Thistle Down

by Irene Radford

  Chase and Dusty joined them a moment later. They looked flushed and happy.

  Thistle narrowed her eyes in speculation. She could definitely see their energies reaching toward each other. At least that part of her magic hadn’t faded along with her other Pixie traits.

  This wouldn’t do at all. Chase was not the man for Dusty. He’d kill her imagination and overshadow her intellect with his energy and lust for life. Dusty needed to match up with Joe. But Joe didn’t have a sitter for his daughters tonight. So he stayed home while Dusty danced with another man.

  Hmm. What could she do about that?

  Dusty’s aura retracted deep within herself as she sipped at the foaming brew in her glass. Good. Chase wasn’t the right man for her. Thistle needed to direct Dusty’s attention back toward Joe. There was a man who truly needed her. And so did his daughters. Two little girls at just the right age to be befriended by a Pixie.

  Hmmm. Ideas spun in her head.

  Besides. Chase had a mean streak. Thistle had been his victim when he was eight or nine. He couldn’t be trusted. Nope. No way.

  “Anyone ever see Phelma Jo’s companion before?” Chase asked.

  The two men’s attention fixed on a long-legged beauty across the dance floor. She wore a dark gray straight skirt and plain pink blouse as if they were royal robes, created to enhance her personality. Something was just a little off about her . . .

  “Do you mean the woman with the fake blonde hair?” Thistle asked, directing her gaze across the room.

  “She dyes her hair?” Dusty asked incredulously.

  “Of course she does. Her roots are almost as dark as my hair,” Thistle replied.

  “She was blonde when we were kids.” Dusty brightened considerably as she reached for a piece of the bread and cheese and tomato sauce confection piled high with semi-cooked vegetables.

  “Never seen him before. He certainly seems attentive to Phelma Jo, though.” Dick shrugged and snagged his own piece of pizza.

  “Something about him bothers me,” Chase said quietly. “Can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe you’re just jealous,” Dick laughed.

  That made Thistle turn her attention across the dance floor. If Chase were truly jealous, then he needed to stay away from Dusty and not hurt her anymore than he already had.

  “He reminds me of someone,” Thistle mused. “Can’t wrap a wingtip around the memory, though.” She tapped her teeth, trying to place the square face with hair the color of wheat ripening in August sunshine.

  “That’s an interesting metaphor.” Dusty looked puzzled. “Not a phrase most people would use.”

  “Who said I’m most people? Now what’s this on top of the pizza?” Thistle pointed to a brown blob that looked crumpled and nasty.

  “That’s Italian sausage. Try it, very tasty,” Dick informed her. He picked a similar nugget off his piece of pizza and ate it separately, smacking his lips and smiling at the delicacy.

  “Um . . . no thanks.” Thistle put her hands in her lap, though her tummy growled with demands for food. Not a bit of pollen or a mosquito in sight.

  “Stick to the mushrooms and olives, you can pick off the meat. Or try my veggie special,” Dusty whispered. “Do you eat cheese?”

  “Cheese? Of course I like cheese,” Thistle replied with enthusiasm. And mushrooms. She knew about mushrooms and the delicious things they could do to dizzying flight with or without a mate. Alder knew where the best rings of them grew and how to snatch them out from under the noses of the Faeries. But olives?

  “Olives are those little black circles. They’re a kind of berry, but they’re savory and salty—not sweet, ” Dusty explained.

  “If I eat human food, will I be forced to remain human?” Thistle whispered to Dusty.

  “I don’t know. That’s the Greek myth of Persephone, and some tales of European elves who trick humans into staying with them. The theory could extend to Pixies. But if you don’t eat, you will get sick and die. So eat and enjoy.” Dusty took a big bite of cheese and bread.

  Die of sadness because she couldn’t return to Pixie, or die of hunger while she held out hope? Thistle felt heavy with no wings to lighten her. Her throat grew hot and nearly closed. Moisture gathered in her eyes. Tears. She’d seen children cry often enough, and helped them get over their hurts. But Pixies didn’t cry.

  The savory food no longer enticed her. She lifted the glass of beer someone had set in front of her. One long swallow. She almost spat out the bitterness. But the liquid felt good on her convulsing throat.

  She took another more cautious sip. If she ignored the first impression of bitterness, and sought the undertaste of grains and fruit and sweetness, it tasted like something Trillium would add to a festive dinner back home.

  Before she realized how much she’d drunk, the glass was empty and Chase was refilling it from a pitcher. Much of Thistle’s heaviness lifted away.

  Then Phelma Jo and her blond companion paraded toward them. The companion hung back as Phelma Jo approached their table.

  “I didn’t receive an official invitation to the Masque Ball, Miss Carrick,” she said arrogantly. Her overbite nearly covered her lower lip and she scrunched her nose in distaste, making her look like a rabbit with wounded dignity.

  “You didn’t?” Dusty asked, opening her eyes wide with innocence. “I’ll look into that in the morning.”

  Thistle heard Dusty’s reply from across the room. She looked up and found herself facing the far wall filled with hats made of fake raccoon fur. She shook herself and tried to remember how she got here. Her mind wandered away from that bit of information as quickly as her feet wandered toward the door as she tried to go back to the table.

  She had to watch her friends from a distance, it seemed. Thistle knew Dusty’s expression of furtive eyes and a quiver in her jaw as she fought to hide a smile. She had deliberately removed Phelma Jo’s name from the guest list.

  “My assistant will come to your office first thing and pick up my invitation,” Phelma Jo spat.

  “All the invitations went out by email this year,” Dusty replied. “Perhaps I no longer have a valid address for you.”

  The tall man standing slightly behind Phelma Jo’s shoulder leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. His eyes sought and held Dusty’s gaze. He smiled at her and then backed away.

  Thistle tried to return to the table so she could hear more. Three steps later she was at the front door, and Dick had to guide her back toward their table.

  What was going on?

  “I expect a written invitation. Have it ready for Haywood at 9:15 tomorrow morning.” Phelma Jo marched away, tossing her thick mane of bleached blonde hair. Her companion had already retreated.

  “The museum doesn’t open until eleven, after the end of the parade,” Dusty called after them.

  Phelma Jo didn’t acknowledge the correction, but Haywood Wheatland flashed that glorious smile directly at Dusty.

  “Like I’m at her beck and call!” Dusty protested. “She’s never come to the Ball before. Why now?”

  “I remember her,” Thistle mused. “Nasty child who trapped me in a jar with a wolf spider. Almost as nasty as the boy who glued my wings together with dog drool.” She speared Chase with a glance.

  He choked and tried to bury his blushing face in his glass. He remembered.

  Thistle turned her attention back to Phelma Jo. A pattern of energy grew around her, linking in a long chain back to . . .

  Thistle dropped her sandal in front of the couple dancing a vigorous two-step right in front of her. They stumbled, bumping into a passing waitress, who reared back against the jukebox, knocking a listing music lover against the bar. The bartender reached to grab a line of bottles. But they cannonaded into each other, dropping in a line the full length of the bar. At the end, another patron lunged to grab the last bottle to keep it from spilling. He lost his balance and stuck out his foot behind him, catching a waiter in the crotch. He doubled over, sp
illing a full pitcher of beer on top of Phelma Jo’s head just as she returned to her chair.

  The beer bounced off of Haywood Wheatland. What the . . . ?

  Dusty’s jaw dropped in amazement. Then she had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. Her eyes sparked with amusement.

  “See, PJ doesn’t always win,” Thistle whispered.

  Phelma Jo spat and spluttered and dripped. She loosed a stream of curses worthy of a Faery drunk on honey.

  “Ah, I feel much better,” Thistle said and grabbed the last piece of pizza on the tray. She ate it in five big bites, not bothering to pick off the meat.

  Eight

  SOMETHING ABOUT THE HOT NIGHT AIR, high humidity, and the smell of spilled beer on her now ruined silk blouse played tricks on Phelma Jo’s vision as she drove home to her condo overlooking the river and the railroad tracks. The buildings blurred, overlapping the shacks she’d torn down for the expensive development.

  “I am in control of my life. I am rich and successful. I don’t owe anything to anybody—except a few mortgages. No one tells me what to do. I don’t have to remember my god-awful childhood. It’s in the past. It’s over. I’m not that scared child anymore.” She repeated her personal litany over and over as the blocks grew longer and her mind kept drifting to the past when the smell of beer on a hot night ruled her life.

  Her mind drifted back to where she’d started twenty years ago, back when life was one long pain in the ass . . .

  “I’m theven now, you are thuppothed to take care of me!” Phelma Jo yelled at her mother through her oversized and gaping front teeth. “You’re thuppothed to make sure there’th food in the houthe and cook it. Not me!” At least that was what the latest foster mother told her before Mom had sobered up and taken her away from the family that had fed and clothed her for six months.

  Mom actually took care of her for almost six weeks before she brought a new boyfriend home, and he bought a bottle of the clear liquid that smelled so awful. That was five bottles and three days ago.

  Now the boyfriend was trying to play Daddy and help Phelma Jo take her bath. It didn’t feel right having him touch her where she knew no one was supposed to touch her.

  Before Mom could take another swig out of the latest bottle and the boyfriend could drag her back to the bathtub, Phelma Jo stomped out of the tumbledown one-bedroom house beside the railroad. The moment her feet hit the pavement, she started running, her toosmall sandals scuffing against the street. Hot tears ran down her face. Her breath came in short gasps around the huge lump inside her.

  Five blocks away, straight up the cliff, The Ten Acre Wood loomed tall and dark and mysterious. A hiding place. She didn’t even look back to see if the boyfriend followed her. Or care.

  The quiet coolness welcomed her on the hot summer evening. Birds chirped happily. A frog croaked from the muddy spot that in winter was a small pond. The scent of hot fir sap and sweet thistles filled her nose. Her sweat dried along with her tears as she picked her way along a faint trail to a hollow stump. Deep inside, she found the cracked and stained mason jar she’d stolen from one of the old ladies who lived across the street from the park. She unscrewed the cap and crept toward the little clearing where dragonflies rested, soaking up the last of the sunshine for the day.

  Something moved in the shadows to her right. She froze in place and looked only with her eyes, suddenly afraid. The kids in school said these woods were haunted. They said that weird things happened to kids who came here alone.

  Most of the time, Phelma Jo didn’t believe them. But now . . . the shadows grew long and the evening winds came up to chill her arms and her knees.

  The shadow moved again. She dropped her gaze to a small tree that lay across her path. The biggest spider she’d ever seen crawled along the rotting wood. Brown and hairy. “I bet you’re mean ath well ath ugly,” she whispered. “As mean as the boyfriend. Well, I’m meaner. I have to be meaner.”

  Cautiously, she stooped and rested the jar on the log with the open mouth toward the spider. Inch by inch, she nudged it closer to the bug. The glass bumped up against one of the hairy brown legs.

  The spider raised that leg and waved it about, kinda like it was sniffing. Then it crawled inside, pausing with each step.

  Phelma Jo remained as still as still could be until her prize had climbed all the way inside. Then in one swift motion she scooped the lid over the opening and screwed it tight.

  “Just what I need to make life interethting. Should I turn you loothe up my mom’th thkirt while she thleeps? Maybe you’ll bite the boyfriend when hith handth get too clothe to her.”

  A faint buzzing drew her attention. She batted at whatever bug dive-bombed her ear. Jewel-bright wings caught the sunlight in the clearing just ahead.

  Phelma Jo watched the purple dragonfly swoop down to the mudhole, tagging the top of a frog’s head. She followed cautiously, still holding her prized spider inside the jar. Her hand unscrewed the top but left it in place as she took a wary step crossing over her previous wary step.

  The birds stopped singing. The breeze faded away. All was still.

  She watched as the dragonfly spread its wings and settled on a broad fern frond overhanging the dried mud at the edge of the pool. Not much water left this time of year.

  Watching where she placed her feet, making sure she didn’t rustle a leaf or crack a twig, Phelma Jo moved up beside the colorful bug. She slid the jar beneath the fern, right below where the dragonfly perched.

  As quickly as she’d trapped the spider, she caught the bug with the lid and forced it into the jar, along with the fern tip. The plant made a ripping noise as it lost the bit of its leaf.

  The dragonfly beat frantically against the glass with wings and tiny feet. It flitted about, desperate to stay away from the spider.

  “Let’th play that you’re my mom and the thpider ith her boyfriend. When he eats you, my fothter mom and dad can come get me. They’ll make sure I get thupper. They’ll make sure no one touches me where they shouldn’t.”

  “Help, help. Let me out!”

  Phelma Jo thought she heard a cry. Only her imagination. Imagination would get her into trouble, just like the kids who scared themselves with ghost stories about The Ten Acre Wood, then tripped and got hurt trying to run away too fast to look where they were going.

  She held the jar up to the slanting sunlight, admiring the bright colors and wondering how long the bug could evade the spider. Wouldn’t it be funny if she let them both out under her mom’s skirt as she lay on the sofa too drunk to move?

  “That’s not really a dragonfly, you know,” Dick Carrick said from right behind her. He reached an arm over her shoulder and grabbed the jar away from her.

  “Hey, that’th mine!” Phelma Jo shouted. She jumped, trying to snatch the jar back.

  “It’s not nice to hurt spiders and Pixies and things,” Dick admonished her.

  “Juth cuth you’re older and bigger than me, doethn’t mean you can tell me what to do. No one can tell me what to do.” Phelma Jo jumped again.

  Dick held her still with one hand on top of her head. At the same time, he tucked the jar under his arm and unscrewed the lid with his free hand. The dragonfly slipped through the first opening before the spider had a chance to follow.

  “Hey, I worked hard to catch my peth,” Phelma Jo protested.

  Dick just watched the dragonfly circle his head and flit away into the woods. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly, almost in awe of the bug.

  “You’re ath crathy ath your thithter, talking to bugth.” Phelma Jo stomped away in disgust.

  She waited in the shadows of the old railway shed for the boyfriend to turn out all the lights and fall asleep before creeping back into the house. She washed her hands and face from the cold water in the tub. But not her whole body. She wouldn’t take off her clothes and give him the chance to spy on her. Or touch her.

  “What are we going to do about Thistle, Dick?” Chase whispered to his
friend as they stood on the wraparound porch of the Carrick home. The Queen Anne style pile of gingerbread and turrets had been in Dick’s family since it was built over a hundred years ago.

  Chase thought it an eyesore with Mrs. Carrick’s most recent paint job of pink with white trim and yellow highlights. Not just any pink either. A screaming harem-pink worthy of a whorehouse.

  He hated that Dusty had to live with that image. But then she lived so quietly she’d never found the need to move out on her own. Did she even know how ugly the house was?

  Dick thrived away from his mother’s stifling influence. But he’d finally decided he needed to save enough money for a down payment on a house. So he moved in with Dusty for the summer while their parents were away.

  Or maybe he moved back home to protect Dusty from being alone. That would be just like him.

  “What do you mean, ‘what are we going to do about Thistle?’ ” Dick asked. He kept looking over his shoulder.

  “Dick, look at me. The girls don’t need you to put a very drunk Thistle to bed.” Though Dick looked like he really wanted to do just that. “She knows too much about things she has no business knowing. Things about us. How’d she find out?”

  “Huh?”

  “How’d she know I glued a dragonfly’s wings together with dog drool from my red mastiff when I was eight? Remember the posters I used to glue to the wall with Julia’s dog drool. Better than superglue.”

  Dick smiled. “Yeah. Who’d of thought it would work.”

  “Yeah. And how’d Thistle know Phelma Jo tried to capture a very similar dragonfly in a glass jar in the same stretch of The Ten Acre Wood?”

  “You believed in Faeries and Pixies when you were little,” Dick said. His eyes finally focused on Chase. “I remember.”

  “I gave up that notion by second grade. The same time I stopped believing in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and the Easter Bunny. I thought you did, too.”