much too quickly, and eventually three things would happen that would change my life forever: the discovery that I was somehow very different from other children, my meeting Paul Gabriel, and the death of a four-year-old . . . ”

Joan looked up from her blank writing tablet and decided the time had come to turn on the recorder.