by L. E. Rico
“Someday, a long, long time from now,” she’d say when we helped her plant the summer annuals in the front yard, “you girls will be on your own. But you’ll never be alone. You’ll always have one another…and when you really, really need me, just look for the butterflies.”
We didn’t get it then, just dismissed it as our mother getting all sappy and emotional. We’d chuckle and roll our eyes. But then, not too long after that summer, she was gone, leaving the four of us with our father. In the years since she—and, subsequently, he—died, we’ve amassed a huge jar of “pennies from heaven,” regularly gift one another with cardinal-themed gifts, and keep an eye out for the odd feather, floating down from the clouds.
Right now, I’m standing in this tent-turned-oasis, complete with a gurgling fountain, soft lighting and soothing music. As I look up, I see them everywhere—butterflies of all shapes and sizes, hundreds of them—fluttering and flitting and sitting on the netting that tops the tent. I exhale on a sigh and feel, with blessed relief, the exodus of my anger and fear and stress and pain. When I inhale again, I’m filled with a calm that I’ve not felt in months…maybe years.
My sisters are somewhere, exploring and having their own unique experience as I hover close to a quiet, empty corner. I close my eyes and extend both arms out, palms toward the sky, and I wait. It doesn’t take long. Within a minute, I feel a tickle on my left forearm. When I open my eyes again, there’s a stunning creature in black and yellow. I gasp and then freeze, not wanting to scare it away. I’m still staring at it, transfixed, when another one lands on my right palm. This one is orange and white and black. No sooner have I noted that one, then another, and another and another have all alighted upon my arms, my fingers, my shoulders, my hair.
They simply rest there, opening and closing their rainbow wings occasionally, scooting a millimeter this way or that—one pushing off every now and then to deliver its message to someone else. I breathe…in…and out. In…and out. I close my eyes and feel the tears slip down my cheeks, a salty zing on my lips as they pass by, unchecked, as I remain rooted in this position.
“Oh…Oh, sweet Jesus,” I hear Henny say from somewhere close by. “Walker…look! Look at Jameson!”
“What the…” Walker responds in muted awe.
In…and out. In…and out. I smile through the tears and allow the butterfly wings to brush it all away.
“Thank you, Mama,” I whisper so only she can hear. “Thank you.”
Scott: “Hey, Siri, I think I’m in love with my brother’s ex-wife.”
Siri: “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, Scott.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scott
I don’t know what happened in between the airplanes and the teacups, but Jameson has undergone some sort of a transformation. As we wait behind the ropes of the parade route, Jackson safely perched atop my shoulders, she looks better than she has in days—certainly better than she did a few hours ago. In fact, she’s holding up better than I am.
I keep hearing Win’s voice in my head: “I knew all along.” But I haven’t told Jameson about it. She’s had more drama than anyone should have to endure today, and I’m not about to add to it.
“How’s it going up there, Jackson?” she asks, reaching out to grab the toddler’s hand.
“Uppy, Mama! Uppy!” he crows happily. I can feel him twisting and turning this way and that, taking in the lights and sounds and people all around us.
“Yes, baby! You’re uppy with Unca Sock!”
“Uncaaaaaa!” he squawks happily, thumping on my head with his palms and kicking his tiny-sneakered feet against my chest.
“Hey, take it easy, big guy!” I chuckle, and when I look down again, Jameson is smiling up at me. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she repeats. “Thank you for finding him,” she says softly.
“You’re welcome. You okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, I am. I had a little…message—you might say—from my mother.”
“Your…dearly departed mother?”
“That’d be the one.”
“I see…”
“Oh, don’t look so concerned. I’m not losing it, Scott. It was just a little…a little sign from heaven that everything’s going to be all right.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“Everything. With Jackson, with Win, with you…”
“With me?” I ask a little too quickly.
“Uh-huh,” she says softly, slipping her small hand into mine, giving it a squeeze, and then leaving it there.
“I think maybe I need to start reading more signs,” I reply, holding onto her tightly.
“Here they come!” Hennessy says, excitedly from next to us. She catches sight of Jameson and me holding hands and winks at me before turning toward the marching band headed our way.
The band is followed by the baton-twirlers, flag-flippers and high-kickers, then the local police and fire departments. All around us, people are cheering and clapping, but when the first of the royal floats appears, everyone erupts into a frenzy.
“Baaaaaillllley!” Hennessy screams from the sidelines as the Midwestern Dairy float lumbers past. “Baaaaaillllley!”
The youngest O’Halloran is seated on a throne, waving her white-gloved hand at the masses of people lining the parade route. No doubt about it, Princess Mary is the most popular of the princesses. The float has been made to look like a giant stick of butter, and several unfortunate individuals dressed up like assorted dairy products are standing all around her, throwing baby cheese wheels to the cheering crowd.
“Umm, what exactly is the guy on the left supposed to be? The one who looks kinda like a turd?” Bryan asks, tilting his head as if a different angle might help bring it into focus for him.
“Seriously? I can’t believe you can’t see it now that you’ve tried it! That’s a cheese curd, Bryan,” Hennessy answers him impatiently.
“Oh!” he says, brows going up in sudden recognition. “That’s supposed to be batter? Looks more like fur…like he’s moldy or something.”
I see she wants to rebuke him, but after another glance at the faux curd on the float, she just laughs and shakes her head.
They make similar proclamations about the girl dressed as an ear of corn on the float for Princess Reed of Midwestern Feed and the lanky blond teen who’s been wrangled to pose as a can of whipped cream for Princess Di of Midwestern Pie.
“But isn’t cream considered a dairy product?” Bryan is asking. “I mean, I get the whipped cream/pie connection, but that seems like cheating to me…”
“Oh, that’s not real whipped cream,” Walker pipes up from just behind us. “Look closely. The can says ‘whipped topping,’ not ‘whipped cream.’”
“Hah!” Bryan exclaims, smacking his thigh. “You’re right, Walker! Look at that…”
I have to admit, watching Bryan experience his first Magawa County Fair is pretty amusing, and he’s been a great diversion from my thoughts of Win. And how I’m going to kill him.
“Ugh, here comes Maddie,” Hennessy mutters and shakes her head in disgust.
“Ohhhhh yeahhhhh,” Walker says, rubbing her hands together like a mad scientist.
“What?” Jameson asks suspiciously. “What did you do, Walker?”
Her younger sister shrugs and flashes an enigmatic smile. Oh, that cannot be good…but, whatever it is, I suspect it’s too late to do anything about it. And I’m right.
The last float to rumble by is Princess Drew of Midwestern Brew. Seated in the center is none other than Maddie Jenilecki. Her hair is back in place, appropriately glittery and bouncy as she waves from her throne. The party trick here, though, is that her throne sits on a platform overlooking a giant beer stein. The faux drinking vessel is easily six feet high, constructed of some sort of clear plastic meant to look like glass. Rather than simply “paint” the ale inside of the glass, the Midwestern Brew folks opted for a more realistic touch, filling it with amber-colored water. T
hey even went the extra mile, constructing fake foam to float atop it, simulating the head.
I’m looped, for sure, but not so far gone that I don’t notice the guy driving this particular float. As we approach, he gives the thumbs-up sign out toward the crowd. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was directed right at Walker O’Halloran. Clearly, I don’t know better because she nods in response. The pieces of the puzzle are starting to click together as the vehicle glides past us…and then slams to a jarring, bone-rattling halt.
It all transpires as if I’m watching it in slow motion. The abrupt stop isn’t enough to fling anyone from the float, but it is enough to upset the balance of the fifteen or so actors dressed up in tights and petals meant to simulate hops. They tumble forward onto one another, forming a giant, writhing hop heap.
But the real mishap here—the proverbial train wreck that you just can’t look away from—is Princess Drew herself. Without a seat belt to restrain her, the momentum—coupled with her slippery, satiny dress—sends the pouting princess skidding right off the throne…and smack into the beer stein. And I do mean into the beer stein. For a split second, she’s suspended atop the Styrofoam beer “head” floating on the liquid. But only for a split second—because it can’t support her weight any longer than that.
The crowd looks on in horror, offering a collective, horrified gasp as the foam cracks with a loud crunching sound and Maddie slips down into the colored water. Her long pink dress billows out around her, and her newly repaired hair unfurls and floats out of its crown of curls. Now she looks like one of those women who dress up like mermaids and swim around in the tank at Pirate Jerry’s Restaurant.
Maddie, who happens to be a good swimmer, pushes off the bottom of the fake glass with enough momentum to rise up out of the foam surface like some kind of scrawny, bedraggled Orca whale at Sea World. Horror turns to delight as onlookers presume the whole thing was intentional. Suddenly people all around us are cheering and applauding. Maddie hoists herself up over the lip of the stein and, with the help of two recovered hops, is pulled back out onto the float and lifted onto her throne with an unceremonious splat. The whole thing takes less than thirty seconds, and by the time our enraged Princess Drew is swiping at the hair plastered to her face, the float is in motion again.
Walker lets out a whistle loud enough to attract attention from several people, including the Princess, whose eyes narrow when she spots us standing directly at the site of her dethronement. Walker waves as the rest of us look on in stunned, horrified…worshipful silence. This woman is a genius. An evil one for sure, but still a genius.
“Okay,” she says with an impish grin, “I’m ready to go.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jameson
Father Romance seems to be moving a little slowly today, and it’s no wonder considering there were nearly a hundred entrants into the “Best in Brew” awards at the Midwestern Brew tent. Now he’s trying hard to hide a yawn behind his forearm as he shows me into his office. I can’t help but notice his eyes are a little redder than usual, too.
Still, he didn’t take a heartbeat to agree to meet me here this morning. We often have our heart-to-hearts at the pub but I need a little privacy. There’s a lot going on in my head—and my heart—and I need some objective help sorting through it all. And, as much as I love my sisters, objectivity isn’t their strong suit. Nor is it mine.
“Come in, come in,” Father Romance says, ushering me into his office. I take a seat across from him at his desk. “So, what is it I can do for you this morning, my dear?”
I take a deep breath and contemplate how best to start.
“Oh, wow, this is harder to say than I thought it would be…” I confess.
“Is it about the feelings you’re having for Scott Clarke?” he asks. I stare at him for a long moment in an open-mouthed gape. “Or is it Win carrying on with Maddie Jenelecki?”
“How could you possibly—?”
He sits back in his chair and looks upwards toward the heavens, his index finger pointing in the same direction.
I gulp and close my eyes for long moment before speaking again…very slowly and very softly. “Father…are you telling me that…that God Himself told you? About…me?”
Oh, please don’t tell me he knows about all the very un-holy thoughts I’ve been having about my ex-brother-in-law!
When I open my eyes again, the priest is looking at me, brows knitted in confusion.
“My dear, what on earth are you—? Oh!” I see it the second he realizes what I’m talking about and a huge grin spreads across his face. “Oh, child! No. No, no, no.” He’s laughing and waving his hand at me. “No, Jameson, I meant Phyllis Pfeffernusse! You know her—she runs the nursery upstairs? Not a thing happens in this town that she doesn’t take note of. And pass along to me…” He straightens up and clears his throat, getting serious all of a sudden. “So that I can keep our parishioners in my daily prayers, of course…”
“Of course…” I murmur, wondering just how much Phyllis Pfeffer-nosy has heard. And seen. And blabbed.
“But, truth be told, Jameson, it’s not hard to figure out what’s been going on.” He folds his arms on the ink blotter and gives me his best reassuring smile, which does absolutely nothing to reassure me. “Anyone who’s been in the same room as the two of you can literally hear the air crackling between you.”
“It’s all that…that obvious?” I ask in disbelief.
“Only to someone who knows the whole story.”
“Which whole story?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Oh. So you do know the whole story then? About Win being adopted?”
“I’ve had my suspicions. Have for years. I must say, as much respect as I have for Big Win and Margie—God rest her soul—I always believed they should’ve told those boys early on. But, with the complications of Win’s parentage and all, I certainly understand why they chose not to.”
“Yes, well, it’s been quite a rollercoaster ride for Scott, that’s for sure.”
“And for you,” he adds. “What is it that you’re finding most difficult to deal with, Jameson?”
I look down at my hands in my lap, unable to meet his piercing black eyes. “It’s just that my guilt is overwhelming, Father. Hasn’t Jackson’s life been upended enough already? I’m not sure I should be entertaining the idea of a relationship with his uncle. Besides which, I hardly know him. Right? This is crazy.” I start to get up, as if I’ve answered my own question, but he reaches across the desk and puts a warm hand on mine before I can stand.
“Don’t you, Jameson?”
This time there’s no escaping his penetrating gaze. “Don’t I what, Father?”
“Don’t you know him?”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “This is the most time I’ve spent with him since we were… Oh, I don’t know…I suppose since we were children.”
He smiles at me. “Exactly.”
I have no clue what he’s getting at, and I’m starting to suspect he’s maybe not so much hung over as still a little tipsy. “Father, I don’t—”
“Jameson, let me be frank with you here,” he interrupts. “You know very well that divorce is not something we take lightly in the Catholic Church. But you and I spoke at length before you left Win, and you gave me a clear, compelling case for abandoning your wedding vows.” I wince at the word abandoning. But he’s right. That’s exactly what I did.
“Now,” he continues, “if I’d believed—for even a moment—that your marriage could be rectified, I would have advised you to stick it out. But I didn’t see any willingness in Win to change. Quite frankly, I still don’t.” He sits back in his tall leather chair and folds his hands on the desktop. “So, there’s one Clarke brother dispatched with. As to the other…what, exactly, are your feelings for Scott?”
I take a long several seconds to consider how best to explain this to him. Finally, the perfect analogy comes to mind.
“So,” I beg
in tentatively, “within the muscle of the heart, there are all these little…bridges, I guess you could say…between the major arteries and their branches. They’re an intricate system of tiny blood vessels that redirect the flow of blood around a blockage so that heart function isn’t diminished. Think of them like surface streets between major highways. Sometimes you have to get onto them in order to avoid a nasty traffic jam.”
Father Romance is listening intently, following along with my every word, but I can see he’s waiting for it all to click into place.
“Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with Scott. And me. Well, it’s the best way I can think of to describe to you what it was like that first second that he walked into the pub last week. It was as if my heart had been blocked—congested by the roadblock of my marriage and my divorce. But then Scott came along, and suddenly all these alternate avenues opened up…” I’m forced to pause here by a lump in my throat that seems to be growing larger by the second. “Umm…yeah, so, just like that, my heart felt full again. Alive and strong and beating and pumping blood to parts of me that were starving for it. Father—I didn’t know how badly I needed him until he came into my life. And now that he’s here, I don’t…I don’t think my heart could take it if I lost him.”
He stares at me, with those eyes that are so dark you can’t make out the irises. His head is slightly tilted, too, as if he’s considering how best to proceed. As if I’m some riddle to be solved. That’s what it looks like, anyway. Though that’s not what it turns out to be.
“Well, then, young lady…I think you’ve answered your own question. You’re not conflicted at all. You know exactly how you feel and exactly what needs to be done. You’re just not sure how to do it.”
And, once again, Father Romance brings it all into sharp focus.
Chapter Thirty
Scott
Hot water is never a given in my line of work. In fact, it’s a rarity, so I’ve been seizing every opportunity to have long, steamy showers. This morning I’m pretty well puckered when I hear the iPhone ring. Normally I wouldn’t bother rushing to get it…but it’s got a weird ring going on, and when I stick my head out to have a look-see, a picture of Jameson is staring back at me from the screen. I recall the feeling of her hand in mine, little Jackson up on my shoulders, and I smile. I turn the water off and get out, grabbing a towel as I do. Then I hit the button to put it on speaker so I can dry off and place the phone up onto the toothbrush holder cemented into the tile above the sink.