in time. Uncurls his fingers to reveal the shell cradled in his palm. Five-legged. Deformed. A face not even a mother could love. Grotesque and beautiful. Transfixed, he stares.
Doe Eyes’ breath releases in a sudden gush, and she claps her hands and laughs. ‘You did it, Uncle Jasper! You got it!’
In his palm, it seems mummified. Shrunken. He looks up into her blue eyes. Child eyes. Woman eyes. Extends his hands out to her. ‘Do you want to touch it?’
She grins. Nods. A little girl’s nod, filled with excitement. She reaches out her index finger and gently runs it along the side of the shell. Wrinkles her nose. ‘It feels funny.’
He smiles. ‘I collected these when I was a boy. Had a whole row of July flies up on my windowsill.’
‘Really?’ Big blue eyes pop up to meet his, then fall again. ‘What happened to ’em?’
He shrugs, but does not incline his head. His smile feels forced, like it’s bent the wrong way round. ‘Maybe they came back to life ’n’ flew off somewhere. Maybe they shed new skins.’
She giggles. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Well, then,’ his smile broadens, ‘maybe they’re just hidin’ somewheres.’
‘Can I have it?’
He looks down into his palm. At the broken form within it. ‘Yeah, you can have it.’ A pause. ‘Hold out your hands.’ He picks the July fly up and places it in the girl’s cupped palms. ‘Careful now, or you’ll break him.’
She giggles, gazing down with a mixture of delight and disgust. ‘How do you know it’s a him?’ Blue eyes up to his.
He pauses.
She pops right up off the grass, all brown and gold and taller than him. Doesn’t wait for an answer. Long legs and long arms not quite yet grown into. Seems odd to look up at her. She hesitates a moment, once standing, glances down at Jasper, and he thinks for a moment that she’s gonna speak to him, gonna say something, but she doesn’t. Just smiles instead. This goofy kid smile that doesn’t mix so good with the woman she’s becoming. And the smile makes him feel funny inside. Warm. A feeling he’s not used to. Then, still grinning, Doe Eyes calls, ‘I’m gonna go show Mom!’ and she runs off, July fly cupped in her palms before her. ‘Mom! … Mom! … Mom!’ getting fainter and fainter as she nears the house.
Jasper stays on the grass a while, listening to her voice and footsteps fade. Leans his back against the coop. His head. Feels good sitting in the shade like that. A respite from the brutal sun. I could get used to this, he thinks.
Yes, sir, I sure could get used to this.
Yet another slow night at the diner. Wasn’t too bad at the start. A few truckers from up north en route to Waco had passed through and stopped in for their suppers. A rowdy bunch, but decent tippers. Katie always likes it when the diner has a bit of a buzz inside it – makes the nights pass faster. But after that first haul of truckers had gobbled up their feed and pulled off in their eighteen-wheelers, not another single hungry soul had called round for supper, and Katie found herself looking and looking again at the Elvis clock hanging by the door.
It is late now, though, and the diner nearly echoes, it’s so quiet. Radio’s been shut off already, and the ketchup bottles have been filled, as have the salt and pepper shakers. Cutlery’s been rolled and laid out for the morning. Tables, only just washed down, glisten as though new, muted lamplight hiding the chips and scuffs that in daylight mar them. The lights in the pie case and the glass Coca-Cola fridge have been shut off, and now both stand dark and solemn and cool.
From the kitchen, final pots and pans can be heard banging as Tom hangs them up for the night. Above the kitchen’s clatter, his whistle drifts in and out of hearing. A Bing Crosby tune that had played on the radio earlier that evening. Katie smiles, hearing it. Hums along with him in her head, though she can’t remember the words
exactly. Something about a lover saying
Doe Eyes’ breath releases in a sudden gush, and she claps her hands and laughs. ‘You did it, Uncle Jasper! You got it!’
In his palm, it seems mummified. Shrunken. He looks up into her blue eyes. Child eyes. Woman eyes. Extends his hands out to her. ‘Do you want to touch it?’
She grins. Nods. A little girl’s nod, filled with excitement. She reaches out her index finger and gently runs it along the side of the shell. Wrinkles her nose. ‘It feels funny.’
He smiles. ‘I collected these when I was a boy. Had a whole row of July flies up on my windowsill.’
‘Really?’ Big blue eyes pop up to meet his, then fall again. ‘What happened to ’em?’
He shrugs, but does not incline his head. His smile feels forced, like it’s bent the wrong way round. ‘Maybe they came back to life ’n’ flew off somewhere. Maybe they shed new skins.’
She giggles. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Well, then,’ his smile broadens, ‘maybe they’re just hidin’ somewheres.’
‘Can I have it?’
He looks down into his palm. At the broken form within it. ‘Yeah, you can have it.’ A pause. ‘Hold out your hands.’ He picks the July fly up and places it in the girl’s cupped palms. ‘Careful now, or you’ll break him.’
She giggles, gazing down with a mixture of delight and disgust. ‘How do you know it’s a him?’ Blue eyes up to his.
He pauses.
She pops right up off the grass, all brown and gold and taller than him. Doesn’t wait for an answer. Long legs and long arms not quite yet grown into. Seems odd to look up at her. She hesitates a moment, once standing, glances down at Jasper, and he thinks for a moment that she’s gonna speak to him, gonna say something, but she doesn’t. Just smiles instead. This goofy kid smile that doesn’t mix so good with the woman she’s becoming. And the smile makes him feel funny inside. Warm. A feeling he’s not used to. Then, still grinning, Doe Eyes calls, ‘I’m gonna go show Mom!’ and she runs off, July fly cupped in her palms before her. ‘Mom! … Mom! … Mom!’ getting fainter and fainter as she nears the house.
Jasper stays on the grass a while, listening to her voice and footsteps fade. Leans his back against the coop. His head. Feels good sitting in the shade like that. A respite from the brutal sun. I could get used to this, he thinks.
Yes, sir, I sure could get used to this.
Yet another slow night at the diner. Wasn’t too bad at the start. A few truckers from up north en route to Waco had passed through and stopped in for their suppers. A rowdy bunch, but decent tippers. Katie always likes it when the diner has a bit of a buzz inside it – makes the nights pass faster. But after that first haul of truckers had gobbled up their feed and pulled off in their eighteen-wheelers, not another single hungry soul had called round for supper, and Katie found herself looking and looking again at the Elvis clock hanging by the door.
It is late now, though, and the diner nearly echoes, it’s so quiet. Radio’s been shut off already, and the ketchup bottles have been filled, as have the salt and pepper shakers. Cutlery’s been rolled and laid out for the morning. Tables, only just washed down, glisten as though new, muted lamplight hiding the chips and scuffs that in daylight mar them. The lights in the pie case and the glass Coca-Cola fridge have been shut off, and now both stand dark and solemn and cool.
From the kitchen, final pots and pans can be heard banging as Tom hangs them up for the night. Above the kitchen’s clatter, his whistle drifts in and out of hearing. A Bing Crosby tune that had played on the radio earlier that evening. Katie smiles, hearing it. Hums along with him in her head, though she can’t remember the words
exactly. Something about a lover saying
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