Sini-Stories

When I was a young girl, about 13, I noticed differences in me and the other girls I played and worked with. While they were quiet, polite, yet a bit petty - I was energetic. When I had time to myself - which wasn’t often as anyone who grew up on a farm knew - I would sneak off to the forest, a knife my father had long forgotten he’d lost in my skirt, and when I got to a certain tree I’d marked - about a half a mile from my home - I’d tuck my dress into my bloomers and climb up to the first branch large enough to hold my weight, and there I would find a pair of trousers I’d sewn with scraps. Some parts were leather, some linen, but it was a comfortable pair of pants nonetheless. I’d change into them, and twist my braid into a knot, and from there I would scale the trees. I’d made a makeshift slingshot, and would pick up the acorns on the floor of the forest and shoot at the squirrels and birds. I’d have such fun by myself, playing and running through the leaves. I’d eat the blueberries that grew fat and juicy on the bushes, and found an excellent cover for myself; I’d tell my family that I was going to go and pick blueberries! I’d bring back an entire basketfull, and my mother would make such delicious tarts and pies from them.

She’d share them with the neighboring farms on Sundays, when everyone trekked two miles to the little wooden Catholic church, and enjoyed a lunch together before returning home. There was such a lack of sweet things around, it made us quite popular. She’d always give me credit for finding such delicious berries, and I’d stand next to her beaming with my lips still tinted purple - then the Reverend would scold me for my lack of humility and gesture to his own daughter, Gloria, and - hypocritically - point out how ladylike and humble she was standing by her own mother and holding her youngest brother while her mother and older brother ladled venison stew into bowls.

Gloria was very much a lady, even at 13. She was very pretty too. She had angelic golden curls that trailed down to her back should she let it fall out of her bun or her braid, and skin like a porcelain doll. And her eyes… The most beautiful eyes I have ever known. Even though it was the hot, heavy summer, when you looked into her eyes you couldn’t help but feel as if you were floating in a cool pond. They were a greenish-blue, and sparkled like sunlight on a brook at midday. Even her voice - when you heard her in church or when she worked away at her milking and sewing and churning - was so majestic and sweet that every time I heard it I would swoon and try desperately to not let the others notice.

That was when I realized that I was not quite like the other girls. They would gasp and envy Gloria’s beauty, but none of them adored it in the way I did. I did not dare tell anyone my thoughts of Gloria, and when a young man in the town began to make excuses to be around her and paid attentions to her, I became incredibly jealous. And one day, he gave her a wooden rabbit he’d whittled himself, I became so jealous that at the first opportunity I ran to my tree and - in my jealousy - whittled an army of rabbits. I must have made about twenty of them! And the next day I decided that I wanted to be her closest, dearest friend, then I should do something about it!

So in the following weeks I made sure to speak with her and work with her and play with her as often as possible. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do; she was the Reverend’s daughter, and those who weren’t intimidated by the possibility of making a mistake in front of him were too intimidated by Gloria’s skill and beauty. But I wasn’t afraid; I was inspired by her. And by the following year, we were the best of friends.

I found that Gloria wasn’t as angelic as I’d previously thought - but also that she was even better than I’d imagined. She chewed her nails, snuck kittens into her room, and every once in awhile, when we were sure that we were alone, we’d curse and giggle as we did so. And one day, I decided we were close enough that I would show her my tree.

She was impressed when I introduced her to my tall, strong, oaken friend, and she smiled with wide eyes when I whispered to her that I’d been storing a pair of trousers I’d made myself up on the first branch. But something odd happened when I bashfully showed her my wooden rabbits.

She blushed.

She blushed so much that I feared she’d gotten sunsick.

But with a trembling hand she plucked a wooden bunny from my hand and clasped it against her chest, looking down at it with her mouth agape.

I myself found my own mouth to be dry and warm, and my hands shaky, and my eyes unable to blink or close.

“You… You made this for me?”, she asked quietly, “All of these?”

I nodded, my breath coming out shaky and my chest feeling like I’d been squeezed between two walls.

She threw her arm around me in a tight hug, one hand still firmly grasping the rabbit, and nestled her chin in the crook of my neck. Despite the shock and glee, I somehow managed to lift my arms and hug her back.

And Starla?

I kissed the Reverend’s daughter. And I don’t regret it at all.

We snuck away as often as we could without arousing suspicion, and as we grew older, we fell in love. We knew there was no way for us to be together, nor stay together, so we held onto each other for as long as we could.

The boy who’d paid such attention to Gloria this whole time, James, eventually proposed to her when we were about 18. She smiled and accepted graciously, as she’d always been taught to do, and within the year he had whisked her away to a city in the East. Boston, I was told by her mother and father.

And when my dear Theodore came for me, we did the same. He brought me to New York, and it was full of exciting things I’d never thought of before. Everything was plain and bright color and flavor and sights were very seldom seen when I was from, and I was enraptured by this beautiful city. Theo had a job at a bank, and we held an apartment on the fifth floor of a building near his firm. I swear to you honey that I have loved - and still do love - my husband. I love him just as I loved Gloria, I tell you truthfully. When I was 19 we had our first child, a boy we named Harold - your daddy. We began to search for a house. We not-so-swiftly found a fairly nice, almost affordable house by the shore, close enough that our boy - and in the future, the rest of our children - could play in the water and build sandcastles and chase seagulls. It would be a grand place to raise our family. And it was there that I found something I feel guilty for finding, but am not ashamed of.

As I sat on the beach with my Harry in my arms and in my bathing suit, a coat draped over my legs, who should appear other than a golden-curled woman about the same age as myself, with a pair of little twin girls in a stroller. I stared at her, unsure of what I was seeing. She laid out a blanket and set her cooing children down upon up, and held them up and she sat between them.

We sat in silence for what felt like years. The cool sea spray and the salty air felt heavy, and when the tide touched the bottoms of my feet it felt like rust raking at me. And in that wilting ageless moment, it occurred to me that she was trying to speak to me - but the words would not come out. She pressed her babies to her side, and I my son to my chest, and finally she forced out a sentence in one fluid, viscous pop.

“Hello, Pearl”, she said with a shaky, nervous voice.

She was afraid. Afraid to talk to me. And I of course, knew why.

We hadn’t forgotten each other. How could we? We were our first loves! We explored the forest together! We rebelled against the tight societal grip of our fathers and families together!

And yet, despite all that, it was an ugly moment. The bright sunny day on the beach turned into a cold and grey one. The soothing wash of the water and the calls of the seagulls turned into something out of a Mary Shelley novel. There was no comfort here but the glowing warmth of my baby. Even Gloria seemed to be terrifying in that moment. Golden curls, now shorn to the fashionable length of the day and pinned carefully under a cashmere cap, were green by the dim light of the glowering ocean. The pink flowers embroidered on her cardigan looked more like bloody spots to me, and even her trim figure held fearful thoughts for me; not because something about her body held the same imagery as the rest of her adornments, but because she was still - despite the ghastly visions - so very lovely and soft, and my hand ached to caress her shoulder once more.

But I did not move. I clung to my child and held back tears.

“Hello, Gloria”, I replied, a globule of agitation mucking up the words and coming out as if it were my father’s tobacco-worn voice instead of mine.

We sat in more silence, and instead of the grey-shaded appearance fading, I simply became numb to all sensation except my hands crossed over Harry.

I looked down at my son, sitting there upon my knee. He was my world now, and what a wondrous and beautiful world it was. I had a new love, a true absolute love; a love that I could show the rest of New York and hang on his arm and smile and wave to his coworkers at parties and in restaurants. I could never do that with Gloria.

And despite my mind and heart screaming at me to pick up my little world and leave, I stayed. And eventually, the darkness did fade.

Only when Gloria turned her head to me, the locks of gold that fell from under her cap bouncing with the same youth they’d had when we were children, and she smiled at me.

I melted.

The beach’s color returned, and the air felt good and comforting, and the tide tickled instead of burning.

“Your son is just as beautiful as I would expect from you, Pearl”, she said with a bell-like laugh.

I can’t say what caused the sudden change in her mood, but that made my stomach flood with joy, and I laughed with her.

“Oh, Gloria; Harold looks much more like his father, Theodore, to me! Why, just look at those cute little freckles”, I giggled.

“Come now Pearlie, look at your son’s face; he’s got the same warm, friendly, chocolate-colored eyes. His hair is just like yours, too! He can’t be more than - what, four months old? Yet he’s got a thick and full head of soft, dark, brown hair!”, Gloria replied, apparently bemused.

Then she put a twin in the middle of her legs and when she was sure she was situated so as to be held up by her mother’s stomach, Gloria reached a hand out and stroked my hair, which i’d pinned my bangs back with a seashell barrette, and traced the lines of the shell with her finger.

“I do so wish you’d kept your hair long; it was so beautiful…”, Gloria said, trailing off.

My heart skipped a beat.

“I-I changed it with the times. Long hair isn’t exactly in chic these days”, I replied, trying to hide how flustered I was. I imagine my bright red cheeks were giving me away.

Gloria retracted her hand and smoothed the daughter on her lap’s head with it instead.

“This is Lisette, and this”, she gestured to the twin sitting on the blanket with her arm propping her up,”is Claire”, she said proudly but a bit sadly.

“Oh my, what beautiful girls you have! They look just like you, right down to the curls!”, I exclaimed.

She smiled humbly.

“Not quite. They’ve got their father’s hair; he’s a bit more of a redhead than I am. I hope they don’t get teased too much when they’re older…”, she explained.

“I’m sure they won’t, dear. They’re lovely girls”, I replied.

We went on like this for an hour, and did a grand job of ignoring our past for the most part. To passers by, I am sure were simply looked like a pair of close friends catching up on each other.

But five minutes later our lives would change forever.

Gloria invited me and Harold to her home for lunch. It wasn’t far, we could even walk there instead of hailing a cab - which, at lunch hour, would be nearly impossible. So I threw on my sundress, and Gloria buttoned her cardigan and pulled up her skirt, and we plucked up our babies and walked down to the East Village. I was surprised to see that she had also gotten married to a successful businessman, but not surprised to see that she had married well. Gloria was no fool, and the Reverend would never give her away to someone who wouldn’t be 100% sure to provide for her and their family.

Teddy and I ourselves lived - and still live - in a smaller yet still very beautiful estate by the water. When we’d moved out of the apartment - Teddy had been promoted and given a substantial bonus - it was hard to sleep with all the noise from the boats, though Harold had no problems at all funnily enough. We’d gotten a maid to clean, but I insisted upon cooking and gardening, and absolutely refused to agree to getting a nanny for our son. No one was going to raise my children but me and my husband. We lived very well, never wanted for much, never went to bed hungry - until the Depression of course - but all of that paled in comparison to Gloria.

Her home was enormous, and absolutely beautiful. From the Roman-revival style skylight in the den, to the luxurious pool-styled bath, to the five bedrooms with plush beds and the pleasant scent of Gloria’s perfume in each room, floating through the air and settling on everything in them. If you held the comforters, you could almost imagine you holding her herself.

Gorgeous flowers and exotic plants grew in stone pots around the house, and in the middle of the den was a handsome pale pink rhododendron in a white marble planter box.

“I haven’t planned much for lunch, I’m afraid. Please, sit down in the dining room, and I’ll find us something to eat”, Gloria said with a wave of her wrist as she headed off to the kitchen after placing her babies in a pair of highchairs.

I held onto Harold with wide eyes as he gurgled unabashedly and clapped his fat little hands. I was afraid to so much as touch the chair I sat upon. It all looked so expensive and lavish!

Yet when she came back, all she brought was a tray of cucumber finger-sandwiches and a pot of tea.

The placed a cup and saucer in front of me and tipped the pot almost to the point of pouring and turned her face to me.

“Would you like some tea with your sandwiches? It’s jasmine - all the way from China!”, she asked gleefully.

I simply nodded, still shocked.

She sat down at the head of the table and poured herself a cup of tea before taking a cheese sandwich.

She sighed heavily.

“Pearl, do you remember when we were girls?”, she asked me, her face growing serious.

“Which part do you mean?”, I asked, trying my best to be nonchalant and taking another bite of my sandwich.

“Well… You know… All the fun we used to have?”

“You mean like the tree?”, I said teasingly.

“No… I mean… Oh come on, you know!”

I sighed.

“Yes, Gloria; I know. I could never forget. It meant too much to me… You meant too much to me.”

The room fell silent aside from the quiet sound of the china tapping together.

“We can’t go back, Gloria. We have families. Husbands. I’m happy with Theodore; I’m in love with Theodore.”

“Well, I’m happy for you Pearl; but I’m miserable”, Gloria replied with a shaky voice.

I set my cup back on the saucer.

“Oh Gloria… Don’t say that… Look at your girls! Don’t you love them?”, I asked her, seconds from reaching for her and holding her tight.

“Of course I love them; but I don’t love my husband!”, she replied in a hushed tone. I quickly looked about the room in fear of someone overhearing our conversation.

“What do you mean you don’t love your husband?! You married him; you conceived two children with him-”

“And I’ve conceived one more, too”, she said grimly.

An involuntary smile crossed my face.

“Oh Gloria! You’re pregnant? That’s wonderful!”, I told her out of reflex.

“Oh Pearl… I’m trying to tell you that it’s not wonderful”, Gloria sighed and pushed herself away from the table, standing up and turning towards the window in the sunroom,”I don’t want to have any more babies. I don’t want to be married to my husband. I don’t want this life”, she said wistfully, holding onto the pale daffodil-colored curtains and threading her fingers through the holes in the lace of it.

I sat silently, not looking at her, but staring at the swirling tea in my cup. How could I know what to say? I was happy. It was different of course than when I was with her, but it was just as good and warm and happy.

So I sighed. I looked up at her and took a deep breath and tried to talk sense into her.

“Gloria…”, I started with a voice we had always described as “the be reasonable”-tone, setting my cup back on the saucer again.

But - without warning - just as the ceramic cup settled back on its little plate with a gentle ‘tink’, Gloria ripped the curtain from its rod with a sudden burst of unfiltered loathing.

Her hand still threaded through the curtain, she sunk to the ground with it, and began to cry.

I immediately shot up in my chair and my mouth went dry. Even though I’d known her for nearly 15 years, I had no foggy notions as to what to do about this juncture; A grown woman, married almost 5 years, 25 years of age, laying on the ground after an explosive malfunction of mind and character like a young Hollywoodland starlet - imagine!

So I began by calling out to the maids to hurry to us and repair the curtain, asked that someone look after the children and let them play with each other in the twins’ room, and helped the sobbing Gloria to the master bedroom.

After setting her down on the ottoman and shutting the door - taking care to lock it, just in case there were any busybodies employed in the house - I rushed back to her and sat on my knees and grabbed her right hand with my left and pulled the handkerchief from my brassier with my right.

“Please Gloria, oh please don’t cry”, I pleaded with her.

But her tears did not cease, not that I expected them to.

“I just don’t know what to do!”, Gloria blubbered in between gasps for air.

I did not know what to do either, I’m afraid. So I simply climbed up onto the ottoman myself, pressed beside her, and rested her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair and waited for her to cry herself out. It’s a good thing I was at the beach earlier, or I’d have a hard time explaining the wet spots all over my sundress.

At long last Gloria went quiet, and her breathing - while still shaky and without rhythm - slowed to an almost predictable pace. She pulled her face away from my chest and looked into my eyes with an expression I can only describe as fear-based exhaustion.

Even though they were bleary and red from her episode, they were still such a breathtaking shade of aquamarine.

And so the Reverend’s daughter kissed me.

And I still don’t regret it.

I wouldn’t quite call what we had an affair. I made it clear to her that though she was my first love, my heart was my husband’s first and foremost. But we became close once more, and would spend the heavy afternoons that summer together with our children. Occasionally our husbands would join us - I suspect purely to see what on earth it was that we were doing that was so captivating that we were excited to spend the days with each other - and we did our best not to create an air of awkward tension; but it was largely just us.

And three years later, when our children were old enough to walk and talk, we made a discovery.

Well, to be completely honest, it was Gloria’s discovery. I was simply the second person to learn about it.

We discovered the poet Sappho.

Suddenly, our world bloomed with violets. We learned of the poetry of women in love with women, and that deep magic of something both societally wrong - in most folks eyes - but internally right blossomed in our stomachs as we realized with sparking glee that we weren’t alone. That other women - many other women - felt the way we did. I began to embroider all of my handkerchiefs with little violets. I planted a pot full of African violets the first opportunity I had to purchase a live plant. I even named the daughter I was pregnant with at the time just that - your auntie Violet. My perfume, my favorite pair of gloves, my spring jacket - I was obsessed! Grampa boiled it down to a new trend or me developing my own personal style. It was better that way, honestly.

But Gloria took it one step further. She began to look closely for violets on the women around her. High society women such as herself often had more distinguished, obscure tastes. She was certain that someone, somewhere in New York knew the meaning behind those lovely little purple flowers. And, indeed someone did. Six “someones”, as a matter of fact.

That was the beginning of the Sapphire Ladies Club.

Gloria wanted a place for us to talk safely about our innermost thoughts and secrets. She wanted a safe-haven for all women who felt as we did, lesbians and bisexuals alike.

It was 1924 when the first meeting came to order. Most of us were shaky, nervous about if we could trust the others or not. She’d rounded up any women she’d found at functions and parties and even strolling along the sidewalk displaying violets - which I thought was a bit dangerous to do. After all, not every woman wearing violets would know its hidden meaning. She’d ask “So, why violets dear?”, and if they seemed surprised or shy about it, she’d tell them she was putting together a little social club for women who simply adored flowers - specifically violets. She’d tell them that in addition to chatting about flowers and housekeeping, we’d do a bit of reading from poets like the Bard, Dickinson… Sappho. And sometimes their eyes would flicker with recognition at that. They’d say “I’ll consider it. Is there are set time and place for this? Oh, good! I’ll check my schedule and get back to you. What is your address may I ask? Your name is Gloria, correct?”, and she’d give them answers in her gentlest most lovely voice.

Of course, such a lovely woman talking to a woman with our kind of secret was sure to pull them in.

And so we had our little social club. The first meeting was awkward; we shook trembling hands, and tried desperately to stay warm and compassionate as we attempted to coax the ladies out of their shells. It was near impossible to convince them to talk - after all, we were practically strangers, and this could be a trap!

But finally, after Gloria told our story, one woman named Hannah spoke up. She was a fashionable woman about 28 in a green dress, her hair was a beautiful dark brown coiffed perfectly, and pinned into a curl was a barrette with a large cluster of violets.

“I’m Hannah Goldberg”, she started meekly.

Hers was the first story we learned. She’d always preferred the company of women to men, and while her friends had giggled and swooned over the boys in Hebrew class, she’d had her eyes set on a girl who always wore her hair in a long braid that was tied with a ribbon. When she’d met her husband, although for all intents and purposes they were courting, she thought of him more as a close friend than a potential spouse. She was pleased to learn that he was rather effeminate in his kisses and embraces, but it didn’t change the fact that he was no woman. By the time they got married, she admitted that she was very slowly falling in love with him - and soon after the birth of their first child - a son named Judah - she realized that her husband Jacob was completely different from the other men she knew. She revealed that her husband was gay, though he promised that he loved her.

It was quite the interesting, uplifting conversation that she divulged. He sat her down gently and confessed with a solemn, shameful expression that he was attracted to men, not women. And technically, not Hannah either.

But he grabbed her shoulders and swore up and down that he loved her, and not just familially - romantically. And as he waited with painful anxiety, beads of sweat climbing up and down locks of his thick hair, Hannah stared at him. She couldn’t tell if he was serious; she couldn’t tell if she should confess herself.

So she laughed.

She laughed and held his utterly confused face in her hands. She told him she felt the same way - only about women, not men - and that he was the only man she’s ever loved. They agreed that as long as they were being extremely careful about it, they could both fulfill that desire not accomplished by being with one another.

It was a good, happy ending for Hannah - but the next woman, Helen, was not so lucky.

Helen claimed attraction to both men and women, but due to the intensity of her family’s religion, and the strictness of her father, she was quite shy and quiet. She was a little wisp of a thing, with long, pale blonde hair that she let hang naturally about her shoulders. Her violet was a handmade broach, a single dried wild violet encased in enamel and placed in a plain, sterling silver frame.

She told us how she’d married young at 17, and though they tried, they simply could not get pregnant. Then, just a year ago, it finally happened. But two months before her due date, her husband died in a horrific accident at the construction yard he worked at. She had to support herself and her baby - she simply couldn’t go back to her family. She refused to have her child raised the same way she was. So she took a job as a live in maid and pinched pennies to saved up as much as she possibly could to support her daughter.

She was so much different than most of the women there. The lions’ share of us were well off, had husbands with good jobs, and could afford to go shopping whenever we pleased. Helen was obviously poor, even before she shared her story. She looked tired, with dark bags under her eyes that she tried to hide with makeup, and her hands were calloused and her nails trimmed short. Her dress was old and patched, and her shoes were the boots that we used to wear on the farm. Compared the the rest of us, we looked like we were in our Sunday best. She even had to bring her daughter, Lorelai, with her; there was no one else to take care of her.

Helen had come across Sappho when dusting off the library in her employer’s home. Something drew her to the book, whether it was the pleasing violet hue of the canvas cover, or the golden script across the binding, and she began to read it on her breaks. She connected with it on a spiritual level, and at that first hint of recognition, a feeling and thought she’d been pushing down deeply inside herself for so long began to rise again.

Over the course of five meetings, each woman told their story.

We learned to not be ashamed of ourselves, while also taking great care to be cautious and careful about it. They were the best group of friends I ever had, Starla. I miss them terribly. Some moved away, some lost touch, and some…

Remember that I said Gloria became obsessed with Sapphic imagery? Well. She also became obsessed with me.

Of course I loved her. But I loved my husband and my family more.

And then one day, while we enjoyed a pot of tea in her garden, she asked me to run away.

I simply stared at her, mouth agape.

“You can’t possibly be serious, Gloria!”, I gasped, perhaps a bit more rudely than I intended.

She frowned.

“Of course I am, Pearl; I love you, you love me. Let’s run away together. We can go to California - start a new life together. We can claim to be spinster sisters! We’ll live in a shack on the beach, and we’ll raise dogs for a living. You can collect sea shells, and I’ll make coffee every morning; and we’ll sit outside on the deck and watch the sun rise every day. It’ll be beautiful!”, she exclaimed with a starry look in her eye.

I froze. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew how I felt; and I felt horrible. With a gut-wrenching realization, I found that without meaning to, I’d led her on. I’d led her to believe that she was the one and only love of my life. I’d thought I’d made it clear that anything shared between us on a more than friendly basis was simply to satisfy her so she could live with her husband and children without going crazy. To scratch an itch if you will. But clearly, I wasn’t careful enough with her heart.

And that… That I regret.

“Gloria…”, I started, my voice cracking and breaking, unable to keep myself from letting my guilt turn to agonizing sorrow.

She must’ve realized what I was going to say, because she began to tear up.

“We can grow old together…”, she whispered.

“Gloria, I…”, I replied, matching her quiet, solemn tone.

“Please…”, she interrupted, almost whining like a dog.

“I… No”, I finally let out, unceremoniously.

“We can grow old together…”, she repeated.

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“We can grow old together!”, Gloria screamed.

I leaned back in my seat with a jolt.

“We can grow old together!”, she screamed again, shooting up and knocking her chair over, slamming her hands on the table with a bang.

I was terrified. I lifted my arm in front of myself in fear, and sure enough she struck me across my face. I lifted a hand to the slowly reddening patch on my cheek in shock, and looked at her with utter surprise. She had tears slithering like snakes down her scowling face. She was absolutely furious - not heartbroken, mind you. Furious.

And at that moment I realized something about Gloria. As beautiful and elegant as she was? She was not a good woman. She was selfish and spoiled and childish, and was never in love with me at all; she was simply attracted to the thought of gaining something forbidden and dangerous from me. She wanted me to run away with her to prove that I would do anything for her, and she drank devotion up like a coal miner does whiskey. She was addicted to the power being the object of someone’s affections - especially if that someone had something to lose from it. When we were children, she didn’t love me because I took the time to make her the herd of wooden rabbits; she loved that I made them despite the potential for risk it presented for me. She got angry when I said I wanted to spend time with my family - not simply spend time with my husband and children, but just my children. She became hysterical if I even mentioned wanting to do something for them instead of her. I took them to brunch on Sunday instead of her? She’d throw an absolute fit. She wasn’t a woman; she was a girl in a woman’s body.

All of these memories of her selfish reactions and anger and frustration at my wanting to spend time with anyone but her came rushing back to me with a sound like a hurricane in my ears, coming to a point as the red handprint on my cheek began to burn and sting.

She began to scream at me, but I couldn’t hear her. Everything moved in slow motion, from the curls on her head bouncing with every hysterically driven shake of her head, to the powerful jabbing motions she made with her pointer finger towards the door. Even as my body began to respond to her violent, frenzied demands for me to leave and get out of her sight, I still did not register what was happening. I was completely shocked, even when I returned home. Grandpa saw the handprint, which was now turning into a bright bruise she’d hit me that hard, and shouted for me to sit down on the davenport and he’d find me something cold to press against it. Your father stared at me with a face as pale as a ghost, and your aunt cried from the fuss. I simply sat without reacting, still in disbelief of what had happened.

I avoided the club for weeks after that. I avoided the beach, too. And the East Village. And the bookstore, the flower shop, even the grocery store - anywhere I thought Gloria might be.

Eventually, I ran into Hannah at a deli. It turned out that her father owned it, and Hannah had a job there on Mondays and Wednesdays. When she saw me, she didn’t smile, but her eyes widened. Not in disgust or any kind of fear or hatred, but rather the way one does when they’ve been gossiping about their misfortune, and have been caught doing so.

After I purchased my lunch, she yelled for someone to take over for her at the counter and untied her apron before walking over to me. She sat across from me at the little table, and I kept my eyes glued to the salami on a kaiser in the paper container in front of me.

“I’m so sorry Pearl…”, she said softly, her hand grasping my own with warm sympathy that melted the ice in my throat.

I was surprised; I expected to be met with disgust or betrayal. I expected Gloria to tell the club that what I’d done, with embellishments in her favor.

“What for?”, I asked, fearful of her answer.

Pearl seemed surprised at my ignorance.

“Haven’t you heard? Gloria was committed!”, she told me, the sympathy replaced by scandal.

The color drained from my lips, and it was my turn to be wide eyed. I covered my mouth with my free hand, afraid that all the breath in my lungs would escape with the blow to my chest that Hannah’s words carried.

“Committed?”, I said, half asking, half repeating.

“To the mental hospital on Roosevelt Island! Oh, it’s just awful. I’m so sorry”, she continued.

“What… What happened? Why was she committed?”, I asked her, my throat freezing over again and making my voice crack with icy horror.

“Apparently one day her husband returned to find that she’d… She’d done something simply awful. She’d taken up a knife and tried to kill one of the maids! Her children were home and everything! The police found them hiding in a cupboard together, trembling, and the twins hands covering the baby’s mouth so she wouldn’t cry! It’s just so unlike her to do something so monstrous!”, Hannah exclaimed, doing her best to keep her voice low so as to keep the conversation private.

I choked, my hand tightening over my mouth. My eyes watered as I imagined a frenzied Gloria going after a maid, her children crying in fear of their own mother.

“No… It’s just like her. She’s always had the temper of a beast. I never thought she’d do something… Something like this though”, I managed to squeeze through my tightened throat with a sob.

I needed to know though.

“What… What day did this happen, Hannah?”, I asked her through my gritted teeth.

“Ah… Tuesday last, I think”, she answered disheartenedly, catching on that I knew something about what happened I wasn’t telling.

I shivered. This was my fault. I drove her into her final descent into madness.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure it was Tuesday, because when I told Helen, she burst into tears and started saying that this was all her fault”, Hannah finished.

I stopped crying, confused.

“What?”, I asked breathlessly.

“Yes. She said that Gloria had asked her to run away with her, and when she said no, Gloria  started screaming and hitting her. She grabbed a candlestick, and Helen ran away. Gloria threw it at her, and barely missed her. She’d gone over for brunch around 3, she said, and Gloria was acting odd right from the start she said”, Hannah explained, confused.

A ball formed in my stomach, and pulled me towards the floor, doubling me over in my seat.

I wasn’t the only one she’d tried to run away with that day. Who knows if I was even her first choice. That portion of the ordeal stayed within the club; no one else found out. Not Gloria’s husband, not the press, and certainly not the police. It had turned out to be that Gloria was terrorizing most of the women of our little group, threatening them with exposure if they didn’t do what she wanted. Most of them lived in fear of her, the rest felt sorry for me - apparently they were under the impression that I was Gloria’s one and only, and that she was cheating on me.

Oh. Starla, it was just awful. They were some of the darkest days of my life!

We tried to keep the club going, but even though she was a crazy tyrant, Gloria was the lynchpin of our group. Without her we lacked leadership. We stayed friends for as long as we could, but most of us moved on.

Helen and I became very close because of the ordeal at least. Like sisters born in the same horrible experience. We kept in touch, right up until her death a few years ago. She was always involved in our family, and we even helped with her daughter’s expenses, even during the Depression when we all had to tighten our belt several notches.

As for what became of Gloria? Well, Roosevelt wasn’t known for being a good, healing place - especially so for mental cases. Gloria fell deeper into her hysteria, and eventually… Oh this is horrible dear, you don’t need to know about it.

Really, you don’t. It will only bring you two down.

Very well, darling; don’t say I didn’t prepare you.

Gloria was lobotomised. She couldn’t remember her own children’s names. What’s worse is she was lobotomised without her family’s consent. Her children grew up without their mother, even when she was deemed fit to return to them. She ended up falling off the third story balcony one autumn. Her husband was distraught, but he said that it was like she was dead already, and he was glad her suffering was over.

The story of Gloria and I is not a happy one, dear. Grandpa and I have a happy ending. But that doesn’t mean anything. You make your own story, Starla. You give yours a happy ending. I know for a fact that Heather is no Gloria. She’s just as beautiful as her heart - just like you my dear. You go to California. Live in San Francisco, in an apartment building with a pair of kittens. Live the dream that you both dream. It’s no good if you have separate dreams; that was Gloria and my problem. I wanted my children and New York, and she wanted solitude in California. But you’ve got the same dream, and it’s one you made together.

Don’t regret it.

( @genericforager and @tybalt-you-saucy-boi this is it!