He shook his head mutely.
The organ stopped when the minister came out. The casket proceeded, its front right corner supported by Max. After placing the casket in its brace, Max and his father sat in the front pew. From above, Greta saw identical sunken shoulders on Max and his father. Two points on a line that used to have three. They’d lost a dimension; no wonder they looked flatter. Greta thought about Martha’s card tower months ago. Triangles. Things were stronger built in triangles.
As far as funeral services went, Greta had limited experience. Compared with her father’s service, there was less staid patriotism. Compared to her father’s service, there was more of everything else—more music, more crying, more remarks from friends and family. “We sucked at planning Dad’s funeral,” Greta said out of the corner of her mouth.
Danny refused to acknowledge the remark. He squinted down at the casket like he was trying to find someone he knew in the crowd, and a second later he turned back to Greta. “Did you ever call the florist?”
“What?”
“For the wedding.”
“No,” Greta said, honestly flustered. “I called a dozen other venders, and Meg had already …”
“Never mind.” Danny just shook his head and rested his chin on the bannister that ran the length of the choir loft.
Greta followed the path of his eyes and saw a blonde bob in the third row, center, on the church floor. Meg wore a cap-sleeved black dress and lace crisscrossed her collarbones. From above the lace could have been a net to catch fish in. Greta shook Danny’s leg with her hand, and he finally looked over at her. She mouthed the word Sorry. Of course Meg would be here.
Between the organ and the ex, Greta was amazed Danny sat through the whole service. Afterward they walked together across the street to the parish hall. Greta put her bag down at a table occupied by some other people from her department. Tom Plank, Larry Almond, and a few graduate students sat with Styrofoam cups of dark black coffee. Greta saw Danny’s head swivel away from the table of scientists to take in the crowd. “We don’t have to stay long,” Greta said. “I need to pay my respects.” The phrase tasted cold and formal in her mouth, borrowed from some Victorian manner’s guide.
“Sure. Sure,” Danny said. He still searched the crowd.
Greta tugged on his sleeve until he made eye contact. “Stay here,” she warned, urging manacles into her voice. She hadn’t told him about her nighttime drive, that last chance. Would it break him if he knew that she’d tried and Meg had said no? Probably. God, if she could only have kept the Costa Rican handcuffs as souvenirs, she might have chained him to a chair. “Seriously, stay here, Danny.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
Max stood with his father near the door of the hall, leaning against stacks of folding chairs. “Hey,” she said. She cleared her throat and tugged at her skirt. It was too small.
Max nodded. “Thanks for coming.”
“Your classes are going fine,” she said. “No one has started any fires yet or staged a riot.”
“Thanks for covering them.”
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I didn’t know else what to say.” Admitting that froze the conversation. She rubbed an arm. “Thanks for covering while I was in Florida.”
“And Costa Rica.”
“Right. And thanks for not telling the department about that.”
She felt Max considering her, sensed the line of people behind her waiting to pay their respects too, which probably cost them more and were worth more too. “So, anyone send you cat pictures? From your syllabus line?”
“Not many.”
“They probably thought you were just kitten around.”
His mouth twerked up in one corner, then resettled. “Thanks for coming, Greta.”
“Stop thanking me, and I’ll, um, see you on campus soon.” Later, she didn’t know who moved forward first, but either way, their bodies pressed together for an armless hug. Then, his arm wrapped around her shoulder so that she could feel his heartbeat against her shirt. He was too skinny, but his arm squeezed her firmly, and released. Max smelled sharp. Sharp and clean. Old Spice, like always. Her face burned as she walked back to her table.
Danny had disappeared because of course he had. Greta’s eyes tracked through the crowd, looking for his shape, but couldn’t make him out anywhere. No one from the department had seen where her brother went, at least not with any level of surety.
“I think he went into the kitchen? Or out the door?” one of the other grad students said, as if offering multiple leads helped.
Maybe he lined up to get some lunch. Maybe he went to confront his ex in some sort of embarrassing encounter.
Greta cut sideways into a conversation Max was having with a middle-aged woman. It wasn’t until she had interposed herself that she realized it was Pam from the support group. “Oh, hey,” Greta muttered.
Pam raised an eyebrow, but Max’s annoyed glance changed when he saw the look on Greta’s face. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Meg?” Greta whispered.
Max raised his eyebrows and whispered something to his dad. When he turned back to Greta, he grabbed her hand. “Come on,” he urged, tugging her behind him through the clumps of people and past the tables laden with food. He did have doctor’s hands, she mused as she fell in step. What a waste. Long fingers, thin and nimble as they moved to wrap around hers. She didn’t need to be led, but she didn’t disentangle herself either.
The hush deepened as they got further from the luncheon crowd. They passed beyond a set of double doors. Greta cast her gaze to the left, then right, hoping for signs of her brother. “Listen, I’m sorry for coming to the house, but … I just screwed it up for them. I pushed her and pushed her, and … Are they back here?”
“No. She’s in the kitchen.”
“Then where is the kitchen?” Greta didn’t know why she cared so much, until she did know. Getting close to someone, allowing herself to want Meg to be a part of the family, that felt dangerous. That felt like a bigger decision than the one to change her research, to run off to Costa Rica, because it meant tying a knot, a bond that someone else had control over. Letting Meg in meant letting in the sweet patience, pure perseverance. They had started the relationship in a lie, but their relationship wasn’t a lie. Meg was good for Danny—and good for Greta. Just like Danny had forced Martha back into Greta’s life—helped them repair what had been broken—Greta wanted to fix this relationship too.
Max sighed. “Greta, if they are going to end it forever or start it again, they need to do it themselves. They need to love each other enough to have the argument, to air it all out.”
“But I fucked it up for them. Damn, is it wrong to say ‘fuck’ in a church?” Greta covered her mouth. “Sorry. Sorry again.”
“It is their love story, and the course of true love never did run smooth.”
“Is Shakespeare part of the graduation requirement now?”
Greta suddenly realized they were still holding hands, and the thought heated her cheeks. After a second, she squeezed his palm. He didn’t say anything in response, his eyes tracked on the doors and the moving bodies behind the small windows. She squeezed his hand again, and he looked over at her. “What?”
“I know your mother died, and I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for your family and for you. I’m sorry to drag you away from your father at the funeral, and I hate that this is the first time we’ve gotten to talk in ages.” She took a breath, “And I know that I’m a shitty person.”
She paused for a second, waiting for an argument that didn’t come. Instead, the hint of a smile appeared on Max’s lips. She qualified her own statement: “Or I can be. I will try to be less shitty. And you’re a good person, a better friend than I’ll ever deserve. I just miss talking to you or being with you, not talking to you.”
“Greta—”
“The biggest thing I worry is that I’m not really human enough. Like that Borg. Like the one th
ey take on the crew of the Voyager.”
“Seven of Nine.”
“Right, and I’m afraid you won’t notice that I’m trying to get better. It’s slow. I’m going to be slow.”
“My desk—” Max started.
Greta cut him off again. “I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff—”
Max looked impatient, “Greta, just let me talk.” He waited for her to nod her assent, and then continued. “My desk. Do you know how many times I’ve sorted through the stuff in there and culled the junk? You are not the junk. I chose to keep you every time.”
There wasn’t a single parallel universe that Greta would choose to live in that didn’t include knowing that.
* * *
Greta stayed until the end of the funeral luncheon, partly to help move the half a zillion floral arrangements and partly because Danny still hadn’t reappeared. Meg wasn’t in the kitchen, and neither were reachable. His phone was turned off. Max tried Meg’s phone and found a similar response, or lack thereof.
“Trust him. Trust them,” Max said after the guests had left.
Greta found that she did. She passed the time by helping Max’s father. While they packed, Max’s father shared stories of his wife that made Greta feel like crying and laughing all at once. Stories that made her wish that she knew her own mother better, that she knew Max better. When Max and his father left, Max hugged her tightly before he got into the car. “Thank you,” he said.
Danny and Meg still weren’t back, so she helped the church women wash chaffing dishes in the kitchen. If the newcomer surprised them, they didn’t mention it. It felt good to work. She pushed hard with the sponge on the baked-on cheese and washed marshmallow crème out of the small glass bowls.
Finally, three hours after they had left, Danny and Meg reappeared. Meg carried her heels in her hands, her stocking feet padding lightly on the tile floor. Danny’s suit coat was wrapped around her shoulders. “We went for a walk,” Danny said as explanation. “Sorry we took so long.”
Greta dried her soapy hands on her skirt. “It’s okay.”
Meg smiled at her. “It is, isn’t it?”
* * *
On a cold November day, a hostess led a party of five to a corner booth in the back of a crowded restaurant. Greta eyed the cowboy-themed advertisements like they were going to strip and dance. “If the waiters sing ‘Happy birthday,’ I am out of here.”
“Even if we get sundaes?” Danny pointed at the placemat, tapping the options with a finger. “Caramel and whipped cream? This one has crushed nuts.”
“Goody.” Greta sighed so loudly the table behind them glanced over.
Max’s thigh pressed against hers, and she caught his glance. He smiled at her, and after a deep breath, she returned it.
At five thirty on a Thursday, Hickory Park buzzed. High school–age waitresses sashayed past with families in tow, and children fought over coloring sheets and crayons. The smell of fried food made the air feel celebratory, like the state fair.
Tomorrow began a new adventure. Tomorrow Danny started his shift in the store in downtown Ames, where he first crawled onto a piano bench and started banging the keys. The principal had accepted his resignation, and the store offered him flexible hours. “Those who can’t do, teach. Those who can’t teach, sell,” Danny had said. Still, Greta thought someday a kid would come into the shop and he could whisper to the kid about how to adopt a barn piano. Danny knew a guy. Maybe someday Danny would be that guy.
The food arrived, and a few minutes later, a circle of off-pitch servers sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Martha. Greta saw Meg clasp Danny’s hand on the tabletop, and he whispered, after the servers left the candle-topped sundae in front of the group. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to palm this one,” he said to Greta.
Martha refused to blow the candle out. “You do it, Greta.”
“You need twenty-nine candles, Mom?” Max asked.
Martha laughed. He could get away with more than the rest of them. “Come on, Greta,” she said. “I can’t see how this is more embarrassing than being detained by customs.”
Greta blew out the candle and handed the ice cream dish back to her mother. “And I can’t believe that you keep bringing it up.”
Meg turned to Danny. “I guess you’re the kind of family to hold a grudge.”
“The fact that we’re any kind of anything is a miracle,” Greta said.
“I’m just here for the onion rings,” Danny said.
“Me too,” Meg said.
“The ice cream’s not bad either,” Greta said, and she let Max taste two bites of hers before telling him to order his own.
AFTERWARD
SPRING
Always better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Greta told the wedding party. Even better than that was to do the thing so no one would notice. She unlocked the front doors at five AM. Leanne and Ginger were late, so nothing kicked off until five thirty. Despite the delay, on a Sunday no one should notice four cars outside of a small building on a busy college campus, at least that was what Greta hoped. If nothing else, Greta could pull rank. She would be running the place in a few months, with Brandon leaving for Florida.
“Is it weird taking over from him?” Meg had asked her as they walked into the next department store.
Greta shrugged. “Why would it be? It’s temporary.” Instead of teaching, she was working at Reiman this spring and summer, at least until a replacement could be found. Some finagling of budgets and schedules had kept her on track to finish almost on time, but still a year behind Max.
The two of them were shopping for an outfit for Greta to wear and coming to an impasse. She wanted something to wear to commencement and the wedding, something as useful as her funeral skirt. Meg disapproved of Greta’s clothes-buying strategy of holding things against her without trying them on. Meg had called her a paper doll.
They passed through the lingerie section, and Meg paused at a bra display. She touched Greta’s arm and said, “I can’t believe it.”
Greta turned. “What?”
Meg pointed at the tiny icons along the white bra strap. “I guess it doesn’t say ‘don’t bake.’ Sure shows me.”
Greta laughed.
In the women’s section, Meg handed her an outfit. “Try this on.”
Greta held the clothes at arms’ length by the top curve of the hanger.
“It’s not radioactive.” Meg laughed.
Greta shot her a glance, but allowed herself to be shut in a dressing room. Inside the dressing room, Greta stepped into the outfit, felt the clothes cover the newly naked parts of herself. The navy pantsuit hugged her hippy frame and lengthened her already-long legs. Even her tousled short hair seemed more purposeful when paired with a flowy, pink button-down. She stared at the tri-mirrors reflected her body in a mise en abyme. Greta, almost smiling. Greta, repeated to eternity. Greta, hitting her head against the wall hook. “Ow. Damn,” she swore.
“Everything okay in there?”
Greta responded with a grunt, but after a second, the door clicked open again, and Greta faced Meg. “You look great,” she said, a huge smile on her face. “Melon is your color.”
“Melon is a fruit.”
“Well you should wear fruit more often.”
“Call me Carmen Miranda.” She flattened the pleats of the pants across her thighs, then spoke quickly, but louder, avoiding Meg’s eyes. “Can you take a picture? I want to text it to Max.”
Meg whistled. “Taking pics for him to hang in his apartment in Chicago?”
“Shut up,” she said, feeling her face color to match her shirt. “He just didn’t believe that I was allowed in the mall. That’s it. That’s the only reason.”
“And the hickey on your neck? That’s an accident?”
She slapped her neck like a mosquito had landed there. “There is not.”
“No,” Meg said. “But sisters like to tease. Trust me, I have two.”
“Jesus,”
Greta said, turning back into the dressing room to hide the barest grin on her face. “You’re already intolerable, and it’s not even official yet.”
* * *
Most weddings in Reiman were scheduled a year ahead of time and happened late in the evening. The parking lot was usually full, and the guests meandered from the front lobby past the emergence cages and through to the conference hall. After dark, who could see the flowers? For weddings at the Gardens, a clause in the contract stated brides and grooms stayed out of the butterfly wing. Most brides wore princess gowns that could trap the butterflies. Because of this, guests were in a place, but apart from it somehow. Not this wedding.
Greta swiped her card key and opened the wing. The group was only ten people, but they barely fit into the narrow passage at the entrance. Greta had to press her body against the door to avoid touching Meg’s dad. Meg’s sisters tittered. They both wore mid-thigh blue dresses. Greta gestured to the long list of rules on the wall. “I need to go over some guidelines before we enter,” Greta said, taking on a professional tone. “First, no touching the butterflies.”
“I don’t even see any butterflies, Gret,” Danny said.
Greta ignored him and adjusted her blouse. “Next, do not remove anything from the butterfly house. Stay on the path. Don’t piss me off.”
“I don’t think the last one is on the list,” Max said.
Greta glanced at the typed rules. “It’s being added. Okay, ready?”
The door clicked open, and the dome inside was still and quiet. Ginger checked the light balance with a test shot, squinting at her preview box on her camera. “It’s all glass in here, but with the sunrise we might have some issues …”
“Trust me,” Greta said. “You need to be here in the morning.”
Martha and Danny walked in front, leading the group forward into the sherbet light. They didn’t miss the sunrise, even with the delays. No, there were no bouquets—who needed it with a thousand tropical flowers? No, there was no organ, but the waterfall beat against the rocks in the quiet air. Meg’s gown wasn’t long, but the mid-calf wrap dress was white and intricately laced. The sweat on Danny’s forehead probably came as much from the humidity as it did from the nerves. No, it wasn’t a traditional wedding, but why replay tradition when what Danny and Meg made was new?
The Butterfly Effect Page 27