“Martha Barnhart invited us to their house Saturday night to play Bridge,” Mary told me when I got home. “There’ll be two other couples, enough for two tables.”

“Sounds OK to me, we enjoy the game.” I said.

The Barnharts, parents of two daughters, were a friendly couple that we had known for a good while. Scott was a tall, good-looking mechanical engineer at my work place. We were never close associates, so this seemed an opportunity to get better acquainted. They lived a block away from our house; in fact we could see their place from our front window.

A long-lashed, blue eyed woman of medium build with brown, wavy hair, Martha walked with a severe limp as the result of a car wreck at one time that left her with one leg shorter than normal by a couple inches. Despite her handicap she seemed to function well.

Mary and I arrived at the Barnhart’s house at the appointed hour. Bob and Sue were already there, and Don and Betty followed us in. Martha, the genteel hostess, introduced us all and made us feel at ease. We had not met the other visiting couples before and we spent a few minutes getting acquainted before beginning the games.

We all sat at the two tables that were set up for the games. Spouses played as partners. After we played about eight hands we recorded our scores and each partnership played the next set of hands against a different pair; then we changed seats once more for the last hands, so that each couple played against each other couple. It all went very well so far as I could tell. I don’t know whether some couples went home at odds with each other because the partner didn’t play as expected, but such things sometimes do happen.

After the games and the scores were totaled, the hostess served a small snack, during which Martha made a proposal.

“It’s been fun for me,” she said, and everyone else agreed that they’d had a pleasant time. Then she continued, “I propose that we play every month. We can take turns hosting the games.” After a little discussion we agreed.

“We’ll volunteer for next month,” Mary said, and so it came to pass that a little Bridge club was formed.

“Sorry to be late,” Martha said, when a month later three couples had sat waiting for fifteen or twenty minutes. “We had to go get a baby-sitter.”

“That’s OK, sometimes things happen. Lets play bridge,” Mary said. Soon the games got underway, and everyone had a good time, as before.

The situation was similar the next month, only the Barnharts were a half hour late. I don’t remember Martha’s excuse that time.

The only time that all of us were assembled and ready to start on time was when we met at the Barnhart’s. Finally, after a few months, while we sat around waiting for Martha and Scott to arrive someone suggested that we delay our starting time.

“It wouldn’t matter,” said Betty, “Martha is usually late for most meetings.”

“I enjoy the conversation between us chickens, but it’s a bridge club, not a talk club,” I said. “ Maybe we should stop meeting monthly and just play when we feel like it?”

We kicked around the idea of dissolving the club and decided to quit having regular meetings. We had a majority and Martha never got to vote. We finished the games before we told Martha. Of course we all had our excuses ready. Maybe she never learned the truth.

Long after the bridge club folded the Barnharts’ daughter Melissa, age about five or six, came to our house with an announcement. 

“My mother is going to have a baby,” she said. “Momma said we could tell our close friends. I can tell you because you’re close friends. I can see your house from our house.”

I regarded her visit as an omen. Martha was still a friend.