AND THERE WAS CLAUDIA
by Paul Alan Fahey
Waiting.
One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand . . .
Harriet was in the Lexus, waiting for her sister. A flash of white hair, a
fragment of green coat glimpsed through a gap in the kitchen's red and white
cafe curtains and there was Claudia. One moment near the stove, the next at
the coffee maker, and then by the sink. Harriet knew the routine, the
checking and double-checking.
One thousand thirty, one thousand thirty-one . . .
Claudia, the patron saint of defective wiring, leaky faucets, and unlatched
doors. Melrose Avenue's one woman neighborhood watch, keeping them safe from
fires, floods and break-ins. They'd be halfway to church and Claudia would
say, "We have to go back, Harriet. I know I left the lights on," or the gas
burning, or the water running, or the door open, and Harriet would smirk and
sigh, and turn the car around, minutes from Immaculate Heart and a prominent
seat at Mass. And when they arrived home? Everything was fine, of course.
Waiting for Claudia went back as far as Harriet could remember, as far back
as kindergarten. Harriet, the older sister, returning to Louis Barrett
Elementary to fetch her sister and walk her home. In the late afternoon, in
the middle of her playtime, in the middle of her childhood. And there was
Claudia, the last to leave the building, taking her sweet time, hanging on
Miss Bud, then shuffling and dawdling, and strolling along, trailing her
finger-painted scribbles behind her like demented kites.
One thousand fifty, one thousand fifty-one . . .
Harriet had had a lifetime of waiting. Two years while Walt completed his
overseas service, then eight more months in that cramped, spare bedroom over
her in-laws¹ garage while her husband pumped gas at the local Flying A, and
the pinching and saving until they could afford a place of their own.
And the biggest laugh of all? Poor Claudia. So content to make Harriet's
life, her life. Harriet's family, her family. Harriet's friends, her
friends. Claudia was always there. And always underfoot.
One thousand eighty-five . . .
Then the days, months and years waiting for Walt to make a success of the
business his father left him. Waiting for him to end the affair with that
little tart he'd hired, "To help out with the books, hon. You know I have no
head for figures."
Right.
Walt¹s illness brought more waiting. The insurance forms, medical exams and
lab tests. The MRI's and operations followed by heavy doses of chemotherapy
that couldn't arrest the course of her husband's cancer. If they gave shots
to mitigate the miseries of waiting, Harriet wouldn't need one. She'd be
immune.
One thousand one hundred . . . and there was Claudia, outside now with the
door closed, her hand on the knob, twisting it back and forth. Still more
checking. And more waiting.
But today Harriet could afford to be more charitable, more patient with her
sister. She rolled down the car window, leaned out and smiled. "Come
Claudie. We're late as it is."
Claudia waved then closed the screen door. With suitcase in hand, she turned
and headed for the car.
Minutes later, after clicking her sister's seatbelt in place, Harriet eased
the car out of the drive, away from the home they'd shared for so many
years. The Crystal Springs Arms was only a short ride, minutes actually,
and after Harriet deposited Claudia in her room, settled her in and returned
home, another kind of waiting would begin.
But how could Harriet really mind? She'd had plenty of practice.
***
Paul Alan Fahey is a writer living on the Central California
Coast. His fiction has recently appeared in the Tolosa Press, a weeekly
publication of the Central California Coast, his nonfiction online at
Coffeehouse for Writers.com, and his novella, set in 1939 Poland and titled,
"The World People Live In," received first honorable mention in Carpe
