Awakening

By Claralice Wolf

A collection of short stories by Claralice Wolf, centred around the theme of Awakenings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robby's eBook Formtting
• Release date: Jan 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310401015

Claralice Wolf

Claralice Wolf has won many blue ribbons and awards for her short stories. She has published three books: a novel, Prynne's Island; an anthology of short stories, Where Flows the River Twee; and The Gospel According to the Un-Named Women. Born in Thailand in 1921 to missionary parents, Claralice, along with her twin sister, was home-schooled by her mother. From the time she turned 11, she attended an American boarding school in India. Next she moved to Illinois to finish high school and go to college, where she met her future husband. Claralice worked in the library of Princeton University for several years before moving to Kentucky to oversee an institution for disadvantaged children. She has described this experience in her soon to be published book, One Hundred and One Children. Claralice currently lives in Ohio and continues to write.

Book preview

The Moonstone

Today I stopped at the nursing home to see Marjorie, and felt as though I were in a laboratory visiting a chemistry experiment. It was hard to talk with her – everything so obviously pointed to a struggle against death. I wondered what they were doing for her spirit.

As I left her room, I remembered another visit – about twenty years ago – with a woman dying of cancer.

The story begins with a small parcel that came through the mail, a package so tiny that my name and address nearly covered the surface, leaving the return address cramped and illegible. I took it to the kitchen to open, and took out an old jewel box. It held a gold ring with a small, round moonstone enclosed within six curved prongs.

I felt a shock of recognition. This was either the ring I owned once, years ago, or its exact duplicate. It had been given to me by my grandmother, but I had lost it during my junior year in college. I say lost, although I always suspected it had been stolen from my dresser.

I took the ring out and slipped it onto my finger, but it jammed at the knuckle. I rubbed the stone, as I had done with that other one years ago, and felt a tingle of pleasure when it rolled freely within the six prongs. It had the same incandescence, as a though there were a light inside, the same white streak in one place where the light seemed to shine through more brightly.

But who sent it? I smoothed the brown paper out, but still could not decipher the return address. As I replaced the ring in the box, a piece of paper which had been folded and stuffed into the lid, fell out. The penmanship had a childlike boldness about it.

Dear Shirley: It is late, but I am returning your ring. I took it because I needed it more than you, and thought that something of yours could make me feel as if I, too, were beautiful. I don’t need it any longer Also, I want my conscience clear. Please forgive me. Ardith Oberdorfer.

Ardith Oberdorfer. The name had a familiar feel on my tongue, but I couldn’t think who she was. Strange. My hunch that the ring had been stolen was right, though I had suspected someone else to be the culprit. What was her name? Mary? Marian? A girl whom I had not admired. Mary Anne? Oh well, it didn’t matter any longer.

Ardith Oberdorfer. I still couldn’t place her, so I got out my college year books and hunted through the pages. Her picture brought it all back. Ardith, the plainest, most unwinsome girl in our dorm. The photo made her look even worse than I had remembered. It emphasized a strong chin, a hooked nose, thin lips, narrow eyes, and dark hair that hung limp and straight to her shoulders. I remembered her as wearing glasses, but I suppose the photographer suggested that she remove them.

I looked for Mary-Marian-Mary Anne. Ah, Marie Anne Marquardt. M-n-M we called her. A pretty face, wide eyes, chin tilted to emphasize the sweet lines of her cheek, her hair lively with captured light. The photographer enjoyed his appointment with her.

M-n-M had been such a pain. Always flitting cheerfully in and out of our rooms, always sure she was welcome, borrowing our clothes, asking for favors, fingering our pretty things.

I turned back to Ardith. History major, from Oberdorf, Ohio. I remembered a somber girl, quiet and uncommunicative. She seemed, now that I recalled her, the essence of self-effacing timidity. We called Her Mouse behind her back. Did she know?

I smoothed the brown paper wrapping and studied the return address once more. Now I made out A.O., and enough of Oberdorf to know that it came from her home town.

My curiosity satisfied, I yielded to the pleasure of having my old ring back. I laid it on the sill behind the sink, and every time I saw it, I picked it up and twirled the moonstone around so I could see the bright streak.

The next day I was lunching with a friend.

Emily, I asked, didn’t you tell me once that you came from Oberdorf, Ohio?

Yes, she laughed., but please don’t hold that against me.

Emily prides herself on being sophisticated; it’s part of the fun of being with her, that we don’t just chit-chat and gossip. We improve our minds. Today I wanted to gossip a moment.

Do you know anyone by the name of Oberdorfer in Oberdorf?

The place is full of them. The first one came from somewhere in Germany and founded the town.

That sounds like a story. Tell me about them.

What do you want to know?

Oh, rich? Poor? Wise? Foolish? Pillars of society? Town drunks? Anything.

She gave me a look, buttered her roll, and then started talking.

"There are some of each. I’ll start with the one the whole town called ‘The Judge.’ Judge Oscar Oberdorfer, the founder. His portrait hangs in the town hall. He died before my time. He had two sons.

"Oscar Jr. was a successful business man. Real estate. Owned a big department store. Very social family. He started the country club. Lots of children, some of them about our ages, most of whom have moved away.

Albert became a judge like his father.

What about the women?

"Mrs. Oscar was a simple, motherly woman, friendly, sang in the choir, all the things a good wife does. Mrs. Albert came from the east, and was a brilliant pianist. She traveled all over the world giving concerts, so she was out of town much of the time She was one of those striking beauties whose picture gets into the newspaper often. I got the impression . . .keep in mind, now, that what I know is from hearing my folks talk about them, so it’s a mixture of guesses, facts, and maybe even of jealousy. Yes, I’m sure of jealousy. After all, they were very rich, and lived in a wonderful mansion. Servants. Collections of all sorts: imported glass, paintings, Chinese rugs, antiques. Every room