This novel is dedicated to my short-lived sister
Robin
my short-lived sister
Erin
and our indomitable mother
Cindy.
Tomorrow's scars were less than a day away for the unsuspecting old woman.
The lively lady of the house held her bare hand between the spitting grease of the bacon pan and her florescent pink, lace-knit, shorty apron. Her whole-hearted husband had arranged for it to be custom made, just for her. The feature of the intricate embroidery was the left half of a heart shape with the initials: [E.H.] inside of it. She had been mouthing the words to her favorite Billy Joel song and she most certainly did have "a way about her".
The knowledge she received from the phone call that interrupted burned directly through the only part of her life that she still danced for.
* *
1
Pink fireworks rippled through the white, liquid sky.
Trip Higgins drank up the milk in the bottom of his cereal bowl even though he didn't want to. The flaky remnants of Captain Crunch swished like soggy, little, lifeless tadpoles down the back of his throat. Life was a similar torture, summertime on a farm for a friendless thirteen year old boy. Time was his enemy and the sun its arch-sentinel. Trip needed a lift but he would rest convinced that only the impossible could save him now.
Trip was happiest during the school year. Things he knew had a solution never scared him. Teachers and books were friends to him. The other kids didn't hate Trip though. They very much enjoyed having a target other than themselves for the cruelty of teenage society. Trip was a wall of absorption when he wanted to be one. His progression of nicknames stretched from weirdly juvenile things like "Pig-nut" and "The Yak" to more sophisticatedly designed insults like "Grandma's Boy", "Fatty McSqueeze" and (his personal least favorite) the very classic "Dick-face". The being friendless technicality wasn't as disheveling to Trip in that kind of environment as it might have been for other kids his age. He still had his escapes: places in the library nobody thought to check, the bathroom stall with the broken door latch, and the bench outside of the principal's office. Yes, Trip liked being at school. The craziness may have been more concentrated but it was still guarded by the walls of a trusted establishment. Too bad for Trip, lifelines like rules and punishment enforcement didn't exist out in the real world.
Trip's grandmother was a pinch-faced, bitter, old lady. She had her moments of sincerity and warmth, but ever since her husband died, grief had driven Eugenia Higgins to become much more stern. Visitors and farmhands would call her "Gina". Trip would call her "Grams". His birth parents died in a plane crash when he was still a baby and Eugenia and Byron had raised him since. Trip missed his grandfather, Byron, whom he called "Pops". Smiling in every memory Trip had of him (Grams too), Pops would make a joke to fill each and every moment of silence he was a party to. Trip missed Pops very much (Grams did too).
Between the constant cackle-coo of the chicken coop and the deadening moo from the cows in the pasture behind the house Trip spent most of his hours balancing his sanity. He would lay in the shade of his favorite bush near the stream where the moss gathered stray violets and the steady trickle of water became the music of an otherwise melody-less existence. But July had hit an increasingly slow spell and sounds alone were too flimsy of a savior to keep him smiling on the inside. Time was winning the war and Trip slowly swayed away from maintaining his keep. He wondered about the concept of being grateful for the things you have and wished he could do it too. But then he remembered the invisible collection of broken wishes that piled up in the back of his mind. "Oh yeah," he sighed aloud.
Sundays were different. Grams stopped getting up for church soon after losing Pops. In fact, it was rare for Grams to wake herself on Sunday mornings at all. Trip would use Grams' recipes and Pops' old flipping techniques for making blueberry-chocolate chip pancakes, sometimes with scrambled eggs, sometimes with bacon. Grams cooked the rest of the week so Trip always believed it was the least he could do for her. He would serve her in bed and sit beside her until they were both finished. It was usually a silent meal but this Sunday was different.
2
Grams wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap extra carefully. Her voice was unsure of itself, "I wanted to tell you something about my Byron, Trip." Her eyes melted a little as her lips began to quiver. She leaned over the blanket and reached a wrinkled hand under the next pillow down. She lifted out a small-sized, tan leather notebook bound by tattered bailing twine. "This was your grandfather's." She pressed her fingers along the curves by the spine. "Did you know he loved to write? He spent most of his later nights glued to the pages of this book."
"What did he write in it?" Trip interjected.
"I don't know. I never opened it."
"Why not? Give it here, I'll do it."
"Trip! Listen to me. My Byron asked me never to read it. It's the only secret he's ever kept from me and I promised him I'd never," Grams held a hand to her heart, "That I'd never break that promise."
"Should I..."
"Not now." Grams smeared a tear away from the corner of her eye with her shoulder. "Here, I can't sleep next to it another night." She set the notebook next to Trip and turned to look out the window. "I want you to take care of that notebook, Trip. Keep it and learn from it and remember him as I will never be able to. I'll clean the dishes today. Please go now."
Trip didn't say anything else. He just scooped up the notebook with both hands and walked to the door. Grams said one last thing, "Whatever you find in that notebook, child, it's not for me to see." Trip glanced back at Grams, sitting perfectly still, breathing short breaths. He pursed his lips a little and headed down the hallway then across the living room and over to the front door. Grams turned her head to the empty doorway and whispered aloud to nobody in particular, "...not for me to see."
3
Trip pushed his way through the antique screen door and stomped down the porch steps onto the dirt sidewalk. He rubbed an end of the twine between his thumb and index finger, held it taut then threatened to pull the knot apart. The sound of approaching tractors puttered in the distance and Trip shot down the driveway to investigate. "Yes, two of them headed this way..." Trip narrated, "probably one of the hands coming to pick up a late paycheck". He wedged the notebook between his belt and his jeans and un-tucked his shirt to conceal it from whoever the visitors turned out to be.
It was Mr. Nether with his four sons: Jack, Jimmy, Jake and Justin. He and the elder three came four days of the week to milk the cows, bail the hay and do other reparations around the farm that neither Grams nor Trip could do by themselves. Justin was Trip's age. They knew each other from school. Well... their paths had crossed more than once at school. Justin wasn't as similarly geared towards books and staying out of trouble as Trip was. To put it simply, they did not get along.
"Howdy there." Mr. Nether tipped his hat as he strode past Trip, "The usual spot?"
"Yep, the roll-top by the furnace." Trip directed Mr. Nether to his weekly payment. The older boys stayed with the tractors but Justin hopped off and strutted up to Trip with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face.
"Havin' a good summer Yakkity?" Justin was a very animated talker with busy eyebrows that made Trip want to take a lawnmower over Justin's face. "Been keepin' the old hag company in her final days?" Justin wrapped his arm around Trip's neck and hugged Trip into an ingratiating and uncomfortable position. "You know, I just love this whole flat and empty thing you got goin' on in this dump you peons call a farm." He flicked Trip on the forehead, hard.
"Ow!" Trip wriggled for freedom, "Let go!"
"Don't whine ya' baby. There'll be time for that later when I invite some more of your friends over for a little football. You don't mind do you, Yakkity? It's not like there's any other use in hoarding this dried up wasteland to you and your old hag. And you can play too. Even a Fatty McSqueeze like you can still hike a football."
Trip ripped himself free of Justin's hold at the loss of a small handful of hair. "I don't play football." he stammered.
"Yeah that's nice Yak." Justin stopped paying attention to Trip. His father was now striding back down the sidewalk and Justin smirked again. "Later Dick-face! Be back in about an hour with the fun!" The tractors banged alive and slowly rolled back up the road in the direction they arrived in.
Trip muttered a few incomprehensible cuss words he didn't have the guts to raise his voice for. Football with the friends he'd never known to be friendly was not his idea of a worthwhile afternoon but like most of his other disappointments there was nothing he could do to avoid this one. He kicked a line of pebbles out of the driveway and wandered down to the side of the silo where he flopped to the ground and despondently hid his face behind a hug of folded arms.
4
The way Trip was sitting made the notebook start digging into his stomach. "Oooh! Oh yeah! Almost forgot." He yanked the notebook free and fixed his shirt until it looked neat again. He picked his knees up to create a surface for the back of the notebook to rest upon. The twine had come loose some time between it going into and coming out of his pants. Trip peeled the cover open. Feeling the pages with his fingers he guessed that the writing had been done by quill. The first set of dates spanned from the late 1920's and onward through time, slowly rearranging themselves with handwriting maturity as the notebook advanced. Somewhere close to the beginning Trip stopped flipping and let his eyes finally intrude into the mysteries within.
April, 1928
More than butterflies, that's for sure. I swear I caught wind of a giggle yesterday. Butterflies don't giggle. But I do. Whatever it turns out to be, I want to be a part of it. One day people will invite me to fancy carnivals and be in dazzling parades and wave out to all the other people in the world who still haven't been as lucky as I am. To see what I've seen in my own back yard.
April, 1941
They appeared over the new horse barn again today. Will and the other guys think I'm trying to fool them into a practical joke like always but I guess it is too crazy a thing to explain in words. But I have to try. I saw them! At least two, clear as the day! Mom and Pop aren't on my side anymore either and I feel more and more alone at every silence the dinner table lures us into. Someone's got to believe me. They've got to!
"What could Pops be talking about?" Trip searched his mind for an answer. He inspected the covers of the notebook again, experienced an uncanny chill, but didn't find anything out of the ordinary. One more time Trip flipped through the pages hoping for more clues that might uncover what Pops could possibly have been talking about.
September, 1941
I still can't get that music out of my head. The sound's so crisp inside my mind. I find myself dancing foolishly at the most inappropriate times. I can't help it if I'm lifted by heavenly voices that smile in my ears and twist around until they reach my heart where they kiss my soul, and let me dream like I did when I was younger. I love this gift they've given me. I'm whole again.
August, 1955
I dare not wait by the horse barn any longer. If they've moved on it's for the better. I can't waste another day without a whisper of their grace. The old crew have houses and families of their own now and I'm the only one still here where there's only me. I'll marry too. A child will rescue me. I can live on as long as a part of me still believes in the magic I once found here. The magic I once delighted in with such ecstasy. Such hope.
It was too much. Trip shut the notebook and rubbed his head a little where it had begun to throb. He decided a walk over to the horse barn (which was now old and run-down) was his best bet to answering the questions that his grandfather's diary had instilled into him. "Why hadn't I ever gone over that way before?" Trip thought aloud to himself. "Because it's a pile of scraps of what used to be a building and I don't particularly enjoy swimming in a pool of splinters if I don't absolutely have to, do I?" Trip wasn't sure whether he was more angry at himself for being a bit of a wimp in the face of danger, or at his grandfather for so secretively hiding this strange yet alluring part of his life where... where something had definitely happened to him. Something Trip was definitely going to find out, one way or another.
5
Trip jogged over the front lawn toward the side of the house where the old horse barn lay defeated by time. Another five minutes earlier and he'd have gotten there too. Instead, a calling of five boys of varying shapes and sizes emerged into his path and took liberties with Trip's agenda for the time being. Justin was among them, "Hey Dick-face. Did ja' miss me? Ready to play some ball? Ready to feel the grind of dirt in that precious fatty face of yours?"
The other boys laughed and jeered along. Justin snatched the notebook from Trip's hand and declared, "What a lovely idea, Yakkity. This can be today's football." Justin threw Trip's grandfather's notebook over Trip's head and another boy caught it. Trip had jumped and attempted to intercept it but he landed empty handed. The second boy tossed it right back over to Justin and they all played monkey in the middle over a frustrated-looking Trip who played right into the lap of their game, struggling to follow wherever they tossed the notebook but never quite getting within a hand's grasp.
"Give it back!" Trip howled.
"Make me." Justin suggested, smiling just as evilly as ever. Trip started a run in Justin's direction; his fingers curled together into what he hoped would work the same as fists; but one of the smaller boys launched a foot into Trip's path, splattering him to the ground uncoordinatedly. The other boys broke out into harshly unrelenting laughter and Justin opened the notebook to read a little of what couldn't possibly be interesting to any of them anyway.
Justin got through about five pages, flipped quickly. He snickered and held up a finger to his mouth to shush the others. Justin cleared his throat hyperbolically and pretended to read, "Dear Diary, I'm so pathetic. Why can't I just be less of an annoying blob of a grandma's boy? Nobody likes me. Boo fricken hoo hoo."
"Shut it! It doesn't say that Justin! Give it back you ass!" Trip was very upset.
"You want it?" Justin offered it forward with his largest smile yet. Trip slowly pushed his hand towards it, and just as he was about to grab on Justin heaved it over his shoulder. "Go fetch, Dick-face." It landed in a brown circle of moisture on the edge of the driveway that Trip desperately hoped was mostly mud. He knelt beside and picked it up with the tips of his fingers trying not to get his clothes or the notebook any dirtier than they already were.
"That's enough football for one afternoon don't you fellas agree?" Justin and the others picked up their matching evil smiles and trotted off together towards the street. Trip didn't watch them go. He just crawled to a patch of dry grass he could use to try and clean the notebook. It was stained, that was a given... but he didn't want the damage to be noticeable if Grams ever nosed around in his room for whatever old people reason she'd invent for snooping where she didn't belong.
6
Trip did the best he could. The notebook didn't look half bad considering the short little adventure it had just been on. And like a cook tempting himself with his own creation, Trip dove back into the notebook, hungry for another taste of the delicacies inside.
November, 1972
My beautiful whisper in the wind held my hand all the way from the city back to the old farm. My folks bought an RV and need me to stay with the old place, keep her ship shape for them while they see the world together. I know it's more of a last stand in their waning lives... but I refuse to see anything but beauty in these wonderful people who've given me so much.
April, 1974
Never a more joyous funeral held in a couple's honor. My beautiful Gina and I shared our news of new life in the midst of the tears and sadness and the mourning turned to laughter and the quiet became a party. I don't mind a bit the angry director lecturing about the respect of the deceased. My parents are proud of me and wherever they are, they're dancing too. They always danced for me.
Trip thought a moment, "That's right! Grams told me the story about the car accident that killed my great grandparents within a week of her becoming pregnant with my father. I completely forgot all of the things Pops had been through in his long life." Trip missed his grandfather more than ever. He fought the appearance of a tear and turned some more pages in the tiny window to the past.
January, 1978
Will brought his son Freddy over to play with our little George today. Freddy's only a year older and has a gentle air about him. I think they'll make a nice pair of buds. Will came in the house and asked me if I was still haunted by my daydreams by the horse barn. I tried one last time to convince him that I wasn't making it up but Will threatened me to leave his son out of my savage mind games or there'd be hell to pay. I lost a friend that day, but my George had gained one and I wouldn't risk that for the world.
June, 1980
George and Freddy were running about the front yard playing a game without reason or rules that I almost recognized as something I used to do too half a lifetime ago. The boys were really excited that I came to join them. I decided against my better judgment and asked the boys if they wanted to know a secret. I told them I had found a secret hang out where fairies come to play. George said I was silly, but Freddy went along with it. Freddy, Freddy believed me!
"Fairies?" Trip blinked in disbelief. "Maybe Pops did fall off the wrong side of the chicken coop. What other explanation is there?" Trip decided to get over to the old horse barn once and for all to put an end to the silliness of the notebook. It was silliness after all... wasn't it?
7
The late afternoon spilled out golden rays of sunlight that soaked everything in a rare golden glow. Trip crept mouse-like to the wreckage of the old barn. The jagged line of the western wall cast its shadow onto the eastern which stood a fraction higher and a bit less worn-down. There was no roof, no door and the windows had all shattered down to petty end trails, but if Trip squinted his eyes just right he could very scarcely make believe the ancient shade of red that had once shined as bright as a fire engine.
The back side of the old horse barn was even less impressive. Half-buried pieces of rusty metal sprouted from the un-mown, yellow grass. Trip knocked his knuckles on the outer wall. Dust puffed off and cleared sideways revealing a carving of the right half of a heart shape encircling the initials: [B. H.] "Byron Higgins." Trip blew into the letters and rubbed away the remaining particles of dust. "So this is your big discovery old man?" Trip tilted his head to one side and let his hands slide into his pockets, "This is what was too important for you to share with your family?" Trip was tired. The quiet in the air around him was too unsettling to his stomach considering the day he'd had. "I don't think I can handle anymore craziness today."
Trip lunged into the safer grass, away from the rusty metal circus around the old barn. He was ready to clean up and go see if Grams had gotten started on any dinner for them. The setting sun dripped like scarlet molasses over the distant mountaintops. Trip blinked into the remaining circle of luminescence and allowed its light to sink through his eyelids and warm him up to a closer version of calm.
And just then, from somewhere far above the old excuse for a horse barn, a bright object flung straight down and crashed into one of the larger clumps of grass by the side of the barn. "What... was THAT?" Trip was stunned. He was almost too anxious even to find out (but only almost). He looked up into the sky with his right hand blocking the light from the sun. "Nothing up there. Maybe it was a small bird." Trip suggested to himself, "Yeah... just an unfortunate little bird." Trip shuffled closer but still couldn't see what it was. He shuffled a little closer again, and again. He leaned his head over the spot one final time... and there was a leg! Trip cowered away, breathing heavily, shaking all over, his eyes wide with craze. He was pacing around the scene without logical thought. He leaned in to take another look, just to make sure he'd really seen what he had seen. He had! But there were two legs, and not just that. They were itty bitty legs that were attached to an itty bitty body that matched! It was dressed in small garments that were different shades of florescent pink. It had long hair that lay frayed beneath the outline of its body. It was female. It was crushing two very thin wing-like features under its weight. The only word left to concentrate on in Trip's mind was the very same thing he'd wholeheartedly believed impossible just a few short moments ago. Fairy.
Trip lifted his foot to continue backing away but stopped himself mid-step. He stared upwards and let his arms dangle in whatever ways they would. The wind fluttered like an out of control fan blowing up from behind him. Trip's clothes flapped wildly, trying to run off with the remarkable rush of nature. A few imaginary pounds lighter and he'd surely have gone with them. But the sky suddenly seemed to speak to him: the way the clouds mingled, the subtle, ebbing trace of jets and the distant news of dying worlds. Trip bent down and cradled this little pink ember. He prayed his pocket would be the walls it called for. Without it finding peace in him, the failing sun was all he'd have to hopefully find favor in. Trip hurried up to the house. As the screen door shut behind him the sun had finally decided it was time to nestle itself behind the mountain and go ever so sweetly to sleep.
8
Grams was reading silently as she slowly rocked her mahogany rocking chair to sleep. Trip tip-toed to the staircase and then darted up the steps. He knew they'd creak whether he went slowly or not. He pressed his bedroom door to a snap behind him and gently unbuttoned his shirt, slipped his arms out of the sleeves and spread it out over the foot of his neatly made bed. He stepped clear of the bed and backed flatly up against the wall, "What am I doing? What am I doing?" Trip was lost amidst the nervous excitement that was brewing lopsidedly in favor of the excitement in his mind. "Deep breaths, deep breaths..." he repeated, trying to sound convincingly self-assured.
Trip went for the top left drawer of his dresser. He dumped the rolls of socks onto the floor over his shoulder and unfolded a few shirts from another drawer to use as cushioning inside the first one. He pulled his blinds up just enough for the height of the drawer to fit purposefully beneath them upon the sill of the window. Trip wondered with a finger tapping his bottom lip and quickly found the idea he was hoping for. "Aha!" He climbed atop his little end table and leaned so that he could then reach the top shelf of the closet nearby. He fished around with his tongue sticking out a few moments until retrieving a nice and fluffy winter beanie. He stretched it out a few times then returned to the window sill and lay it in the corner to serve as a makeshift pillow. Trip hovered over his creation for a moment with his arms akimbo and sighed with pride.
Trip returned to the closet. This time he searched through the bottom. He shoved the shirts and jackets out of his way and moved a few loose things back to the wall so he could slide a nice sized box out for him to open up and pick through. A few old toys: a paddle ball set, some unused crossword puzzle books, and a pair of spring-loaded, crazy-eyed glasses came out of the box first and tumbled to the ground. "Aha!" Trip announced with victory. He kicked the box haphazardly back into the closet and arose with a black-handled, rectangular magnifying glass.
Trip's shirt still lay on the end of the bed where he had set it. A cold shiver ran up through Trip's legs and out through his fingers and ears. "Here goes..." Trip lifted the shirt very carefully and held it over the drawer on the window sill then he let the pocket opening dangle over the comfiest-looking section and tilted until the little fairy slipped out like the un-gloving of a perfectly beautiful hand. "Wow." The sound of awe in Trip's voice reminded him of when he was little. He was just as shocked this time as he was with the first glance of the fairy he had stolen. The color of her skin was a subtle variation of eggshell. Her little eyes, big for the size of her face, were perfect reflections of themselves, distant but mysteriously connected. There was a glorious trinity of freckles that bobbled about on her upper left cheek. Trip held the magnifying glass up to the fairy to better study the peculiar combination of features on her face. Her supermodel lips rested in a kissing stance. They pointed sharply upwards in two sensuous points that even the world's best artist could not have recreated as mystifyingly wondrous. Her eyelashes matched the color of her faintly glimmering pink hair. Trip thought she was beautiful. From the slender line of her neck to the ten itty-bitty button-toes on the ends of her shoe-less feet... Trip thought she was the most beautiful fairy he had ever seen.
Trip set down the magnifying glass and summersaulted over his bed to the end table where he smiled at his distorted reflection in the bottom of the brass lamp. "Impossible," he said, and smiled even bigger. He set the alarm on his clock-radio and reached up to turn off the lamp for the night. A third time his smile grew, and this time he giggled then finally shut off the light.