October 1999

“So if Betty is three times as old as her daughter Jane, and four years ago she was four times older, how old is Jane now?” Louise Stevens scanned the room to assess the expected confusion of those in her algebra class as they followed along in their textbooks. Quadratic equations were always tough at first, even for the brightest students. “Who wants to try to write that formula on the board?”

Nearly all of the students in her fifth-period class were sophomores. She was faculty sponsor to this Class of 2002, so their banner, signed by all 506 students, hung above the chalkboard in her classroom. Louise thought them an interesting group. They got along with each other, worked well together in school, and, as freshmen, had set records at the school for fundraising and community service projects. There definitely was something special about the Class of 2002.

A crisp autumn breeze rippled through the blinds, turning pages for those who sat close to the window. Louise draped her cardigan around her shoulders and stood to begin her walk through the aisles. Papers rustled throughout the room, a telltale sign that math texts weren’t the only objects of attention in the classroom. She smiled to herself, wondering what secrets she might learn by confiscating a note or two. But that sort of thing wasn’t her style.

After thirty-eight years in front of the classroom at Westfield, the sixty-year-old math teacher had no need for a heavy hand when it came to discipline. She commanded her students’ respect without ever having to ask for it.

“I see I’m going to have to volunteer someone.” That brought a few chuckles, but from the corner of her eye, she saw a tentative hand go up. Michele Sanders, a tall, lanky girl from Louise’s homeroom, worked harder in math class than anyone else. The girl was good with numbers, but Louise suspected another motive for her dedication to algebra—Michele had a crush on her. That had been an uncomfortable realization at first, but she tried not to worry too much about it. She did nothing to encourage these feelings of attraction from her students, and always was careful not to be unkind. Crushes were a normal part of adolescent development and they ran their course in time. Louise didn’t mind one bit that they seemed to produce better math students.

She continued her stroll through the aisle, noting with pride that most of her students were dressed today to show their school spirit. It was Friday, and the Westfield Spartans were playing their last football game of the season tonight on the road against Monroeville. Almost everyone in the room—herself included—was wearing blue and white. Several of the boys on the team had on their game jersey, and one girl wore a cheerleading uniform. But Louise was partial to those in the “Marching Spartan” sweaters, like Michele. She had a soft spot for students in the band.

“Mike, how would you write that formula?”

Several students snickered as she approached Mike’s desk, where the young man was slumped forward, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. He was sound asleep.

“Someone else, then,” she encouraged, her voice lower as she walked quietly toward the slumbering student, the only senior in her class. Probably another late night stocking groceries, she thought. Careful not to wake him, she grasped his jacket and spread it over his shoulders as she rounded his desk to return to the front of the room.

“Miss Stevens, Mr. Meyer’s at the door.”

Louise looked up to see Ted Meyer, Westfield’s principal, looming in her doorway. By the look on his face, he had urgent business.

“Have a look at the problems on page sixty-eight. Michele, will you go to the board and write that formula, please?” Louise could have sworn the girl blushed as her name was called.

Ted waited with his hand on the doorknob and gestured for her to step into the hallway. He then closed the door behind her.

“What’s up, Ted?” Louise’s stomach knotted as she readied herself for what her boss would say. The last time he came to her room with an expression like this one, he had brought news that two of her students had been killed in a car accident. The principal’s grave look told her his message today was also serious.

“I need you to come downstairs with me, Lou,” he said softly, placing his hand on her elbow.

His words shocked her and her heart began to hammer. “Rhonda,” she whispered, stepping around him toward the stairwell.

Ted hurried behind her, but the stout man couldn’t keep up with her long legs and urgent gait. By the time he reached the top of the stairwell, Louise had already turned the corner at the landing, dangerously skipping steps in her heeled shoes as she barreled toward the band room.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw dozens of students gathered in the hallway outside the band director’s office. Their young faces were somber and it was clear that many were crying. All eyes were on her as she turned the corner and charged toward the band room on a dead run.

The scene inside was surreal. A huddled group of teachers parted at once to allow Louise access. She anxiously drew closer to see Rhonda Markosky lying on her back, her beautiful face swollen and purple. The physical education teacher knelt beside her, frantically pumping her chest in a mechanical rhythm. After every fifth compression, he would pause to allow another teacher to blow a deep breath into the unconscious woman’s lungs.

Louise hurried to kneel alongside the still form, clutching the twisted hand tightly. “Rhonda.” She rubbed the hand vigorously, imploring the motionless woman to respond. “Rhonda, I’m here.” Please answer me, sweetheart.

No one else spoke as the grim reality of the situation settled around the room. Shouts from the hallway announced the arrival of the paramedics, but few in the room held any hope that the band director would survive what was apparently a massive heart attack.

“Stay with us, Rhonda.” Stay with me, darling.

Louise numbly rose as the paramedics shouldered past and took charge of the stricken woman. They all watched as the defibrillator sent its futile jolts through the lifeless body. After several minutes, Ted placed an arm on his old friend’s shoulder and turned her toward the door as the last of their hope slipped away.  

Louise folded the Fort Myers News-Press into quarters and set it aside. Today's crossword puzzle had a geography theme—not one of her favorite subjects, but it would be a nice challenge for later this afternoon. Yesterday's puzzle was dedicated to golf terms, and it had taken her only twenty minutes to knock it out.

She drained her coffee cup and gazed out at the canal behind her home. Boat traffic had dropped considerably since snook season ended in mid-December. Louise missed the company of the fishing enthusiasts. When the waterway was busy, it gave her a sense of being with other people, even if all she ever did was wave to those motoring past her seawall. Without the occasional boaters, there had been whole days during which she never saw another soul.

This was Louise's first winter in Southwest Florida, where she and Rhonda had planned to live when they retired from teaching high school in Greensburg, Pennsylvania. For almost ten years, they had looked forward to the warm weather, and the free time they would have to engage in their two favorite pastimes—golf and each other. Instead, she had made the move alone early last fall when the old house in Greensburg sold. Were it not for the Boston terrier at her feet, the loneliness of her new home would be almost unbearable.

"I hadn't planned on doing this by myself, Petie."

Intent on proving to his mistress that she wasn't in this alone, the small dog whimpered until she pushed back from the table to allow him access to her robe-clad lap. Petie seemed to sense she needed an extra dose of affection this morning, and he was more than happy to oblige.

Grateful for the reminder, Louise helped him up and waited as he turned twice, then dropped into a heap. His ears flattened in anticipation of her hands cradling his head. "You're such a good boy, you know that?" she asked, delivering a loving scratch behind his ears.

 "Got to get that, Petie," she said, nudging the dog from her lap almost as soon as he got comfortable so she could catch the phone in the kitchen. "Hello."

"Hey, Lou! How are you doing today?"

"I'm good, Shirl." That was technically a lie, and Louise knew it, but she didn't want to inflict her depression on her longtime friend. Shirley and her partner, Linda, had retired to Cape Coral two years earlier, and since her arrival, had bent over backwards to include Louise in their activities. "How about you and Linda?"

"We're doing great. We have a tee time at twelve-thirty. If you want to join us I'll call out to Pine Island and see if they can find us a fourth. Think you're up for a round?"

Louise had been looking forward to playing golf this winter and getting to know some of the women who played in the senior league at the club. Unfortunately, those plans were put on hold after she clumsily fell in the shower and broke her left wrist. That was the week after she had joined Pine Island Golf Club, so she hadn't even had the chance to play. She had gotten her cast off the week before Christmas, but as yet had not tested her strength or coordination.

"I don't know if I'm ready for that yet. I was going to go try to hit a bucket of balls this week and see how it felt."

"Maybe you should, Lou. A bucket or two might just get your swing back."

"It's probably going to take more than a bucket or two. But at least it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Well, hurry up and get with it! You're missing out on the best time of the year to be out on the course."

"Okay, you're my inspiration, Shirl. I might just go on out to the driving range today." It would be a great excuse to get out of the house, and it would put a stop to this feeling sorry for herself.

"Atta girl! You'll be back in the swing before you know it."

"If that was supposed to be a pun, it was awful."

Shirley chuckled as her quick mind lined up a few more. "Bad puns from me are par for the course, right?"

Louise groaned. "You're going to drive a wedge between us."

"Don't be silly, Lou. No one drives with a wedge."

"How does Linda putt up with you?"

Shirley let loose a groan of her own. "She putts up with me because I'm lovable. That reminds me, she's making lasagna on Friday night. You're coming over, aren't you?"

Louise hesitated to answer.

"Don't worry. It'll just be the three of us."

"Okay. You want me to bring anything?"

"Angel wants you to bring Petie," she answered, a reference to their greyhound.

"We'll be there. Thanks for calling." Louise calmed her roiling stomach, relieved that Shirley and Linda weren't scheming again to introduce her to one of their single friends. They tried that last fall, inviting a woman to dinner who, like Louise, was new to the area. When it became clear the newcomer was interested in more than just a dinner with friends, Louise excused herself early and dashed home to the comfort of her canine companion. The thought of dating someone sent her into a panic.

She hung up the phone and scribbled a reminder on her calendar for Friday. With a sigh, she noted that the dinner with her friends was practically the only social event on her January schedule. What a difference a year makes! This time last year, her calendar had been full of things to do—boys' and girls' basketball games, band concerts, school plays, curriculum meetings—anything she could find to stay busy, to have someplace to go other than the quiet house. It was hard some days not to second-guess her decision to retire.

"I'm feeling sorry for myself again, Petie. You want to go for a walk?"

The dog's ears went up and he began to prance from the front door to the closet where his leash was kept. His mistress had just said his favorite word. He waited impatiently as she changed into a teal jogging suit and her sneakers.

"Come on, let's go." This was part of her regular exercise regimen, something she did twice a day for both herself and the happy terrier.

An hour later, Petie lay stretched out on the cool kitchen floor while Louise stood at her bedroom dresser in white micro-fiber golf slacks and her bra. Her morning routine was complete: breakfast and the newspaper, a walk through the neighborhood with Petie, a shower, and a check of her e-mail and the weather in Greensburg.

The first part of her day seldom varied. For Louise, the challenge was finding something interesting to do next. Most days, she worked the crossword puzzle after lunch. And she was gradually working her way through the classics in literature, something she had always planned to do when she had more leisure time. In the evenings, she watched television, usually the news, a couple of game shows, then a movie or a ball game.

The one element Louise hadn't incorporated into her Florida routine was people. She craved laughter and friendship, two of the things she had treasured about her life with Rhonda, but she hadn't yet pushed herself to get out. In the four months she had lived in Cape Coral, she had met only a few of her neighbors, mostly young couples with small children. Linda and Shirley had made friends with a number of lesbian couples through their activities at the golf club, but the broken wrist had sidelined Louise. Now that it was healed, it was time for her to take the initiative and get out there to meet people and make friends.

Rhonda Markosky watched from the pewter frame on the dresser, her usual mischievous eyes following the love of her life around the room. The school picture was made in September of 1999, three weeks before she died.

"Turn your head, sweetie. I know how much you hate it when I wear blue and white." Louise drew a long-sleeved blue golf shirt from the drawer and slipped it over her head. Blue and white were the school colors at Westfield, and Rhonda complained that she had seen it enough in the band uniforms to last a lifetime. "Now wish me luck. I'm going to go butcher a bucket of balls."

Passing the full length mirror beside the bedroom door, Louise admired her look. She and Rhonda had loved collecting stylish golf attire.

The closet held two sets of clubs, her own and those of her late partner. Louise had parted with most of Rhonda's personal items, but the woman had so loved golf that she couldn't bring herself to get rid of either the clubs or the dozens of accessories, accumulated over the years as gifts at Christmas, birthdays, even Valentine's Day.

Exiting through the garage, she loaded her clubs into the trunk of her silver Mercury Sable and activated the automatic garage door.

"This will kill a couple of hours. Only about"—she easily did the math in her head—"a quarter of a million to go."

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