THE JADE EARRING
A STORY WRITTEN BY MAXENE OBERMAN GRAHAM (1932-2007)
INTRODUCTION AND TRANSCRIPTION BY ROBY GRAHAM (BLAKE'S 7)
Ladies and Gentlemen, I am presenting this novel my mother wrote sometime between 1945 and 1965. Since my mother passed away on Christmas Eve 2007, I've uncovered a treasure trove of newspaper articles, newsletters and other works my mother did dating back more than fifty years ago. Some of which I never knew about including the story you are about to read. Before you read this story, I'd like to give you a little background about my mother.
Maxene Shirley Oberman was born on June 12, 1932 in Corry, Pennsylvania which is a small industrial, oil and mining town located fifty miles east of Erie, Pennsylvania. At the age of four, she contracted polio that left her disabled for the rest of her life. But it didn't stop her from achieving certain goals such as becoming a writer and a columnist for a major newspaper.
While growing up in Corry, my mother was a straight A student and spent most of her time studying. When she wasn't studying the basic subjects in school, she also became an accomplished pianist and singer. She graduated high school as a valedictorian in 1950. Then went to The University of Miami (Florida) where she earned an associate bachelors degree in journalism in 1954. While in college she also belonged to the Alpha Epsilon Phi sorority and wrote its newsletter as well as being the editor and continued to do this after graduation until the 1960's.
Her first job after college was for The Sea Isle Hotel on Miami Beach where she worked as their public relations director. She also wrote their weekly newsletter during her tenure there from 1955 to 1957. While in Miami, she also wrote freelance articles for The Miami Herald and upon returning to Pennsylvania also worked freelance in Corry and in Erie.
In 1967, Miss Oberman married my father in Erie, Pennsylvania. Gave birth to me a year later and divorced in 1969 having never re-married. Since we moved to Miami for good in 1971, my mother continued her writing and was the editor of the newsletter for The Democratic Women's Club of Dade County from 1972 to 1976 and also wrote the newsletter for the Miami chapter of the PTA. In 1977, she took on her dream job by working for the Miami Herald. At first she worked for the Herald doing columns for a new section of the paper at that time known as "Neighbors". This section specifically serves the areas where the readers live in Dade County from Aventura to Homestead and everywhere in between.
In 1978, my mother began working as an editor at the paper and answered the many letters sent to the editor by readers. She also had her column in which she was responsible for the Dynamite kids' page in the comics section on Sundays. Dynamite was a publication for kids written by kids at that time. After she left the paper in 1980, she took on another job with a paper known here in Miami as the "Community Newspapers". This paper specifically serves the South Miami, Kendall and Pinecrest areas of the city. She worked there from 1982 to 1985 until my grandmother had a fall in her home and eventually died a year later.
My mother retired after that and devoted the rest of her life to various organizations both professional and charitable including The Rotary Club of South Miami, The American Association of University Women, The Alumni Association of The University of Miami, Democratic Power, the Chamber of Commerce and many, many others. She helped these organizations with writing speeches, and invocations. Sadly on Christmas Eve 2007, my mother died at home of cardiac arrest at the age of seventy five. Since her death, I've received hundreds of phone calls, emails, letters and sympathy cards expressing how deeply missed she will be. I also learned recently that an essay contest for teenagers in the ROTC for which my mother helped to determine the winner was renamed in her memory. This story I'm about to present to you is my way to not only honor my mother's memory but to display the kind of literary creativity she possessed which is present in me in the Fashion Girl series you've been reading about in the last year.
There are a few things I need to point out before you read this story, first, please keep in mind that this story was written about fifty years ago and certain words and actions used were appropriate at that time. Second because this story was written so long ago, my mother didn't have a personal computer or a word processor at her disposal and when she had to make corrections, she wrote them off to the side of the paper indicated by lines or arrows by hand. Third she also had to X out certain words or sentences or crossed them out with a pen that bled a bit and might have unintentionally bled out words she meant to keep also she wrote by hand paragraphs and even two pages worth that she didn't type that I can't read too well because it was written in cursive. Although I can read her handwriting, I can't make heads or tails of where her corrections were meant for or where they were to go because on some pages, she made many corrections on the same page.
This was how writing was done before home computers for personal use. Today we can hit the backspace button to correct or change a word, sentence or paragraph but in her time, that was not an option, Wite Out or Liquid Paper wasn't invented yet. Fourth, since the story was hammered out on a typewriter and she typed until the words were barely visible in some areas because she waited until the last second to change the typewriter ribbon. So I am going to write the words I can see and will do my best to correct the words or phrases she meant to change. And finally, this work was never published and there might be some repetition in what she wrote because some of the pages weren't numbered and I'm writing this in the order the pages were in. I only glanced at this story in its original form and to me it might be a murder mystery or suspense novel. It's a completed work and at the same time it's still incomplete. I ask that if you wish to review this story, I WILL NOT tolerate flamers. If you decide to flame this story, remember you are flaming a writer who is no longer with us.
I scanned and copied this story to brand new paper because the original story was written on paper that's now old, yellowed, and very fragile. This way I won't accidentally ruin or destroy what my mother wrote. It is my intention to have my mother's unsung work presented in the manner she wished it to be presented and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading it, take care and god bless.
THE JADE EARRING BY MAXENE OBERMAN GRAHAM
CHAPTER I
She thought, today is my last day in this house. She waited, hoping for some emotional reaction, waited in vain. She wondered dully if she was still capable of any natural feeling, if the paralyzing numbness that had slowly crept over her like a guilty coward would ever recede, if the red-hot bands of fire eating into her forehead would ever burn out, if the ache in her throat that was slowly choking her would ever go away so that she could shed the suppressed tears that were turning her heart into stone.
She wanted desperately to cry, to sob out her insecurity, her uncertainness for the future; she had not cried one during the funeral or the long months since, and now felt that she must or go mad.
Dimly as though in a dream she heard the old grandfather's clock in the lower hall boom out eleven times in its deep throaty voice, and she realized with no kind of emotion that she must go downstairs and be ready for Mr. Greentree when he called for her. She got up from the chair in which she had been sitting and went to the door like an obedient child; there she stopped. Here, in her bedroom, with furniture, the frilly drapes, the deep blue rug, everything which had been hers still intact, she might forget for a moment. It was only when she passed the other rooms, stripped of everything but the bare necessities she had needed while still living here, that the facts came painfully back to her. She realized with irony that even now even the house did not belong to her; soon after she had left and the remaining furniture had been delivered to its new owners, another family would be arriving to take possession. But even now she did not care beyond a fleeting feeling of regret; she was only conscious of a great weariness and a desire to rest, to get all this over with quickly so there could be no looking back, no torment at the thought of what might have been.
She had reached the stairs now; she sped down them swiftly. At the sound of her footsteps, Dorothy came to meet her, a tall thin woman in a neat dark dress, the gray braids pinned around her head, framing a kind and knowing face.
"Mr. Greentree's secretary just telephoned. He's on his way. I'll get your coat," she said crisply. "All right, Dorothy, thank you," Mary Jane murmured absently. She moved slowly across the reception hall to the front door as one in a dream, and stood at the stained glass window, looking out over the quiet snow covered street.
Behind her Dorothy had brought the brown mink coat from the closet and was laying it carefully across a chair. She murmured, "Oh, your corsage!" and hurried away.
Looking back over her shoulder, Mary Jane watched her go, bringing herself back to reality with a jerk, struggling to think coolly and deliberately, doing what she must with some measure of precision. She picked up one of her shining black patent leather boots standing by a hall table, pulled it on and zipped it up its side. She was busy with the other when Dorothy returned, brining a small celluloid box, she removed two gardenias reclining inside, still moist from the refrigerator.
She held them up to the coat. "About here do you think?"
Mary Jane nodded, "Yes, I think so," turning to look outside again, and a paralyzing chill seemed to strike at her heart. A long low limousine had pulled up to the curb and a uniformed chauffeur was helping its lone passenger, a tall distinguished looking man to alight.
Mary Jane watched as he started to climb the steps, not wanting to look, but unable to turn away. She must pull herself together, she thought. There. That was it. She was walking now stopping at the hall table to pick up a small mink hat, arranging it on her up-swept black curls, paying no attention that the face in the mirror seemed strange and unfamiliar. She scooped up her brown alligator purse and brown gloves lying on the table, and turned back to the mirror, fascinated with her reflection. It was as though she had never seen herself before.
She was barely conscious that Dorothy was holding out her coat; mechanically her arms searched for and found the wide sleeves. She pulled on the gloves, nervously waiting. Mr. Greentree had completed the long climb now and was ringing the bell; the shrill, insistent peal broke the silence that hung like a pall over the house.