Flies on the Butter

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “Are you sure? There’s enough food at Mamaw’s to wipe out a quarter of world hunger.”

  She was certain that was true. “I just need a little while of just us. Me and you.” She still enjoyed being his shadow.

  “I’d like that. How about we go to Webster’s Manor and get the country-cooking buffet. Oh, I’m sorry. That’s right. You don’t eat meat anymore, do you?”

  That caused Rose to double over again. Except this time she could tell Christopher laughed only because she was laughing. When she regrouped, he asked, “Is that a yes or a no?”

  Rose’s stomach was beginning to remind her that she hadn’t eaten since the huge meal Daisy had forced upon her. Except for the midnight snack, of course. She smiled at thoughts of Abigail dancing around her family room, popping M&M’s into her mouth. “That’s a ‘why not?’”

  Christopher pulled the car into the parking lot of Webster’s Manor. The old Southern home on East James Street had been turned into a bed-and-breakfast years ago. They walked onto its large front porch and inside, across the hardwood floors. It was the beginning of the lunch crowd, and people in the South “did” lunch. Big lunches.

  After they got situated in a booth, Rose ordered a Coke.

  “You don’t drink Coke,” Christopher said as a declaration of truth, in case Rose had forgotten.

  “I do now. Again,” she said with a wink.

  When their drinks came, Rose took a long, hard swig. “Do you ever stop and think about all of the crazy things we used to do when we were little? Remember when you got me to chase Beth Beatty out of the yard with boxing gloves on?”

  “I was tired of her tormenting you on the bus every day,” he said, drinking his sweet tea.

  “Did it never cross your mind that my punishment would far outweigh my momentary satisfaction?”

  “What, Mom making you kiss and make up bothered you?” He laughed.

  Rose nodded and smiled. “That left me scarred.” She studied their surroundings. She enjoyed the Southern accents and the laughter around her.

  “Ever just wish you could do it all again?”

  His dark eyes looked at her with the wonderment he had when they were growing up. “Sometimes. Sometimes I think about playing baseball until Mamaw hollered for us to come in for dinner.”

  They got up to fill their plates.

  “You remember the time we were playing catch, and I told you to throw the ball harder, and it creamed me right in the nose? I bled for a good hour,” she accused.

  He smirked at her. “It was ten minutes at the most.”

  “Oh no, it was days . . .” She plopped a heaping pile of mashed potatoes on her plate and covered it with gravy.

  Christopher poured vinegar over his collard greens. “Do you remember when me and Tom Patterson shot the BB gun at the car? And the driver saw us when we did it, and he turned the car around and found us and told our parents?”

  “I remember you were scared.” She paused. “You were scared to death.”

  “Yes, I was.” He nodded.

  She spooned out some sweet potato casserole. It was a starch kind of day. “Do you remember that morbid song that Granddaddy used to sing to us about the little girl named Marion Parker who got killed?”

  He laughed one of those laughs of horror. “Who would make a song up about a dead child? It was so morbid.”

  “It was just wrong.”

  And over lunch they remembered. They remembered the place they had come from. They remembered the skinned knees and dime-store candy. They remembered the dreams of becoming Superman and Wonder Woman, or the next Donny and Marie, whichever found them first. They remembered the office they created in the attic and the fun they had in the world of make-believe and no responsibilities. And they just remembered everything that ever made them happy. Because Rose had realized home was now relegated to memories alone.

  And when they were through remembering, they talked about where they were. Rose told of her last encounter with Jack, and Christopher described his baby’s nursery in amazing detail, for a man.

  After eating her last bit of banana pudding, Rose sighed. Christopher placed the receipt in his pocket. Rose reached to pull her wrap around her shoulders. But it wasn’t there. Panic swept over her.

  She jumped in her seat. “My shawl! Christopher, my cashmere wrap! I was wearing it during the wreck. Where is it? I’ve got to get it! It has to be okay. Hurry, we’ve got to check the car! I don’t think it was in the suitcase.” Tears were about to explode from her eyes.

  They ran outside. He had the trunk open with a push of the button before they even reached the car. Rose jerked the suitcase open violently. She rummaged desperately but didn’t see the chocolate color anywhere. Frantically she shoved the suitcase back to make room to check the side pockets. Nothing.

  “Rosey. Rosey!” Christopher handed her what looked like a white kitchen garbage bag.

  She yanked it toward her and tore it open. Folded inside were the clothes and shoes she had on during the wreck, including her beautiful cashmere wrap. She pulled it to her face and breathed in deeply. It still had that familiar smell that she loved. The smell of home. She felt herself lose control once again. But she knew she needed this cry too.

  Christopher was still clueless about her emotion, but her patient brother just waited. Anyone who knew her well would understand that there were years of tears that still needed to come out of Rose.

  “I’m sorry, Christopher. It’s just . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain. Come on, let’s go.”

  Rose freshened her makeup in the car and then reclined her chair, exhausted. The rest of the trip to see Mamaw held little conversation. Instead, she just watched the streets of Mullins pass by and calmed her spirit as best she could.

  The Cox-Collins Funeral Home sign came into view. Cars had already begun to fill up the parking lot for the three o’clock service. Christopher pulled his car into a spot beside a black Ford Expedition. Rose didn’t notice the SUV, because she was looking at the door of the funeral home where her precious granddaddy was waiting, staring in her direction.

  She stepped out of the car, and her eyes filled with tears as she saw her granddaddy slowly lift his hand and the corner of his mouth turn up. As she shut the door and started up the sidewalk, a man in a black suit stepped out in front of her. She looked into his face. It was Jack. Her Jack. She tried to breathe.

  “Jack, I—”

  Jack placed his fingers over Rose’s lips. “Not now. Right now, let’s go see your granddaddy. He’s waiting on you.” He lightly touched her small Band-Aid, concern evident in his eyes. Then he brought his hand down and placed it gently around her own. It felt strangely perfect.

  “But I’ve got to know, Jack. I’ve got to know. What kind of music do you like?”

  “Rosey,” he laughed softly. “Baby, that’s not important right now.”

  She clutched his hand. “But it is, Jack. It’s so important. I can’t go in there unless I know.”

  “Okay, baby, calm down. I like old soft rock.”

  “Soft rock, huh?” She smiled.

  “Yeah, that’s what I like.”

  Then she nodded. And slowly they began to walk, Rose holding the hand of the man she loved. Followed by the man whom she had always loved. Walking toward the man who had always loved her. And surrounded by, for the first time, what she had so desperately longed for. Not being loved. No, Rose had always been loved. But knowing she was loved. She realized the big difference between the two. And for the first time since fear had invaded her life, it was now banished. Because for the first time in twenty years, Rose knew she was ready to love in return.

  Rose linked her free arm through her granddaddy’s as she reached his side.

  “How’s my Red?”

  “Alive, Granddaddy. Finally alive.” She tilted her head against his shoulder.

  “I can see that, baby girl.”

  “I know what kind of music Jack likes, Gran
ddaddy,” she whispered to him.

  He smiled his soft smile. “Ooh, that’s good, baby girl. Your mamaw wanted that.”

  He patted her hand, then noticed her Band-Aid. “What happened to my Red?”

  She returned the pat. She knew no one had told him of her accident. He didn’t need anything else to trouble him. “Just a boo-boo, Granddaddy. Nothing but a boo-boo.”

  He leaned over and kissed her softly on her head, as he always had. “Well, look at that beautiful shawl. You kept your mamaw’s shawl all these years?”

  “Wrapped it right around my heart.”

  She and Jack walked in cadence with his slow shuffle up the stairs. “Are you ready to see Mamaw?”

  Rose stopped when they reached the black-painted wooden door. She looked into her granddaddy’s eyes. Jack squeezed her hand. She breathed in and felt the air flow freely. “Yes, Grandaddy, I’m ready to see Mamaw.”

  And in Rose went to see Mamaw, for the last time.

  acknowledgments

  I’ve always been amazed at the mind’s ability to remember. There are even moments when you remember details that had been lost until the memory restored them. I’ve also been amazed at the power of a song. The power it has to move you. The power it has to make you smile. The power it has to make you remember. When I first heard Flies on the Butter by Wynonna Judd, I had to pull my car over so I could cry. No joke. I know I joke a lot, but that is the honest truth. The gospel truth, as my family would say.

  The song made me remember. It made me remember what happened before life became tainted with well, life. With never ending deadlines and a mind that doesn’t know how to shut off. It made me remember a time before love broke the heart and broken promises crushed the soul. It made me remember a time before responsibilities and mortgages. But it also let me me remember a time that if at all possible I would on many given days, when demands ensue, transport myself once again, to a world of Chinese Freeze-tag, the ice cream man and his pitiful sounding music, to a world before you had to watch for predators or walk home in groups. To a perfect time.

  I’d learned long before I heard those lyrics that you can’t go home again, not to the home that you once knew. Even had a rather comical conversation with my mother one night wishing I could just crawl back up into her womb. She wasn’t too sure my high heels would fit. But I hope that in the pages of this book you can at least for a moment be transported to the innocence of a life that once was, and realize that there is always redemption for the life that now is.

  Many thanks to the Thomas Nelson team—Allen, Heather, Natalie, Jennifer—for believing in the voice that I have come to develop even on days when I’m not sure there is anything left to say.

  To Mark Ross—you created one more beautiful cover.

  To Ami McConnell—I love your talent, I love your e-mails, and I love the fact that you really love this book.

  To Laura Wright—thank you for extending your beautiful talents my way.

  To Marjory Wentworth—thank you for your tireless efforts, endless energy, and wonderful abilities.

  To James Hodgin and David McCullom—thank you for believing in this vision and carrying it out as your own.

  To the songwriters—thank you for allowing people like me to be taken away by the power of a song.

  You Can’t Go Home Again (Flies on the Butter)

  Words and Music by Allen Shamblin, Austin Cunningham, and Chuck Cannon Copyright © 1998 by Famous Music LLC, Song Matters, Inc., Built On Rock Music, and Wacissa River Music, Inc. All rights for Song Matters, Inc. administered by Famous Music LLC. All rights for Built On Rock Music administered by ICG. All rights for Wacissa River Music, Inc. administered by BPJ Administration, P.O. Box 218061, Nashville, TN 37221-8061. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

  To my family—Thank you for giving me some of my most wonderful memories. It has been a joy to spend this last year thumbing through them again in my mind. I only hope my children will be able to one day do the same with theirs. You are my greatest treasures.

  To my friends—I would name you all again—but I believe I left a few out last time, so you know who you are. You are priceless to me. You as well have given me so many wonderful memories through this journey of life.

  To my husband—You are a part of my best memories. Even though we’ve had many painful ones along the way, they have brought us to an extraordinary place. And to finish out this life and its memories, there’s no one else I’d want to do that with than you.

  To my savior, Jesus Christ—I have to say—that I’m glad you’re not so great at remembering. I’m glad that you can forget as far as the east is from the west. And I’m glad that you remember what matters most: the depth of my love for you.

  And to the reader—I know this is a far piece, as we say in the South, from what you have come to be familiar with when picking up one of my books. However, sister needed to know that she could write about something other than crazy people from the South. Didn’t work out real well, because I just found another group of crazies! But my hope through this book is that our journey together affords you the ability to unearth some memories of your own. May most make you smile. And even if some make you cry, take a moment to forgive or to let someone forgive you. And after you’ve finished laughing or crying, don’t forget to swat good and hard at those flies on the butter!

  Blessings,

  Denise

  Reading Group Guide

  1. The line from the song says, “You can dream about it every now and then. But you can’t go home again.” What does “home” represent in this story? Have you ever felt as though you couldn’t “go home” again?

  2. Rose feels as if everything in her life has to be perfect and of high quality—her home, her food, her clothes, her car, her marriage. What do you think she is trying to cover up with the perception of a perfect life? How does the pressure of having a “perfect life” haunt her?

  3. The characters of Granddaddy and Mamaw are so central and grounding for many of the other characters in the story. In what ways do you think these two most influence their children and grandchildren?

  4. Rose’s need to be in control permeates every area of her life. Why do you think she always needs to be in control? Can you identify with Rose’s need for control in your own life?

  5. Why do you think Rose doesn’t want to have children? Why does she hide that fear from Jack?

  6. How would you describe Rose’s relationship with Charlotte? With Christopher?

  7. Why do you think it makes Rose so upset to be called “irritable”?

  8. Rose feels as if no one—not even Jack—really knows her. Why do you think she is so restless in her identity? How does Rose prevent others from really knowing her? In what ways can you identify with Rose’s struggle with identity?

  9. Why do you think Rose gave in to an affair with Richard? What do you think she was looking for?

  10. Do you think that Rose wanted to be honest with Jack? If so, what held her back? Why didn’t Rose think Jack could forgive her?

  11. Rose refuses to forgive her mother’s affair, yet she chooses the same destructive path for herself. Do you think Rose’s refusal to deal with her mother’s affair influenced her choices?

  12. Often, being in the company of family allows you to see the both the good and the bad in yourself—as if looking into a mirror. Why do you think Rose has chosen to distance herself from her family, both geographically and emotionally?

  13. In this book, Rose embarks on a journey home—both literally and spiritually. Along the way, many people influence her journey. What roles did Herschel, Daisy the waitress, Pastor Lionel, and Abigail play in Rose’s journey home?

  14. Why do you think Rose needed to hear, and was moved by, Abigail’s retelling of the story of Joseph?

  15. What do you think is the significance of the title, Flies on the Butter?

  Come experience this hilarious and touching series where one woman attempts to make a pl
ace for herself in the charming town of Savannah, Georgia.