I have a memory of being in a football stadium and crying and crying. I wanted something—or someone—but I couldn’t grasp what or who it was that I wanted.

AT THE EDGE OF THE CLEARING BY DEBORAH THOMPSON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 85

You remember I’ve been telling you about Margaret Stockwell? Here she is to say hello,” Jane said. Dauphine decided she didn’t have to answer Jane.

But who was this? Dauphine peered at Margaret, a tall woman definitely northward of 60 in a tailored navy-knit pant-suit. Her hair was permed in an odd mullet look and she wore thick opaque framed glasses like some crazy writer.

Dauphine fussed with the lacy drawstrings of her silky day robe. The bedroom was a haze of white and blue, chintz and linen.

And heavy with the scent of lilies. Who on earth had sent all those? You’d think she was dying.

“Hello, I’m so happy to meet you,” Margaret said, smiling and looking directly at Dauphine. Reflexively, Dauphine averted her eyes to the side, a habit since childhood that she thought nonsense to address. It was part of her allure. She would be 80 on her next birthday.

“It’s nice to meet you, too, although as you can see,…