Flies on the Butter

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  “Well, I’ll be. Your name’s Fletcher too?”

  He was obviously thorough.

  “Ah, it’s actually my, um, my husband’s last name.”

  “Your husband from around here?” he asked, now wearing a smile as though he’d just met family.

  “No, he’s from up north, actually.”

  “Oh, really? We’ve got some Fletchers up north.”

  “He’s never mentioned relatives down south.”

  “Well, I bet you and I are related in some way. You give me your address, and next family reunion, I’m going to invite you and your husband—um, what did you say his name was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Clint cocked his head at her.

  True Southerners didn’t do rude. She’d been gone for awhile. “It’s, um, Jack.”

  Clint’s head went back down. “Well, I’m going to invite you and Jack. Who knows, we all might be first cousins or something.” Rose sighed heavily. Clint heard her. “Don’t like family reunions?”

  There was no need to bring this nice man in on the fact that she and Jack weren’t celebrating anything together these days. “Actually, no. I’m just really late for where I’m headed.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I wasn’t even paying attention. I hope I haven’t kept you from something important. Well, you just sign right here,” he said, pushing the receipt and a Coca-Cola pen toward her. “And we’ll get you off and running. And I’ll just need your address right here,” he said, pointing to the bottom of the receipt.

  She knew he didn’t need her address; he just wanted her address, and she didn’t give out her address. Not unless she was ordering something online. She wrote her address down. Not completely correct, but an address just the same.

  “I hope you enjoy your candy, ma’am. And you tell your husband there are some Fletchers in North Carolina that are dying to meet him.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said as she opened the door and the bells jingled at her departure.

  Clint watched the dignified woman as she climbed into her fancy luxury car. He looked at the address she had written on the slip of paper. He knew it wasn’t the real one. He could tell by the way the pen hesitated as she wrote. Hesitation reveals multiple things.

  He sat down in the chair behind the counter and rested his elbows on the glass, then leaned his head into his hands. For some reason he knew the Fletchers from up north were having a cold winter. He could see it by the distance in her eyes.

  He looked at the small crucifix of Jesus and the rosary beads his grandmother had hung up next to the cash register. He kept them there because of what they meant to him. His grandmother had told him she had “run out of rosary beads” praying for him. It had worked.

  So today he prayed silently but desperately that something about the warmth of the South would reach inside Rose Fletcher’s heart and help her and Mr. Jack Fletcher have a wonderful Christmas. He prayed it would be the best they had ever known.

  17

  Rose had never quite figured out why people in the South were so nosy. It was one thing up north for your close friends to know your business, but another thing for strangers. They pretty much left you alone. She had grown fond of that. But down in the South, perfect strangers would grab you in the line at the restroom and ask, “Can I hug you?” if you even remotely reminded them of their dead Aunt Julia. And if you were pregnant, well, have mercy, your belly would be like a Magic 8-Ball.

  But there was something about her life now. People gave her space. Let her breathe. Didn’t really notice her in the bathroom lines. Unless they were from the South themselves and had been transplanted. And Rose could usually spot a Southerner a mile away. They always made eye contact, even in elevators.

  Rose hooked her seat belt and backed out of the space slowly. She pulled back onto the main street. About the time she reached a long stretch of blacktop with no lights and just countryside, her e-mail beeped on her phone.

  She cursed. “I can’t believe I did that again,” she told the hum of the heater. “There is not a living soul who would believe I’ve gone all day without checking my e-mail. I wouldn’t even believe it if I weren’t the one doing it.” She picked up her phone and noticed she had also missed another call. It was Jack’s number. Again.

  “What could he want?” Her heart started hammering. “I’m not calling him. I’m not.”

  The ringing cell phone interrupted her musing. Christopher’s name popped up on her dashboard panel.

  “Hey.” She tried to sound completely together.

  “What’s wrong?” It never worked with him.

  “Jack just called. Again. He’s called twice in the last hour, and I have no idea what he could want.” Her thumbs tapped the steering wheel.

  “Well, maybe he heard you were coming home, and he’s calling just to check on you.”

  “But we haven’t spoken in almost a month.”

  Christopher paused. “Then maybe it’s time you did.”

  Rose puffed. “I am not calling Jack.”

  Christopher gave her time to soften. She did. “What would I say?” She paused. “No, that would be the most ludicrous thing I’ve done in, well, the last month.” Her track record was growing shorter and shorter.

  “I doubt you’d regret it.”

  “I’d love to change the subject.”

  He sighed. “All right. Let’s talk about how much longer until you get here. Willie and Sharon just got here, and they were asking about you.”

  “You mean Shayrun,” Rose corrected.

  “I mean Sharon,” he assured her.

  Rose could have slapped herself. “You mean her name is spelled S-h-a-r-o-n?”

  “Rosey, please tell me you didn’t think her name was actually Shayrun.”

  He was the only living soul she would ever admit such error to. “Yes, my sweet brother. I have spent the last thirty-three years thinking her name was Shayrun.”

  He laughed. She couldn’t help but laugh herself. “Oh my,” he said. “I thought the North had wised you up.”

  “You obviously can’t get the country completely out of the girl.” She laughed again. “I’ll be there in a couple more hours.”

  “Well, if I don’t hear from you in a couple, I’ll call you again. Because I hear there might be some freezing rain headed through here.”

  “I’ll be fine. Trust me.” Though the elements outside her car weren’t looking so assuring.

  “Sure, I’ll trust a woman who doesn’t know the difference between Sharon and Shayrun.” He was still laughing when he hung up.

  Rose’s mind felt at ease. For one moment her mind was actually at ease. Those moments were so rare to her, especially anymore. Lately she had been living her life trying to fix something or hide something or ignore something. Never just empty of something. But for one brief moment on that country stretch of blacktop in North Carolina, as the faded yellow center line blurred by, Rose had no somethings. But it only lasted a moment. Because then Jack came back. And he returned with a vengeance.

  Rose had gotten up early that morning to work out. Finding the time had been almost impossible since her schedule had gotten so crazy. She’d been laboring to get new legislation ready to take to Congress, and that meant almost no free time. She and Jack used to work out together in the evenings after they both got off of work, but he was traveling more, and she was working later hours. So she took the opportunity whenever a morning allowed it.

  She figured Jack would already be at work by the time she returned from the gym, but she came through the back door and found him sitting on the sofa with his back to her. He never turned around as she walked in behind him.

  “I thought you’d be gone,” she said, tossing her keys onto the glass side table beside the sofa and heading to the bathroom.

  She threw her gym bag down on the floor beside the large Jacuzzi tub and went into the closet to pick out her clothes for the day. She reached for her navy blue suit with the small w
hite pinstripes and the white camisole. The new orange flower would be the perfect accent. She heard Jack’s footsteps come into the bathroom. She turned in the closet so she could see him. He was leaning against the stone vanity. His expression granted an immediate revelation that something had happened. Something bad.

  “Jack, what’s—” Then she saw what he was holding. Her birth control pills. Obviously her hiding place wasn’t as good a hiding place as she had thought. She couldn’t breathe.

  He stared at her, his blue eyes not even trying to conceal their hurt. They were so broken. She felt a twitching in her jaw as she steadied herself for what would ensue. “Where did you find those?” she asked.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” he asked. “Where I found them? If that’s your greatest worry, then I guess this really is as bad as I thought it was.” He set the packet down on the counter. Rose looked at him there, in his jeans and black turtleneck. She wanted to tell him everything. Explain it all. But she couldn’t. Pride was a powerful friend.

  His tone was calm when he said, “So you’ve done nothing but make our life a game of charades for the past three years. What else is a lie, Rosey? Our marriage? Has all of this been a charade to you?” She was amazed by how he contained his obvious passion and anger.

  But she had to turn her back to him. To get away from the harsh reality of his gaze. At her movement, he lost patience with her. He grabbed her arm and spun her back around. “You will not ignore me this time. You owe me answers.”

  “I don’t have answers!” she screamed, jerking her wrist from his grasp. “You always want answers. I don’t have answers. I just know I don’t want children, and all you’ve done since we’ve been married is hound me about children.”

  “That’s not true, Rose, and you know it! We both wanted children when we got married. We talked about it and dreamed about it together. So if you changed your mind in the middle of the game, you should have let me know.”

  She felt like an exploding bomb. “You don’t know me, Jack! You don’t really know me! You have this idea of who I am, and you just believe what you want me to be. But that’s not who I am. I’m none of those things you want me to be!” She was crying now, and she hated herself for it.

  He took her trembling body into his arms. She fought him, raging and crying, with every ounce of her power, but he had handled stronger foes than Rose. His arms were like a vise. Finally, she gave up her struggle.

  They both fell onto the floor of the closet. “I love you, Rosey,” his voice whispered softly in her ear. “I love you with all my heart, and we can figure all of this out. I just need you to talk to me, baby. Just talk to me.”

  Rose let her body sink into this man. The man she loved. A man she had forced into becoming a stranger. Yet there was something undeniably familiar about this moment. He kissed her wet face. She felt so tired. All she truly longed to do was stay there in his arms on the floor for years and years and never leave.

  But the battle inside never rested. Within minutes it had forced its way back to the surface. Rose leaned back and removed herself from Jack’s arms. She got up from the floor of the closet and looked down at his face. “I don’t want children, Jack. So if that ends this marriage, then that is just what will have to happen.” She stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower.

  When she got out of the shower, Jack was gone.

  A tear burned down Rose’s cheek, leaving a trail of coolness. Her e-mail buzzed again. “Oh, I can’t do this any longer. I’ve got to respond to these,” she said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She spotted a parking lot and pulled in to check her e-mails. She left the engine idling and the heat going to keep her warm. She didn’t notice the Elizabethtown AME church sign.

  A plump black hand shifted the black wooden plantation shutter slats to catch a clearer view of the new arrival. He saw the dark car parked in the lot and the red mane of hair dropped down either praying or looking for something. Pastor Lionel Johnson rubbed his blue cable-knit sweater where it bunched over his stomach. He was pretty certain this was the reason for the restlessness he’d been feeling all day.

  18

  It took Rose thirty minutes to answer all of her e-mails. Her fingers had grown so nimble on the small keyboard of her BlackBerry that she hardly even had to look at the letters anymore. Most of them were wearing off anyway. Finished, she laid the BlackBerry in the passenger seat and tilted her head back against the headrest.

  Helen rang. Rose answered.

  “I have officially called off the search committee,” Helen informed.

  “I’m very grateful.”

  “Have you ever noticed how Max hikes up his britches every time he gets frustrated?”

  Rose moved her head from side to side, stretching her neck. “I can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, I’ve been privileged to observe it close to fifteen times today. So I’m going home now. My brain is fried. My nerves are shattered.”

  “And I’ll bet your little happy container is empty too.”

  Helen gasped. Then Rose could hear her drawer open and close. She knew Helen was checking to see if her flask was still there.

  “You need to stop that.”

  “We all need to stop some things,” Helen retorted.

  “Touché. And good night.”

  “Be careful, sunshine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, I’m sure.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Rose ended the call.

  That was when Rose saw the church sign. And that was when she took notice of the small, white clapboard chapel with a red door and black shutters.

  A Christmas wreath hung on the front door, and two tall holly trees stood at each corner of the building. It looked like a postcard. The interior shutters were all angled to match perfectly, except for a slight extra tilt in the one on the left front window. Rose put the car in drive and headed for the exit of the parking lot. But as committed as her car was to that direction, her heart was pulled to the opposite one. Something inside her desired just a few minutes inside the small chapel.

  She debated with herself. An occurrence that was becoming more frequent. And the majority of this day, out loud. The stronger Rose usually won, but today the stronger Rose had been weakened. Memories can do that to you. She gave a loud sigh and turned the Lexus around, convincing herself this really was a good idea.

  The shutter tilted back into place. But Rose never noticed as she stopped the car in the parking spot nearest the red door. The church was much different from the brick Church of God across from her mamaw and granddaddy’s, with its white door and white shutters. But something about this church felt familiar. Inviting.

  Rose pulled her wrap up from behind her and draped it around her shoulders. She cut the engine, got out, then dropped the car key into the pocket of her slacks. She locked the door with a push of the button on the door handle. Before she could change her mind, she climbed three concrete steps in front of the church and reached for the aged brass handle that led inside. The door swung open silently. Good, she thought. No announcement of her entrance.

  In the small vestibule, she inhaled the tangy scent of pine. A Christmas tree with tiny lights illuminated the intimate area. She paused only for a moment, then entered the sanctuary, where soft lights added to the peaceful environment. Rich, dark pews padded in burgundy velvet were a deep contrast to the white walls and black interior plantation shutters. She aimed for the back pew, wishing she’d worn shoes that weren’t so loud on the hardwood floor. She touched the dark grain of the pew, then decided she wanted to go closer to the front.

  Rose hadn’t been inside the walls of a church for years. Jack had started attending church shortly after their wedding. A colleague in his office had invited him, and he had gone ever since. He’d invited her to go with him, but when she refused, he went without her. But she had grown up inside church walls very much like these. Practically raised there. Falling asleep on pews. Even forgotten on them a time or two until her
father returned to scoop her up and carry her home. She was always surprised that the aroma of fried chicken cooking next door hadn’t instantly woken her up. The memories made her smile.

  She sat down quietly in the fourth row and leaned back. She ran her hand across the soft but worn velvet beside her. And with the soft fabric beneath her hand, she remembered.

  “You going with Mamaw tonight, Rosey?” Mamaw asked as Rosey stepped inside their house.

  Her mama and daddy had already gone over to the church to rehearse with the choir. Her mama had dressed Rosey in her favorite sundress, orange with small ribbon ties on her shoulders. Mama had also pulled back Rosey’s hair with an orange-ribboned headband. Rosey loved orange. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, letting her little purse dangle from her forearm. “I thought I’d go with you tonight.”

  Mamaw, Granddaddy, and Rosey walked together across the parking lot to the tiny brick church. She swung their hands as they walked, her purse flopping on her arm in rhythm. Rosey could hear her mama’s organ playing before Deacon Wilson even opened the door to greet them. Granddaddy kissed Mamaw, patted Rosey on the head, and went to stand with the other deacons.

  It was a Sunday evening service, and somewhere in the middle of the preacher’s sermon, Rosey laid her head on her mamaw’s lap. Something about the preaching always made her eyes heavy. Fortunately for her, at six years old she was still allowed to sleep in church. And Mamaw had a way of stroking her hair that just put her out quicker than the preacher could say, “And a . . .”

  But something happened at the end of the message when sister Sugar Mae Jacobson got to the piano. The Spirit came down, and Rosey’s mamaw caught ahold of Him. Rosey had heard people pray in the Spirit on a few occasions, but never a person in whose lap her head was resting. So when the Holy Ghost made its way to their pew and Mamaw started praying in the Spirit, a current swept through Rosey’s entire body. It jolted her upright. Rosey wasn’t necessarily scared. No, she was just mesmerized. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she knew Jesus had arrived on Dixon Street that evening.