I said, “Are you calling about Lucille?”
“Oh, my dear Goldy. No. I’m calling about you. I want to do something for you, poor dear.…” Her voice faltered.
Zelda carried a painful past, but we’d never had any sisterly soul-baring talks. An older female Episcopalian would rather die impoverished than discuss psychic wounds, a conversation she would put in the same category as comparing bra sizes. Nevertheless, Zelda’s attempt to offer sympathy touched me, and awakened guilt. I hadn’t called her this past month, when the many disagreements she and Father Olson had had about ecclesiastical music had ended up with his firing her. Still, what would I have said? You want to have lunch and talk about how getting fired is like getting divorced? I didn’t think so.
“Zelda. You are thoughtful to call
