1 comments/ 17999 views/ 0 favorites Women in Time Ch. 04 By: sharpchick I've often felt that the web that connects mother and daughter is paradoxically as strong as steel and as fragile as glass, particularly when secrets are woven into its threads. Never was this more abundantly illustrated than in my own life. The screen door slammed closed with the arrival of my granddaughter Thea, returning tearfully from yet another tempestuous visit to her mother, Frannie. I realized my daughter had not yet found the courage to be completely truthful with Thea, and it was only deepening the chasm that had existed between the two almost since Thea's birth. I heard Thea's muffled sobs from her room, and Bobbie's wordless, comforting murmurs to her. I was sure Thea had no idea of the source of her mother's self-hatred, and why it seemed to poison everything and everyone she touched. I also realized that Thea deserved an explanation for her mother's inability to sustain a relationship as important as theirs. For a brief moment, I considered calling my son, Frank, to help me. My son had provided Thea with a solid male presence all of her young life, and had doted on her as if she had been his own daughter instead of his niece. She adored him. As good as Frank was with Thea, this was a matter between the women in our family, and it was clear to me that I would have to be the one to provide Thea with peace of mind to which she was entitled. Then my thoughts turned to Bobbie, with her ability to remain calm and rational even in the direst of circumstances. She had been my stalwart companion and partner in life for almost thirty years, and Thea loved her dearly. But this deception was not of Bobbie's making, nor was it her responsibility to handle. When I entered Thea's room, she flew into my arms and clung desperately to me. "Why, Grandma? Why is she so horrible to me? What did I do to her? Sometimes I just hate her!" As Bobbie and I looked at each other over Thea's head, she knew it was time, too. She caressed my face as she brushed the hair off my shoulder, and gently patted Thea's back. Then she quietly left, closing the door behind her as I prepared to give my granddaughter the explanation she deserved. After all, it was my secret. Macon, Georgia - August 1934 The screen door slammed for what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning and it was only 10:30. Frank and Frannie, my four-year old twins, awakened with limitless energy, and were sorely trying my patience. On that sultry August morning in 1934, I had been trying to finish canning preserves for the winter. The kitchen had been warm by 6:30, oppressively hot by 8:00, and was stifling now. With any luck, I'd be able to finish before I had to make lunch for the twins. The oscillating fan barely made a dent in the wet heat that clung to my body and my hair stuck to the back of my neck in sodden clumps. I'd done the laundry the day before, another hot and sweaty task, although I had found some comfort in splashing about in the cooler water of the final rinse. The Maytag wringer washer Howard and I had purchased in 1928 was still quite serviceable, but had I known then that it would be me rather than a half day maid using it exclusively, I would have insisted on getting a more substantial model. As I stepped out on to the back porch, I shaded my eyes with my hand, and wiped my sweaty forehead with the tail of my apron while I watched miniature dust tornados swirl in the bare dirt beneath the children's tire swing. "Frannie! Frank! Ya'll come in now and have lunch." I watched as the twins looked up at me from their play and scowled. "Ya'll come on now, and you can have some fresh peach preserves. After your nap, we'll go to the drug store." As in other areas of the country, the Great Depression had hit hardest among farmers and industrial workers in Macon. Those from the middle and upper classes had lost all the money they had felt was safely ensconced in their hometown banks, to be sure, but I did not personally know anyone who went to bed hungry at night. I had found assurance in President Hoover's insistence that "Nobody is actually starving." My faith in the word of our country's leader was somewhat shaken in 1932, when the federal government began supplementing the local relief programs, not long after the news stories on the radio about hundreds of homeless women sleeping in two of Chicago's parks at night. The same caricatures of shoeshine stand operators and street peddlers that had sprung up all over cities across the United States haunted the streets of Macon, too, although in far fewer numbers. I suppose it made them easier to pass almost unnoticed as I went about my weekly routine – the one that kept me sane in those years of lack and despair. At least we had not had to go on relief. There were many families in Macon who had, and some who had flatly refused, begging and scavenging instead from remote corners of their community, hoping no one would recognize them. I realized that it wasn't likely that the twins and I would starve anyway. I was always aware of the whispers of pity behind the hands as we arrived for Sunday service. I tried to ignore them, but inside I seethed, not at my well-meaning fellow congregants, but at myself for giving them fodder about which to whisper. And I gratefully took the hand-me-down clothing offered by women with children older than mine. Still, I hoped for the day when this wretched Depression was over and sometimes allowed myself the futile luxury of remembering when things were different - the more prosperous and happier times of the past. To get to the really happy times, though, I'd have to go further back than that horrible November night in 1929, the night my husband died. The night I just as good as killed him myself. 1926 - 1929 I married late in life, and truthfully, had it not been for Mama's insistence, I probably would not have married at all. Make no mistake, my mother, Martha Jones Fenton, made me a good match. . . Howard Charles Miller, II was quite a catch. He was handsome and intelligent, and possessed a keen sense of honor and duty. Howard worked for the second largest bank in Macon, having landed the job when he returned from a six-month tour of duty in France at the end of the Great War in 1918. By 1920, he had risen to a management position at the bank, and in 1923, he became an officer. Howard was an excellent bank officer. The almost religious fervor with which Howard approached the job – indeed, any responsibility in his life – was largely due to the rigid training of his father, who had died during the influenza epidemic of the late teens. Howard had learned at his father's knee that weakness was the antithesis of a real man. I had never dated much, not being one to go along with groups of girls my age, hoping to be seen and admired by a boy. In fact, Mama had been the one to introduce Howard to me, and looking back on it, it was Mama who encouraged the courtship, practically shoving me into Howard's arms, determined to make sure that I, her only daughter and now twenty-eight years old, was not destined to lead the life of a spinster. When Mama ran out of reasons I should marry Howard, she tried another out of desperation. At first I was sure she was joking, but the look on her face told me otherwise. "He has a good pedigree? A pedigree? Mama, we have no pedigree. We are all mongrels, the whole lot of us. Gemmie would turn in her grave if she heard you say that. She'd be far more interested in whether Howard will stick by his family through thick and thin. You know that, you're the one who told me all about her." "Gemmie" was what some of the older children had called Mama's paternal grandmother, Emmaline Jones. Even though I was only a toddler when Gemmie passed on, Mama had told me stories about Gemmie's spunk and determination, as well as her desire that all the women in the family would be women of substance. Mama had come by her persistence naturally and a dark scowl was her reply. As usual, I gave in. Howard Charles Miller, II and I were married on May 29, 1926, in a lovely service in the church where Howard was raised. We had our reception in Mama's rose garden and followed with a week's honeymoon in New Orleans. I knew the war had taught Howard some hard truths about life and death, but I didn't know that he brought home a secret from France – one that in a roundabout way was our undoing. And even though he tried hard not to show it, Howard wasn't happy that I took no pleasure from the marriage act. He tried awfully hard to be patient with me, and I wanted desperately to give him a son. We led a very comfortable lifestyle, and entertained often, frequently in the home we had purchased immediately after our marriage, only three blocks away from Mama's house. Howard's boss had been most generous with his wedding gift of cash, as well as his connections in real estate, and Howard told me we'd be able to pay off the three-bedroom home in ten years if his salary at the bank continued to increase at the same rate. He spared no expense in making sure my wardrobe was one befitting the wife of the vice president of the bank. He complimented me on my appearance often, and I was almost ashamed that I wasn't the active bed partner I knew he wanted, but I never refused his advances. Our mothers fretted and stewed that we had not given them a grandchild, and I sometimes wondered about that myself. Given the difference in our satisfaction with sex, it hardly seemed fair to say anything to Howard about it, and he didn't bring it up either. I know he was proud of me for making a lovely home for the two of us, and he told me that I was a wonderful asset to him in his business. I was quite popular with the wives of the other bank officers, and frequently helped organize dinner parties when two or more officers were courting prospective and well-heeled customers for the bank. Prohibition seemingly had no effect on the party atmosphere at these dinners, as the liquor flowed freely. None of the wives knew how or from where the bottles appeared, and only a few of us noticed that some of the stuff that was swilled so freely was vintage liquor. It was one such night in August 1929 that I had more to drink than was my custom. I liked the warm and free feeling the drinks gave me, and since Howard always drove, I thought nothing of consuming every drink placed in my hand. I even stumbled into Arthur Levy, one of the junior partners at the bank, as I went toward the bathroom to freshen up. "Oh my, I am so sorry. How awkward of me. . ." I remember that my voice trailed off as my gaze met Arthur's boyish smile, erasing my embarrassment. He assured me that there was no harm done, and a few minutes later, even gallantly offered to drive me home when Howard came to tell me we must leave early because he had an excruciating headache. Looking forward to some quiet time in a dark room to ease his pounding head made Howard agreeable, and after thanking his host, my husband left the party alone. My temporary escort made sure my glass was full for the remainder of the evening, till I told him, "No more, Arthur, or I won't need the ride home, I swear I'll just float there." Arthur's green 1926 Model T sedan was his pride and joy, and he opened the passenger door for me and helped me step up and in. He got in on his side, set the spark lever, and then got back out to crank the car. We talked and joked for most of the leisurely ride, and I found I was enjoying myself more than I had in months. I had just remarked that it was a shame the night had to end when Arthur turned the sedan left down a road behind some empty warehouses that sat on the east bank of the Ocmulgee River. Even now, it's hard to remember all of it. He stopped the car and turned to me, sliding his hand under the full skirt of my cocktail dress. He didn't pause as he grasped the leg of my underpants and pulled them forcefully out of the confines of the girdle, throwing them as well as my shoes aside. My head was swimming and it was through the haze of the liquor that I felt his fingers grope between my legs as he unfastened his trousers. His engorged manhood found the mark instantly and in seconds, he was rutting inside my moist passage, grunting with lust. I felt like a casual observer, dispassionate and detached, as if watching a film in slow motion. A shudder and primal moan from Arthur startled me back into reality and I began pushing him away while pulling at the hem of my skirt, trying to get it back over my knees. The absurdity of my efforts amused Arthur and he began to laugh. Dazed and with tears streaming down my face, I stumbled from the car, only turning to hiss at him, "If you ever come near me again, I will kill you, I swear it." I ran the rest of the way home in my bare feet, and collapsed under the big oak tree in the backyard, trying to regain my composure and hoping against hope that Howard had taken one of his pills for his headache. When I could breathe normally, I went in the house and straight to the bath. With scalding tears running down my face as I scrubbed my skin raw, I vowed to put this night out of my memory and my life. November 1929 It was a night so horrible that even now, I wrestle with panic as I recall it. As had become his habit, Howard had come home from work very discouraged that evening and I had hoped to lighten his mood with a suggestion to take a picnic lunch down to the river the next weekend, where I could tell him our good news. I had discovered I was pregnant with our first child and was hopeful it would be a boy. I had started to tell him about my plan for the picnic, but he brushed me off with a wave of his hand as he poured himself another drink and settled into his chair. I knew he felt just awful about losing our money in the stock market crash. He had been buying stocks "on margin," whatever that meant, and had learned how bad things really were a few days before Black Tuesday in a meeting with his boss that left him stone-faced and trembling. I had never seen Howard like that before. As he explained it to me, we had no more savings and he would have to pay back a lot of money to the bank. He apologized to me over and over again - I was almost sure I heard him weeping in the bath that night. What he didn't say (and I later learned), was how many banks had closed in the days just after the crash. If his bank was one of the next to close, he might not have a way to pay the money back. In the weeks after the crash, Howard was silent and distant when he arrived home each evening. He only picked at his supper. I tried gently chiding him, reminding him of the increasing number of news reports on the radio about people going hungry and how lucky we were not to be in those numbers. But his withering glare stopped me in mid-sentence, so I decided just to try and tempt him with what I hoped were tasty meals. That night was no different. Although I had spent two hours preparing a new chicken dish, Howard ate no more than a few bites before pushing his plate back and announcing he was going outside for an after-dinner drink and a smoke. I decided to wait no longer with my happy news and I asked him to sit down again. As was so characteristic of Howard, he got right to the point. "Now what do you want to say, Clara?" He looked down patiently at me, and then, seeing I wasn't going to start talking with him standing over me, he pulled the dinette chair back out and sat down. For some reason, anxiety suddenly washed over me, and I became tongue-tied and awkward. I almost stammered as I told him. "I have news, Howard. Very good news, I think. I hope you'll think it's good, too. I'm pregnant. We're going to have a child, in about six months." After a silence long enough to make me wonder if he had heard me, Howard tersely told me, "That's not possible." His eyes burned into my skin ominously and I was at a loss for words. What could that mean? He realized I couldn't comprehend what he said. "I said, that's not possible. Do you hear me? There was an accident when I was in France – I can not father children, Clara – yours, or any other woman's." I was stunned. Wave after wave of dizzying thoughts needled my brain, and all at once, I remembered the drunken night in August, when Arthur Levy had his way with me in the front seat of his car. The horrendous memory slammed into me and when I looked in Howard's eyes, I knew that he knew. "How dare you? You are nothing more than a harlot, a whore, and you and your bastard will rot in hell." Howard shouted so loudly that the veins stood out in his forehead, making an angry red roadmap across his brow. "Get out of my sight, you whoring tramp. DID YOU HEAR ME? I SAID LEAVE ME!" Each word hit me like a physical blow and I flinched, the rage in his voice pushing me backward until I was in the living room. I tasted fear in my mouth, like old pennies on my tongue. The baby wasn't Howard's. I turned away and ran – away from my husband's rage and contempt, and toward the only place I knew where I would be able to make sense of the whole thing. Mama's house – I had to get to Mama's house. Mama would be able to make sense of it all and put things to right again. I was only two blocks away when I heard the single gunshot as it cracked and echoed through the chill of the clear and starry night. I knew instantly what it was, and sank to my knees in the crisp fallen leaves. I recalled the times I had seen Howard, sitting morosely at his desk, polishing the Colt .38 special he kept for our protection with a piece of linen cloth. I remember covering my face with both hands and sobbing, a moaning wail that started somewhere in my belly and rose to my throat erupting into an endless, hoarse scream that drew Mama's panicked neighbors from their supper tables to their front porches. I remember little but what I've been told of the two or three weeks after that. Mama and Howard's mother made the funeral arrangements. Mama said I subsisted on crackers, tea and tranquilizers for a week after Howard's death, until Dr. Loomis put a stop to that, citing the negative effect sedatives could have on the baby. He also insisted I begin eating a better diet and the women in my life seized on that decree with a ferocious competitiveness, each trying to outdo the other in creating something that would tempt me to eat. Almost everyone knew that we had lost quite virtually all our cash and stocks in the crash, and I was horrified to learn they also assumed that Howard had performed the ultimate act of sacrificial love by providing the benefits from a paid up $3,500 life insurance policy for me and our child. Howard's boss applied the proceeds from the insurance to retire the mortgage on our home and presented me with the deed himself. Howard's mother, Cecilia, extolled her son's virtues to me each time she visited, and always felt compelled to end her speech with a stricken sigh and a meaningful glance at my burgeoning belly, adding, "At least we'll have his son to carry on his name." By Christmas, Mama insisted I start getting out and resuming some of my customary activities before my pregnancy showed too much for mingling in mixed company. I attended Macon's Christmas parade, and was pleasantly surprised to see so many of Macon's Great War soldiers there. One in particular kept glancing at me quite a bit as the mayor turned on the electric lights that adorned the Christmas tree in front of City Hall. After the ceremony, I went over to introduce myself. The modicum of wobbly peace I had crafted for myself was dashed during our conversation. Cpl. Harry Stewart already knew who I was, although he seemed quite dismayed to hear me introduce myself as Clara Miller, Howard's widow. His uneasy glances at my belly began to unnerve me. "Yes, Mrs. Miller, I heard that Howard had passed on. At the risk of sounding indelicate, are you sure it's a good idea to appear in public? I personally find it insulting to his memory that you would try to pass off your baby as Howard's." Women in Time Ch. 04 A wave of dizziness hit me, and he offered his arm for support. Cpl. Stewart led me to a nearby bench, and told me he had been a medic in Howard's unit in France. Howard had come to him with symptoms of a very personal nature, and although Cpl. Stewart tried to help him, it was too late. Howard's indiscreet encounter with a French prostitute had left him sterile. There had been no "accident." Most indelicately, I lost my evening meal all over Cpl. Stewart's shoes and he hurried to find my mother. Seeing how upset I was, Mama took me home immediately. I didn't tell her what had upset me – I just couldn't. Even though I received a most gracious note from Cpl. Stewart a few days later, his bold, masculine script assuring me he had no intention of disclosing my secret, my nerves remained shattered and I found it increasingly difficult to accomplish even the most mundane of tasks. I spent most of the remainder of my pregnancy in bed, Dr. Loomis fearing the loss of the pregnancy, and I of what remained of my sanity. Franklin Charles and Frances Eugenia Miller were born at 9:34 and 9:46 a.m. respectively, on May 12, 1930 after a mercifully brief labor. Howard's mother was beside herself when I refused to name my son after Howard, but I felt that would only add insult to the injury and deception that surrounded the twins' birth. Aside from Cpl. Stewart and me, no one knew the truth about why Howard had shot himself on that November evening in 1929, and the comfort and concern of my friends and neighbors stung like salt on a bleeding wound. I felt I had consigned myself and my children to the role of tragic local figures that many of the good people of Macon could nurture and support, finding some sense of meaning in the face of their collective inadequacy during this cruel Depression. August 1934 Since I had no luck getting the twins to nap in the sticky August heat, I decided we would go to the drug store Clyde Barrett and his wife Sarah still owned. There were only a few items on my list, and normally we would have walked the few blocks but at the last minute, I decided to take the car if for no reason than the breeze coming in through the open windows. I had finished with my shopping, and was checking my list one last time as Frannie and Frank fidgeted impatiently in front of the candy counter. I knew the children would plead for some of the sugary treats, so I had budgeted a small amount to indulge them. There were so few treats these days, and all due to circumstances far beyond the understanding and control of children – or many adults, it seemed. My back was turned when the commotion started. An outraged female voice yelled, "Stop! Thief!" The aroma of unwashed flesh and fear assailed my nose as a slight figure rushed past me, intent on getting to the door. As I turned to see what was going on, the thief found his passage blocked by Clyde, the owner of the drug store, who had emerged from behind the counter in response to his wife's cries for help. Clyde grabbed the boy by his shirt collar and gave him a threatening shake. The force of the hold sent the young man's cap tumbling to the floor and tore the collar of his shirt. Two bars of soap skittered under the edge of the counter. I gasped out loud as an unmistakably female breast was bared as the shoulder seam of her shirt gave way. "Mama, that's a girl!" I heard my small son's shocked voice and pulled him behind my skirt as I hissed at Clyde. "For the love of God, Clyde, let go of her!" Even as he was loosening his grip on the girl's torn shirt, Clyde continued to assume an air of outraged authority as he proclaimed, "Fine then, Clara. We'll let the law deal with this little thief." I recognized the panic that flickered briefly across the girl's face before she quickly replaced it with the mask of defiance. I also remembered from our women's church group missions at the Macon jail at Christmas that there were no accommodations for women who had been arrested. My decision was made instantly. "No, Clyde, don't do that. No law. I'll take responsibility for her. Put her soap on my bill." Clyde's wife, Sarah, had come to stand by her husband and was just as incredulous as he that I would consider such a thing. Clyde looked at me in disbelief as he asked me to step behind the counter to talk. With the girl under the unwavering glare of Sarah's watchful eyes, Clyde and I went behind the counter. Clyde's tone was serious. "Clara, I'm sorry but she's one of those damn tramps – the kids who ride the rails ever since this god awful Depression started. Only most of them are boys, and they just travel from town to town, stealing whatever they can. I feel real bad for them, but I can't just give all of them what they need. Someone has to stop this. Do I need to remind you that you don't need any more responsibility than you have now? Now get this foolish notion out of your mind." "Clyde, imagine the circumstances that led to this girl stealing soap, of all things. My place would be much better for her than jail. Make your point with some other tramp. She's going home with me and I'll pay for the soap. My mind's made up." Realizing that he would not sway me, Clyde added up my purchases plus the two bars of soap, and gave me my change. As I picked up my box of goods, I asked the wide-eyed girl her name. She said it was Bobbie Calvert. "Well then, Bobbie, come along before you get into any more trouble." If the looks on the faces of the small group of people gathered around the door were any indication, we must have made a motley procession as we left Clyde's drug store. I loaded the box and the twins in the back seat of the car, and then opened the passenger door for my new houseguest, who had the dubious honor of being a petty thief. Frank and Frannie were in the midst of one of the most dramatic moments of their young lives, and hardly restrained in their questions, both of them peppering Bobbie at the same time. "Why do they call you Bobbie? That's a boy's name. How old are you? Why did you take that soap? Where do you live? Are you going back home tomorrow? Are we driving you there?" As I tried to still the rapid-fire questions Frannie and Frank asked, Bobbie quickly spoke up, her voice surprisingly husky for one of her youth. "No ma'am, don't shush them. I don't mind. I'd wonder why we were taking a smelly girl to our house, too, if I was them." Turning to the children hanging on the back of the front seat, Bobbie's face relaxed into the first smile I had seen her wear. "Bobbie is what my little sister and brothers call me. My real name is Roberta, but I never liked it much. I'm 17, and I took the soap because I need a bath and my clothes do, too. I can't go back to my house right now, so I guess I'll stay with you today, unless your Mama wants me to leave. And no, I don't think you will be taking me to my house, because it's in Oklahoma and that's a very long way from here." I stopped the car at home, and turned to Frannie and Frank. "Now, you two may take your candy and go play in your room. Bobbie needs a bath and something to eat and then, she and I are going to talk. You can talk to her some more later." Bobbie carried the box into the house, setting it down at my direction on the kitchen counter. Frannie and Frank danced eagerly beside me as I handed them their candy, reminding them to remember to share. As I turned to her, I saw that Bobbie was looking around at her surroundings in awe. I asked her what she wanted first, a bath or a meal. She quickly chose the bath. I motioned for her to follow me, as I went to my room to find something suitable for her to wear while her filthy clothes were washed. "You'll need something to wear until we can wash your clothes. I may have something in the closet you could borrow. Let me have the shirt and I'll see if it can be mended." As I looked back up, I was stunned to see that Bobbie had taken the shirt off, dropped it on the floor and was following suit with her trousers. My embarrassment at viewing her nakedness evaporated as I assessed the young woman's body – lithe and toned, with sinuous curves as well as taut, pert breasts. Her hips flared slightly below her waist, and her muscular thighs and calves tapered gracefully to slim ankles. I met Bobbie's defiant eyes and said, "You're not really 17. Now, how old are you and what were you doing stealing soap from the drugstore?" I handed her a dressing gown from the closet and waited for her response. Tying the dressing gown at the waist, Bobbie looked at me, and thrust her chin out. "I'm old enough to go anywhere I want to, and like I said, I need a bath. But I'm not about to start answering to anyone. I'm my own boss now." Appalled at her attitude, I closed the gap between us in two steps. "I have every right to know who is staying in my house. Now either you tell me the truth or I will put you on a train with a paid fare back to where you came from." Amazingly, I saw tears well up in her eyes, before she brushed them away with the back of her hand. Haltingly at first, and then with an increasing desire to rid herself of the burden, Bobbie sat on the edge of the bed and began to tell me what home was like for her. She was 23 years old, and had left her home in Oklahoma's dust bowl four years earlier, when her father had told her to go. The ultimatum came after yet another argument, her father drunk and reeking of vomit, when Bobbie had displayed the streak of independence and sassiness that he so hated in a woman. He stood inches away from her face, his breath hot and fetid, as he told her to get out by morning. She had kissed her mother, sister and brothers good-bye, and packed her few possessions in a pillowcase. Right before she left in the weak dawn of the next morning, Bobbie forced a promise from her younger brother that he would assume her role as a buffer between their father's drunken, battering rages and the rest of their family. Bobbie walked into town and hopped a train headed east. She thought her luck would be best in the southern states, which she had heard were welcoming and hospitable. But the reality of the tramps riding the rails during the Great Depression was far from welcoming and hospitable. Bobbie quickly learned to keep her hair short, her mouth shut and to wear the baggy clothes that helped her to pass as an older teenaged boy. The tramps went from town to town, most willing to work, but there were no jobs available. Some cities had missions, where the tramps could get a meal and sometimes a bath. Shoes, which wore out frequently, were almost impossible to come by. Bobbie was always hungry, but she stayed away from the camps. Need soon overrode propriety, and just as the other tramps did, Bobbie unapologetically stole what she needed whenever she had the chance. "But I never took anything from someone worse off than me." She looked anxiously at my face as she said it, as if it mattered very much to her that I believed it. My heart ached for this young woman who had been separated from her family and her home. I hugged her close and told her I was sorry for what she'd had to endure. I suggested she run a bath while I got her something to eat. I decided we would have an early dinner of cold fried chicken left from yesterday. The twins were lively at dinner, and Bobbie's spirits seemed to lift as Frannie and Frank teased her about the way my clothing engulfed her slight frame. Bobbie supervised the children's baths that evening while I cleared away the dinner dishes. I smiled as gleeful shrieks and laughter drifted into the kitchen as Bobbie put the children to bed. When I went in to kiss them good night, both Frank and Frannie begged me to let them "keep" Bobbie as their adopted big sister. Bobbie and I made a bed for her on the sofa, since my third bedroom was lacking a bed. I had put it to use as a sewing room and extra storage for things the twins had outgrown, as well as the vegetables I had canned for the winter. I loaned her one of my nightgowns, so voluminous on her, she looked like a small child playing dress-up in her mother's cast-off clothes. As for me, I tossed and turned in the stifling August night heat, despite the best efforts of the fan I had trained directly on my bed. I finally got up at about 1 a.m. and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I looked out the window to the backyard, I saw Bobbie's silhouette under the big oak tree, her nightgown clinging limply around her legs. I took my glass of water outside with me. "You couldn't sleep either, I see." I handed the glass to Bobbie, and she took a grateful sip. "It's just so hot and nearly impossible to get comfortable enough to sleep," Bobbie said, as she handed the glass back to me. I knew that despite the open windows in the living room, she must have sweltered on the overstuffed sofa, which had seen better days. "You know, my granny used to have a way to cool us kids off when we were little and too hot to sleep. She took the sheet off the bed and wet it down, and then the fan blowing on us made it feel much cooler." I considered this solution and thought it was worth a try. It took both of us to wring out my bed sheet after I had soaked it in the bathtub in cool water. As we laid it carefully across the bed, a thought occurred to me. "It doesn't make a lot of sense to lay a wet sheet on top of our nightgowns, Bobbie." She looked at me as if I were a small child and sighed. "Of course we will need to take off our nightgowns, Clara. What would be the point if we didn't?" Giggling at my shocked expression, Bobbie pulled her gown over her head. The blasting heat made me cast my natural modesty aside – after all, we were two women. We clambered into bed side by side, and sat with the sheet pulled over our naked bodies, relishing the steady cool air now blowing across them. As I watched, Bobbie stretched her arms over her head, and the twin peaks of her erect nipples, chilled by the wet sheet, were clearly visible. I stared, mesmerized at the sight. "Touch them." At the sound of her voice, I looked into her face. There was no hesitation in her eyes and she said it again. "Touch them, please." A visible shudder ran through Bobbie as I tentatively grazed her nipples with the palms of my hands. Almost imperceptibly, she leaned slightly toward me, pressing her nipples more firmly into my hands. The points of her rigid nipples seared into the palms of my hands, and I closed them around the swell of each breast. A soft moan escaped Bobbie's lips and she closed her eyes. As I cupped each breast more firmly, I felt the dampness growing between my legs, and I was overwhelmed with desire for her. I kissed her then, feeling her soft lips yield to mine, and her breath as she opened her mouth to take my tongue. The sheet dropped from our bodies. Her hands moved slowly down my body as we kissed, pausing to caress my neck, breasts and belly. Then she moved one hand lower, her fingers grazing and plucking at the dark hair covering my mound. Each time she gently tugged, electric shocks raced through my wet sex and I heard my own throaty moans. Then she was pushing me down, raining breathy kisses on my face and neck, urging me with her hands to lie down on the bed. I did as she wanted, and she straddled my body, using her hands, mouth and tongue on my breasts and nipples. I had never felt such intense erotic feelings before. Bobbie continued her sensual journey. She went farther, kissing and caressing my belly, nibbling at the sensitive skin where my hip met my groin. When she reached my tangled hair, she stopped and inhaled deeply. Startled, I clamped my legs together, but she gently and persistently parted them with her hands, looking up at me with a smile. She buried her nose and mouth in my wet sex. Softly at first, and then with increasing excitement, she lapped my erect button with her tongue, brief intense flicks, before she sucked it fully into her mouth. I felt her fingers invade my wet depths as she licked my clitoris faster. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me, and I arched up to meet the waves and her invading fingers, plunging deeper and faster as I rode the ecstasy. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears became a faint and distant roar, and darkness threatened to take me. I was overwhelmed by the intensity of my orgasm, having never experienced anything like it. I opened my eyes to see Bobbie, still astride my legs, but kneeling upright now, with her fingers parting her moist lips, rubbing her erect nub with hard and fast strokes. As she peaked, her head fell back, and in the dim light of the room, I saw the goddess that resides in every woman. Her smile was soft and relaxed as she lay down on the bed beside me. I drew the sheet up over us and we slept, our hands entwined. We woke together early the next morning, just as the first light of the sunrise beckoned. Our first kiss was shy, as kisses in the light of day between lovers often are. The shared memory of the connection we had created flickered and flared briefly, bringing a passion to the kiss that left each of us breathless. As we rose and dressed for the beginning of the new day, my heart was singing. March 1939 Bobbie developed into a gifted seamstress and in the years near the end of the Depression, we began to take larger and more complex requests for sewing, even designing and making the wedding gown and trousseau for the daughter of Macon's mayor in 1938. Our thriving business made life more comfortable for the children as well as ourselves. Her energy and drive had a wonderfully positive effect on most everyone she met, and Bobbie assimilated into our lives in Macon with ease. She was, quite simply, the love of my life, and I of hers. She was the keeper of my secrets, and I trusted her completely. She was also brutally honest, having learned that together there was nothing we could not face and emerge all the stronger for it. She reminded me every so often that the twins deserved to be told the circumstances of their conception and births. I knew she was right, and in one of our many late night discussions, we agreed we would tell Frank and Frannie the truth about their parentage and Howard Miller's death when they were 14. Neither of us could have possibly imagined how Frannie would respond. We were in the kitchen one blustery morning in March, taking a break from a particularly backbreaking project of pleating draperies we had started as soon as Frank and Frannie left for school. I got up to rinse the coffee cups in the sink, and Bobbie came behind me, sliding her hands up my blouse to cradle both breasts, teasing my nipples with her fingers. I turned to her, cupping her face in my hand and kissed her deeply as she continued to pinch and tweak my nipples. We had both forgotten Mama was supposed to come over to bring some fabric she had found on a trip to Atlanta. Mama never let the screen door slam shut. Bobbie and I were so engrossed in our erotic embrace we never even heard her come in, but we both heard her startled gasp as well as her retreating footsteps as she hurriedly left our home. Bobbie held me late into the night as I imagined the horrifying outcome of Mama's unwelcome revelation about me. The letter from Mama arrived in the post the next day. I quickly put it in the pocket of my apron after taking it from the box, so Bobbie couldn't see. I could read it later, when Bobbie went to the store to pick up rickrack for an apron she was making for Frannie from one of my old ones. Later that afternoon, sitting under the bare branches of the oak tree in the backyard, I opened the envelope from Mama with a hairpin held in trembling hands. Her dainty and precise script blurred as I read the letter through eyes swimming with tears. Women in Time Ch. 04 "Dearest Daughter, I don't think I've ever shown you the diary your Great Grandma Emmaline Jones left right before she passed. One of your grandaunts has the diary Grandma Emmaline wrote in her own hand, but Papa thought it was important that all the members of his family, especially the women, should be able to read about our origins. The copy I have came from my papa, your Grandpa Horace, who copied it from the original. You will get my copy when I die, since you are the next woman in line. I trust you will pass it on to Frances when you feel she is responsible enough to care for it. I've copied some of what Grandma Emmaline wanted us to know so that you can have it now. . . 'I believe that my time is coming to a close soon. I have been putting off this diary entry for far too long already. I suppose that I had hoped that I would have more time. More time to help the women of my family come into their own strength. I wish that I could do more but I suppose at this late date the only thing that is left to me is to write down what has happened in my life. I want the others to know. I want the women of the family to know that we came from good solid stock. . . I taught my children; I taught them to not forget who they were or how they came to be there. I did not want to forget the sacrifices that the women in our family made before. . . Keepsakes and memories - that is all a mother has of any of her children and her children's children. We keep it all in our hearts and at the end of our time we make sure that another keeps their memories in their heart. . . I feel blessed that I have had so much love in my lifetime.' We all deserve to have that much love, dearest Clara, and if Bobbie gives you that love, then you must cherish it. Women who have strength and courage to follow their hearts despite the opinions of others are the richest of all. You come from good stock, Clara – from women who have faced opposition and emerged stronger for it. I will always love you, no matter who you are or whom you love. Mama" I put the letter back in my apron pocket and waited until I heard the dear and familiar voices of my family before I went in the house. All three were in the kitchen, Frank and Frannie excitedly telling Bobbie about their day at school. Love overwhelmed me and I knew Gemmie was right. Children must be taught not to forget who they were or how they came to be there. My children had a right to know who they were. In five years, I would be rid of my secret and I, as well as the people I loved, would be free. * Emmaline Jones' diary excerpt is from Women in Time, Chapter 1, The End of an Era, by Elizabetht.