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| short story: Butterfly Wings |
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“I just finished puttin’ up that picture Martha, don’t you go behind me woman and take it down again.” Frank spoke to the air not realizing his wife Martha was in the kitchen and not in the parlor as he had thought. “What was that dear? I was in the kitchen.” Martha padded into the parlor. She had made a fresh pitcher of her special sweet tea and brought a tall glass of it to Frank. In the past, before the effects of arthritis, she would have brought in a tray complete with pitcher, glasses and ice. But although she could only manage the one glass per trip, the familiar smell of the tea, the sugar, the lemon and the fresh mint from their garden mingled in her senses and made her feel contented. “I told you I put up that picture and I don’t want you takin’ it back down again. I’m not puttin’ it back up if’n you do.” Martha took her deep breath, the one she always takes when Frank riles her. ‘My lord, I must take at least two hundred a day!’, she thought and that made her smile. “And don’t you go laughin’ at me woman. I mean it, when I say it, I mean it!” Deep breath: “I know dear. And the picture looks wonderful. And it fell if you remember. I would never take that down.” “Fell? When?” Frank looked flustered and turned to look at the picture he’d just hung. In wanting to vindicate herself she made the mistake of confusing him. It was best to go with him on his tirades else he would become agitated. “Beautiful dear, just beautiful. Here, I brought you some tea.” She hoped her diversion would be successful. Touching his arm lightly as she passed, she stood in front of the picture and admired it closely for the first time in ages. Frank took a deep drink, the ice and the mint going straight to his head, cooling away all confusion. The sweetness of the sugar and the tartness of the lemon revived him and he forgot about his forgetting. “Mm–mm woman, you do make the meanest ice tea in Georgia.” “I haven’t looked at this in years. It really is beautiful.” Martha said. “You know, I remember the day she painted it, too. Clear as a bell.” Frank’s chest swelled with the confidence of a clearly remembered thought. The irony of it: he could remember things from decades back as clearly as yesterday. But the recent was lost. Martha’s hand went to her chest which had tightened instantly at the thought of their daughter. Of course not a day went by that she didn’t think of her hundreds of times although she had been gone nearly fifty year now. But the thought of her on that day: in the sunlight, on the farm, with her blonde hair blowing in the summer breeze and freckles popping out on her nose made Martha’s heart speed. Edna made it speed with her youth and her freshness.
***
“Mama! Mama, I painted you something!” Edna’s breath was quick but at her age she could run without stop, it seemed. Her young legs were long and straight like those of a foal she was growing so fast. She ran to the hay barn where her father was setting out bales for the cattle. “Daddy, where’s Mama? I gotta show her somethin’, it’s important.” Frank looked up to see his girl. She ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, he always told her. Her sweaty blonde hair was stuck to her forehead and neck and she clutched a piece of paper in her tiny hand. “Don’t go gettin’ all excited girl, you’ll flip yer wig!” “I don’t wear a wig, Daddy.” Edna exhaled and cocked one small hip to the side. Frank secretly smiled. He loved getting her dander up. “Where is she, Daddy? I gotta show her!” “Now calm down, Chicken. She’s up in the house makin’ preserves. Whatever you’ve gone and drawn this time can wait. She’s doing real work.” “Uh – …”, Edna protested, …”it’s not no drawin’, it’s a paintin’. And Mama has got to see it because it’s her favorite thing.” “Oh, so it’s a paintin’ of me, then is it?” “No, Daddy. It’s a paintin’ of a butterfly. Mama’s favorite thing.” “Now girl, it’s too hot to argue with you. She’s working and you best leave her alone. Your little paintin’ can wait ‘til supper time.” “Why don’t you like my paintins’ Daddy? You never look at ‘em.” “Well I guess I’ll have time to look at paintins’ when the cows are fed and the hay is baled and when the eggs are collected.” “But that’ll be never!” “Exactly. A farmer’s work is never done. And if he had a good girl who would help him instead of daydreamin’ about butterflies, he might git finished.” “But just look at it, Daddy. Just look at it and tell me if Mama will like it. One little ole minute won’t kill the chickens and the cows, will it?” Frank exhaled loudly as the sweat dripped from his head. Edna’s little brow was knitted tight. He may as well look at the thing or she’ll never give me rest, he thought. He pulled his handkerchief from his overalls pocket and wiped his forehead. It did no use. In this August heat a man could very well near melt. “Alright girl, let’s see it.” He groaned down onto one of the bales and Edna skipped over to him. “Daddy, you gotta dry your hands first, I don’t want you getting’ it dirty!” “You do test my nerves girl.” He wiped his hands on the tops of his thighs and held them out for Edna to inspect. With a scrunched nose Edna said, “Well, maybe I’ll just hold it and you can look at it from here.” Frank looked at the small piece of paper Edna displayed as if it were the Declaration of Independence. On it was a butterfly. The butterfly was perched on a blade of grass and was vividly colored orange, brown and yellow. It was a small image but the likeness was uncanny. For a girl of eight, she did have the knack for painting, Frank thought. Too bad she didn’t have the knack for working. “Well, that sure is pretty, Edna. Now be a good girl and let me get back to my chores.” “But Daddy, you gotta tell me if Mama is gonna like it! You promised.” Edna whined. Her shrill little voice echoed up into the hayloft. “Yes Edna, your mama is sure gonna like that. Butterflies is one of her favorite things.” “It’s her most favorite thing in the world and you know it!” As Edna finished her sentence she saw her father smiling like a fox. He was getting her dander up again. “Daddy, you’re dirtier than a pig in a pen!” Frank laughed out loud and pulled Edna in for a hug. Her tiny frame was wispy and hot. Her thin, cotton clothes were soaked through with sweat. As Frank held her at arms length, Edna pulled away a strand of hair that was stuck to her cheek. Her face was balled up in a sulk. Sullenly she said, “Don’t wrinkly my paintin’, Daddy.” “Ok, ok. I do know that your mama loves butterflies and that one is just about the prettiest one I ever saw.” “You mean it, Daddy?” Her eyes opened wide. “Yessiree I do. That is a beautiful butterfly indeed. I especially like its wings. They’re just like on the ones that fly through here this time of year.” She was happy again. The sulk had lasted no more than a minute. She beamed, stood straight and admired her little painting again. “But will Mama really like it?” “Of course she will. She’s a good mama, ain’t she?” “Yeah.” “Well, then, no question at’tall, she’ll like it. Now, instead of botherin’ her while she works, why don’t you come help your old paw with his chores. This heat is just about to wear me out.” “But I want to show her.” Her little face looked piqued again. Frank felt his patience wearing thin but wanted more than anything to avoid a tearful fit. “You can show her at suppertime you know.” “You don’t think she’d want to see it now? It’s her most favorite thing?” Edna was vexed between her desire to show her mother and the aching tug of what might be the right thing to do. “Whatever you decide, girl. But I got to get back. This hay ain’t gonna carry itself out to the back pasture.” “I think I’m gonna go show her now since it’s her most favorite, okay?” “Alright, girl. And then you can help her with the cannin’.” As Frank stood he groaned. His stiff back needed time to straighten out. Edna threw her thin arms around his waist and hugged him as tightly as she could. He laughed and swatted her behind when she let go. He could not get over how much she was like his sister June. Junie could play by herself all the day through as long as she had a notebook to write in. Junie wrote songs, poems, anything to get out of work, Frank thought. Edna giggled and swatted at his arm as he hoisted the last bale onto the tractor and climbed up to the seat. “Wanna ride out with me?” “Daddy, can’t you remember nothin’, I’m going to show Mama!” “Oh, alright. Then do some work, you hear?” As Frank put the tractor in gear he watched over his shoulder until Edna had run a few yards off on her way up to the house. What he didn’t know was that in Edna’s mind his words about disturbing her mother at work were replaying. Edna stopped and innocently wondered if it wouldn’t be better to present the painting to her mother as a gift at suppertime. Edna could visualize it: a fresh plate of homemade biscuits, a pitcher of sweet tea with beads of condensation rolling off the sides: and at the center of the table, propped against the wildflowers that served as an informal centerpiece was her painting. That was it! This way she could also ride alongside her father on the tractor to the back pasture, one of her favorite things. Without another thought, Edna turned on a dime, her little legs so quick and agile, and headed back in the direction of her father. The tractor roared yet Edna had been so deep in thought she hadn’t realized how near the tractor she still was. Frank felt it instantly and screamed. His scream was so loud that Martha could hear it up in the house and over the roar of the tractor. Frank ran at inhuman speed to the general store a mile away to call for the doctor. Doctor Whitehead tried his best to comfort the couple over the loss of their only child by telling them she went quickly and most likely with no pain.
***
Frank smiled sweetly and waited for his lips to stop trembling before he spoke again. “It’s as hot today as it was that day, for sure. Yessiree it is.” Martha was far away in thought. She heard Frank’s words as if they were in a dream. She too could remember that day like it was yesterday, she thought ruefully. As Martha stood in front of the painting, the sun moved from behind a cloud and filled the entire room with a burst of clear, hot light. She saw her reflection in the glass of the frame. Years ago, in the corner of the painting in neat, small letters Frank had written: Butterfly Wings by Edna. As hot tears rolled down Martha’s cheeks she smiled at the thought: they were indeed her most favorite thing in the world.
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Posted by cynthiapierce on 2007-09-06 02:35:01 | Rating: | Views: 265
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