Harry Truman's Love Museum

Good afternoon and welcome to the museum. Have you come far? You look tired. Come in and rest awhile and let me tell you about the museum.

You have long hair.

These are the boxes and the envelopes. The stamps are over there . . . no . . . over there in the top right drawer of the dark-stained Edwardian desk.

In those I meant to wrap, bale, box and ship the pieces of her back to wherever. I don't know where she is and, anyway, I never got around to doing the wrapping.

I didn't have Christmas paper. It's always the way isn't it? Would you like some coffee? Sit down.

That's Paisley print you're wearing, isn't it? Dark blue and maroon. Reminds me of Jamaica.

What do you take in it? This is a George III hallmark and the cream is fresh.

This is the study . . . over there. That book is Wright and Linden's cases, notes and material on Canadian Tort Law. It's well-thumbed, isn't it?

She carried that to Ottawa every morning until her fingerprints sweated into the fabric. Sometimes at Friday night beer bashes she left it sitting on the radiator of the common room . . . got her lover of the evening to drive her back next morning to pick it up.

It's also maroon. Matches your dress. Where did you find wheat to color your hair. Maybe it's this late afternoon spring-coppered light that does it.

There are letters over there. Note the fine hand. Curlicues that wind into the heart like fossiled droppings. She has a way with her "C", yet her mother never liked her penmanship.

The paper is bond—unfinished, yellowed and stiff.

She picked this chair up at an auction in Portland . . . you know, on the Big Rideau. Said it matched the desk. You can still see her round softness in it. She would read there until the news and then come out to see Harvey Kirck read the 11 o'clock news.

The patina you see is many layers old. Carbon-dating would uncover our trysts.

The light falls well on you. Try the chair. It fits very well, doesn't it? More coffee?

There really isn't much to see in the study, actually. I don't know why I bought you in. But I thought you should know something of her accomplishments. She wasn't young when she did that. She'll probably be Chief Justice one day. She articled with one.

It pays very well, you know. They only earn six articling outside, but lots more at Justice, or the Court.

I see by your briefcase that you are a lady of some accomplishment, yourself. Cognac?

It's Courvoisier Napoleon, by the way of Antigua duty free. Couldn't buy it here . . . no . . . I'm not drinking, but maybe later.

This is the kitchen. She didn't really come in here much, except to feed the dog and cat. The dog was a fat old thing. It used to huff and puff and lie on my feet while I slept. I didn't really mind it but I never really was comfortable sleeping with it, either.

The cat was more discreet . . . Samara. It was black and used the back of a love seat as a scratch pad. When she was shrill the cat ignored her, but when I said, authoritatively, "Samara" without raising my voice, it got down from whatever illicit point of vantage without complaint.

She pottered here sometimes. Insisted on drinking no-name instant coffee, instead of freeze-dried. Jose Ferrer's entreaties had little affect in the matter.

It was curious really; because the extra cost was only equivalent to about one Scotch a month and she drank several more than that.

She was rarely tipsy, though. When she was she became somewhat strident and accused me of not being sympathetic to the rights of women.

She suggested that, as a journalist—that's before I got into the museum business-- . . . pardon . . . well, it's a living . . . I mean it pays the rent but it's no Hell, if you know what I mean.

More coffee? You have eyes like a raven, and so quiet. Where do you come from?

We ate out mostly . . . that's why you don't see much in the kitchen. This is the living room. You've already seen the sofa and the television set with a poster of Harvey Kirck on the screen. We were news junkies.

That black fur rug is hers. She had a fantasy about black fur rugs but I don't know whether, in the past, she had consummated it.

Why did she leave. That's not really part of the tour. It's not really . . . . .

This is the bathroom. That's her purple negligee on the back of the door. She didn't wear it much. It was just a spare. It always reminded me of a Tennessee Williams play. She looked very southern in it, with one breast always falling loose and the hem of it just above her white knees. She had very white skin but it freckled in the summer.

Her body was young . . . a willow tree supporting a much older head . . . very whitish hair falling down equally on all sides and big owlish glasses that she kept adjusting although they always fell back into the same position.

She looked good in a negligee. When she was cold I would take my robe and put it round her shoulders, or wrap her in a Hudson's Bay blanket while she watched the news.

More cognac? Yes, it does taste good, doesn't it. I think I'll change my mind.

The Oil of Olay is a small travel bottle she left. She used to put it on her face. I don't know why her face was wrinkled. Her body was smooth. It was as though she had spent time in the desert. I suppose she had, in a way, before she went back to school.

That was Shawn's idea. Not really his idea, but he encouraged it even though, ultimately, it ment the end of the affair.

She just outgrew it really, although she continued to see him when he came to Ottawa. He was President of some advertising company, but that's sort of a public relations job. You have to go and pitch all the important accounts. They don't feel important if the president doesn't come to pitch them.

He used to drive up in his car and take her to bed in the downtown Holiday Inn.

No, not after we met. But, she still saw him for dinner then. She had this theory that if a man takes you out to dinner you have to invite him home for a drink and then you can't go to another engagement later. I eventually disabused her of it, but she had stopped going to dinner by then, anyway, so the point was moot.

She used to say Shawn would be upset if she asked him to drop her off at my place. I told her where I thought he could take his "upset" . . . oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lose my temper.

That's not her shower curtain. She was going to buy one when I moved to this apartment but we had a fight that Friday night and I went out and bought one on my own.

She was going to buy a Water Pic shower head too, but we never got around to that. We were going to do a lot of things, actually.

Yes, I think there's some more left in the bottle. You seem warm. Let me take that shawl. The sun looks good, doesn't it . . . impaled on the cross of the church. That's one reason I moved here.

She lived with her mother. I used to wonder what her mother thought when she brought Shawn home . . . what she thought of his wife, or his grandchildren. I was embarrassed to see her mother after Shawn had been there, because I thought it would confuse her. They had gone out for twelve years before they broke up. I guess he was her first, or close to it, anyway. I don't know if she went back to him. She certainly kept her options open. She was very territorial.

When I visited and her phone rang she would shut herself in the bedroom and say "It's my house. It's none of your business."

Not exactly reassuring.

This late sun suits you: fires the tips of your hair as it floods over your shoulders. Take your shoes off if your feet are sore.

Surely that fleeting icicle above your stocking tops doesn't mean you're wearing a garter belt. She left one in the bedroom . . . but we'll get to that later.

Those boxes on the étagère are Shawn's. He gave them to her for her collection. He used to take her to baseball games, too. She said she liked the tight uniforms.

Why do your eyes follow me when I pace the room. It's the only exercise I get. There's no time to go out because I have to tend the collection. We can't have Miss Haversham-like cobwebs about the place, can we. It's got to be kept up.

That . . . that's a strand of her hair. It's very coarse, isn't it, yet very smooth. I know that's a contradiction, but don't forget I spent a lot of time with my face sleeping in it, so it becomes a subtle thing.

Not that much time really, because her mother didn't like her staying out all night.

She was only 27 at the time.

It was OK with Shawn, because she went to Montreal for that and used her girlfriend's apartment. Her mother didn't know.

Oh, but that's history. What does it bloody well matter.

More cognac? I'm beginning to feel a glow from it. I'm sorry about my language.

I think she's gone to Bermuda to be Solicitor-General. Memory fades. I don't get the newspapers much any more. Ironic, because I used to see my byline in them all the time. But, that's artificial isn't it. I mean, you can't go through life being a byline . . . being a smudged line of 10-point, boldface type.

There's got to be more than that.

This is the bedroom. I always leave this until the last because sometimes people on the tour get tired and have to lie down for a while.

The bed is just the way she left it . . . blankets thrown off the foot . . . the sheets rumpled . . . signs of a struggle.

I sleep over here on the couch. The clothes you see are mostly hers . . . a few sweaters . . . stockings . . . a garter belt.

She never used to let me come into lingerie shops with her. I told her everyone else's lovers did but she wouldn't change her mind.

They're very rare. But, they had an article in the Globe and Mail that said they were coming back.

You're wearing one.

Can I hang this dress up for you? You don't want it to get wrinkled.

Your legs are very long.

Over the back of the chair if you like.

You're going to be cold, though.

That's better. You look good in purple Funny how one breast always falls free. I find her body in the strangest places.

The cognac was good, wasn't it? Your hair feels like a raven's wing. It's getting pretty dark now, isn't it?

Her name? You know, I really don't remember. I don't think I ever asked her.

What's yours?

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