A Different Blue(83)

I dug into my purse and found a pen. Sitting down at the table, I added a few more lines.



At the last minute, the bird looked upward, fixing her sights on the horizon. As she raised her

head and straightened her wings, she began to fly instead of fall, the wind beneath her lifting

her back into the sky.



It was silly and cheesy. But I felt better for having written it. It wasn't an ending, exactly,

but maybe it was a new beginning. Then I folded up Wilson's letter and my story and tucked them

into a copy of Dante's Inferno that I knew I would never read but that would forever make me

think of harpies and history, heartache and holding on.

In the weeks that followed, I was suspended in a happy timelessness. My baby's birth was still

far enough in the future that I could push thoughts of motherhood away, even as I began regular

visits to the doctor, having made no real decision beyond acceptance. I had accepted that I

would not be ending my pregnancy. I would be giving birth. I owned that responsibility. I

claimed it. I was living on my own, working in the cafe, and selling my carvings. And I was

happy. Beyond that, I just didn't know.





[page]When Tiffa sold four more of my sculptures, I stopped placing them at the cafe, simply

because I couldn't meet the demands of both and Tiffa could sell them for so much more. I

apologized to Beverly, explaining my dilemma.

“That is wonderful, Blue!” she said firmly, resting her hand on my arm. “You have nothing to

be sorry for! Don't apologize for success! Are you crazy? I might have to smack you up side the

head, girl!” She squeezed me tightly and then pulled me into her office, shutting the door

behind us.

“I found a roll of film when I was cleaning out some old filing cabinets the other day. I had

it developed. I have something for you.” She pulled an 8 x 10 frame from a plastic Walmart sack

and handed it to me. “I thought you would like this.”

I stared down at a picture of Jimmy and me, our eyes squinting against the sun, the cafe in the

backdrop, Icas at our feet. I drank it in, speechless.

“I had just purchased a new camera and was taking shots of all my regulars that day. There were

pictures of Dooby and Wayne having their morning coffee, same as they've done for the past

thirty years. Barb and Shelly were waitressing for me back then, too. I have a cute one of them

in their aprons keeping Joey company in the kitchen. Barb's gotten fat. So have I, for that

matter.” Bev patted her stomach ruefully. “I forgot that she used to have a pretty cute little

figure. I haven't shown her the pictures. Thought it might depress her. I don't know why this

roll didn't get developed, but you know me, always moving a mile a minute.”

Beverly tapped the glass, pointing at an unsmiling Jimmy. “He turned up that day, out of the

blue, which was the way it always was with Jimmy. I got lucky, I guess. I ordered him to pose

for a picture. You were so cute, smiling and thrilled to get your picture taken. I remember

thinking what an old codger Jimmy was. He wasn't thrilled about the picture at all, even though

he didn't say much. He just made me promise that I wouldn't display it in the cafe. At least he

put his arm around you. It's easy to see that you belonged together – just two funny peas in a

pod, you and your daddy, huh?” Her words were like a slap, especially because they were so