The Goodgames

February 24, 2015

I held a metal pole, moved underground, and heard a man say "Mary Clare."  His accent reminded me of ten years before when I lived farther south near a woman named —

"Mary Clare," I heard a young girl repeat in mocking affection. His daughter — I assumed — and that must have been his wife in the long coat — her back facing the train doors, her hand holding the same pole as mine.

I remembered Mary Clare sitting at my family's kitchen table, drinking wine and laughing with my mom. I remembered her long skirts and short hair. I remembered her dogs, the ceramic tiles covering the wall behind her stove, and the plants covering the hill that rose behind her pool in Atlanta.

"Minnie Bob," I heard him say. And I remembered meeting Minnie Bob — her hair short just like her sister's — at Mary Clare's daughter's wedding.

"Excuse me," I said, "but are you talking about Mary Clare Kearse?"

"No." He spoke without hesitation.

A moment later, he looked at me again, "Wait...yes, Kearse."

I explained how they are old family friends, how we know them from when they lived in Virginia, how I lived in Atlanta my first year of college.

The doors opened at my stop.

"Goodgame?" I asked.

"Like a good game of tennis!" his wife confirmed.

I smiled and left the train, hoping they understood my directions to Battery Park, wishing I'd given them my card.

I hadn't spoken to Mary Clare in years. That afternoon, I called and left a message, excited to tell her that I'd met the Goodgames in a car on a train in New York. I told my parents the story, and they told me that they hadn't heard from her in a long time.

I didn't hear from her either.