John RC Potter fiction short story Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer

Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer

by John RC Potter


Clara Von Clapp made her way down the aisle of the Cornersville United Church, the silver collection plate in her hands. The organist played softly, the notes of the devotional music rising in the air to the rafters of the church ceiling high above. In the wooden slots at the back of each pew, the small collection envelopes sat in pride of place beside the Bibles and hymnals. Clara always murmured a hushed thank you to each congregant for depositing the little envelopes containing bills and coins. She customarily noted with an inward smile when one of the little white envelopes was particularly plump. Clara also noticed that the more substantial-looking envelopes that were reverently set on her collection plate were from the wealthier congregants, who sat in the front rows. It was slimmer pickings with flatter envelopes as Clara solemnly proceeded toward the back of the church. Near the rear of the church, some people did not bother with the envelopes but rather just quietly set their contributions of coins on the collection plate, averting their eyes. Not that Clara ever gave any sign with her eyes or expression that she was judging the less generous in the congregation! 

In the back rows, many farm families sat, proudly wearing their Sunday best, but some were poor as church mice. At least, they never starved and had been looked upon with envy during the lean war years when there never seemed to be enough food to go around. World War Two had ended only three years before, but already, it seemed to have faded in the distance. No one wanted to think about war anymore, nor did they believe it could happen again. Like all towns in the country, Cornersville suffered during the war, with some of its young men not returning from the conflict on the other side of the world. Clara was brought out of her reverie because she had come to the back row and now turned and paused. She looked across to ensure that her counterpart on the other side of the church, Frankie, had also completed her journey. 

Frankie Temple had indeed ended her downward journey to the back of the church, and she was standing at the rear of her aisle, looking across at Clara with a faint smile. Frankie – who was christened Frances but had always been known as Frankie since childhood – gave a slight nod to the other woman. Clara knew Frankie, a good twenty years younger than her, looked up to and admired the older woman. Their friendship was rather unlikely: in addition to the age difference, Clara was a widow with no children, while Frankie had never married. Frankie, an only child, had always lived with her parents in the family home in Cornersville up to and after their untimely deaths in a car accident just before the war. Aside from seeing each other in church, Clara and Frankie were friends outside of it, too; once a month, they took turns having the other woman over for dinner and a visit. Sometimes, they went shopping, to the movies, or the library together or met for lunch at the Koffee Klatch on the main street. 

The younger woman looked across at her older friend. Frankie wished she could be more like her older friend. Clara Von Clapp was always immaculate. Despite her years, she was still trim. Clara wore dresses that were understated but accented her figure. Unlike most other women in the community whose hair was done up in perms, Clara wore her hair in soft curls with a bun at the top. It was streaked with grey but mainly red, and she didn’t even colour it! Frankie thought that the older woman looked quite glamorous, especially when she wore dresses like the silk one she wore today, with its floral pattern. On the other hand, Frankie was big-boned and solid but not overweight. Frankie already had a few streaks of white in her black hair, which she wore in a ponytail with bangs cut straight across her forehead. Clara often thought the younger woman looked like the Hollywood costume designer Edith Head. 

With both women affirming they were ready to proceed back up their respective aisles in the church, they returned to the front of the congregation. They occasionally stopped to take a collection from someone who had forgotten to give before – sometimes, the older congregants nodded off during the service – or those who decided to make an additional contribution. At the front of the church, the two women placed their collection plates on the long wooden trestle table below where the minister stood at the pulpit. Clara’s collection plate was on the right side of the table, and Frankie’s was on the left. Reverend Lee beamed pontifically down at the two women just before they returned to their places in the choir at one end of the front row. The Reverend led the congregation into a rousing rendition of What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Clara could hear Frankie singing beside her in her deep and melodious voice, but suddenly, the younger woman whispered, “Clara, I think today we made quite a haul for the Good Lord!” Clara kept singing her heart out but blushed at the off-colour remark. However, despite herself, Clara gave an inward chuckle. Frankie could always make her laugh. 

After the Reverend’s final, brief sermon, the congregants started filing out of the church, mingling on the front steps and in front of the edifice to chat. Clara and Frankie’s routine was always the same: when the other choir members went to the changing rooms to take off their choral gowns, the two women went to the trestle table. Clara went to the left side of the table and collected Frankie’s collection plate, while the younger woman went to the right side and took the older woman’s. It had always been done this way since the two women started being ushers at the Cornersville United Church in the early years of the war. Before the war, only men had been ushers at the church; Clara and Frankie were the first women to take on the role. No other church in Cornersville had female ushers who took the collection plates during the service. However, it was well known that the United Church and its Protestant congregation were progressive!

Each Sunday after the service, both women would open the envelopes and count the contributions on the other’s collection plate in the church’s kitchen. Beforehand, they would have removed their choral gowns and hung them in the kitchen’s adjoining pantry. As Frankie began her task at the table, Clara said, “I will get us a cup of tea and some cookies,” and entered the pantry. She nearly always played mother when it came to teatime. When Clara returned, she placed the tray with tea and cookies in the middle of the table. Both women enjoyed the weekly post-collection task and keeping the account book of funds collected for Reverend Lee. They made a game of it. Each woman would predict if she thought the collection would be lower or higher than the previous week. They maintained a tally of their predictions in a little notebook that Frankie kept in her purse. Clara was the best at her predictions, but Frankie was not far behind. Since Clara had finished opening all the envelopes and counting all the contributions on Frankie’s collection plate, she rose and entered the pantry to fetch more hot water for the teapot. Frankie had not yet finished with Clara’s collection plate, which had more envelopes and money on it. 

When Clara returned from the pantry, she saw Frankie sitting with a curious look as she stared at an opened collection envelope. The younger woman had a piece of paper in her hand. Without saying a word, she handed it to Clara, who read what was written on it. One of the congregants had written: “Dear Clara, I love you! Your Secret Admirer.” 

***

“For Heaven’s sake!” Clara exclaimed, reading the note again and then staring at her friend. “Is this a joke?” Clara turned over the unfolded note, which had been folded before being inserted into the small envelope. It was typewritten. 

“It is certainly not a joke,” Frankie said. “Someone in the congregation loves you.” The younger woman looked up at the older woman, who stood beside Frankie’s chair, with an incredulous expression. 

Clara suddenly felt light-headed and sat down in her chair. She held out the note, keeping it as far away from her body as she could as if it were a poison pen letter. “But who would have the nerve to do it?” she asked. The older woman suddenly reached across the table and grabbed Frankie’s hand. “Do you have any idea who would have put that note on the collection plate? Did you see anyone acting suspiciously today?”

Frankie squeezed Clara’s hand and then patted it. “Dear, of course not. I barely look at the congregants’ faces when I go up and down the aisle; I mainly have my eyes on the collection plate and the hands of the congregants.” She paused and continued, “Anyway, we know it was not someone on my side of the church.” Clara was staring off into space with a perplexed look on her face. Frankie touched the other woman’s arm and said, “Let me pour us some more tea. You need to calm down. That will do the trick.”

The two women put milk and sugar in their teacups and sat back to drink their hot beverages. Both nibbled on oatmeal cookies that the organist, Cora Apley, had put in the pantry. Cora’s cookies and baked goods were lauded in the community. Finally, Clara put down her teacup with a clatter and asked, “Okay, who do you figure wrote that note? Let’s think!” Before Frankie could respond, Clara stated, “It must be an unmarried man or a widower; no married man would be that brazen, especially not with his wife sitting beside him when I came along with the collection plate.”

Frankie had finished eating her cookie but continued to sip her tea. She seemed to be pondering Clara’s words. “What about Earl Hickson? He’s a widower. He was on your side of the church.” 

Clara stared at Frankie as if she had just sprouted a second head. “Earl Hickson!” she snorted. Good God, Girl, he’s 90 if he’s a day!” Clara shook her head, looking exasperated. Then she repeated, “Earl Hickson; really, can’t you do better than that?!” The older woman continued to sit and stare into space, trying to remember all the possible congregants who could have placed the incriminating lovelorn envelope on Clara’s collection plate.

The younger woman, too, was deep in thought, glancing over at Clara, hoping that she had not upset her friend. “Well, what about Delmer Dodge? He’s younger and single.” 

Clara gave Frankie a withering look, then snapped, “Delmer is a nice man, but he’s never been right in the head since one of his cows kicked him there during a milking way back in the late 30s.” The older woman pursed her mouth. “Anyway, he is tied to his mother’s apron strings, especially since his injury. I can’t imagine she would leave him alone long enough to type that note.” Then, after pausing for a moment, Clara continued, “Moreover, I doubt they have a typewriter out there on the farm.” 

With a “Humpf,” the older woman stood up. “Reverend Lee needs to know about this business. He will know what to do. In any case, the Reverend will be waiting for us to bring him the collection funds and tally of what we collected this morning.” Clara picked up both collection plates and the account book and motioned for Frankie to follow her out of the kitchen to go to the Reverend’s office. The younger woman followed Clara, shaking her head slightly and wondering what the outcome of this tempest in a teapot would be and how it would unfold. 

***

As it turned out, Reverend Lee did not seem overly concerned about the love note. His advice was to let sleeping dogs lie; they should wait and see if more secret love messages were in the collection envelopes on future Sundays. The entire time Clara and Frankie sat in his office, the Reverend seemed to smile slightly as if he had found the whole affair humorous. This only served to irk Clara. Although she was not seeking secret admirers from within or outside the congregation, Clara thought it reasonable to assume a man might find her attractive and worthy of a love note. Although she thought whoever wrote the love note had done so in an inappropriate fashion and was rather indignant about this type of unwanted attention being bestowed upon her, Clara was of two minds about it. After all, as a woman just shy of her 60th birthday, Clara had to admit that she was intrigued by it all. 

Unlike the Reverend’s mild response to the situation, Clara’s neighbour and friend, Gladys Huffman, had a different view. Gladys was a force to be reckoned with. Gladys had been absent from church that day because she had been visiting her son and his wife in Mildmay for the past week. In Clara’s opinion – unexpressed, of course – Gladys had the tightest perm of any woman in Cornersville. One could say that she was a big woman who carried her weight well and with authority. Below her tight perm, Gladys had a round face and a bulbous nose with spider veins; although Gladys told all and sundry she was a teetotaller, Clara wondered if Gladys was a closet drinker. When she returned, Clara went over to catch up with her friend; the two women sat on Gladys’ front verandah, drinking lemonade. Clara wished her friend had made her tea or coffee instead because Gladys never put sugar in her freshly squeezed lemonade. She liked tart-flavoured drinks and bitter-tasting foods. Clara did her best to drink the lemonade without wincing noticeably. 

“One Sunday, a love note,” Glady retorted, “and then another Sunday, it could be some disgusting, intimate proposal!” To Clara’s chagrin, Gladys poured more lemonade into their near-empty glasses. “A pervert probably wrote your note,” the other woman stated. “Mark my words, Clara!”

“Oh, Gladys, I don’t think so,” Clara responded. Already, she was regretting having told her friend about the note. Gladys was a no-nonsense, take-charge woman who always spoke her mind and had a viewpoint about everything. When Gladys heard the telephone ringing, she entered the house, but not before announcing to Clara that they must speak to the Reverend as soon as possible about the “insidious and ridiculous note.” 

Clara had to admit that Gladys tended to boss her around in a manner reminiscent of how Clara’s husband had treated her. Almost two decades older than his wife, Clarence Von Clapp had been a taciturn and remote man; like her friend, Gladys, Clara’s husband had been judgemental. As Clara often thought during their marriage, it stood to reason that her husband, a judge, would be judgemental. Although he had not said so, it seemed that Judge Von Clapp never forgave Clara for being unable to have children. She could conceive but never carry; Clara had three miscarriages during her marriage and had once almost bled to death. Clara was glad when she could no longer conceive. 

Without children, Clara was only a housewife, not a mother; attending to her husband was Clara’s overarching role. Thus, her daily goal was to serve her husband and respond to his needs. The judge had been a good provider, and the Von Clapp couple lived in a spacious and attractive Victorian house on one of the best streets in the town, not far from the library. The Huffman couple – Gladys and Herbert – lived directly across the street from the Von Clapp residence. Herbert owned the most successful funeral home in Cornersville (there were three in the town if you can imagine). He also owned and managed the Huffman Furniture Emporium on the main street, just down the street from the Koffee Klatch. Clarence Von Clapp’s office was next door to the furniture store. 

Clara had always been on pins and needles about preparing and serving dinner each evening in their well-appointed dining room because the judge would briefly comment on each meal after he had finished eating. He kept a little notebook in which he wrote comments. Her husband even sometimes rated Clara as if he were a cuisine reviewer and she was a chef in a restaurant. Ten years before, Clarence Von Clapp had been hit by a truck and killed instantly as he crossed the main street to return to his office from the Koffee Klatch. Herb Huffman had been sitting at his desk on the upper floor of the furniture store on the day Clarence Von Clapp walked back from the coffee shop and was hit by a speeding truck driven by a man from the city. The driver had been trying to get through the traffic lights on the main street before they turned red. Herb was a witness to what happened to his friend and his neighbour’s last moments on Earth. It had rattled Herb, and he was always careful about crossing the street thereafter. Being mindful when walking on the street did not prevent Herb from passing away suddenly himself. Less than a year later, he had a heart attack sitting at his desk. His secretary found her boss dead as a doornail in the padded swivel chair at his mahogany desk: there was a cup of coffee and one of the celebrated doughnuts for which the Koffee Katch was so well-known on the desk in front of the dead man. The doughnut had one bite taken out of it before Herbert Huffman met his Maker. 

Clara would never have told a soul, but from the day Clarence died on the main street due to the speeding vehicle, she felt liberated and free of her husband’s judgments and pontifications. Clara was a widow of means, and in addition to the inheritance from her husband, she received a sizeable amount of money from the speeding driver’s insurance company. She never told anyone about her innermost thoughts; not Frankie, with whom she was friendly outside the church, and not even Gladys, her neighbour across the street. The two women were neighbours and friends and shared the affinity of widowhood. 

At that moment, Clara was brought out of her reverie on her friend’s verandah when she heard Gladys’s heavy tread and the front door open. Gladys continued with her conversation as if she had never been gone. “Yes, I know what has to be done, Clara. We need to speak with Reverend Lee. You should have been more demanding with him.” Clara noticed with a flinch that her friend had brought a fresh pitcher of lemonade with her. The woman continued with her diatribe, “You need to take a stand sometimes, Clara; you need to find your backbone.” As the woman poured more lemonade into their glasses, she continued, “I know what’s best for you.” Pausing, she turned toward Clara and, bringing her face so close that the other woman could see the veins in her bulbous nose, Gladys said emphatically, “Unless you like the attention and want it to continue!” Snorting dismissively, Gladys sat down. 

In a lightning flash of clarity, Clara suspected that her friend and neighbour, Gladys, was jealous of her because of the love note deposited in the contribution envelope! 

***

Gladys wanted to march right over to the Reverend’s manse, next door to the church but on the adjacent street. Clara implored that it was improper to go unannounced, so Gladys called from the telephone cubby at the end of her long and spacious front hall. Gladys could hear the strident tone of her friend’s voice but not the actual words. As it turned out, there would be no storming the Bastille that day; the good Reverend had come down with a case of German Measles, explained his soft-spoken wife, Vivien. As Gladys informed Clara of the telephone conversation, she exclaimed, “German Measles! It is rare for adults to catch them; leave it to our Reverend!” Her words seemed to suggest that the Reverend had become ill on purpose. Sitting across from her friend on the verandah, Clara wanted to roll her eyes but did not. Their planned expedition to visit Reverend Lee would have to wait until the following week. 

For the next week, Clara spent a lot of time wondering which man in the congregation had deposited the love note in the contribution envelope. The following Sunday, the Reverend was still ill at home in the manse. The previous minister, whom he had replaced several years earlier due to his retirement, came to perform the Sunday service. Reverend Winwood would occasionally fill in for Reverend Lee when he was ill or absent for another reason. Even in his heyday, Reverend Winwood had never been much good at delivering sermons; now, he was quite aged, rather dotty, and it was difficult to hear him because he spoke in a low and faltering voice. 

During the collection, when Clara and Frankie had made their way to the back of the church with the collection plates in hand, they turned and looked at each other simultaneously. Like her, Clara suspected Frankie was wondering if another note would be in one of the collection envelopes. She could hardly wait for the service to be over so that they could check each other’s collection plates in the church’s kitchen. Clara reminded herself that she had no romantic interest in knowing her secret admirer but rather in solving the mystery for once and all. Frankie did not find another love note in the envelopes on Clara’s collection plate.

However, an even greater surprise was in store for Clara in the church’s kitchen that Sunday.  A bombshell was dropped from the heavens: Frankie disclosed that she had written the love note to Clara! 

***

Looking back, Clara regretted what happened and her role in it. In the church’s kitchen, she had pleaded with Frankie to tell her it was a joke, just a silly prank. Frankie merely shook her head slightly, looking solemn and forlorn. Then, to add insult to injury, she told Clara to her face that she was in love with her and had always been in love with her. When the younger woman had risen from her chair and made motions to hug the older woman or, worse yet, kiss her, Clara fled. She later wished she had not reacted in that manner. If only she had been able to speak with the Reverend first, but he was ill with the German Measles. Clara had to tell someone! She could not keep this news to herself, so she made a beeline for Gladys’ home. 

From there, it was all a whirlwind. Gladys told all and sundry in the town that she had been right from the start; it had indeed been a pervert who deposited the love note in one of the collection plate’s envelopes. A few days later, when the Reverend had sufficiently recovered from his illness, Gladys could triumphantly march on the manse, practically prodding Clara in front of her all the way there. Within a few weeks, every adult in Cornersville and the nearby community knew who had written the love note. Gladys informed the Reverend what must be done; she knew what was best. Gladys Huffman was one of the most charitable congregants of the church. Thus, the Reverend listened reverently to her. Before the following Sunday, Reverend Lee had visited Frankie at her home, a short walk from the manse and only a few blocks from Clara’s house. He told Frankie she must leave the Cornersville United Church; she could no longer be a congregant. She would never again sing in its choir, be an usher in that church, and never have the opportunity to leave another love note in one of the contribution envelopes. 

Although her parents left Frankie an inheritance and the family home, she had worked part-time as a bookkeeper at Minson’s law office for years. She enjoyed her job, which was perfect for someone of her nature. Frankie lost her job. Fortunately, she was not financially dependent on the income. Although some of the townspeople were still polite to her, many shunned Frankie. Some mothers, with their small children in tow, even crossed the street to avoid coming eye to eye with Frankie. For all intents and purposes – short of stoning Frankie in the little park in front of the library – the community had turned on her for having written a love note to another woman. 

Gladys loved to tell Clara any news and gossip she had heard about Frankie’s ongoing excommunication from the community. She positively gloated about it and reminded Clara that she had been right from the start. Gladys even had the nerve to ask Clara one day if she had done anything to elicit Frankie’s attention and love! Due to the love note episode, Clara’s friendship with Gladys became strained. She found Gladys even more judgemental and overbearing than usual. Clara regretted what had happened to Frankie and found herself missing the younger woman’s friendship. She would sometimes see Frankie walking down the street or entering the library. Frankie’s house was only a few blocks away, and she sometimes walked past Clara’s home. Clara would hastily enter the house if she was on the verandah and saw Frankie coming down the street. If Gladys happened to be sitting on her front verandah and saw Frankie, she would stay seated, glowering from her padded wicker rocker. Clara could tell because she would be peeking from behind the drawn drapes in her living room. Clara knew her friendship with Frankie was over and could never be mended. Nonetheless, Clara felt that how the community had turned on Frankie was fundamentally wrong and that Gladys’s attitude was downright un-Christian. 

After Frankie was banished from the church, Gladys took over her role as the other usher. She forever reminded Clara how to hold the collection plate, count the bills and coins afterward, and other unnecessary details. It infuriated Clara to no end, but she said nothing. Just as she had with her husband’s overbearing personality, Clara could only succumb to Gladys and her bossy ways. She played over incidents in her mind, what the other woman had said to upset her, and how she should have responded in return. She imagined arguments with Gladys, wherein she, Clara Von Clapp, emerged victorious. Then, she would feel a little guilty. On the previous Sunday, Reverend Lee had delivered a sermon on that old religious chestnut, “It’s Better To Ask For Forgiveness Than Permission.” While she was listening, Clara thought of Frankie and her love note.

***

One day, a few months later, Clara was sitting on her verandah reading the latest copy of Chatelaine. Gladys was across the street on her verandah, crocheting up a storm. She imperiously beckoned to Clara to come over for a visit. Telling a little white lie, Clara shouted across to the other woman, “I am waiting for a phone call.” Not long after that exchange, Clara looked up from her magazine and, too late, saw Frankie walking down the street. She was almost abreast of both women’s houses and looked back and forth at Gladys and Clara as they sat on their respective verandahs. It was too late for Clara to get up and disappear into the house. At that moment, seeing Frankie this close for the first time in a long time, Clara saw how sad and vulnerable the younger woman looked. 

As Frankie paused almost in front of Clara’s house, she stared at Clara, who stared back at her. A voice that seemed destined to break sound barriers exclaimed, “You can just keep going on your way!” Now standing at the railing, Gladys roared from her verandah, “We don’t want your kind on this street!” Something stirred in Clara at those words, and she tried to find something to say. She also stood up from her chair and moved to the verandah’s railing. 

Time seemed to stand still. Frankie was now looking only at Clara, who was just a few yards away on her balcony, but it may have as well have been miles. Gladys stood with her hands on her hips and barked at the younger woman, “I said, be on your way,” then added, “and never come back!” At that precise moment, a car careened around the corner from the library’s direction. Clara could see it was full of young boys who had probably just finished the school day at Cornersville High School. One of the boys, sitting in the passenger’s seat, leaned out of the car and lobbed an object at Frankie, with the deadly precision of a soldier throwing a grenade in the war. It was a corn cob. 

Clara put her hand to her throat, watching in horror. “If you don’t like cock then stick this up your dumb twat, you lesbo-bitch!” the young man shrieked, to gales of laughter from the other boys in the car. Frankie was still standing on the sidewalk near Clara’s home, staring at her; she had no time to react.  “Frankie, watch out!” Clara screamed. The younger woman turned slightly, and in doing so, the corn cob did not hit her directly in the temple area but instead grazed the side of her head. She fell to the ground, dazed, and then sat up. The car with the high school boys roared down the street, their raucous laughter disturbing the calmness of that normally quiet and stately street. Then, the car and its occupants were no longer in sight. In a flash, Clara dashed off her porch and ran the short distance to the younger woman. She helped Frankie to her feet. Gladys was still standing on her verandah, hands grasping the railings. She stared across at Clara as she guided Frankie toward her home. 

“What are you doing, Clara?” the other woman yelled across the street from her verandah. “Have you lost your mind?” 

As Clara helped Frankie walk up the broad steps to her verandah, she said, “I am going to call Doc Furness and see if he can come.” The younger woman shook her head slightly. “It is not necessary,” she said. Clara could already see a reddish lump rising on Frankie’s cheekbone. Clara led Frankie to the most comfortable chair on the verandah and was just about to go into the house to fetch some ice and a towel. She had forgotten entirely about Gladys, the sentinel from across the street, who was still standing at the railing on her verandah as if it were a medieval warship sailing into an enemy’s harbour. 

Clara had one hand on the screen door, about to open it, when she heard Gladys call across to her in a taunting fashion. “What are you thinking, woman?” Gladys bellowed. “Your husband, Clarence, always said you could be a ninny; this is another example!” The words stopped Clara in her tracks. She was staring at the screen door, anger rising in her like bile, long overdue. Ninny! That is what Clara’s husband occasionally called his wife during their marriage when he was trying to get a reaction from her when his other taunts and put-downs had been ignored. 

She let go of the door handle. Clara turned slowly. The other woman was still standing on her verandah across the street, a withering look on her face. Clara took a step forward and shouted, “Gladys!” Then, her voice faltered. 

Gladys raised her hands upward, rolling her eyes. “What, Clara?” 

You could have heard a pin drop on that street. The three Ashley sisters, all in their late 80s to early 90s and never married, had come out of their charming and cluttered little cottage down the street when the drama began to unfold with the boys’ arrival from the high school in their car. They had not moved from their porch since then. 

Clara had to say something. She could hear the roar of the seconds ticking by inside her head. “Gladys Huffman!” she finally yelled. Then she stood her ground but said nothing more. 

The other woman shook her head dismissively. “What, Clara Von Clapp? What?” Gladys glowered from across the street. “Speak up or shut up, woman!”

Clara moved to the top of her verandah steps. The silence was as loud as an explosion. “Gladys…” Her words failed her again. The other woman screwed up her lips and was about to turn to go into her house when Clara found her voice and words from a place in the past that had been welling up for decades. 

“Gladys Huffman…For once and all…Fuck Off!” 

The three Ashley sisters collapsed as one on the swinging chaise lounge on their porch, and Clara thought they seemed to be laughing. In turning to go in the house, the words had seemed to wound Gladys like bullets, and she plopped down in the padded chair on her verandah. Clara looked over at Frankie; she was sitting and staring at the older woman in amazement. Then Frankie started laughing, and by the time Clara had taken the younger woman by the elbow and led her inside, both of them were laughing hysterically. 

After tending to the lump on Frankie’s cheekbone with ice wrapped in a towel and giving her some headache pills and a cup of tea, Clara asked the younger woman to stay for dinner. To Clara’s surprise, the younger woman shook her head, saying, “I have caused you enough trouble, Clara. I am so sorry. It won’t happen again.” Frankie rose from her armchair in the living room. “I should go home.” Clara felt dismay as the younger woman walked toward the front door. Indescribable emotions were rising from deep within Clara: loss and fear. 

Clara sat rock-still in the wingchair where she was sitting. “Frankie!” she called out. The young woman turned at the entrance to the hallway. Clara rose and walked slowly across to Frankie. Taking the younger woman’s left hand in her right, Clara gave a deep breath and then said to her: “You are home, Frankie; you are home.”