The Sagging Orchid
Thursday, December 04, 2003
First Scene
Two days later, Thanksgiving not enough, Clarisse called Taylor and asked him to visit. He agreed and drove next afternoon to her house in South Yarmouth. His black Studebaker graced the roads under dense gray clouds, pounding anxiously yet withholding its hurry. He arrived by early evening, when the winds began to pick up from high tide and the eternal threat of storm cast first glance. Clarisse sat in her living room until he pulled into the driveway and knocked. She opened and took his coat as he rubbed his shoes on the hall mat.
She was pensive for a moment. “How was the trip?,” she asked with a diminished frankish accent.
“The roads were fine,” he contrasted, “The skies look very bad.”
“Threatening,” she added, hanging his coat on the rack.
“Exactly that.” His Massachusetts twang was thick.
“Care for anything to drink?,” she asked.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
Clarisse looked to him briefly, flashing her brown eyes. She forced a smile with her thick lips and looked away, hiding under her tasseled gray wrap. She had a blue cashmere and skirt underneath. On her feet were soft brown loafers. Taylor pretended to sense nothing.
“How have you been?,” Clarisse posed. She stood in the adjacent living room, looking into that windy night.
“Fine,” he answered, “I’ve thought about you a lot.”
Her feelings stirred within. “I’ve thought about you, too.”
But she could not look at him again.
“Have your lessons gone well?,” she asked.
“They could be better. More enthusiasm.”
She pulled her shawl back tight, shuddering at the wind.
