Flight Behavior
Page 22
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Dellarobia had asked Hester the same question about the name King Billy. Her mother-in-law had evidently paid some attention to butterflies in her time. She’d mentioned some others by name: swallowtails, tigers, the cabbage eaters. And King Billy, who had lately come to reign over their property.
“I didn’t mind when it was just people from church coming up,” Hester complained to Valia, “but now everybody and his dog wants the grand tour. After it came out in the paper. It was about thirty of them up here the Friday after Thanksgiving. I want to tell you! That’s not normal, for the day after Thanksgiving.”
“No, it isn’t,” Valia agreed. “People should be at the mall.”
“Dog says wow wow wow!” Cordie announced, bobbing her head. Dellarobia had managed to corral her fleecy hair into two wild blond poofs, with a center part so crooked it could get you a DUI, and that was the sum total of grooming the child would presently allow. Dellarobia harbored a secret fondness for that wild streak, something she herself had swallowed down long before her daughter was born, only to see it erupt again in Cordie like a wet-weather spring.
“That article in the paper was good, wasn’t it?” Valia said. “I cut it out and saved you an extra copy. Help me remember that, Crystal, it’s in my purse.”
Crystal, being in Crystal-zone, scowled deeply into her cell phone. She was supposed to be helping with the wool, but had yet to pick up a skein.
Dellarobia knew what Hester had thought of the newspaper article. The reporter was a girl from Cleary, a town fifteen miles down the road where people went to college so they could regard people in Feathertown as hicks. When she’d shown up here in pressed slacks and pointy-toed shoes, Hester had driven her up the mountain in the ATV to see the butterflies, but the reporter only wanted to discuss Dellarobia. Not actual Dellarobia, but the one who’d had a vision, who could see the future, who probably peed on dead flowers and made them bloom. Dellarobia had no idea the talk had gone so crazy. She’d barely adjusted to her place in the center of a family controversy before being thrust into the limelight of a church congregation. And now this, the talk of a town. The reporter made Hester come straight back down to Dellarobia’s house for a highly unfortunate thirty minutes. The girl had a camera. Dellarobia wore sweatpants and the universal whale-spout hairdo of exhausted mothers. Cordie had skipped her nap and was tromping around the living room with her boots half off, emitting a volcanic eruption of demands, spit, and tears. It was not an environment conducive to journalism. All Dellarobia wanted was to escape the newspaper girl’s weird line of questions.
Cub had puffed up like a rooster when the article came out, taking it in to show the guys at the gravel company. He was impressed with all celebrity in equal measure, the type of kid who had cut out pictures of football players, Jesus, and America’s Most Wanted to tape on his bedroom wall. He’d confessed to having cried in sixth grade when he learned that superheroes weren’t real. Dellarobia was his Wonder Woman. But Hester seemed incensed by the article, which referred to Dellarobia as Our Lady of the Butterflies. Among other complaints, Hester said it made them sound Catholic.
The day darkened outside and thunder rumbled, an unusual sound for the first of December. Rain began to slash at the window, giving the kitchen a closed-in feeling that did not help Dellarobia’s prickly impatience. She put no stock in the sainthood business, but what if this winter was meant to be her one chance at something huge, and she spent the whole thing tying yarn in loops and listening to the Hester channel? She noticed that Cordie had changed the subject of her monologue from “moo” to “poopoo.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Dellarobia griped quietly, pouting at the armload of skeins Valia was bringing over to plop down on the table between herself and Crystal. The mound of grayish yarn in front of her was already gigantic. She felt like a picky-eating toddler having a spaghetti nightmare. They’d ended this year with more unsold goods than usual, which stood to reason, given the economy. Her job in today’s production was to tie each drab skein in a loose figure eight so it wouldn’t tangle up in the dye bath, and put it in the sink to soak in Synthrapol while awaiting its makeover. Hester mixed the dye powders based on the weight of goods, and tended the cauldrons. Valia weighed the skeins prior to processing, and Crystal did nothing whatsoever.
“Are we coming to any kind of a stopping place?” Dellarobia asked, wondering if Crystal might get the hint and start helping. “Because I can’t stay much longer.”
Hester and Valia ignored her. They were discussing the details of the upcoming visit of Pastor Ogle. “Do you think I should move this table out and get a better one in here?” Hester fretted. “Mommy’s antique one is up in the attic, we could bring that down. It’s smaller, but it’s not all scarred up like this one.”
The scar she meant was a darkened crescent in the center of the table that now stared at Dellarobia like an eye. During the brief time she and Cub had lived in this house, between their hasty wedding and the rushed completion of their home, Dellarobia had marred the kitchen table with a hot skillet. She’d been seventeen, for Pete’s sake. The skillet was burning her hands through the potholders. For these many years that burn mark had remained for Hester what might be called a conversation piece.
“Could you use a tablecloth?” Valia asked. “What are you going to serve him?”
“I thought we’d have coffee and cake. A jam cake, I’m thinking.”
Valia nodded thoughtfully, as if foreign policy were on the hook here. “That caramel icing is a dickens to make. But you’re right, I bet Bobby would love that. You could use placemats on the table. A centerpiece or something.”
“Do you think just coffee and cake will be enough?”
“Alien alert,” Dellarobia muttered, finally getting Crystal to glance up from her phone. “Hester just asked your mom for advice.”
Crystal’s eyebrows arched. “So?”
So, Dellarobia thought, she’s had a personality transplant. The idea of Pastor Ogle visiting her home was cranking her into nervous overdrive. It was surprising, actually, that Hester hadn’t had him in before. Bobby visited parishioners and their jam cakes with gusto. But the real shock was seeing Hester cowed by the prospect.
“Poopoo!” Cordie shouted again, kicking her legs vigorously to get her mother’s attention. She was reaching toward the table with her fingers stretched as wide as they would go, like little starfish.
“I didn’t mind when it was just people from church coming up,” Hester complained to Valia, “but now everybody and his dog wants the grand tour. After it came out in the paper. It was about thirty of them up here the Friday after Thanksgiving. I want to tell you! That’s not normal, for the day after Thanksgiving.”
“No, it isn’t,” Valia agreed. “People should be at the mall.”
“Dog says wow wow wow!” Cordie announced, bobbing her head. Dellarobia had managed to corral her fleecy hair into two wild blond poofs, with a center part so crooked it could get you a DUI, and that was the sum total of grooming the child would presently allow. Dellarobia harbored a secret fondness for that wild streak, something she herself had swallowed down long before her daughter was born, only to see it erupt again in Cordie like a wet-weather spring.
“That article in the paper was good, wasn’t it?” Valia said. “I cut it out and saved you an extra copy. Help me remember that, Crystal, it’s in my purse.”
Crystal, being in Crystal-zone, scowled deeply into her cell phone. She was supposed to be helping with the wool, but had yet to pick up a skein.
Dellarobia knew what Hester had thought of the newspaper article. The reporter was a girl from Cleary, a town fifteen miles down the road where people went to college so they could regard people in Feathertown as hicks. When she’d shown up here in pressed slacks and pointy-toed shoes, Hester had driven her up the mountain in the ATV to see the butterflies, but the reporter only wanted to discuss Dellarobia. Not actual Dellarobia, but the one who’d had a vision, who could see the future, who probably peed on dead flowers and made them bloom. Dellarobia had no idea the talk had gone so crazy. She’d barely adjusted to her place in the center of a family controversy before being thrust into the limelight of a church congregation. And now this, the talk of a town. The reporter made Hester come straight back down to Dellarobia’s house for a highly unfortunate thirty minutes. The girl had a camera. Dellarobia wore sweatpants and the universal whale-spout hairdo of exhausted mothers. Cordie had skipped her nap and was tromping around the living room with her boots half off, emitting a volcanic eruption of demands, spit, and tears. It was not an environment conducive to journalism. All Dellarobia wanted was to escape the newspaper girl’s weird line of questions.
Cub had puffed up like a rooster when the article came out, taking it in to show the guys at the gravel company. He was impressed with all celebrity in equal measure, the type of kid who had cut out pictures of football players, Jesus, and America’s Most Wanted to tape on his bedroom wall. He’d confessed to having cried in sixth grade when he learned that superheroes weren’t real. Dellarobia was his Wonder Woman. But Hester seemed incensed by the article, which referred to Dellarobia as Our Lady of the Butterflies. Among other complaints, Hester said it made them sound Catholic.
The day darkened outside and thunder rumbled, an unusual sound for the first of December. Rain began to slash at the window, giving the kitchen a closed-in feeling that did not help Dellarobia’s prickly impatience. She put no stock in the sainthood business, but what if this winter was meant to be her one chance at something huge, and she spent the whole thing tying yarn in loops and listening to the Hester channel? She noticed that Cordie had changed the subject of her monologue from “moo” to “poopoo.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Dellarobia griped quietly, pouting at the armload of skeins Valia was bringing over to plop down on the table between herself and Crystal. The mound of grayish yarn in front of her was already gigantic. She felt like a picky-eating toddler having a spaghetti nightmare. They’d ended this year with more unsold goods than usual, which stood to reason, given the economy. Her job in today’s production was to tie each drab skein in a loose figure eight so it wouldn’t tangle up in the dye bath, and put it in the sink to soak in Synthrapol while awaiting its makeover. Hester mixed the dye powders based on the weight of goods, and tended the cauldrons. Valia weighed the skeins prior to processing, and Crystal did nothing whatsoever.
“Are we coming to any kind of a stopping place?” Dellarobia asked, wondering if Crystal might get the hint and start helping. “Because I can’t stay much longer.”
Hester and Valia ignored her. They were discussing the details of the upcoming visit of Pastor Ogle. “Do you think I should move this table out and get a better one in here?” Hester fretted. “Mommy’s antique one is up in the attic, we could bring that down. It’s smaller, but it’s not all scarred up like this one.”
The scar she meant was a darkened crescent in the center of the table that now stared at Dellarobia like an eye. During the brief time she and Cub had lived in this house, between their hasty wedding and the rushed completion of their home, Dellarobia had marred the kitchen table with a hot skillet. She’d been seventeen, for Pete’s sake. The skillet was burning her hands through the potholders. For these many years that burn mark had remained for Hester what might be called a conversation piece.
“Could you use a tablecloth?” Valia asked. “What are you going to serve him?”
“I thought we’d have coffee and cake. A jam cake, I’m thinking.”
Valia nodded thoughtfully, as if foreign policy were on the hook here. “That caramel icing is a dickens to make. But you’re right, I bet Bobby would love that. You could use placemats on the table. A centerpiece or something.”
“Do you think just coffee and cake will be enough?”
“Alien alert,” Dellarobia muttered, finally getting Crystal to glance up from her phone. “Hester just asked your mom for advice.”
Crystal’s eyebrows arched. “So?”
So, Dellarobia thought, she’s had a personality transplant. The idea of Pastor Ogle visiting her home was cranking her into nervous overdrive. It was surprising, actually, that Hester hadn’t had him in before. Bobby visited parishioners and their jam cakes with gusto. But the real shock was seeing Hester cowed by the prospect.
“Poopoo!” Cordie shouted again, kicking her legs vigorously to get her mother’s attention. She was reaching toward the table with her fingers stretched as wide as they would go, like little starfish.
