Author: fallensea
Category: Thriller
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“Ronnie was caught driving my bike without a license,” Dermott told, his smile unapologetic. “Or at least, trying to. I should have put training wheels on the bike. It was Armageddon for the hedges on my street.”
Bothered, I decided it was best to ignore him, and I turned away from the conversation, wishing I had my arrows on me.
“So you along for the ride?” the woman asked Dermott.
“Something like that. What about you?”
“Shoplifting,” she said. “The owner of the store said he wouldn’t press no charges if I volunteered for this shit.”
“What did ya steal?”
“Can’t even remember. I just steal to steal.”
“So it wasn’t your first time?”
She puckered in amusement. “Hells no,” she said proudly.
“Ronnie here is a thief too,” Dermott proclaimed. I rolled my eyes, knowing what was coming next. “She stole my heart.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Hey, if you don’t like it, give another sister a chance,” the woman said. “I know plenty on the inside who’d want a man like him waiting on the outside.”
I looked at Dermott, at his bulky arms that kept me safe when we slept and the sincerity that curtained his eyes. “No, I’ll keep him,” I decided, relaxing.
“Does this mean you forgive me for making you drive my bike?”
“For now.”
“Good,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Because when we’re done here, I was thinking of taking you down to the bayou to try again—”
I went to throw the water bottle I held at him, but it wasn’t as empty as I’d thought. A butterfly rested at the bottom, its wings yellow and grey. I shook the bottle, trying to wake it from its sleep.
“It ain’t sleeping,” the woman next to us observed. “It’s dead.”
I looked closer. “I’m pretty sure it’s just hibernating.”
“Not this late in the season. It’s dead. Probably got trapped in the bottle and died in the heat.”
“That’s sad,” I said, shaking the bottle again, watching the butterfly slide against the plastic, refusing to wake. “I was going to take it home.”
Seeing I was upset, Dermott took the bottle from me and threw it far into the brush.
“Hey!” I objected, but I was interrupted by the woman.
“You were gonna take that home?” she drilled, judging me with spite. “Why? To pin it on a wall so you can stare at a pretty little thing all day?”
“No,” I answered vaguely. I didn’t owe the woman an explanation.
She pointed to the sparrow tattooed on her face. “See this shit? I inked it myself when I was young because I thought it was a pretty little thing, but it ain’t real. There’s nothing pretty in this world. It’s all filth, like this shit we’re cleaning up.”
“Of course it’s not pretty,” I said, matching her intensity. “We’re not entitled to pretty. When you look at your tattoo in the mirror, don’t look for a pretty little thing. Don’t feel bitter because the world isn’t delivering on the promises made to us when we’re young. Look at your tattoo and see the wings.”
“Why would I give a flying fuck about the wings?”
“Pun intended?” Dermott asked, but he was met with scorn.
Talking with the woman was a battle, but I was used to her resistance. I’d experienced it many times at the shelter. “You know why I wanted to take the butterfly home?” I asked, dropping my trash bag. “Because I was going to donate it to the science room at the elementary school near where I work. But my motive wasn’t science. My hope was that when little girls saw it, they’d be reminded that the wings they wear don’t have to be angelic. They don’t have to be pretty or majestic. Like the tattered wings of that grey and yellow butterfly, like the brown feathers of your sparrow tattoo, the wings we wear have to be our own, no matter what they look like to others.”
The woman stood down. “You’d never make it on the inside. You’re too soft.”
Dermott looked out onto the brush. “I’ll go get the water bottle,” he said, but I grabbed his arm.
“No, it’s okay. There are probably worse things than butterflies in those bushes.”
“Like bones,” the woman offered.
“There’s no bones in the bushes,” Dermott asserted. “Just butterflies.”
“Dead butterflies,” the woman corrected. “I think that’s my next tattoo. Thanks, softie.”
Forgetting the woman, Dermott ran a finger across the freckles on my nose. “You’re beautiful, no matter what wings you wear,” he said. Then, to my utter shock, he took my hand and said, “Marry me, Ronnie.”
He spoke so casually, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not. “After ten months?” I asked skeptically.
“I know what I want,” he proclaimed. “Marry me.”
His proposal was real. He stood tall, guarding me from the harsh sun. There was no bended knee. No ring. But it was real. Knowing he valued me enough to stick with me the rest of our lives filled me with a newfound warmth, one the sun could not compete with.
“No,” I said, despite the warmth. “Not right now. Is that okay?”
Dermott was the most easygoing person I knew. I expected him to take my rejection in stride, to put his arm around my shoulders and crack some awful joke to break the tension. I did not expect the hurt that crippled his face.
“It’s okay,” he said, stepping back as if he were avoiding hollow land.
It bothered me, but I tried not to let it show.
“You shouldn’t have proposed in the dirt,” the woman whipped. “Next time, try diamonds.”
“She doesn’t like diamonds,” Dermott said, keeping his eyes on me. I was now a thing of caution.
“Well, I love diamonds. Tonight, I’ll be lighting my cigar with them.”
I doubted she would, but I didn’t tell her that. I grabbed Dermott’s shirt, and I pulled him further down the fence so we could have some privacy.
“Is it okay?” I asked. “Because I know I want to be with you. I don’t need a preacher telling us we’re okay, that we’ll last. I know we’ll last. I know it every day.”
“So it’s marriage you’re nervous about, not me?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. It was the truth, but it wasn’t the only truth. It was more than marriage I struggled against. It was everything that came with it—including the family. Especially the family. I could not see myself having kids. That could change, perhaps once I felt a sense of achievement in my own life, but it might not change. By avoiding marriage, I avoided all the questions I could not yet answer—questions that may ultimately lead to me losing Dermott, the man I loved like the gators loved the bayou, an apple its tree.
To reassure me, Dermott took me in his arms and kissed me in a way that set the dirt aflame.
“It’s okay,” he insisted afterward. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” I said, steadying myself in his arms.
And it would have been, if I believed him.
***
I needed solitude. I had considered riding the bus back and forth until I was due at the shelter for my shift, but I knew that if I were to run into Mrs. Fischer, my tolerance of her would implode, so I settled for the stone bridge in the park, thankful the school day kept the park mostly clear, except for a few joggers and a homeless man with his rucksack. I looked across the green, but I saw very little, my thoughts distracted.
“I knew I’d find you here,” Dermott hollered from below. I had not seen him come.
Letting my emotions lead me, I raised my bow and shot him with a foam arrow. It was an easy shot. The arrow bounced off his chest.
Dermott didn’t flinch. “Have you ever tried shooting a real arrow?” he asked.
“Would you prefer I shot a real arrow at you?” I returned.
“Good point,” he said. “Can I come up?”
“Fine,” I agreed, but as soon as he appeared from the top of the stairwell,
I shot him with another arrow, because it felt good.
“You snuck away while I was sleeping. You never sneak away from a bear cuddle. What’s wrong?”
I love you, more than I’ve loved anyone, but I can’t give you what you want.
“You were making those pirate noises in your sleep again,” I said, avoiding the truth.
He tried to keep a straight face, but I could see a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And?” he asked.
“And I drank the rest of the bourbon in the cabinet.”
“And...”
“And I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Oh.” His grin instantly disappeared. He studied me, searching patiently, waiting for me to explain.
“I don’t want a wedding to be the biggest day of our lives. I want to reserve that for hiking across the Great Wall or winning a Nobel Peace Prize. I’m afraid that if we get married, we’ll lose focus of our own ambitions, and somehow, life will have less meaning.”
It felt as if I held a sword, and I was ripping him, my lover, to shreds with it.
But I was wrong.
“I’m relieved,” Dermott said. “I truly am. I’m scared too—not of the commitment, but because the future is so uncertain. I pray we get to have little Ronnie-and-Dermott-sauruses running around our feet, but what if one of our kids has special needs? What if we’re laid off from our jobs and can’t provide for our family? But then I think of you and the joy you bring to my life, and I know we’ll be okay. Somehow. We’ll make the future work, Great Wall and all. Because you give me strength. I can’t promise you I’ll stop asking you to be my wife, but I will give you time. Because I can’t risk losing you, Ronnie. To lose you would be an unforgiveable mistake.”
I saw it then—our future in his eyes. There was the potential for so much happiness. “You’re really great, you know.”
“I know,” he said with his usual charm. “Listen, Cuddles, if you won’t marry me, how about you come to Ireland with me? Meet my family. Can you handle that?”
“Yeah,” I said, tucking my bow into the back of my jeans. “I can handle that.”
***
“Olive down!” I shouted as an olive I attempted to eat rolled down the front of my hoodie. I picked it up from the side of the rowboat I sat in with Dermott, and I popped it into my mouth.
Opposite to me, Dermott barely moved, his head tilted back against the bow of the rowboat, absorbing the sun. “I told you not to bring food. The gators will smell it.”
I nudged his arm with my foot. “It’s only olives. They’re not Mediterranean gators.”
We floated on the bayou, the day fair and still on the settled marsh. The arms of the willow trees around us cascaded as lazily into the water as our legs did over each other, intertwined, at peace.
“You ever think of becoming a counselor?” Dermott asked, addressing me while he looked up into an endless blue sky. “The way you talk to others is unique. I think you’d make a great counselor.”
“I’ve thought about it,” I admitted, “but how can I give others advice when my own life is such a mess?”
“I don’t think your life is as much a mess as you wanna think it is. You have a job that’s worthwhile. You have a gorgeous boyfriend,” he boasted.
“I do,” I said, smiling into the sky, to the blue where our thoughts met. “But I still want to do more. I want to travel. I want to help people.”
“And you will,” Dermott promised. Briefly, he lifted his head. “You know how much I love you?” he asked.
“I know,” I said easily, throwing an olive at him. “I love you too.”
“Good,” he said, sinking back down, closing his eyes. “That’s good.”
Chapter Five
Hope
Ireland
Dermott and I cruised around like wildlings on the narrow country roads of Ireland, nothing to guide us but our own curiosity. Our motorcycle was borrowed, belonging to one of Dermott’s many cousins. As I held onto Dermott, I did not think of us as lovebirds—we were eagles, masters of the road and sky. At night, we slept where our wings fell, camping under the drizzle. With the sun down, it was too cold to undress, so I folded myself around Dermott’s long, durable body wearing my jeans and hoodie, my black Wellies pushed to the far corner of the tent.
As we toured Ireland, when I wasn’t admiring the castles and monasteries, or lost in the intensity of the hillsides and lakes, my attention was drawn to the many campervans tucked tightly within patches of wasteland between the villages. Families lived in the campervans. They were recluses, wanderers who lived outside of society, young and old who spoke in a harsh dialect I could barely understand. The women were beautiful, made up like models with spray tans and fake eyelashes. The men weren’t as pruned, some were considerably beat-up, but they carried themselves with a boastful arrogance.
“Who are they?” I asked Dermott.
“Tinkers,” he told me. “Travelers. They’re bad news.”
“How so?”
“They’d steal shoes off your nana,” he warned. “If they ever approach you, ignore them.”
It wasn’t like Dermott to speak poorly of outcasts, so I trusted his judgement. When we passed the campervans again, I wrapped my arms tighter around Dermott’s waist, shutting them out, turning my focus to the roar of the bike.
The open road was tributary. When we had first landed in Ireland, we’d stayed with Dermott’s parents in a suburb outside Dublin. They had a good bit of land around them, and the sea was not far. They were Irish, but his mother was fascinated with all things Italian, and she let it show in the décor of the house. Fastened to the walls were Renaissance prints and postcards from their many trips to Italy, postcards Mrs. O’Brallaghan sent home to herself.
“I should have married on Italian man,” she tittered one night at dinner as she passed around a plate of garlic bread, teasing Mr. O’Brallaghan. “Then I’d be living on a nice vineyard.”
“That’s funny,” Mr. O’Brallaghan huffed, “because it feels like I married an Italian woman. You yell like one.”
“And cook like one,” Dermott offered. “This is great stuff, Ma.”
Next to me, Aileen picked at her spaghetti. “You lot should move to Italy. Then I can live somewhere with an actual summer.”
“I find the rain refreshing,” I admitted. “Cold, but refreshing.”
“That’s because you get to return to Louisiana,” Aileen said, refusing to look up from her plate. “I’m drowning in it.”
The few days we spent in the house, I didn’t see much of Aileen. She mostly stuck to her room, but her year at home with her family had been good for her. She was still thin, but she had gained weight, no longer as breakable as she had been before. And though she was distant and bored, she wasn’t the vacant doll I had known in the shelter.
Our last night in the house, Aileen found me on a lounge chair outside. While Dermott installed terracotta tiles in the kitchen for his mother, I sat under the stars. It was cloudy, but every now and then the winds pushed the clouds away, revealing clusters of stars as prominent as if I were looking through a telescope. I had never seen the color around the stars before—the blue and green haze that engulfed them—not with the naked eye.
“I remember what you said,” Aileen announced, standing above me. “You said everyone has the power to create or destroy, including themselves. I’m going to create,” she vowed.
“I knew you would,” I said.
Pleased, Aileen set a warm mug of tea by my side and returned inside.
Leaving the house was bittersweet. Dermott’s mother extended an affection towards me that I rarely accepted, not unless I was certain it was genuine. With her, it was. But I wanted to travel, to feel the sting the land had to offer. So we left, becoming eagles.
When our time in Ireland neared its end, Dermott surprised me by parking the motorcycle in front of a little cottage swallowed by woodlands, somewhere in the heart of the country where curtate m
ountains filled the land like the curve of a woman’s back.
“What’s this?” I asked, appreciating the white stone of the cottage. It was unkempt, the weeds around it as wild as the woodlands, but it compelled me, emitting the promise of fireside comforts and consecrated solitude.
“My inheritance,” Dermott revealed. “My father owns the cottage. It belonged to my grandfather. One day, it’ll belong to me. And then I’ll pass it down to my firstborn.”
“Don’t say that,” I pleaded as I shoved my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, my skin starting to itch.
“What? Firstborn?”
“Yeah. You know it makes me anxious.”
Dermott stomped the stand down on the motorcycle, irritated. “Forget I said anything.”
I quickly backtracked, not wanting to lose the suppleness of the afternoon. “If you get the cottage, what do your sisters get?” I asked as I poked at an iron lamp hanging beside the door.
Dermott laughed, his humor resurrected. “Everything else.”
“I like it,” I determined. “Are we staying here tonight?”
“Not just tonight—until we leave. I thought we could use the quiet before we return to the States.”
“Quiet is good,” I agreed, and I let myself in through the threadbare door, into a home filled with Dermott’s memories of the past, and his hope for the future.
***
Rain fell down upon us like a faint melody, causing a mist to form around the mountain we hiked up. I wasn’t much of an outdoors person, but the call of white clovers and the tombs of dead kings was too strong to ignore. We wandered the trail, lazy in our pace, taking in the mountain, taking in each other.
“Is Lafayette named after General Lafayette or James Armistead Lafayette?” I asked Dermott, thinking of home.