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[img_assist|nid=670|title=Balloon by Sarah Barr © 2006|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=166]When my husband called the other day, I thought there was an emergency. We’d only talked once in the five months since we’d been separated.

“It’s about our son, David,” Frank said, as if I might not recall the name of our only child.

“Wait,” I said. “Have you been drinking?” It was one in the afternoon, a Saturday.

“I got a post card from him today,” Frank said. “He’s not in college any more.”

“What?” I said. “Where is he?”

“Indiana.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. David was supposed to be in Santa Cruz. He’d picked that school to be near good surfing—and to be far from us. I didn’t think he knew anyone in the Midwest.

“You won’t believe it,” Frank said, “unless you see the card yourself.” Then he asked if we could meet.

First, I thought it was a trick, to see me again, but I realized Frank was speaking in his monotone voice—and he’d never lied to me in that voice.

I said I couldn’t meet until Monday, and only during my lunch hour. Frank said he’d pick me up and we could go to that diner off route 7, not far from the bank where I’d been working since I left him.

Monday was a very hot day, and I was sweating as I waited for him. When I opened the passenger door, Frank’s truck smelled of cigarettes, burned oil, and sweat—his sweat, which isn’t an altogether bad smell. He leaned over to hug me, but I clasped his hand instead. “Thanks for picking me up,” I said, and closed the door.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

I wanted to see the postcard right away, but I didn’t ask. I figured if we talked about it now, in the truck, what would we have to talk about at the diner? So I sat there, taking in Frank’s scent—the good, bad, and indifference of it—and when we came to a red light, I reapplied some lipstick using the visor mirror.

At the diner, we sat across from each other, in a booth covered with worn orange vinyl. Before he took the menu from the waitress’ thin white hand, Frank asked her for a Pabst on tap. Then he glanced at me with an expression that held a hundred messages, as clear as if they were telegrams pasted to the skin of his face: It’s just one beer. It goes well with lunch. It’s my first drink of the day. It’s in my nature. It’s nice to see you. I know you don’t like this. What are you going to say? You’ve never stopped judging me.

It was as if our whole twenty years together flickered in that single glance. I stared at him hard, waiting for him to look back up at me, but he squinted out the diner window at his truck.

“You left your lipstick on the dashboard,” he said. “It’s getting hot.”

“It’ll be okay,” I said.

“I suppose it’s designed not to melt,” he said. “I mean, it holds up to the heat of your lips.” He reached out his hand.

I smiled a little, to let him know I wasn’t upset by his gesture, but I wasn’t going to fall for it either. Then I opened the menu and flipped past the breakfast section to the sandwiches and light fare.

Frank seemed to understand and grinned.

[img_assist|nid=669|title=Creation by Hal Robinson © 2007|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=151|height=104]The waitress returned. She was young, barely old enough to be carrying the beer in her hand. She held the mug with nervous attention, as though it had a physics all its own, and when she set it down, it rocked a little. A splash of foamy liquid tipped over the lip of the mug.

“Sorry about that,” she said.

I could see Frank’s eyes taking in the loss, then I watched as he bent his head down and licked the side.

The waitress turned to me. “I’m sorry ma’am, did you want something to drink?”

I could have gotten upset, having been over-shadowed by my husband like that, but I knew she’d simply been taken in by the force of Frank’s will. I had to forgive her: I had let it happen to me for years.

“I’ll have iced tea,” I said.

“Iced tea?” The waitress looked as though I had spoken a foreign word.

“Yes,” I said. “Unless you only serve alcoholic drinks.” I looked at Frank.

“No, ma’am,” she said. “But our ice machine is frozen. I mean broken. We’re having some ice delivered but…” She paused. “I can get you tea, it just won’t have much ice.”

“The beer’s nice and cold,” Frank said, grinning.

He knows I never drink; a half of glass of wine at Christmas does me in.

“The keg’s in the cooler,” the waitress said to my husband. “So is the tea, now,” she said turning to me. “But the ice is something separate.”

Frank nodded at her in sympathy. I remembered then how kind he could be, and suddenly felt pleased to see him again.

“Just give me whatever ice you can,” I said.

She nodded, relieved. “And you, sir? Another beer?”

I glanced down at Frank’s mug. It was empty, except for the film that clung to the glass, marking the last circle of liquid. In less than two minutes he had drunk the whole thing. I looked at Frank, who seemed now as distant from me as the North Pole.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll have another one.”

As the waitress left, I reminded her, “And the tea.”

After we got our drinks and ordered food, Frank and I were suddenly alone, like so many nights we’d spent at our dining room table, with Frank on his way to being drunk.

“So, what’s this postcard all about?” I said, trying to sound cheery. “Where’d you say David was? Iowa?”

“Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you.” He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wrinkled card. “I thought we could, you know, experience this together.” He handed it to me.

On the picture side was a drawing of a huge white tent with dozens of brightly dressed people and animals peeping out from the center flap. “Arco’s Circus of Wonders?” I said, reading the banner over the tent. “What in the world is this?”

“ Read the back,” Frank said, taking another swallow of beer.

I flipped the card over and read David’s jagged scrawl. It said he had dropped out of UCSC last semester, learned how to swallow fire, and had joined an experimental circus. “Is this real?” I asked Frank.

“ Seems to be,” he said. “Dave was never one to play practical jokes.”

Yes, I thought. I had noticed this, too, though Frank and I had never talked about it. I wondered what else we had each come to understand on our own.

“Okay,” I said slowly, “so our son’s dropped out of school and joined a circus.” I couldn’t help but laugh. It seemed too preposterous to be true.

Frank also laughed. “You have to admit,” he said. “It’s not every day that real life things happen to us.”

Soon, we were both laughing hard. It felt like when we’d first met—but I wasn’t sure I wanted that now. I raised my glass to my face and took a sip of tea. The three pieces of ice that had been in it had already melted away.

“ Do you see why I wanted to show it to you?” Frank said. “You probably thought I was up to something.”

“ No,” I lied. “I just wasn’t sure why we would have to meet.”

“ Oh, I see,” he said and raised his mug, though it was empty.

I twirled the postcard slowly in my hands, as if it might reveal something more. Was this the last I would hear of my son? Or would there be another card a year from now, telling us he was on a fishing boat in Alaska or had married a woman in Baja? In a way, nothing would surprise me. David had been away for three years and had rarely come home. Really, he had left us long ago. He hadn’t even called after I’d left the message at his dorm about the separation.

Though I had worked on it for over twenty years, I suddenly had no family. Or if I did, it was right here in front of me—this man and his beer.

Working at the bank had taught me one thing: most people—nearly all—do not drink throughout the day. They come in and do their business sober. I’d gotten saddled with an exception—and though I’d found the strength to finally leave Frank, I knew he would never leave me—not my body, or my memory. And what else of me was there?

After five months apart, here he was, across an empty Formica table from me. And wasn’t the present the most weighty evidence the world ever offered?

The waitress came with our food. It was a relief to concentrate on something besides this man who was still my husband and this post card which was my son.

She paused before Frank and after a quick glance at me, asked, “Another beer?”

“ Why not?” he said. “Our son has joined a circus. We need to celebrate.”

She smiled politely and left.

“This is your last one,” I said to Frank, “or I’m not getting in the truck.”

He smiled. “I knew you’d eventually make some comment.”

“ It’s not about you,” I said. “It’s about my limits.”

“ Okay,” he said. “Whatever. But I know my limits, too. I’m not going to do anything foolish.” Then he looked down and concentrated on his food.

Frank was nearly done with his burger by the time the waitress came back with his third beer. He took a sip and said, “Ah.”

I’d hardly touched my BLT. I kept thinking about David. “He’s gone,” I finally said. Frank kept eating. “And it’s because of you,” I added.

Frank looked up at me then.

“It’s not my fault,” he said, without taking his eyes off me. He spoke in that familiar monotone voice.

“You believe that,” I said, “but you’re wrong.”

Frank shook his head and said, “Let’s not talk about this. I want to have a nice lunch.” Then he got up. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

I was suddenly alone at the table. I looked over at Frank’s empty, ketchup-smeared plate. He always ate so fast. I stared then at the tiny bubbles forming inside his mug. I drew it over to my side of the table, feeling the coldness of the glass handle—far colder than my plastic tea tumbler.

Then I lifted the mug to my lips—and because I needed to take something from him, I tilted it up high. The liquid at first tasted sweet and salty. Then it felt like a trip to some place unbelievably cold—the Arctic, perhaps. It burned with cold and carbon dioxide, and quenched the burning at the same time, like a river wrapped in fire. I gulped it down until there was nothing left. Then I set the mug on the table and leaned back.

As the rush of alcohol washed up over my brain, I sat there, looking around the diner, as though I had entered a new world. My body began to tingle. The waitress, far off, seemed like a figurine. And David, it seemed then, was no more than a small bundle of memories I’d been clutching on to for far too long.

I leaned back further against the booth, and let my shoulders drop. Everything felt both exciting and calm. My iced tea, which I’d barely touched, looked now surprisingly like beer. And as I poured it into Frank’s empty mug and scooted it over to his side, I began to understand how he could feel such love for this liquid, for what it could do. Nathan Long has worked in Story Quarterly, Glimmer Train, Indiana Review, and other journals. He teaches creative writing at Richard Stockton College in NJ and lives in Germantown.

[img_assist|nid=665|title=Hillside by Myles Cavanaugh © 2007|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=150]August 30, 1957. SS France

Dear Han,

Whoopee! Junior Year in Paris. Universite de la Sorbonne, here I come.

Arrived in New York Friday, right on schedule. But let me tell you, baby sister, there’s a big difference between Birmingham trains and the trains up north. For one thing, there are no separate cars. It’s whites and coloreds all together, if you please. And no “Mornin’ ma’am.” Just hustle-bustle.

My room at the Waldorf was small but clean. One of the bell boys was awfully cute, in a Sal Mineo sort of way. (Don’t tell Billy I said that.) His name was Tony and he gave me some chewing gum, my besetting sin. I can hear Mother now: “Only cows chew cud, not young ladies.”

So, the next day, THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING HAPPENED. I took a taxi to New York Harbor to meet the rest of the students in my program before boarding the France. Turns out they’re mostly Yankees. I wore my new white cotton with the red polka dots, you know, with the wide red patent leather belt and full skirt. And I tied a red scarf around my hair and knotted it on the side, like Audrey Hepburn. I thought it would be the perfect look as I stood at the ship’s railing, wiping away a small tear.

But oh it was so awful. All the girls in my program, every one of them, showed up in a smart suit, navy blue or black twill, and there I stood in that hideous red polka dot dress and red scarf. The group picture tells the story. I look like a distress signal: dot, dot, dot.
It got much worse.

The crew was instructing us in safety up on deck, you know, what to do when you hit an ice berg. We had to don life jackets and form lines. I was having trouble fastening my straps and a crew member shouted over a megaphone “Attention s’il vous plait, will someone assist Mademoiselle, the one with the red napkin on her head?” Cringe.

From then on, what could I do but make a virtue out of necessity, as Mother would say. I played the role of serious, soulful, mature student who had no time for the others. I sat by myself during the day reading Le Deuxieme Sexe and smoking (don’t tell), while everyone else played shuffle board. They all acted like such children. I doubt those Wellesley girls ever even heard of Simone De Beauvoir. At night, after dinner, I smoked by myself at the bar until almost 10.

We arrive at Le Havre tomorrow and will travel by bus to Paris. I expect I’ll have piles of letters from Billy waiting for me, poor dear.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

[img_assist|nid=666|title=Red Muumuu by Martha Knox © 2007|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=210]September 1, 1957. SS France

Dear Mother,

I am luxuriating on the upper deck, a breeze gently fluttering the edge of my stationary, sea gulls but a distant memory, headed for the City of Lights. By the way thanks, Mother, for taking me shopping for Paris. My outfit created a sensation that first day on the ship. Tres chic. The Captain even complimented me on my red scarf. There are seventy-five students in the program. Our Director seems nice enough, but his one suit is baggy and shiny. Well, he’s from Pittsburgh, so there you are.

I’m fairly popular already, but I try not to spend too much time with my group. They’re a fast crowd (smoking). Instead, I’m preparing for my history courses at the Sorbonne.

I will write again from Paris.

Love, Claire and love to Pops

September 15, 1957. Avenue des Larmes, Paris

Dear Pops,

Thanks for that recent article on WWII. Hitler was surely the devil incarnate. Now that I’m in France, I feel I understand your experience during the Allied Invasion so much better. And thanks especially for the dough. You wouldn’t believe how tres cher everything is ici.

If you or Mother sees the Hendersons, please give them my address. I think Billy has lost it. Must go now.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

September 30, 1957. Paris

Dear Han,

Sometimes I wish I were staying at a pension by myself instead of living with a French family. Madame is a widow, always tired and cross because she has to work as a secretary in some government office. She probably finds it intolerable to put me up, but has to do it to make ends meet. She may have once been pretty but too much patisserie has taken its toll and she has a little mustache.

She has five married daughters and one son, Jacques, who still lives with her while he studies to become a doctor. Some might find him handsome. He’s tall for a Frenchman but his lips are permanently pursed. Madame smothers him like he’s an egg she’s trying to hatch.

Anyway, you would be amazed at the dinners chez nous. Madame rolls a cart full of food down the long corridor, past my room as she barks, “A table!” which means “Time to eat,” and I’m to follow her into the dining room. We use the same linen napkin all week long, which can be a hellish experience depending on what is served. Last night, for example, we had what I thought was ham. It didn’t taste bad at all. But then I realized Madame kept referring to it as ‘langue’ as in “Comment trouves-tu la TONGUE!!!!” It was only then that I saw the pink nubby taste buds on the meat and threw up into my napkin. Madame cried out, “Degoutant!” and leaped from the table like her skirt was on fire. Jacques merely smirked and said, “You don’t like tongue.” Brilliant diagnosis, doctor.

And by the way, baby sister, I found a you- know- what in your size and it is completely sheer and oo-la-la. It will be balled up inside the box containing the Colette you asked for. How appropriate.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

October 1, 1957. Paris

Dear Mother,

Paris is a dream come true. I spend my free time promenading along the Seine. I’ve bought you a small sketch of Notre Dame from one of the stands on the Quai. I hope you like it.

Even the shops in Paris are works of art. One evening as I was rushing home from the Louvre, I took a short cut down a narrow, cobblestone street that was completely dark, almost. The front window of a wedding dress shop was lit. On display was a gown, the loveliest I’ve ever seen. Hundreds of pearls sewn into the satin fabric glistened like tiny stars. I wish you could have seen it.
I’m studying very hard and must get back to it now.

Love, Claire and love to Pops

October 15, 1957. Paris

Dear Han,

Would you please find out if Billy is mad at me?

XXXXOOOO, Claire

October 31, 1957. Paris

Dear Han,

I guess you’ve heard the news about Billy. At least he had the courage to tell me himself, that is, after his mother forced him to pick up the phone. We sang several bars of “How’ve you been? How’ve you been?” before he got around to telling me about good old Mary ‘Buck Teeth’ Buchner.

Did you know about them beforehand and just not tell me? Anyway, I don’t care. If Billy had dropped dead instead of dropping me, I would have been sad, but not beyond a reasonable period of mourning. It’s not as though we were engaged or anything, although just as good as. No, it’s the fact that he preferred Mary over me that cuts to the core.

Of course I’m sure it’s because she was willing to go all the way with him, so how could I compete with that? But what if people think I’m used goods or there’s something wrong with me? I truly hate Billy Henderson.

Sometimes I wish I could come home. Ever since I called Billy, I’ve been cutting classes and spending just hours at Deux Magots, all bunched up on a tiny rattan chair, pretending to read and write letters, but really watching couples waltz arm in arm along the boulevard. Even groups of students meet and kiss on the cheek and smoke and laugh like they’re having a good time.

What’s wrong with me? I’ve looked forward to this trip since I was in high school and I know how much it cost to send me. It’s impossible to go home anyway. Birmingham was already stifling my élan. But I think if I could just come home for a week or two. Maybe you could suggest it to Pops.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

P.S. My one consolation is that Dicky Price says Mary hums when she makes out.

October 31, 1957. Paris

Dear Mother,

I am afraid that traveling to Europe and experiencing real culture was necessary before I could appreciate your warning, and you were certainly right: The Hendersons are not quite out of the top drawer. I had to deal the mortal blow and say good-bye to Billy before any more time passed. It was only fair, as I’m sure you understand, but I’m sorry to say that his family is not taking the news with grace and dignity. It’s probably best to steer clear of the Ladies Club for the foreseeable future.

Love, Claire and love to Pops

November 8, 1957. Paris

Dear Pops,

I’m writing to say how sorry I am for something I’ve done. I’m not superstitious, but I’m afraid if I don’t confess, something terrible will happen to you.

Several days ago, I guess it was the day after my birthday (and merci beaucoup for the extra argen$), I was attending history class. I had chosen the Resistance for my presentation, as you had suggested. By the way Pops, I think it was very wrong for the French to collaborate with the Germans, especially that business about shipping Jews off in sealed, stifling trains to Auschwitz and Dachau. Even children. I plan to visit the Normandy beaches in the spring. Mother says there’s good shopping in Cherbourg.

Anyway, I began to get nervous as my turn came around. My mouth dried up and I couldn’t remember what I was to say. When my name was called I suddenly thought of you, Pops. I stood up and said, “I can’t present today, mon pere vient de mourir.” I don’t know why I said you’d just died. I think I may have been studying about the war too much. And things just haven’t gone well for me lately.
I’m afraid it got worse.

The professor said how sorry he was and asked me to remain after class to discuss leave for your funeral. Oh what a tangled web we weave, as Mother would say, and I don’t think she needs to hear about this, do you? Without thinking, I blurted out that I wouldn’t need leave, that you were going to be buried here, in Paris, and your body was being shipped in ice. The other students seemed to find that funny. I didn’t understand why until I realized I hadn’t said ‘ice,’ I’d said ‘ice cream.’‘Glace’ and ‘glacee’ are quite similar. Even a Parisian could have made that error. I hope you’re not angry with me and that you’re all right.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

December 15, 1957. Paris

Dear Pops,

First, thank you for the wire. It’s gotten so they recognize me at the American Express Office at Place de L’Opera.

Now this will interest you. Jacques, Madame’s son, told a story at dinner the other night about a doctor. Her name is Rochella Schneider. She is much older than Jacques. Anyway, all the doctors had to be inoculated that day and when Rochella rolled up her sleeve, her arm bore a number etched into her skin. Pops, the number represents the order in which she was to be gassed at Buchenwald. Jacques was not surprised by the number, but by the fact that she had not gotten it removed.

She explained. Her sister, also at Buchenwald, was gassed almost immediately because of a limp, which made her unfit for forced labor. These gas chambers, Pops. They would hold the children out, then stuff all the adults in until the chamber was absolutely full, then shove the children in on top of the adults. When the Americans arrived in April 1945, Rochella was freed, but she had nothing to remind her of her sister: she keeps the number to remember to think of her sister. Jacques and Madame think she is foolish, but I don’t know.

Pops, I can’t imagine if that happened to you or Han or Mother. You know best, but I would not mention this story to the others. I wish Jacques had not told me.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

December 21, 1957. Paris

Dear Han,

It’s snowing! I’m writing at my desk near the bedroom window. French windows are actually glass double-doors. Mine lead onto a wrought iron balcony that overlooks a boulevard. There’s something old but feminine about the buildings in Paris. Right now, the snow has given them a lacy shawl for their stiff shoulders.

Of all people, I ran into Jacques at Deux Magots today. He bought me café au lait and we talked for hours. He told me how he had just lost a patient, a young woman, earlier that afternoon. Leukemia. Her last words were for her lover, he said. His eyes were teary. He grabbed my hand.

I may have misjudged Jacques. It’s not easy studying to become a doctor, the long hours, the tragedies.

Well, thar she blows. “A table!” Must go.

Can’t wait to speak with you on Christmas Day.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

January 28, 1958. Strasbourg, France

Dear Han,

As you can tell from my return address, I’m on a trip. And you’ll never guess what. I’m in love. Really, truly and everlastingly in love. Here’s how it happened.
Madame’s family has a tumble down chateau near Strasbourg. She invited me (only because she had to, I’m sure) to join her family there for several days. She had to get there one day early to air out the chateau and lay in provisions, but Jacques and I still had classes in Paris. Jacques’ sister, Sophie, was to stay with us and then the three of us would travel by train to Strasbourg the next day.

This must go no further! At the last moment, Sophie could not come. Jacques and I stayed in the apartment alone.

But it was just as well, for otherwise we would not have realized that we’re in love. He told me that I’m beautiful—‘belle.’ He told me that ‘Claire’ is French, which of course I knew, but he said it described my heart as well as my face (‘ton coeur et ton visage’). Isn’t it romantic? Then he kissed me. His lips were made for kissing. ‘Embrasser’ means to kiss. The word sounds like ‘embarrass’? And in turn that sounds like ‘a bare _ _ _’? Tra la! We toasted one another with wine again and again. As the night wore on, my French became fluent.

Of course, under the circumstances of showing up in Strasbourg without Sophie, we had to be circumspect in our behavior toward one another. Even now, Jacques is playing up to one of his cousins, Dominique, whom everyone thinks is the end all and be all. I call her Empress. But I know he’s just putting on an act and when we return to Paris, he will have to say something about us to Madame.
Gosh! It just occurred to me. If I marry Jacques I’ll live in France for the rest of my life. Will you visit me?

XXXXOOOO, Claire

February 4, 1958. Paris

Dear Mother,

Would you be horrified if I told you a Frenchman is quite taken with me? He is studying to become a doctor and though still in his internship, is reputed to be one of the most gifted diagnosticians in Paris, maybe France. He gets called in on the most baffling cases. And he comes from an unusually important family, with connections to the government. You would be quite impressed.

Love, Claire and love to Pops

February 4, 1958. Paris

Dear Han,

As for Mother, don’t let her get under your skin.

Now for something serious. I know positively that Jacques loves me. Didn’t he say it in so many words, and such beautiful ones at that? Of course, it is difficult for him to demonstrate affection at home, in front of Madame. She’s such a shrew. He says she’ll cut off his support if he so much as flirts with a woman, since all his energies must go toward becoming a doctor. And of course we can’t meet at a café or one of his friend’s apartments because he works all the time. Oh well, the life of a doctor’s wife is a lonely and frustrating one, so I should practice being patient (ha!). I content myself with gazing at him at dinner, occasionally feigning illness in the desperate hope of a bedside consultation (ha ha!).

XXXXOOOO, Claire

March 1, 1958. Paris

Dear Han,

I can’t wait for spring, although if I don’t start feeling better soon, it won’t matter. I’ve had a stomach ache for weeks, no doubt brought on by the nervous behavior of Madame. Empress Dominique is arriving soon, the cousin I met in Strasbourg when I was visiting the family chateau. This cousin demands a great deal of attention. I think she’s from money. Madame certainly acts like it. New drapes have been ordered and the back bedroom is being painted.

Much studying to be done before midwinter exams. I’d better hop to it.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

March 10, 1958. Jardins du Luxembourg, Paris

Dear Han,

I’m so low. I’ve never felt this lonely. I walk for miles, or sometimes I just sit on a bench in the Jardins du Luxembourg, like right now, and toss coins in the fountain and watch small boys sail their boats.

Do you ever feel like giving up, Han, like the future is too awful to even contemplate? Sometimes I feel that way. Mother would advise turning to prayer, but I’m really not worthy of that kind of help. I can’t tell you why. Let’s just say I’ve gotten into a terrible fix and leave it at that.

I’m reading Madame Bovary. Emma never could get it right either. The blasted old story is even drearier in French.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

March 30, 1958. American Hospital, Paris

Dear Han,

You may wonder what I’m doing at the hospital. Please don’t worry, and please tell no one, since they’re discharging me tomorrow morning anyway. I foolishly ignored my stomach ailment and got very sick. I am perfectly fine now.

The awful part about being in the hospital is the whiteness of it all. The walls, nurses’ caps, uniforms, even shoes, sheets, everything white. I thought white stood for something lovely, like purity and a wedding dress: It stands for sterility and nothingness.

No one has come to visit, of course. Who would? At least my history professor left a card at the nurses’ station, a picture of a man and woman sharing ice cream.

As for Jacques, he has left Paris for Neuilly, which is closer to the hospital where he will train next. I had not realized he was going to leave, nor did he, it seems. Several nights before I was admitted here, he quarreled with Madame. Though they mostly hissed at one another, probably to keep me from hearing, I caught my name along with that of Empress Dominique, whom Madame referred to as Jacques’ affiance.

If Madame sent Jacques away for any reason having to do with me, she needn’t have bothered. Jacques has shown so little interest in me since that one night before Strasbourg. But I should be more sympathetic. How he must have suffered that night when I began to hemorrhage and Madame was not there to help him. His respect for human life must surely have compelled him to call the ambulance rather than let me bleed to death. Then again, he probably tossed a coin.

Claire

April 7, 1958. Rue Meilleure, Paris

Dear Pops,

I apologize for not writing to you myself about my stay at the hospital. And please tell Mother not to worry. I will call you as planned so you’ll know I’m all right. I wouldn’t have even told my Program Director had I not needed to get my assignments. He should spend less time worrying parents needlessly and more time correcting his painful accent. And I’m going to absolutely throttle Han for telling you. Anyway, it was nothing serious, and had my stomach ached in this way at home, going to Birmingham General would have been the last thing I’d do, and that’s the Gospel truth. So don’t worry.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

April 7, 1958, Paris

Dear Mother,

I am certain my Program Director has distorted the nature and extent of my illness to the point that you are fearing for my life. I feel quite all right and my most acute ailment was brought on by not having a proper bed jacket during my hospital stay.

You would be surprised to learn that many American celebrities are treated at the American Hospital. There was a rumor that Grace Kelly was leaving just as I arrived.

Love, Claire and love to Pops

P.S. Madame is having work done on her apartment and while I am completely recovered, I don’t want to risk contracting something new from the workmen. Therefore, I have moved into a pension closer to my classes and the library.

April 21, 1958. Paris

Dear Han,

This damn city. Can’t it do anything but rain? And every Parisian has a small dog who makes a mess on the street. Merde.

Now here’s a sight they don’t describe in Fodor’s. Last evening I made the mistake of hopping onto an empty metro car. I was joined by a little man who decided to expose himself. With that giant fleshy rod wagging back and forth, I dubbed him Monsieur Metrognome. At least his approach was an honest one.

If I hear the screech of the metro cars once more I swear I’ll throw myself under the tracks, anything to make them stop. Sometimes I get so desperate to reach my station and daylight, but why? It’s always raining. I might dart into a café, hoping for warmth and cheer, but everything you’ve heard about the condescension of the French is cultivated to a fine art by the Parisian waiter. I used to try to curry their favor with a bright smile and nicely rolled Rs. Now I barely move my lips. I try to look featureless. It gets more respect.

I am now living in a pension near the Sorbonne. When I announced my departure plans, Madame verily jumped for joy and hoisted her sails, until I told her the Program would be seeking a rental refund. You’ve never seen a ship sink so fast.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

P.S. I’m still mad at you for telling Mother and Pops about the hospital, but apparently you had the presence of mind to have lost my letter when they asked you for it. Thank you.

May 10, 1958. Paris

Dear Pops,

I’ve met a person that you might like to meet someday. It all started back at the hospital, on my last day there. A woman doctor came to see me before my discharge. Her face was lined and her hands old with protruding veins and brown spots, but she had a gentle touch and by that time, I sure needed one. When she started to leave, I asked her name, to thank her. It was Dr. Schneider, Dr. Rochella Schneider. Yes, you guessed it, Pops. The Rochella with the number on her arm. What a coincidence. Proof that life is stranger than fiction.

After I was sure of who she was, owing to some gentle probing of my own, I told her how I knew of her. It turns out she was earning extra money by working at the American Hospital during her off hours. She seemed kind and her eyes were so sad. Well, to be honest, I needed a distraction, so I asked if she would talk with me about her experience during the war.

She finished her rounds and came back and sat with me for a long time. She wanted to talk about her sister, who must have been quite nice but naïve, I think, and sometimes foolish. She was about my age.

Just before she got up to leave, I asked if she had lived in Paris ever since the war ended. She said that right after the war, she’d had a brief stay in Germany, settling debts. Now that was an interesting thing for a recent graduate of Buchenwald to say, don’t you think [, — optional] Pops?

XXXXOOOO, Claire

May 30, 1958. Paris

Dear Han,

Does this sound strange? I’ve made a friend, maybe. She’s much older than I am and she’s a doctor, Rochella Schneider. Pops probably told everybody about the incredible coincidence of our meeting at the hospital.

I think there may be something odd about her. We go to these out of the way bistros, near Montmartre. She asks me lots of questions about what I study and what I do when I’m not studying.

What do you make of this? I asked her how she endured her life in a concentration camp, when her sister died and everything. Why didn’t she just join her? She said she’d thought of it, but in the end, there was still life. Still life. She kept saying that. I thought, “Yes, so what?”

Then she said, “‘Still life’ is such a versatile phrase. It can make you think of artwork, something inanimate, or it can make you think of something dead, like a still born infant. For some it might mean there’s still opportunity to get even. Or it can mean hope. You have to choose what it means.” That’s just like her. She turns things around, sees them from more than one angle.

Do you think she might be trying to recruit me to the Zionist cause? Ben-Gurion Youth or something? Can you see Mother’s face!

XXXXOOOO, Claire

June 30, 1958.Paris

Dear Pops,

You know I travel next month to Normandy and after that, home. Would you please discuss with Mother letting me remain in Paris, at least through the summer? You see, I’ve been recruited. Dr. Schneider says that I could be useful to her in a clinic for refugee women and children. Many of them are beggars. Down in the metro, where the stench is sometimes awful, they sit on the hard floor with their children all day long, filthy hands outstretched for a sou. It is pitiful, Pops. The Clinic is located just across from Sacre Coeur. She says I’ll get paid, though not enough to live on, but I could stay with her for a while. I’m not sure working in a clinic is my cup of tea, but I could at least give it a try. Please talk to Mother. I know she has strong feelings about religious differences, especially when it comes to Jews.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

July 15, 1958. Hotel Beau Rivage, Cherbourg, France.

Dear Pops,

Thank you for suggesting that I read up on the Allied Invasion before my trip, but no book could have prepared me for the cemetery: Row after row, thousands upon thousands of small white crosses and stars of David. Many tourists wandered among them, but there was silence, the only sounds coming from Channel winds gusting up from Omaha Beach.

Guess who’s here with my group? Dr. Schneider, whom I invited, and my history professor, who invited himself. He said he hadn’t been to Normandy since the end of the war. Pops, I’m pretty sure he was in the Resistance, the maquis.

Thanks for the extra money, which will take me on a side trip to Arromanche. There are German bunkers there, all pointing at England. I just don’t understand war.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

P.S. How are you coming with Mother and my job at the Clinic?

July 30, 1958. Paris

Dear Han,

Hallelujah! Mother said yes! I was so relieved to be able to stay, though I miss you all so. I do think it was fiendishly clever of Pops to tell Mother that the Prince of Wales would be “viewing” the Clinic this summer. After all, HRH’s tour through Paris does include a visit to the Eiffel Tower and who’s to say? He probably will view the Clinic from that height.

In answer to your question, yes, I do still sometimes feel like the future is too awful to contemplate. For one thing, I’m worried about coming home. I’m not good at fitting in anymore.

But Han, the most embarrassing thing happened. I’ve mentioned to you my history professor. Well, on the day classes ended, he asked me to stay behind to go over my final paper with him. We were alone. He cupped my chin in his hand and tried to kiss me. Of course I wanted to kiss back. His rumpled jacket and wavy black hair made me think of Sartre making a pass at De Beauvoir, probably in the exact same spot. But …I demurred. (New word, look it up.) I demurred because of all the times I’d imagined a white knight out of a standard issue jackass. Of course, the fact that my mouth was full of chewing gum also weighed heavily against it.

Write soon.

XXXXOOOO, Claire

Lee W. Doty is a lawyer practicing in Conshohocken, PA. She won first place in the 2006 MCCC Writers’ Club Annual Student Short Story Contest and the 2006 MCCC Creative Writing Achievement Award. Her work can be read in Perspectives, and the MCCC Writers’ Club newsletter, Pen & Ink Times. She holds degrees in French and History from Duke University and from Georgetown University Law Center. Currently she is an MFA candidate at Rosemont College.

[img_assist|nid=670|title=Balloon by Sarah Barr © 2006|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=166]After finding the ring in the bar of soap I told Herb there were two things I needed to do before I married him: get the shovel out of the lake and take the red rose from Danny.

Herb looked at me in his brittle, self-effacing way and said, didn’t I love him?

The soap had begun in the shape of a pink mollusk shell. He had given it to me on Valentine’s Day five weeks before, and it had taken me all that time to wear it down to a nub at its center.

Herb said if I didn’t love him just to tell him right then and there so we could be done with it.

I told him of course I loved him, but if he could wait five weeks for me to find the ring, he could wait a little longer for me to say yes.

Herb stood there, blinking his eyes underneath his glasses. After a minute or two he said yes, yes, he supposed it had to be done.

By then I was thirty-one, and there were only two things after all that time I still regretted: the shovel and the rose. Twenty-four years before, I had left the rose in a classroom and the shovel under the dock, and I wanted them back.

I told my aunt Lanette that Herb had proposed, but I was leaving to find the rose first. She was running the hose in the garden at the time. She promised to make my wedding dress while I was gone. I told her to remember the lace, and to start with the sleeves short and make them longer from there, in case it took me a while to come back.

.

Danny and I took art lessons together in grade school. Sometimes he would sort pieces of confetti into patterns and give them to me on oaktag. That was when I fell in love with him. He had a sacred, choir-boy’s voice, and when he said in that soft way of his, did I love him, I told him yes, I thought I did.

But when he had given me the red rose I was frightened, and I had given it back. I said I was too young. I said he would have to wait a little while. Danny said, how long? and I told him I didn’t know. He waited three months but then one day he was gone, to South America with his father. Someone said he’d moved to Ecuador, but I wasn’t sure where that was.

I got in my car and drove to the last place I could remember. The school was still there, but it had older walls and more children. In the art room there were eight students; they sat at high counters, instead of the folding tables we had used. They were painting with watercolors kept in little white pots. I didn’t know what had happened to the markers, the ones that smelled like chocolate and watermelon.

Danny was sitting at the far counter with the rose, its petals fanned out to one side so that it looked top-heavy. It had died a long time ago. He stood when I came in and said, Hello Jolaine, it’s been a long time. He was taller, and I couldn’t tell if I was in love with him or not anymore. But then I saw he had a ring on his finger and a gilded little boy next to him. I had made him wait too long.

I told him, I shouldn’t have given you back the rose, Danny. I’ve thought about it all this time.

Well, that is the way of things, isn’t it, he said. But I could hear it in his voice; I had been forgiven.

I took the rose. We shook hands, and he said, I’ll be seeing you then, although we both knew it wasn’t true.

.

[img_assist|nid=669|title=Creation by Hal Robinson © 2007|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=151|height=104]The lake had gotten old while I was gone, and the water had turned black. It was September, and the beach was all slanted shadows and emptiness. My heels stuck in the sand like taffy. It was slow going, but I made it to the shore. The dock was far away. I had to cup my hand above my eyes to see it, because the sun was very bright.

My sister and I had played a game near the dock in August, many years before. One of us would hide a little plastic shovel in the water, and the other would dive down to find it. The idea was that eventually if it was not found the shovel would rise to the surface, and then the game would be lost.

There had been stories that once—long before we had gotten there—a man had drowned below the dock, while tying the buoys with yellow rope. When it had been my turn to find the shovel, I had thought of this story and was frightened. I couldn’t see the shovel; the water made yellow and green freckles in my eyes. I was very far down, and I could feel the seaweed putting spells on the bottoms of my feet.

I was almost out of air when I saw the glass face, deep below me in the water. I swallowed the lake in gulps. The bubbles caught inside my throat. The lifeguards blew their whistles and paddled out to get me on yellow boards with red crosses.

Afterwards I thought: it was probably a fish. But we had left the shovel underneath the water, and we never went back for it.

I had learned how to swim the crawl stroke at age eleven, and I still remembered it after all this time. My fingers split the lake into five parts in front of me.

My sister had gone back once too. She had walked dripping into my house, smelling of the lake, and she said, Jolaine, you’ll have to go back, I couldn’t find it. That was the day I told Herb about the shovel.

[img_assist|nid=672|title=Blue Muumuu by Martha Knox © 2007|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=272]I found the shovel caught in the seaweed. It had not come to the surface after all. Around it the water was wrinkled like an old newspaper. I thought it must not have moved in twenty-four years.

I saw the glass face too. But it smiled at me, and I waved as I kicked back to the surface, the water falling into blossoms below me.

.

When I got back Herb was sitting in a chair reading the stock quotes. My white dress was on the table. The sleeves were at three-quarters with lace around the cuffs. He looked up at me only a little surprised and said, So that’s it then?

I said yes, yes, that’s it.

I went to go try on my dress.
A 2006 U.S. Mitchell Scholar to Ireland, Victoria is currently enrolled in the M.Phil. program in Creative Writing at Trinity College, Dublin. She received her B.A. from Harvard.

[img_assist|nid=668|title=Bride by Sarah Barr © 2006|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=109]Everyone loves a dead body.

The yellow tape, the grim-faced police officers and the emergency vehicles contrast with the peacefully falling snow and Christmas decorations strung along the cul-de-sac. The children’s thoughts are no longer of Santa Claus as they watch the men unload a black bodybag containing Darlese Claxton. Everyone stands by their doors, staring. Even big Julio Sanchez, who rarely leaves the comfort of his couch, takes in the scene, his three-year-old son in his arms.

Vera rinses raw chicken drumsticks as she watches from her kitchen window. Earlier, she had been unloading the groceries from her car when she overheard someone say that Darlese had committed suicide. Vera’s neighbors always speculated that Darlese’s life would end this way. She had been trying for years. Ambulances and police cars were not an uncommon sight at 3214 Clayton Coventry. Darlese’s husband, a thin man known as Piggy, had managed to save her from herself over the years. The secrets of that marriage were among the tidbits Wilma Gilmore had whispered to Vera when she’d moved to the neighborhood two years ago.

Channel 7 reporter Sarah Wynn is speaking with Wilma now, as the old woman wipes away her tears. Vera can only imagine what she’s saying. All the parents along the street are acquainted with Piggy, who tried to form a neighborhood baseball league the previous summer, but Wilma has no young children and her knowledge of the Claxtons is nothing more than the rumors she spread. Wilma glances at Vera, then invites Sarah inside.

The phone rings, pulling Vera away from her view. Pat Dotson’s panicked voice pierces the phone line. “You hear about Darlese?”

“Yes, I’m watching it now,” Vera says. “It’s so sad.”

“I knew she was crazy, but…” she pauses. “ I never thought she’d go through with it.”

“I wonder where Piggy is.”

“I know the poor thing. His truck’s right outside. And did you see Wilma? She plays the part, don’t she? That woman tells nothing but lies.”

Vera wants to ask Pat what lies she’s heard, but she doesn’t. She places the chicken in the oven and sets the timer for 45 minutes.

“These kids don’t need to be watchin’ this. I told my boys to do their homework, but they’re probably watchin’ from upstairs. Where’s Lindell and Eric?” Pat asks.

“Christmas shopping with their father. Randall had better make them get me a good gift. I deserve it.”

Pat snickers. “Maybe he’ll move back home. Won’t that be the best?”

Vera says she has to get something from the oven and ends the conversation. The neighbors are all the same. One minute she and Pat argue over her son teasing Eric and now she wants to pry. The last thing Vera wants to talk about is her separation from Randall. These days, she only cries two days a week – on Fridays, when he picks up the children and Sundays, when he returns them. She manages to appear composed around Randall, who had complained to the marriage counselor about her stoicism. But Vera had seen too many broken dishes and tears in her parents’ marriage to allow that in her own.

Outside the window, Vera hears men’s voices and the slam of the ambulance door. She watches them return inside of the Claxton house. Most of the neighbors go inside their own homes, to their heat, but like Vera, they’ll watch from their windows. Her neighbors’ voyeurism disgusts her, but, unlike the rest, Vera has a history with the Claxton’s, particularly Piggy. She opens her blinds a little wider.

A month after Randall left, Vera was tired of seeing her children mope around the house. Eric was always at her side, helping wash dishes and make the beds, while Lindell was off somewhere pouting. This wasn’t a healthy way for her kids to spend their summer, so she enrolled Lindell at the nearby dance school and signed Eric up for the Coventry Cubs, the new baseball team that Piggy was coordinating.

Lindell’s attitude brightened at the sight of shiny new tap shoes, but Eric was more difficult. As much as he loved sports, he worried about any activity that would take him away from his mother’s side, even if it were only for three days a week. The more he objected, the more she knew it was the right choice.

One evening, not too long after the start of practices, Piggy showed up at her front door, his large hands clutching Eric’s shoulders. Her thoughts went from curiosity to fear when she noticed her son’s ruffled hair and bloody lip. The other boys had picked on Eric and he’d fought back, Piggy explained. Chris Dotson had said something rude and Eric pummeled him.

She rubbed his face searching for more bruises. “You know how I feel about violence. What did Chris say?”

“He called me a half breed,” Eric said. “And …”

He looked to Piggy, who cleared his throat. “He also called your husband a name.”

“I see.”

That night, she called Pat to give her a piece of her mind. Then she called Randall and told him what happened. It had been his idea to leave the suburbs and move to Detroit’s Indian Village. He wanted the kids to have a well-rounded education that combined the privilege of the suburbs and the diversity of the city, an impossible dream. He loved that there were Latino, Arab and black families on their new street and that they were within a few miles of some of the best restaurants in the area. Aside from the large, English Tudor and Victorian style houses, Vera was unimpressed. Detroit was Detroit, no matter how it was layered. She longed for the comfort of the suburbs, with the tidy parks and teachers who knew her name.

“I’ll talk to him,” Randall said. “You’re not letting him quit, are you?”

“I thought about it. Seems like he had more friends when we lived in Canton.”

Randall groaned. “Don’t start. Haven’t we done this argument to death?”

“I guess. Maybe I’ll just move and tell you about it later. How’d you like that?”

He was quiet. Vera pictured him turning red as he squeezed the phone. “You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to keep my family safe. If that means leaving this urban wasteland, so be it.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” he snapped. “You’ve turned into my mother.”

“Whatever. I’m no snotty white woman.”

“Try remembering that.”

Vera was a regular at the baseball practices, until Piggy warned her that she was embarrassing Eric. She had noticed that no other mothers were around – only fathers – and this only made her want to come more.

“It makes him look soft when he has his Mommy hovering,” Piggy said, as he walked them back to her car. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Vera looked over at Eric, who slumped in the backseat. “I don’t want him in anymore fights.”

“That’s a part of growing up. Especially for boys ‘round here. You wouldn’t understand, but –”

Vera held up her hand. “Don’t assume that because I’m a woman that I’m naïve to the ways of boys. I grew up in Philly and I’ve seen more fights than I care to remember. I’ve even been in a few myself.”

“I thought –”

“I know,” Vera said. “You thought because I’m married to a white man that I don’t know the streets. I have one brother in the ground and another one in jail. I’ve seen what these streets do to black boys. It won’t happen to my son.”

She left him in the parking lot, speechless. The next day, a bouquet of daisies arrived for her at the bank. There was a note that read, ‘From one street brawler to another: I’m sorry. –Coach.’ She propped them up on her desk so her coworkers, particularly Connie Mirabella, could see them. She hoped word would get back to Randall, who golfed with Connie’s husband.

The Cubs won their first game and Eric hit the winning home run. The team, including Chris, carried him to the bench and cheered. They went for pizza afterward and Piggy drove them home. Eric was the last player to be dropped off and Vera invited Piggy inside for coffee.

After she sent the kids to bed, Piggy lingered behind for what became a long conversation. They had one thing in common – they were both quiet people trapped in loud marriages. Everything Randall did was noisy, from the way he proposed by screaming through her dorm window when they were in college, to how he fought, lodging his fists in the wall and banging tables. Vera had been so unresponsive to his tirades that Randall dubbed her the Ice Queen.

Piggy said Darlese was the same way, but he didn’t elaborate. He’d moved out a few years ago, then returned when he realized he couldn’t divorce her.

“I love my wife and she needs me. Her mind’s sick. If she doesn’t take her medication…. ”

Vera said she understood. She had been warned that Darlese was crazy, but didn’t know the details. Vera finished the last of her coffee and looked over at Piggy. She noticed then how long his eyelashes were and how smooth his dark skin appeared. “Why do they call you Piggy? It doesn’t fit you.”

He laughed.

“I liked to eat when I was a kid, so my grandparents called me Piggy. My Mom didn’t like it, but it stuck. Now Mom is the only one who calls me by my real name.”

“And what’s that?”

“I can’t tell you all my secrets. Just call me Piggy.”

The rumors started after that. Eric returned from practices angry and spent the evenings in his room. Wilma Mustonen and Verna Childs gathered on their front porches and lowered their voices whenever Vera approached.

A week later, Vera woke to a loud pounding on her door. She thought she had been dreaming when she saw Darlese standing on her porch barefoot. She wore white silk pajamas and her hair was tied up in a scarf. She rubbed something against her right thigh and stared at Vera with unsteady eyes.

“What’s going on?” Vera tightened her robe and turned on the kitchen light. “Do you need help?”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“My husband,” she spat. “Where he at? He in there?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

Darlese pushed past her until she was inside. Vera could see now that the object Darlese carried was a switchblade that she had sliced into her own thigh with. A bloodstain grew on her pajama bottoms. Vera’s breath caught in her throat. She needed to call for help, but she couldn’t remember where she’d put the cordless phone.

“Might as well bring him out.” Darlese leaned against the refrigerator. “Don’t make me look in the bedroom.”

“Darlese!”

Piggy walked through the front door and grabbed his wife’s arm. “I told you I was going to the store. Why you keep doin’ this?”

Darlese’s face melted and she dropped the knife. “You were with her! I know you were.”

“You know I wasn’t. Let’s go home.”

She burst into tears. Piggy wouldn’t look at Vera as he apologized. He led Darlese away, leaving the knife on the floor.

The Coventry Cubs forfeited the season. Darlese was so sick Piggy couldn’t commit to any more practices. Vera began doing her grocery shopping late at the 24-hour Kroger so she could avoid the other women from her neighborhood. One night she found Piggy in the produce aisle, staring blankly at his grocery list. They chatted briefly and he mentioned that Darlese was in the hospital. It was nothing serious, he said, but the doctors wanted to make sure she wasn’t a danger to herself.

The tension in the neighborhood broke once school started and the parents’ minds were pre-occupied with homework and parent-teacher conferences. Things worsened for Vera, who learned through Lindell that Randall moved from his brother’s home to an apartment. She realized then that they were officially separated, probably on their way to a divorce.

She went looking for Piggy that night at the Kroger. She told him about Randall and he said he was sorry. Darlese was still in the hospital and Randall was going to pick up the children for the weekend the next day. Vera asked Piggy if he would like to get together and he said that he would.

“Just so we’re clear,” Vera said. “I’m not asking for something innocent like a movie and coffee. I want, I need, something more. You understand?”

Piggy shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They planned to meet at a restaurant in Southfield and then go to the nearby Holiday Inn. Vera wore a form-fitting black dress that Randall once loved and a pair of stilettos. She filled her overnight bag with practically all her lingerie. She couldn’t decide what to bring and didn’t know what Piggy might like.

She waited for two hours, but Piggy’s pickup truck never appeared in the parking lot. She went to the hotel alone, drank a bottle of wine, and slept in her silk teddy. She got home the next morning in time to see Piggy helping Darlese from his pickup truck. Their eyes met briefly, but Vera turned away.

The timer buzzes and Vera pulls the chicken from the oven. She places the chicken on top of rice and pours cream of mushroom soup over all of it, the start of Eric and Randall’s favorite meal.

There is a knock at the door and Vera opens it. Sarah Wynn, the reporter, is standing there, shivering. She wipes her nose and introduces herself.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s been a tragedy in your neighborhood,” Sarah says. “Did you know the Claxtons?”

“Vaguely.”

“Unfortunately, they’ve been killed. The police are saying –”

“Both of them? I thought it was only Darlese.”

Sarah flips through her notepad and shakes her head. “No, both were killed. The police said it was a murder-suicide. Mrs. Claxton shot her husband while he slept, then killed herself.”

Vera grips the side of the door as she lets the words sink in. Now she sees a second bodybag being taken from the Claxton house.

“Ma’am? We’re trying to get some neighbors to speak on camera. Can I interview you about Darlese and Kelly Claxton?”

“Who?”

Sarah smiles, but she’s growing impatient. “Darlese and Kelly Claxton. The victims. Anything you’d like to say about them?”

“Kelly,” she whispers. “His name was Kelly. And he’s gone.”

“Shall I bring my cameraman over?”

A green Tercel pulls up and parks beside Vera’s car. Eric and Lindell rush out, while Randall takes his time.

“They called him Piggy,” Vera says. “That was his nickname.”

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

Lindell wraps her arms around her waist, while Eric gives her a questioning glance. Vera wonders how she’ll explain to her son that his former coach was murdered. She bites her bottom lip and hugs Lindell tighter, then pulls Eric into their embrace. Randall sees her tears and asks Sarah to leave.

The children smother Vera with questions, but Randall sends them to their rooms. When they’re alone, he sits her on the couch and hands her a glass of water. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Vera shakes her head. “I want you to come home. That’s what I want.”

She buries her face in the cushions and sobs. He sits beside her and places her head on his lap. The fabric of his trousers is rough against her face, but somehow it feels just right. Shantee Cherese is a journalist living in the Baltimore suburbs. She was born in Pennsauken, NJ and lived in the Detroit area for several years.