“Edith,” those four women said, “you’ve been inconsiderate.”
Thoughtless, they continued. Unsympathetic. Less than kind. Etc.
An intervention, no less. Over coffee and cookies, prepared by me, in my apartment.
First on their list: Jocelyn. Rather, poor Jocelyn.
At the victory party for our provincial candidate, who’d lost, I bought a raffle ticket. Number 63, then my age. First prize: from a local “fine foods” shop, a heaping basket of nuts, biscuits, chocolates, cheeses, jars of olives, etc., all wrapped up in crisp starry gold paper and doubtless stale.
Our group, Jocelyn included, awaited the draw. During the campaign she and I had done phone canvassing together, side-by-side in a booth with the awkward scripts before us. Often she’d deviate. “Oh, you’re cooking supper? I’ll call back!” Wasted time drags down the work. She never finished her lists.
Jocelyn’s ticket was Number 64.