Maudie - Part One Poem by Anastasia Rhobolonskaya

The Fuller’s house on Rivermont Avenue was close enough to the sidewalk that a passerby’s shadow tended to startle them by popping out at the first corner of slate grey siding and remaining close to their side like an intimate acquaintance until the last of Mrs. Fuller’s azaleas and the same siding had been left behind. It was rather new, having been built only a couple of years after the first baby had been born; a necessity as the last bungalow became sadly inadequate. The size of the new house - over forty rooms, most unused - was unnecessary however as Maude turned out to be the only baby, as well as the first.
“You promise not to take too long Maudie? ”
“I already told you Ma. Of course not.”
“Good ‘cause I’m going to need those greens for your daddy’s dinner. You know how he loves his greens.”
“’Course I do Ma. Now may I go? ” Maude sighed, knowing that if her mother got to talking, it would midnight before she could leave.
“Alright, alright, but you remember to be careful! It may be 1924, but that don’t mean I think it’s proper, much less safe, for a lady to ride one of those contraptions.” Setting down the meat knife with all the due solemnity of Cassandra, she silenced her daughter’s protest with a hug then clucked disapprovingly.
“Maudie! What are you wearing that for? You’re likely to tear it and you know your father can only shell out so much for new clothes.”
Pushing away and towards the door, Maude grimaced. “The way I see it, if I’m going to be riding some ‘contraption’ and attracting so much attention, shouldn’t I look decent? ”
After shutting the door, perhaps with more vigor than required, her mother’s voice stopped as if someone had taken her record off of the gramophone. That’s a pleasant thought, Maude laughed to herself. And even better, she couldn’t get herself back on the gramophone and would be obliged to wait for me, when I wanted to listen.
For her, racing through the downtown of Lynchburg, riding what she fondly thought of as her “little treasure” and her mother considered a “heathenish contraption”, was not simply an escape from Ma’s constant attention, or a daughterly shopping duty, but a stratagem: her usual route paraded past Simon’s house. There was certainly something special about Simon Lombard, something even she, who had formerly boasted of being tomboy, saw. Ma would say it was that he had pretty eyes, but she seemed to have the embarrassing habit of saying that anytime she met someone who was vaguely her Maudie’s age.
Maudie.
She hated that nickname. Simon would likely find that ridiculous; that was a constant mental refrain of hers, one that hammered at her ears with the wind as she turned around at each whoosh of a passing automobile, one of which could be Simon’s.
None were though, and Maude glowered as she parked her bicycle outside the store. Inside, the cool, dark air which smelled strongly of the gardenia perfume of Mrs. Haroldson, the proprietress, did little to soothe either Maude’s temper or cheeks, both as red as her hair.