But we never mentioned our secret to each other when she visited my Mom, nor when we greeted on the front porch on our way to school in the mornings that followed.Several weeks later, a few days after Christmas, the city was inundated by a heavy winter snow--something Southern cities seldom experienced. The whole town knew the weather was coming and Mom had a date to go to what had been set up as a White Christmas dinner at one of the fancy hotel ballrooms that were popular in the late 1940's. It was a Friday night. After Mom left, Martha Jane darkened our bedroom and sat on the bed with me, watching the snow. The bed was in its usual place in that little room, pushed lengthwise against the wall alongside the big double window. We leaned on the window sill and talked and watched the falling snow. I don't remember what we talked about, but she had told me a story about something-or-other and I was astonished and said, "Really?", and she said "Yes, it really happened like that!", and I. Surely his fingerprints would be on the bottles, and probably his DNA too. I could see no trace of him on the grass, although there was still a clear indentation where I had been sitting. I continued to ponder the problem for the rest of the day.The next morning I was in half a mind not to go to work. I wasn’t looking forward to another week of sly glances and sniggers. But to my surprise, everyone seemed to treat me the way they had before my calamitous assignation with Claire: the ribald remarks and propositions were back.I managed to avoid Claire herself till mid-afternoon.“Please come with me, Mr Coldwell, I need your help with something,” she commanded, after she had finally managed to track me down.We took the elevator down to the basement. That in itself wasn’t a surprise; a part of the basement was used as storage for large props so I was often asked to bring things up for meetings and demonstrations and return them afterwards. However this time Claire led me to a door I’d.
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