Blue Moon (10 page)

Mother may have been a consummate snob, but she was herself victimized by her betters. On the streets of Hamilton, the women of the upper classes discreetly looked at each other's clothing, scanning for the quality of the wares on each other's backs. They knew good cloth when they beheld it, were aware of the imitations readily available. Mother often claimed she saw a snicker or a malicious smile made in her direction when she went shopping.

I never liked going to films with Mother, mainly because she was so completely unable to distinguish between the fictions on the screen and the fictions of everyday life. “That Ava Gardner is such a tawdry human being. Sleeps with anyone who comes along. A real vixen.” Or, “Katharine Hepburn. She's never married. Something wrong there.” Innuendo may have been my mother's strong suit, but she overdid it when she was unable to distinguish between a screen performance and the gossip surrounding a star. In fact, she blended the two worlds together uneasily, so that a crisp, sedate piece of acting by Gardner was mistakenly and immediately seen as an exercise in real-life vampery. Mother was a poor reader and an even more miserable critic.

My sedate life was transformed when we saw Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in
Now, Voyager,
one of the strangest films ever released by Warner Brothers. Bette Davis plays Charlotte, a repressed, mother-dominated young woman, who, with the help of an understanding and sympathetic psychiatrist, makes herself over into a stylish, confident and outgoing person. During a South American cruise, she meets and falls in love with a married man, whose love she renounces. Upon her return home to Boston, she becomes engaged to another man but, realizing the true direction of her heart, she breaks the engagement. Her domineering mother, aghast and enraged, suffers a fatal heart attack in the midst of an argument with her daughter. A despondent Charlotte returns to the sanatorium where she was helped, encounters a young girl very much like herself, aids in her transformation, and takes her into her own home. The girl, it turns out, is the married man's daughter. He renews his declaration and offers to leave his difficult, hypochondriac wife. True to herself, Charlotte renounces him yet again.

The film is faithful to the convoluted turns in the bestselling novel by the underrated Olive Higgins Prouty. I found the film deeply moving. So did my mother. As was her wont, she beheld only what she wanted to see.

“That Charlotte Vale was such a frump. Bette Davis must have had catfits when she was made to look so ugly.”

“She probably didn't mind. She knew what was going to happen.”

“Nonsense. No actress likes to look such a fright. Women like
that are so careful about their appearance. Must have upset her to look like such a bedraggled Cinderella.”

“I guess so.”

“Guess
so? I know so.” She looked at me askance, as if the village idiot had dared to make yet another stupid utterance. “You know, dearest, you look a lot like Miss Davis, but you never really prepare yourself correctly. You always manage to look shabby.”

“I do my best. I read all the fashion magazines.”

“You read them—you don't
look
at them.” Another significant pause as she halted, turning to face me. “You have great potential, but you never use it.” Then she drew herself in, stared at me intently. “Those eyes of yours, those wonderful eyes. I wonder.” We resumed walking, but, some flight of fancy having overcome my mother, she remained strangely silent on our bus ride home.

A few days later, my mother persuaded Mrs. Bauer to drive her to Toronto, from whence she arrived back with a large number of parcels, all from a small European couturier on Queen Street. My curiosity aroused, I asked her what she had purchased. “All in good time, my girl,” she responded. The next day, she told me that her shopping expedition had been devoted to me and my best interests. She then revealed that she had spent a great deal of money at the cosmetics counter, where she had received excellent instruction on how the film stars in California did themselves up.

“You know, Evelyn, it's a closely guarded secret, but an actress like Bette Davis is made up one way for the cameras, and another for the still photographers. And someone like that has even more tricks for improving her appearance in public.”

I nodded my head, indicating I understood what she was saying. Smiling, she continued: “Someone like you. You have all the raw materials for looking like a great actress, but you have to work at it.”

My face must have betrayed my confusion, since I had no idea why this pursuit intrigued my mother. As was her wont, my mother would tell me no more, except to instruct me to wash my hair thoroughly in preparation for a treatment. Knowing it was useless to argue with her, I retired to our bedroom, slipped into a dressing gown and then cleaned and shampooed myself in the bathroom.

When I returned to the bedroom, I could see that Mother had removed the contents of several of the boxes. She had also placed the
dressing table mirror on the floor so that I could not see and thus object—to what she was doing. After combing my hair, she proceeded to put a number of noxious smelling chemicals into it. I was ordered to shampoo my hair again and return directly. The next stage was the curling of my hair with a sinister-looking electrical device. After that, my mother cleaned my face with another foul-smelling concoction, applied two or three different powders, and then affixed further markings by way of lipstick, eye shadow and a beauty mark on the right side of my face.

Then further parcels were opened to reveal dresses, hats and shoes, all elaborate concoctions. My mother chose a tiny white hat that she perched near my forehead, black patent leather heels, and a red but demure day frock. “That woman at Simpson's was right. 'Use simple colours and classical cuts. That combination will never go wrong.'”

“We're almost there,” she exclaimed. “But I can tell practice is going to make perfect.” Bending down, she retrieved the mirror and placed it back in its usual place. I did not recognize the person staring back at me. It was as if I were looking at a still of the rejuvenated Charlotte Vale from
Now, Voyager.
“You're a whole new person, my dear,” Mother pronounced.

“Poppet, have you ever come across the word ‘miss-u-a-gee' in your reading?”

“You mean
mizuage?”

“The very word.”

“In the geisha world, it is the first time a woman's vagina is explored by a man's penis. A high price is usually exacted for this privilege by the geisha's pimp.”

“By her mistress in the geisha house,” my mother primly remonstrated.

I was startled. “Why do you ask?”

My mother was not usually coy, but on this day a rather hesitant smile crossed her face. She drew her breath in slightly. “Well, Evelyn dearest, you are not making much at the telephone company. What if you were to offer your services here in Hamilton as a sort of geisha?”

“They're whores.”

“That's a rather harsh word, dear. They are companions to men of wealth. Intercourse is rarely part of the exchange.”

This conversation took place early in September 1941, a few months before Pearl Harbor, but there was already a great deal of anti-Japanese sentiment in the press. “Mother, this is not the time to be imitating the Japanese.”

“You are such a literalist, dearest. I'm simply making a suggestion. We could make a simple adaptation of an old custom.”

“What are we reduced to when you try to turn me into a prostitute?”

“A woman of pleasure, my dear. The bare truth is that we are in exceedingly difficult circumstances. Funds from dear Lady MacLean are in short supply. Your father has quarrelled with her. If you and I are to survive, we have to be inventive.”

“What you are suggesting is immoral and disgusting.”

Usually Mother would become blindly angry in response to such sauciness. Realizing she had overstepped the boundary, she backed down. “Just think about it, dear. It's not such a bad idea.”

A few days later, my mother resumed her discussion. “Dear one, I did pay a lot for those cosmetics and a whole new wardrobe. Shame to let them go to waste.”

“I had no idea why you bought all those things.”

“An investment in
our
future.”

“I am not a sexual being. The whole idea of sex with anyone is repulsive.”

“Exactly. That is why you might be excellent at such a profession. You would have the necessary detachment. Besides, the men who visited with you would be more interested in intelligent conversation than sexual congress.”

“Maybe. But I would still have to do ‘it.'”

“Occasionally. Every little once in a while, sweet bairn.”

A few days later, she returned to the subject. “We could rent a splendid flat, perhaps on James Street. You would have the most wonderful clothing. You would meet the best people. This would be the entry into society you always dreamed of.”

“That you always dreamed of.
More a hostile invasion than an entry.”

“Still, you would have the company of some extremely intelligent men. Learn about the world”.

Mother was skilled in Chinese water torture and slowly but surely my stone-like reserve gave way. I still do not completely understand why I went along with the whole preposterous scheme. I was bored. I was lazy. Still, most women suffering from those conditions do not become
belles de jour. I
suspect I was looking for excitement, some way of rebelling, although, God knows, the best form of rebellion might have been to say no to my mother. Nevertheless, I became her accomplice. When I agreed to the whole undertaking in a muted way, she nodded her head in sage agreement. “I'll take care of everything, sweet one.”

Why did I really go along with Mother? Even today I ask myself that question. In those days I was an uneasy witness to my own life, very much like the movie-goer who stares uneasily at a grim happening on the screen but is utterly powerless to do anything, for instance, to prevent the nasty man from killing the heroine's fiancé.

A prostitute who hates sex? Some days I still make that apparently paradoxical query of myself. And yet who makes a better lady of the night than the woman who is detached from the acts she is performing? Perhaps she couldn't do them otherwise? Such a person is in a position to make herself into a good businesswoman. If an antique merchant loves his treasures too much, he will not be able to sell them readily. If, on the other hand, he cares little for the items eagerly collected by others, he has a good chance of making huge profits selling them.

I did not value myself; I could easily sell myself. That is the great sorrow of my early existence, of the silly, sad, vain woman I was. Some days, I loathe that empty-headed young creature. Other days, I pity her, even catch myself shedding tears for her.

In the first four years of my new life, the Royal Connaught in Hamilton and the Royal York in Toronto were my meeting places. A client would rent a room, telephone Mother with the number, and I would meet him there. My first client, Mr. Sinclair, Q.C., was a distinguished Hamilton attorney, specializing in corporate litigation. The agreed time was eight o'clock on a cold February night. He answered the door at once and ushered me into a large suite, two or three rooms. Exceedingly thin, he carried himself as if a huge burden sat uneasily upon his back. He was bald, although some specks of white hair clung to the crown of his head. His tiny, inset eyes betrayed a deep weariness.

“Good evening, Miss MacLean. It's very cold outside, is it not?” He helped me remove my coat.

I nodded agreement to his question. I was uncertain of what to say next.

“Well, we might as well get down to business. Let's go into the bedroom.” He pointed at the room and followed me into it. “You can place your clothes there,” he said, indicating a chair on the left of the double bed. He proceeded to remove all his clothing, observing me as I did the same. So there we were, both stark naked, standing in front of the bed. He indicated I should approach him. When I did so, he pushed me down gently on my shoulders, indicating that I was to perform fellatio. At the time, I had no idea what he wanted me to do.

“You've never done this before? You're more a novice than I realized. Lie down on the bed on your back.”

I followed his instructions as he opened the drawer in the night stand, out of which he took a tube of ointment and a condom. He threw the tube at me. “Rub some of this down below. That way it won't hurt so much.” As I followed his instructions, he fondled his penis until it was bright red and fully erect and then rolled the condom on to it. Without more ado, he walked over to the bed, mounted me, and entered me, slowly but vigorously. The pain was extreme, but he cautioned me to be quiet. He then moved his penis back and forth as if it were a metronome—two seconds in, two seconds out. This must have lasted ten minutes, at which point perspiration dotted his face, which turned a violent purple. Silent heretofore, he now spoke. “You little bitch. Daddy's filling your goddamn crack.” Then, he began to moan, somewhat in the manner of a wolf bawling at the moon. Then, he stopped moving, at the moment
he reached orgasm. A few seconds later, he removed himself from me and asked if I wished to bathe. I assented to this proposition.

When I returned from the bathroom, the bedroom was deserted. Hearing me, Mr. Sinclair summoned me to the sitting room, where he, clad in a smoking jacket, was having a drink. “Would you take a glass of sherry with me, Miss MacLean?”

Rather numbly, I assented. I silently took a sip or two. Looking intently at me, his eyebrows assuming a curious stance, he asked: “What do you like to read? Your mother informs me you are an avid consumer of all manner of literature.”

Surprised by this twist in the conversation, I mentioned O. Henry, Saki, and Dickens.

“Excellent choices. Have you ever heard of D.H. Lawrence's
Lady Chatterley's Lover
or Thomas Hardy's
Jess of the D'Urbervilles?”