Wildcat Fireflies

by Amber Kizer

I lay back and stared at the ceiling. I hoped he was right, but what if my seeing Auntie and him seeing his mom and grandfather were connected? What if we need to find out more about his past before we have a future? What if these aren’t dreams, but visions?

  I threw on dry clothes, turned on the laptop, and started Googling local churches, looking for any Father Anthonys in the state of Indiana.

  Hours later, when I stepped out onto the path heading toward Helios’s kitchen door, Tens was clearing ivy from the trees and the stepping stones. He’d come back from the run, showered, and headed out to work on the grounds without speaking. He waved to me, frowning absently. I’d learned not to take his frowns personally. Not always. He shuttered his face, and his emotions, like he was forever prepared to ride out level-five emotional hurricanes alone. He let me behind his walls chink by chink. It wasn’t that I had to earn his love or his protection—those were given—but we were still working on friendship and communication. He wanted me to be vulnerable and open to him, but didn’t understand I needed the same thing in return.

  The scent of ginger and lemon billowed off fluffy scones cooling on the counter. “Good morning. Are you hungry?” Joi turned from the oven with a smile and friendly eyes.

  In the not-so-big-but-notable-changes column, I’d been eating breakfast and enjoying it for several weeks. Surprise, surprise. “No, the coffee cake was wonderful. Thank you for—”

  She cut me off. “McClamroch family recipe. Best there is with a cup of strong black tea. Are you ready to work, or do you need another day to get your bearings?”

  I fairly buzzed with pent-up energy. “I’m ready.” Ready to do something, anything to keep my hands busy while my mind wanders through the maze that is my life.

  “Good, that’s what I like to hear. We do a lot of the baking now, but I’ve got that covered. The servers arrive at ten-thirty to help prep the dining room. I know it’s not glamorous, but I need you to dust all the shelves—that means moving the inventory off them and putting it back exactly so. And clean the mirrors, the glass cases. Can you do all that?”

  I nodded. “Seems like a good way to get familiar with the products too, right?”

  She beamed like I’d passed a crucial test. “Exactly. That way you’ll be able to help customers find things. The upstairs rooms need it the worst—they’re where we store the out-of-season holiday merchandise. Right now they’re more storage than anything else, but customers insist on going up there even if it’s a mess. We’ll need to bring down all the Valentine’s Day goodies and display those later today, plus add the inventory arriving this week. Start with the dusting. When we begin serving, I’ll need you in the kitchen trying to stay on top of the dishes. But best to start—”

  “With the dusting?” I said. Clearly, she was blessed with a battery that never lost juice. I envied her multitasking. The entire time she instructed and trained me, she flew around the kitchen, both hands blurring in busyness.

  “And if you see anything you’d like, we’ll run a tab and take it off your paycheck later.” She smiled.

  I headed up the stairs armed with feather dusters, paper towels, and Windex. The rote work gave me time to consider our next steps. Father Anthony, Custos, a girl and a cat. My suspicion that Custos was more than a wolf was worth exploring. Is she Divine? Part of the Creators’ help Mom wrote about?

  Seeing the chaos, I huffed out a breath and surveyed the disaster around me. Strewn together in piles like they’d been brought up and deposited hurriedly were stockings jumbled among gift wrap, stuffed bears wearing quintessential holiday sweaters, and artificial trees full of sparkling ornaments crammed under the eaves. The rest was stacked on shelves and rocking chairs and piled into decorative baskets of red and green. Overwhelmed for a second, I found the irony in getting exactly what I wished for. Busy hands. Busy mind.

  I cleared off a tiny section of the floor and began the cleaning in small increments. I couldn’t imagine shoppers pawing through for long. I turned inside myself, toward the big questions that weighed so heavily on my heart. Why did Auntie have the woman with her each time I saw her? Could Father Anthony tell us who she was or where to find the girl? Why couldn’t Auntie be like OnStar and give us step-by-step directions to the goal? Why all the subterfuge?

  Joi called me down to meet the servers when they arrived, showed me the reservation book, and taught me how to answer the phone. Once the sign was turned to Open, the door had barely banged shut after the first customer before other regulars glided through. Friends and families came to browse, to eat, to catch up.

  “Joi, can I organize the scrapbook section, too?” I pointed up at the ceiling.

  “It needs it, doesn’t it?” She sighed.

  I nodded, not wanting to overstep.

  “Of course—make pages too if you’d like. It’s addictive!”

  “Thanks.” I got back to work, careful to clean first, arrange second.

  As I put the scrapbooking room in order, I found myself picking out stickers and doodads, brads and paper cutouts. I arranged them on a page of parchment, paying no attention, until I heard footsteps on the stairs. Then I folded the paper and stuffed it into my waistband for later. Customers browsed, chattering like finches as they shuffled around my newly arranged area. I got out of their way as quickly as I could. With the dining room full, the kitchen needed me more than the dust bunnies did.

  When Tens bustled into the kitchen to eat lunch, I showed him the page I’d made. “I think maybe I’ve found my thing.” I knew the excitement in my voice might be difficult for him to understand, but these feelings were hard to articulate.

  I have heard of musicians, painters and sculptors, gardeners and bakers who excel at their craft because of the Fenestras’ collection of soul dust. Each Fenestra must learn how to clean that dust off her own soul.

  Linea M. Wynn

  February 28, 1968

  CHAPTER 8

  “Your thing? Could you be more specific?” He glanced down at the page, back at me, then turned to concentrate on his Irish stew in a dismissal that stung.

  “My quilting thing,” I snapped. So it isn’t rocket science, but still.

  He put his spoon down and raised his eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t like to quilt.”

  I sat, shaking my head. “I like to quilt, but I’m more a pincushion than a fabric maestro. Bloody cotton isn’t warm and cozy to me.” Nor were the holes upon holes I put into my fingers trying to sew by hand. Machines scared me. I’d be the first self-amputee, of my whole hand, if I tried that.

  “Okay, so?” He didn’t get it. He stuffed a cheddar biscuit in his mouth.

  “Scrapbooking.” I tapped the page.

  He swallowed, then spoke around the remaining crumbs. “Scrapbooking?”

  “Look.” I pushed my page closer to him, as if proximity would bring understanding.

  “Um, wow?” His tone said he knew he wasn’t giving me what I wanted, but that didn’t mean he could. He picked the page up, then set it down again.

  I smacked him lightly with it.

  “Ow!” He pretended I’d really hurt him.

  “Paper cut?” I sneered playfully, teasing him while tracing the Eiffel Tower’s black shadow with my finger.

  He peered at me, then the paper. “What is it? Paris?”

  I sighed. “That guy from the other night—this was his window scene.”

  “The ambulance?” He stretched, his legs bumping mine.

  “Yes, that one.”

  Comprehension filled his eyes. “So, now you’re going to scrapbook your window scenes? Or the souls’ memories?”

  I shrugged it off. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just went with it.” But suddenly it didn’t feel like quite the right fit. I’d give another couple of souls their own pages before I searched for another thing. I sighed. Until I started to tell him about it, I really thought this might be it. Now doubt crept in and camped.

  “No, I get it.”

  “Reading the journal,
it’s clear Fenestras each have a way to remember and let go at the same time. A way to … I don’t know … to—”

  “To cope with the souls?”

  “Yeah, with all the pieces we see and feel and hold on to even after the soul has made it through. I’m searching for my own. Did Auntie talk about it with you? Her quilting? Should I be doing that even if it doesn’t feel right?” A sliver of jealousy wiggled in my heart. Tens knew more and had spent more time with Auntie than I had the chance to, and that felt odd.

  “About her quilts and whatever your coping type might be?”

  I nodded.

  “Not really. I know she worried, hoped maybe you’d have the knack for the quilts too. It seems like it’s something you have to find on your own, in your own way. I don’t think she obsessed about it. Not that part.” The implication was he had much bigger things to worry about when it came to me. Thanks.

  He finished eating in silence and I played with my serving of stew. Then he went back out to the yard without a kiss or a bye. Clingy much? I berated myself; it felt like weakness to need him. I had times where I needed almost constant reassurance from him. I hated being that girl. Would that get better the longer we were together?

  When the lunch crowd descended on the tearoom, I made my way to the sink and tried to keep up with the porcelain, crystal, and china. Then at my ebb another tide of late-afternoon tea ladies brought dainty teacups, fragile saucers, and tiny plates to the counters around me. I broke only three.

  I stared out the window as Tens manically cleaned the gardens of winter debris, then tackled the curls of kudzu and ivy creeping up the trunks of leafless maple and tulip trees. He scrubbed stone statuary and peeled moss from the outdoor furniture. While I watched, my hands pruned up, reddened, and chapped in the dishwater.

  Hours flew by as the ache in my feet crawled up my legs and into my back, sending piercing arrows through my hips. I wasn’t used to working this hard. I needed more stamina.

  “All done.” Joi breezed through the kitchen. “Last check. We may have a few shoppers for the final hour, but probably no more dishes.”

  I almost cheered, but I was too tired.

  “How many did you break?”

  I flinched and said apologetically, “Three? I will totally pay for them.”

  “Nah, that’s not bad for a beginner. Are you okay? You don’t look well.” Joi crowded me against the sink and felt my forehead like a television mom might. My own would have kept her distance.

  “I’m okay.” I tried to reassure her, but fell short of convincing.

  “Are you sure you should be working? Aren’t you recovering from something? Suffering?” She wouldn’t drop it and her sincerity felt genuine.

  It didn’t feel right to lie, so I evaded. “I was ill last fall; I’m just getting back on my feet. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine. I don’t have a lot of stamina. Not yet.”

  “Hmm.” She accepted my half answer without continued pressure, but clearly she would have appreciated, maybe even enjoyed, more details. “Well, Tens has done the work of ten men today. So you both take tomorrow off. If you need a place to stay without working, let me know and we’ll talk it out, okay? I like having someone I trust in the cottage to keep an eye on the business at night.”

  “I don’t need tomorrow off,” I protested halfheartedly.

  “I say you do. And I’m always right.” She smiled at me. “Wrap up the leftovers and take them with you, then get out of here. And tell Tens to lazy up a bit—he gets paid by the hour.” She smiled and petted my hair, much like Sammy used to.

  Before she moved away, I asked, “Have you heard of a Father Anthony?”

  “Catholic? Episcopalian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not off the top of my head, but his name sounds familiar. Let me think about it.” She scuttled back to the cashier’s counter for the ringing phone.

  “No problem.” Deflated, I headed to the cottage with Tupperware and foil filled with lots of food, all of it ladylike.

  I didn’t remember lying down or closing my eyes, but the next time I stretched and opened my eyes the windows framed dark night. A propane fire burned in the fireplace. Tens puttered in the kitchen, the air steaming with fragrant chili and corn bread.

  With my waking sigh, Tens’s head snapped around. “Hiya, Supergirl.” He strode over and stretched out next to me on the bed. He curled toward me. “You slept forever. You feeling okay?”

  “Sorry.” I snuggled against him, tucking myself into his shoulder and side. “Tired.”

  He nodded across the top of my head. “You hungry?”

  “Hmm … let’s stay here like this for a minute, okay?” I reveled in the weight and feel of him pressed to me. So different from me in his proportions and shapes. Safe. Secure. Butterflies tickled my insides, not with anxiety but excitement. He smelled like sunlight and sap, a touch of wet dog, and loamy earth.

  He ran his fingers through my hair, untangling my sleep from each strand. My curls had recovered fully from the latest batch of transitions. “Hmm.” I sighed my pleasure, my breath moistening the cotton covering his chest. If I could have purred, I would have. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop. I enjoyed the tug and soothe on my scalp. His heat and strength drove my worry away.

  He kissed my fingertips. “Dishpan hands.”

  “My one brush with the fifties. I’m a feminist. I hate doing dishes.”

  “Is that what ‘feminist’ means? I thought it was something else.” He chuckled deep in his chest, but without the raucous abandon I longed to hear. Laughter for Tens was a small tremor. I still didn’t know who, or what, had stolen his laugh machine. He settled silent again, quiet.

  Intermittent traffic outside created soft white noise and people walking around the neighborhood occasionally yelled greetings to each other. Car doors slammed, crows called, and dogs barked. I felt like we were in a cocoon and the world outside was happening without us. This quiet was relative.

  I missed Sammy’s antics—his goofy faces and spontaneous giggles. The games of chase and tag. I hadn’t known how much I’d relied on him to balance the burden of so much death until I no longer had him. I needed Tens to provide some of that for me. I needed goofy playing, flirting, and touching. I’d told him this while we were stuck in the caves; he’d made monumental strides in occasionally giving me lighter, airier moments. This wasn’t one of them. I felt him waiting to have the serious conversation that stalked me. It hung there like the gallows. The reality of death being an integral part of our lives made the act of living oppressive. “Thanks for not telling me I overdid it today,” I said, breaking our silence.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I wondered aloud, “How did she do it?”

  “Who? What?”

  “Auntie? How did she balance it all? She had Charles, a home, and quilting. A family. She did charity work and was a nurse. She had all these amazing dimensions to her life.”

  “And you don’t?” He leaned over me to catch my gaze.

  “I don’t mean it that way. I’m blessed to have you, I know that.”

  “But you want the rest? Right this minute? You’re comparing the life of a hundred and six years to your sixteen. Do you really think she had all of that in the beginning?”

  Good point. Of course she didn’t. I held my tongue.

  Tens continued. “My grandfather was the epitome of a shaman, an elder, the person everyone turned to for advice. Lessons. Actions. He didn’t just give empty words; when the talking was done he acted. Every day of my life, I will strive to be like him and I will never get there. Never.”

  I pushed myself up until mere inches separated our faces. “That’s not true. You’re special. You’ll be him and then some, because you started with the foundation he set for you.”

  “Maybe. But what I’m trying to tell you is that you and I can only do the best we can in the moment. When we know more, we’ll do more; when we are more, we’ll make bigger choices and hav
e bigger impacts. We’re just starting, Merry.”

  “Why does it feel like I have to steal normal, though?”

  His lips twitched. “Because you do.”

  I rolled my eyes, knowing he was right. Again. I kissed him lightly on his lips and chin and cheeks.

  The kitchen timer dinged. Our dinner was ready. We shelved our conversation, but over bits and pieces of the tearoom leftovers, Tens paused to stare at me.

  “What’s going on in your head?” I asked. His expression clouded. I pressed. “You worked so hard today, like you were driven.”

  “I felt like I needed to move. To sweat.”

  “How long was your run?” Didn’t he run for hours before even starting work on Helios’s grounds? What drives him to push so hard?

  “Couple of hours. I don’t know. But—” He stopped and ate a square of honey-drenched corn bread.

  I knew to hold my peace and wait him out.

  “I took the ravine path back there. It runs along Wildcat Creek. Bike path, maybe? Nice. Paved.”

  I nodded, licking my chili spoon. Shoving food in my mouth kept me from pestering him with what he’d consider annoying questions.

  “I wasn’t keeping track of the time or distance. Went from town development to rural farmland fairly quickly. Wide-open spaces or woods. No people. I found a rhythm and pounded it out.” He ate a few more bites.

  “Custos kept to my right, between me and the creek. She kept leaping over logs and chasing possums or rats or whatever. She crossed over into my path and tripped me.” At her name, Custos stood, stretched, and wandered over to her bowl of chili and corn bread. She wouldn’t touch dog food and she didn’t much like people food, either. But I kept offering it to her, unsure whether she needed nourishment of this type.

  “Then she tripped me again.” Tens shook his head.

  “Are you hurt?” I reached for him automatically, coming out of my chair. “She did it on purpose?”

  He grabbed my hands and gently pushed me back, but he didn’t let go. “Fine. I’m fine. I fell sideways, onto grass. Custos bumped me again. Hard. I tried to stand and she threw her paws into my stomach. Enough force to keep me down, but not hurt me.” He paused, rubbing idly his thumbs across the backs of my hands.