by Jaime Maddox
“I’ll bet you a bottle of beer he’s fast asleep by now.”
Ward raised an eyebrow. “You mean I’ve been stood up?”
“Don’t take it personally. He’s older than he looks, and he needs his nap or he gets cranky.”
Frieda nodded toward the crate as Ward sat. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten my manners. I should have gotten that for you. Can I give you a hand with your rod?” Frieda asked.
Shaking her head, Ward declined the offer. It was the little rituals of fishing, like assembling her rod, that made Ward like the sport so much. They shared bait but not much conversation as they pulled in fish after fish over the course of a few hours. Ward landed a few sunnies and trout, and one impressive bass. Of course, since Ward was releasing her fish back into the lake, she might have just caught the same fish over and over.
As Frieda had predicted, Melvin was a no-show.
When Frieda’s bucket was full, she stood and locked her hook into the line to prevent it from snagging, and announced the end of the day. “You hungry?” she asked Ward.
Ward nodded. The peanut-butter sandwich she’d had for breakfast had worn off, and she’d left her lunch in the SUV, miles and miles away. “Come back to my place. I’ll fry up one of these fish and teach you why you shouldn’t throw ’em all back.”
“What about my car?” she asked.
“I’ll drop you off, and you can follow me home.”
Ward was stunned that they were only a hundred yards from another dirt road, and she put her gear in the back and hopped into the front of Frieda’s pickup. In seconds they were back on the main road and then on the grassy lane that led to her car. She hopped out of Frieda’s truck and into her car and drove forward, and when the road curved around the next bend, it widened enough for Frieda to take the lead. After a few more turns, the trees cleared and plowed fields dominated the landscape, until a large barn and a silo took over. Beyond that, a classic farmhouse came into view, white and wooden with a stone foundation that matched the chimney that ran along the side from the ground, erupting through the roof as if trying to touch the clear blue sky. A chocolate Lab greeted Frieda’s truck and followed the vehicles the length of the driveway.
She showed appropriate stranger anxiety, barking and jumping in the direction of Ward’s car, until Frieda told Ward it was safe to exit the vehicle. Ward offered a hand, and after a few sniffs, the dog lost interest and went back to her owner for kisses.
Frieda held the door with one hand and her fish with the other, and Ward walked through a large sun porch into an equally spacious kitchen. With nimble fingers, Frieda filleted the fish and discarded the waste into a plastic bag, which she double tied, and then proceeded to batter and fry them as they talked.
“This house was built around 1810, when my great-grandfather came here from Scotland.” Her ancestors had been farming the land for generations, until this one. Small farms, she explained, were expensive to run. She kept a large garden, and someone leased the land, but the majority of it sat unused.
Ward wandered the kitchen as they talked, looking at the variety of art and pictures hanging on the plank walls. Frieda identified a man in uniform as her father. He’d landed on Normandy Beach in 1944 and managed to survive. Beside his picture was the framed flag that had adorned his casket and the pocket bible that had saved his life by stopping the bullet still lodged in its pages. A picture of a younger Melvin, also in uniform, hung a few boards down. And then there was Frieda, with dark hair and no wrinkles, squinting in the sunshine beside a lovely young woman, fair and thin and carrying about two feet of hair teased straight up on her head. Ward laughed. She’d seen many such pictures of her grandmother and great-aunts, but they were usually buried in photo books and not displayed proudly on the walls. “Who’s the girl with the bouffant do?” she asked.
Frieda didn’t need to turn from the stove. “That’s Ursula.”
“Who’s Ursula?”
“My friend. Okay, this is ready. Can you pour the lemonade?”
The trout Frieda cooked was delicious, served with a lemony butter glaze that surely neutralized any health benefit the fish otherwise might have had, but Ward didn’t mind. Perhaps she’d start keeping a fish or two, if she could make it taste as good as Frieda did. She’d watched closely, and she was sure she could duplicate her success.
While they ate the fish and sautéed asparagus, an early gift from the garden, they talked. Frieda told Ward about the house, the work to modernize it and keep it up. She’d been forced to sell some land a few years earlier, to pay her taxes, and she might have to again.
“Do you work?” Ward asked. “Other than on the farm?”
Frieda laughed. “I’ve had so many jobs in my life, I probably can’t remember them all. I’ve done whatever I had to do to pay the bills, take a vacation, put the kids through college.”
“You have kids?” Ward tried to keep the surprise from her voice. Frieda had pinged her gaydar. Of course, in the mountains, it was sometimes difficult to distinguish the lesbians from the farmers. And, of course, there were still quite a few women who’d married before figuring it all out, and their children dotted the landscape like palm trees along a tropical beach.
“I used to. Two of them.”
Before Ward could ask for clarification, a knock on the door interrupted their banter, and as she looked, she saw a man of fifty approaching. He was sharply dressed in a golf shirt and linen slacks, and his carriage and dress suggested to Ward that he wasn’t a local.
“Come in, Joe,” Frieda instructed him, when she saw him hesitate. Most likely because of her, Ward thought, because he seemed familiar with the place.
“Joe Harding,” he said as he extended his hand to Ward and introductions were made. Joe was a local, once upon a time. He’d left home for college never to return and found himself back on the family farm to arrange for its sale after the death of his father.
“How’d the auction go?” Frieda asked.
“That’s why I stopped over, Ms. Henderfield. It sold. I don’t imagine I’ll be coming back here, so I wanted to thank you for your kindness to my father over the years.”
Frieda squinted, then cleared her throat. “He was my friend, Joe. One of the best I’ve ever had. I’ll miss him. It was no trouble to look out for him. That’s what neighbors do.”
He nodded, and a blush crept from the collar at his neck to his ears. “Well, I’m grateful. If you should ever find yourself in Seattle, Washington, please look for me. I’ll buy you a real cup of coffee.”
Frieda laughed, and Ward suspected she’d missed a friendly joke. As they watched his retreating form grow smaller in the distance, Frieda spoke softly. “Did you hear about Joe, Sr.?”
“What?” Ward asked, confused.
“His father, Joe, Sr. Did you hear about him over at the hospital?”
Ward shook her head. “Did he work there?”
Frieda frowned. “No. He died there.”
Before Ward could get more information, they were interrupted again, this time from the other direction. A whining, fragile voice was calling out Frieda’s name from somewhere in the recesses of the house. Frieda seemed to ignore it, but the voice continued to call, growing louder as her footsteps signaled she was getting close. “Damn you!” Ward heard from just behind her a moment later.
Ward turned her head slightly to the woman standing there, a thinner, older version of Frieda. Her posture was stooped and her frame thin, and she looked fragile, until she spoke.
“Frieda, I don’t want your women in this house!” she shouted.
Frieda was undaunted and continued eating. “This isn’t one of my women, Mom. She’s the doctor over at the hospital.”
“I don’t care if she’s a preacher of the Lord! That sort of nonsense will not be tolerated.”
“Mom, she’s a friend of Melvin’s. She came over to fish at the lake.”
“So, she’s not a lesbian, then?”
“Well, I can’t say.
I didn’t ask.”
Frieda’s mom took a few steps toward Ward, pushing the walker as she went. “You a lesbian?” she demanded.
Ward sat straight and faced her accuser. She had never denied her sexuality, but looking at the combative old woman Ward found no point in confronting her. And the truth would likely cause problems for her new friend Frieda. Still, the traitorous words wouldn’t come. She opted for a neutral response and hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Your daughter’s honor is safe with me, Mrs. Henderfield.”
The woman’s face broke into a wide, toothless grin. “Frieda, find me my dentures. It’s not often I have a doctor in my kitchen!”
After Frieda located her mother’s teeth and served her lunch, they were treated to a history of medicine in their town. And it truly was a treat. Irene Henderfield was less than a year away from celebrating her centennial, and she remembered most of those hundred years. Her tales included home childbirth (in the very kitchen in which they sat), setting broken bones, and fixing plasters from the herbs in the garden. Irene treated everything from an abscess to pain with balms and rubs she mixed right here in her kitchen.
“Do you sell any of this stuff?”
“Why would I sell it?” Irene asked.
“To help people,” Ward suggested.
“Any of them that wants help, just send ’em over. I’ll fix ’em up.”
Ward couldn’t help chuckling at that one, and most of the things Irene commented on. It seemed she had an opinion about everything and wasn’t afraid to share it. By the time Frieda walked her to the car, Ward’s stomach hurt from laughing. She felt wonderful.
“Well, Doc, let me say that you’re welcome anytime. I promise not to greet you with a shotgun.”
“I’d appreciate that. And thanks for the lunch, and the fishing, and the entertainment.”
Frieda nodded. “My pleasure.”
“I’m going to try my luck over at Lake Nuangola tomorrow,” Ward said, “but maybe we can get together later in the week.” Jeannie and Sandy were visiting for the weekend, and when she finished her shift this night Ward was making the drive to the other side of the mountains. She planned to spend her days off there, relaxing on the deck with a good book and hitting some golf balls at one of the local courses.
“Ah, I know that lake. Nice golf course right down the road.”
Ward’s pulse pumped. The weather hadn’t been conducive to hitting golf balls. Even when the sun was out and the temperature up, the ground was so wet even the driving ranges were closed. In the next few days, though, the forecast was promising.
“You golf?” Ward asked.
“Anthracite Cup champion ten times.” She pointed to her chest.
“Wow. I’m not sure I’m qualified to play with you, but if you don’t mind a hacker, you’re welcome to join me Monday or Tuesday. I’m planning to play both days. I’d be happy to have a golfing buddy.”
“I’d love to!” Frieda said, and she gave Ward her phone number, as well as directions back to the main road. As she drove away, Ward marveled at how the day had turned around. She’d met a friend—an amazing, funny woman, who shared a few of her passions. Two bad Frieda had been born forty years too soon.
Even more impressive, Ward hadn’t thought of Jess all day.
Chapter Twelve
Gunshot Wounds
“So, I noticed you didn’t answer Irene’s question,” Frieda said as they waited on the first tee for the group in front of them to play their shots. Three out of four of the men hit their initial offerings into the woods. They all glanced at the women behind them and re-teed. It was going to be a long round, but the sun was shining and the company was good, so Ward didn’t complain.
Although Frieda said nothing further, Ward knew what she was referring to. She turned to Frieda, dressed in perfectly creased khaki pants and a dark-blue golf shirt, and studied her for a moment. The decision was an easy one. Frieda’s mother had already outed her, and even if she hadn’t, Ward felt comfortable enough with her to share her sexuality. “I don’t like to lie. But I thought the truth would ruin lunch,” she explained.
“Aah. Probably a wise decision.”
Ward shrugged. “Sadly, sometimes secrets are best.”
“So is that why you’re in the mountains? A woman?”
Ward had been having such a wonderful day. Days, really. The fishing and conversation at Frieda’s had been lovely. Her ER shift was surprisingly uneventful for a Saturday night, and she drove directly to Jeannie’s from the ER, in time for breakfast with the entire Bennett clan on Sunday morning. They’d all ventured to a local flea market and hunted for treasures. Before heading back to Philly, they’d barbequed ribs and chicken and enjoyed a feast. Ward had spent Monday morning foraging for essentials like shampoo and Jax and chocolate-chip cookies at the Wilkes-Barre stores, and she’d had time to hit a bucket of balls on the range before their round of golf began. It was a happy forty-eight hours, spent entirely Jessica-free, and she cringed for a second at Frieda’s question.
Then she let out the breath she’d held and realized she didn’t feel as awful as she had a few days earlier. “My ex is here. In the mountains.”
“Yeah, so?” Frieda asked. “Why are you here?”
Ward shook her head and looked to the sky, cloudless on this April day. The temperature was near seventy and the conditions were perfect for golf—no wind, bright skies, and zero-percent chance of precipitation. The only cloud hanging over her was Jess, but that really did seem to be breaking up.
“I followed her. I thought we’d be able to patch things up.”
“And?”
“She’s dating someone else now.”
Frieda patted her leg. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
For the first time in many months, Ward tended to agree. She didn’t say it, though. The tee box had cleared and Ward advanced the cart to the second box, then got out and began to stretch. She was loose after the bucket of balls she’d hit, but they’d sat for fifteen minutes waiting for the men in front of them to clear out. “Show me the way,” she told Frieda.
Frieda hadn’t hit any balls on the range. She’d barely stretched a muscle. And she unceremoniously hit her drive nearly two hundred yards down the middle of the fairway. There was no preamble of lining up the ball or taking a practice swing. She just placed it on the tee and whacked it.
“Wow,” Ward commented. “I think I’m glad we’re not playing for money.”
“Oh, come on, Doc. How about a dollar a hole?”
Ward nodded. She did like to gamble, and it would make the round more interesting. “Okay. I can afford to lose eighteen bucks.”
“C’mon! Where’s your confidence? You’ll never win with that kind of attitude.”
“I’m just trying to scam you. I’m really a pro. How’s five bucks a hole sound?”
Frieda chuckled. “Just hit the ball.”
Ward nodded and then began her pre-shot routine. She adjusted her visor, then her glove. She eyed the fairway before planting her tee in just the right spot. Then she pushed it in a bit farther, placed a brand-new, shiny white ball atop it, and then checked the alignment from the back of the box. After several practice swings, she addressed the ball, carefully began her backswing, and hit a long drive deep into the forest along the right side of the fairway. “Fuck!” she murmured.
White stakes lining the out-of-bounds area meant she had to hit her next shot from the tee box. After switching clubs, she did, and her ball safely landed on the fairway thirty yards behind Frieda’s. “What club did you hit?” Ward asked when she saw Frieda’s tee shot so much farther than hers.
“A three wood. How about you?”
“Driver.”
“These woods are unforgiving, Doc. You should leave your driver in the bag.”
Ward couldn’t help whining. “But I hit it so well on the range.”
Frieda laughed. “That’s why I don’t go to the range. I don’t want to waste all the good shots there.
”
The green cleared, and they both hit off target but managed to finish the hole without losing another ball. Ward took Frieda’s advice and played sans driver, and she managed to avoid the woods for most of the round. They snuck past the foursome of men at the turn and sailed through the back nine. When they added up their scores, Ward ended up paying Frieda three dollars in winnings.
“You’re not so bad, Doc,” Frieda said as she took the money Ward offered. “But we’re going to have to up the stakes. This won’t even pay for my gas.”
“You’re three hundred years old, Frieda. I should be able to split with you, don’t you think? Instead, I’m paying you three bucks. I think I need more practice before I up the stakes.”
“Don’t they pay you at the hospital?” Frieda deadpanned.
Ward shook her head. It had been a delightful day, and she didn’t want it to end. It wasn’t quite dinnertime, but she decided to extend the offer. “They do. How about I use the other fifteen bucks I had set aside to buy you dinner?”
They enjoyed juicy burgers and fries in the clubhouse, and then Ward invited Frieda over for a beer when they were done.
The view of the lake from Jeannie’s deck was spectacular, but after the sun settled behind the mountains, it was too cold to sit out. They walked down a level, where a stone fire pit stood in the middle of the patio. Wrapped in sweatshirts, they sat beside the fire and talked, foregoing the beer for hot tea and cookies.
“Tell me about Ursula,” Ward suggested.
She could see Frieda’s expression change, but Ward couldn’t name the emotion Frieda hid behind it. She ate a cookie and swallowed some tea before answering. “She’s dead. Heart attack, right on the kitchen floor.”
“Oh, Frieda. That’s awful. When?”
“Ten years or so.”
“How long were you together?”
“A long time. We met in junior high.”
That was impressive. “So you started dating then? What was that like?” Ward estimated Frieda was in her seventies. Junior high for her had to be in the 1950s. Not exactly a good time to come out.
