Deadly by Julie Chibbaro

to the edge, suddenly she cried out, “Watch!” and ran onto the ice. Right before my eyes, she flopped onto her bottom and slid across the entire expanse of the pond, petticoats flying, bloomers exposed to the birds!
    A shock of cold air caught in my throat, then I exploded into a great burst of laughter—I couldn’t help it—she looked so very silly and daring at the same time. She ran over the ice back to me, her curls bouncing, her breath coming in heavy white puffs, and she dragged me out onto that pond with her. There was nobody else for miles around. We slipped and fell and skittered all around the frozen water until the day darkened. I have not laughed so much for nearly a year. It felt as if we had not skipped a single day in our togetherness, but rather picked up right where we had left each other.
    But time
is
changing us, pulling us deeper into life without having each other to turn to. I felt like she needed me, but I couldn’t pinpoint how or why. It was on the last day, when I met her friends Ida and Randall, and saw Anushka’s relation to them, that I understood how sheholds her darker feelings inside now, how she guards them from me almost.
    In her letters, and before we met them, Anushka didn’t tell me of her friends’ advanced ages. Ida is twenty-seven, Randall a man of thirty, which is nearly Mr. Soper’s age. It was clear how she could love both those people—our conversation with them ranged far and wide. They were both so full of knowledge about the natural world, the way they named trees and celestial bodies, Randall’s reading of clouds, Ida’s firm way with the animals, they were both so easy with themselves, and each other. Randall’s power and skill, his long, sensitive face and thick blond hair, are very alluring. I understand how Anushka could have a terrible mash on him. Ida’s quick smile, and the deep way she listens when one speaks, has great charm as well. Their backgrounds are so different—Randall from wealthy Protestant stock, Ida a second-generational transplant from Lutheran Germany, and Anushka, the New York Russian Jew—but it was a sweet camaraderie.
    Yet here is the difficulty: Those two friends of hers are in love with each other.
    It’s clear how impossible it’s been for Anushka to state her feelings, to choose, as I’d been urging her. Randall is kindto her. Ida’s too wonderful to lose. But they have chosen each other. The pain Anushka must feel, my poor friend, the tear of the heart.
    I do hope Anushka finds another beau, someone who can see how very darling she is.

December 29, 1906
    T hings went awry in the office in my absence. I’m not sure I understand what happened. I must untie the knots of feeling in me, to see if I can uncover the truth of the situation.
    Upon my return to work this morning, I placed the jar of blackberry preserves I brought from Anushka’s farm onto Mr. Soper’s desk and cleared my throat for the speech I had thought of on the train.
    â€œMr. Soper,” I said, “I just want to tell you that I’m grateful for this opportunity to work with you. I have always wanted to do something meaningful, and you have given me the very chance to do so. This job gives me a direction in my life that I might not otherwise have had. While I was away, I missed the office and our work and you—my employer—”
    There my words faltered; the way Mr. Soper averted his gaze made me feel uncouth. My gift and admission seemed to affect my chief oddly—he said, “Hm, yes, well, thank you, but you weren’t gone so long. I’ve spent many years alone.” He grabbed some notes and began to read, completely dismissing me and my speech.
    I sat at my typewriter, my face aflame. I excused myself and headed for the lavatory, where I splashed a bit of water on my cheeks and loosened my shirtwaist at the neck.
    When I returned, I began to type up the