Plum Jelly

A short story by Angela Kempf

This story contains: her and her, historical fiction, friends to lovers, firsts, cunnilingus, extramarital

“Guess where they’re sending me next,” Carl said on a mild Sunday morning in May. He switched off their tabletop radio, tired of hearing about President Truman’s dismissal of General MacArthur. 

“Where?” Marjorie said, not looking up. Carl’s business never sent him anywhere interesting, though maybe it was just that she had explored all of Michigan that she cared to explore. 

“Grand Rapids—and surrounding areas.” He paused. “Minnesota.” 

Marjorie focused on a single period in the Detroit Free Press article that was already blurring. She tried to slow her breathing, but it was no use. 

“Oh?” Her voice sounded normal, she thought. 

“You could join me if you like,” Carl said. “I don’t think we’ve been back to visit in five years now.”

“Six,” she said before she could stop herself. “But I have that Tupperware party on Thursday. And it’s time I did some spring cleaning.” 

“It was just a thought,” Carl said. He put his cigarette in the ashtray, some embers still burning bright orange. Marjorie grabbed it and tamped it again, lost in memory: a flash of green eyes, olive skin, musical laughter. The kiss and the subsequent dreams it had spurred.

“I think you successfully extinguished it,” Carl joked, eyeing the mangled butt. 

“I just can’t think of a single reason I’d go back to that one-horse town,” Marjorie said.

“I thought you might like to see the Davises. That’s all. I know Bruce can be a cad, but Lois was one of your best. . .” Carl aimed his frown at the ceiling, lips pursing. “Friends,” he said after a moment. 

“I wouldn’t call her a friend,” Marjorie replied. Carl raised an eyebrow. “You know I wrote to her after we moved? She never replied. If she had wanted to stay in touch, she would have.” 

Marjorie stood up and straightened up skirt, her throat tight. After grabbing a glass from the cabinet, she poured water from the faucet and tried to force her mind elsewhere, but her mind wasn’t open to suggestion. 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Marjorie set the glass down and bent over the sink. Carl didn’t seem to hear her.

“I already wrote to Bruce that we’d be in town. And I am sure Lois is dying to see you. But I can decline if you prefer. I’ll tell them it won’t work this time—but maybe someday.”

“No, darling. Tell them we’ll be there. I’d love to see the look on her face when I show up.” 

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