by Oliver, Tess
The gate was a simple latch, but I didn't need to go inside. I could see it all from outside the gates, the pain, the agony and the small patch of comfort provided by the cheery eternal resting place.
I turned back around and whistled to Boone, whose nose was buried in a gopher hole. He reluctantly pulled his snout free and followed me back to the town square. The sun was beating down hard on the dry patch of ground. I raked my hair back with my fingers and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
I walked to the fountain and stood in front of it, squinting up at the horses jumping up from the base of it, hooves curved high in the air like rearing stallions. The water spouts clamped in their stone teeth were caked with algae and mineral deposits.
I could have left Butterfield right then, turned back along the cracked and crumbling sidewalk and away from the depressing little town. I could have driven off and never looked back.
The moat of weeds surrounding the base of the fountain crunched under my shoes as I climbed into the bottom tier. My fingers wrapped around a long tall weed that had anchored itself at the base of the first horse. I yanked the spindly weed free, tossed it out of the fountain and scooted around to the next weed.
Chapter Four
Ella
Kathy Mackson had joined Patty at the front window of the market. They reminded me of two cats sitting in a window watching a bird play in the grass. All they needed were two slender tails flicking in excited unison. But the focus of their curiosity was no bird, that was for damn sure.
Kathy had walked in wearing one of her usual scowls. She'd immediately jumped into a rant about the rowdy looking man hanging out across the street at the park. Kathy and Jordy Mackson were considered the rich people in town. Although in Butterfield, rich meant their house was four bedroom instead of three and they had an entire acre of land with an above ground swimming pool. In Butterfield, that was nothing short of palatial. Jordy owned a gas station out on the highway, a good twenty miles east of Butterfield and Kathy was the bookkeeper for the local church. Even though my mom chided me for it, I always thought of them as self-righteous big shots, with their acre of land and plastic swimming pool. Kathy rarely smiled and she was perpetually cranky, but I never paid attention to her sour mood. I could never fault her for that because like Patty, Kathy had lost an angel too.
Butterfield Angel #11 Vincent Mackson, thirteen years old. Son to Jordan and Kathy Mackson and brother to Brent. He loved riding his bicycle, family barbecues and playing pranks on friends. I remembered the last detail well. Once as we walked home from school, Vincent threw a lizard at me and laughed as he called himself the King of Pranks. But I had to explain to him that if it had been a prank the lizard would have been rubber. Instead, all he did was 'throw a darn lizard at me'. Vincent was never the smartest. Some people thought he was a bully, but they were wrong and I had proof. One day, Shelia Harrold walked into our third grade class with a three story carousel of crayons. It was the most impressive crayon caddy any one of us had ever seen. For days, we all just stared in envy at the thing. Then, one morning, just as we were about to head out to recess, Sheila accidently knocked the carousel of crayons off her desk. It was as if someone had lit a stick of dynamite under a rainbow. Colors went flying everywhere. Sunset Orange landed on the teacher's chalk tray. Shamrock Green torpedoed across the room and landed in the fishbowl. Cornflower Blue jammed itself neatly into the teacher's reading manual. An urban legend was even born out of the great crayon fiasco. Royal Purple was never seen again, so it was unanimously decided that the crayon was sucked into another dimension. We all scrambled to retrieve the scattered crayons, but when the bell for recess rang, we all ran for the playground. But Vincent stayed behind to help Sheila. Prankster or not, Vincent was a good guy. And Vincent was the reason that I never minded that Kathy Mackson was a grouch.
I was in the back unpacking soup cans when I heard the cowbell ring. Fran Carson's nasal voice reverberated through the store. Fran was the mayor of Butterfield, but even with her lofty position, she still never acted self-important like the Mackson's. Even though it seemed like she had every right to. She was mayor, after all.
I returned to the store front. Fran was wearing her big straw hat and the polka dot blouse she always wore when she was about to head into the mayor's office to do mayorish things. Fran was what I called a third degree person. She wasn't directly attached to a Butterfield angel, but she had certainly known them all well, and Fran, like other third degree neighbors, had suffered the despair right along with the rest of us.
Fran joined Patty and Kathy at the front window and was quickly pulled into the entertainment.
Patty heard my footsteps and yanked her attention from the window just long enough to make an announcement. "He's taking off his shirt," she blurted and turned back to the window.
"It's shameful," Kathy sneered as she kept her nose pressed against the glass.
"Oh my," Fran chirped. "Well, he is something, isn't he? I don't think I've ever seen so many tattoos on one man. No, I guess that's not true. When I was little my dad took me to a carnival and there was this scary looking guy who had tattoos everywhere, even on his face. I had nightmares about him for weeks."
Patty pressed her face closer to the window to get a better view. "Well, I'm sure not going to have nightmares about this man."
I walked up behind them and peered over Kathy's shoulder. She was so engaged in pretending to be disgusted by the chest and shoulder display across the street, she didn't hear me walk up.
I squinted through the glass that was now being slightly clouded by the hot, short breaths of the three women glued to the window. I was sure he would eat his sandwich and leave. Why the hell would anyone stay in Butterfield?
His dog had curled up under the shade of the slide as the man stood in the fountain.
The thick muscles of his arms flexed as he yanked free the well rooted weeds that, deciding no one would ever disturb them there, had taken safe harbor in the Butterfield fountain.
Patty looked at me. "What do you think he's doing?"
"It looks like he's cleaning the fountain."
"Why?"
"Maybe he likes fountains. It's hot outside. He might need a drink." I headed toward the refrigerator aisle and returned to the window with a bottle of water.
Patty's attention was back on the scene across the street. I touched her arm with the cold wet bottle and she startled. She glanced down at the water.
"Why don't you take it to him?"
"Me?" Patty reached up and smoothed down her hair. "No way. I couldn't. No. Not me. You do it, Ella."
I held the bottle out to her. "Last chance."
Patty shook her head.
"Fine." I walked out the door and headed across the street. I glanced back to see the three wide-eyed faces staring out the store window and had to push down a laugh.
Our tattooed stranger was crouched down in the fountain. I could only see the muscular curve of his broad back. Beads of sweat added a new, slick dimension to the skull tattoo between his shoulder blades. He straightened with a wad of dead weeds in each fist.
He turned and saw me standing beneath the fountain, holding up a bottle of water. His smile was blindingly white in his tanned face. "Hey, Twinks, is that water for me?"
"Guess it's a good thing I wasn't stacking Ding Dongs."
"Nah, you're much more of a Twinks than a Ding Dong." He dropped the weeds over the side of the fountain and rubbed his hands on his rippling stomach, a gesture that made a breath catch in my throat. His callused fingers touched mine as he took hold of the bottle. The few seconds that followed, with him twisting off the cap, pressing the bottle to his mouth and swallowing the water, were nearly as breathtaking as watching him wipe his hands on his rock hard abs. No wonder Kathy, Patty and Fran had been glued to the window. The man was a piece of art. And we were a town that lacked masterpieces, big time.
I reached up for the empty bottle. "I'll bring you another and somet
hing for Boone too. Are you sure you want to bother with this? The fountain is long past its glory days."
He walked to the center of the fountain and stuck his fingers under the thin trickle of green water. "This proves it still has a heartbeat. Just needs a little resuscitation."
"I'd say a lot of resuscitation. It used to be the crowned jewel of Butterfield. When I was little, when the sun was burning a hole in the sky like today, we would play in it. And there was this funny tradition for the senior class to fill it with soap after graduation night. The whole town would wake the next morning to the world's biggest triple layer bubble bath."
"Gotta love a small town." He laughed as he climbed down from the fountain. "I'm Fynn, by the way."
"Ella, and Butterfield is definitely a small town. Eight hundred, fifteen people, if you count the Breyers who spend summer here but live on the coast the rest of the year. Everyone is somehow connected like we're all part of the same memory quilt." I never brought up the Butterfield Angels to strangers, but it was true. We were all connected to each other and to an angel, whether by family or friend.
Fynn reached back and rested his hands on the fountain, inadvertently accentuating the muscles in his shoulders and chest. A thin layer of dirt clung to the sweat on his skin. Sweat and dirt was not a look all men could pull off well, but he managed it just fine. I could only imagine the conversation and shocked gasps happening inside the market.
"At least this place isn't too remote," Fynn said in a voice that matched him perfectly, deep and smooth. "I spent a good portion of my life on my grandpa's farm, and sometimes at night, when we were bringing the cows in under a starry sky, it felt like we were the only people left on the planet. After awhile you start talking to the animals. By the way, sheep are huge gossips and pigs have no sense of humor. Yeah, people like to say, 'but hey buddy, pigs are the comics of the barnyard'. But it's all hype put out there by the pigs themselves."
"I guess they'd call that pig propaganda. So, who are the true comics of the barnyard?"
"Goats," he answered emphatically as if he'd given it a lot of thought. "Natural born comedians and they're humble about it too."
I laughed. "Learn something new every day. I've always wanted to live on a farm. I have horses categorized as the most magical creatures on earth."
Fynn spread out his arms, incredible arms, arms that could squeeze the breath out of you and you wouldn't mind a bit. "There's a big world out there, and it's full of farms looking for a pretty blue eyed farmer to run things."
I smiled but had no response. Sometimes it was just easier to pretend that there was no world past the borders of Butterfield. That way I didn't spend too much time worrying about what I was missing.
Fynn stared with admiration up at the fountain. He had just been passing through town, but he noticed, even beneath the wig of ugly weeds and algae, the incredible beauty of the fountain. Most people would have walked past and even avoided looking at it in its state of decay.
"I think I can get it running again, unless you think I shouldn't." His pale gold eyes caught me off guard for a second.
"No. I mean, I don't know. No one has touched the thing for . . . for a while." Since that day, I thought but didn't say.
"Let me see what I can do. It might have been on the edge of the world, but I learned a lot of handy stuff on that farm." He climbed back into the fountain and gazed down at me with those ethereal eyes. "Ella, huh? It fits."
I pointed back toward the market. "I'll go see about another water."
Chapter Five
Fynn
After sitting in the hot sun all day, the inside of the van was just starting to cool off. Tired from a long day of napping, Boone had crawled into his bed in the back for some real sleep. He'd already started his chorus of snores.
My hands were raw, and blood smeared on my list for the hardware store. Thick work gloves were at the top of that list. A plan had fallen into place as I worked to rid the old fountain of weeds. I would restore the fountain to, as Ella had termed it, its glory days. I had no idea what would happen after I'd finished, but it was something I wanted to do. Maybe I could add some life back to the town with that damn fountain. I had no idea why I felt the need to add back a spark of beauty. I wasn't completely sure the town deserved it. With the possible exception of Ella. She deserved anything good life had in store for her. But the sad little town was going to douse her light if things didn't turn around soon. It seemed that one day the dreary, depressed town was going to fold in around its inhabitants and swallow them up whole.
I was parked off Main Street, but my shabby white van had caught everyone's attention. I decided I would drive out of town and find a place to stay for the night. I knew the neighboring town of Langston well, and I knew exactly where to find a dirt cheap, dog friendly motel. I needed food too. Living out of the van was getting old, but this was my last stop on my road trip to something new. After Butterfield, I would find a place to live and work. I was sure a job in construction would be easier to find near the coast, and maybe this time I could work for a foreman who wasn't a complete asshole. I'd just fix the fountain and then move on. There wasn't anything else I could do for the people in Butterfield, and, it seemed, there was nothing else they could do for me. I would move on from this once the fountain was running.
I put my list down on the seat and pulled out my phone. Mom answered on the first ring.
"Fynn, where are you? Is everything all right?"
"Yeah, Mom, everything is fine. I wanted to let you know that I'll call you when I get settled some place. How is Grandpa?"
"He's good, but he misses you. We both miss you. We're just about to sit down to some fried chicken and mashed potatoes."
"That sounds good. You just reminded me I'm starved."
I could hear Grandpa's deep voice in the background asking a question.
"Grandpa wants to know where you're at."
I hesitated. "I'm in Butterfield."
This time the pause was on her side. "Why are you there? Fynn, don't do—"
"Mom, it's O.K.. I just needed to see the place. This is just something I needed to do. I might stay a few days."
"Don't. Just move on." There was a waver in her voice that I had to work hard to ignore.
"I'm going to, Mom. I promise. I'll let you know as soon as I settle in somewhere. I've heard there are some good construction jobs near the coast. That's where I'll head after this."
"Fynn—" she started in her worried mom tone.
"Mom, it's all good. I promise. Tell Grandpa to eat a few drumsticks for me, and I'll call you later."
"Love you, baby."
"Love you too, Mom." I hung up. As I lifted my gaze, a girl bicycled past on Main Street. For the fifth time in one day, I was treated to Ella's sweet smile. It was only a brief exchange before she pedaled past the street where the van was parked, but it was more than enough to get me through the night. Now I knew the true meaning of unforgettable. Ella was definitely that.
Chapter Six
Ella
The pleasing sound and scent of onions sizzling in butter greeted me as I walked in the back door. "I'm home," I called and turned to head down the hallway to my bedroom.
"Ella," Mom yelled back to me. "Come here a minute."
I spun back toward the kitchen. Mom was running a wooden spoon around a frying pan. She had pulled her mass of curls back with a red bandana. I had inherited her blue eyes and dark hair, but she had neglected to pass on her curly hair gene. And I reminded her of that constantly. Not only did I not inherit her curl, I couldn't even crimp a wave into my bone straight hair. I'd tried everything—curling irons, twenty-four hours in sponge curlers, stinky perms, everything short of sticking my finger in a live socket. It was just no use. Of course, my mom complained about her curls as often as I complained about my lack of them, proving that the hair was always better on the other head.
Mom looked up from the stove, her smooth cheeks pink from the heat. "Is ma
caroni and cheese all right?"
"When have I ever said no to mac and cheese? Wait. Are you using real cheddar, not that polyvinyl, vegetable oil based stuff you were trying to pass off as cheese on our sandwiches?"
"Yes, real cheddar." The little sheep on her apron danced as she shook her head. "So lock me up and throw away the key for trying to get you and Dad to eat healthy for a change."
"Uh, I'm pretty sure polyvinyl doesn't count as healthy food. Is that all you needed? I want to shower and get down to the basement to paint."
"Actually, there is something else." She put the spoon down and turned to me. My own blue eyes stared back at me. Sometimes they looked glassy with sadness. But other times, like now, we were just talking about macaroni and cheese and regular every day things. The normal world, light hearted moments like these, were what helped us get through the dark times. Tonight Mom's eyes were just the round, periwinkle blue orbs that my dad insisted were the highlight of his day, every day.
She wiped her hands on her apron, signaling a more serious topic than cheese. "Kathy was out walking the dog, and she stopped in to let me know a stranger had pulled into town in a suspicious looking van. She said he was lurking about the park and that you were talking to him. You know it's not safe to talk to strangers, Ella."
"O.K. first of all, Mom, I'm not six years old." My mom still loved to treat me like a kid, and most of the time, I let her. Sometimes I even liked it but then other times I needed to remind her that I was twenty-three. "And how does Kathy know the van looked suspicious? I saw it and it had four tires and a windshield and all the other parts that go on a van."
