All the Little Lights(17)

I finished my lunch and washed my plate, then sauntered outside to the porch swing. Elliott was already swinging there, holding two large brownies wrapped in cellophane and two bottles of Coke.

He held them up. “Dessert?”

I sat next to him, feeling relaxed and happy for the first time since he’d left. I pulled open the clear plastic and bit into the brownie, humming in satisfaction. “Your aunt?”

He squinted one eye and smiled. “She lies to her women’s auxiliary group at church and says it’s her recipe.”

“It’s not? She’s made them for us before. The whole neighborhood raves about Leigh’s brownies.”

“It’s my mom’s. Aunt Leigh keeps me very happy so I don’t rat her out.”

I smiled. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“I know,” he said, pushing off with his feet. “That’s what I like about you.”

“Which is what exactly?”

“Did you tell anyone about my uncle losing his job?”

“Of course not.”

“That.” He leaned back, cradling his head in his hands. “You can keep a secret.”





Chapter Three

Elliott

I visited Catherine the next day, and the next, and every day for two weeks. We walked for ice cream, walked to the creek, walked to the park . . . just walked. If her parents were fighting, she wasn’t home to see it, and if I could do nothing else to make that situation better, she was happy about that.

Catherine was probably sitting on the porch swing like she did every afternoon, waiting for me to wander to her section of the neighborhood. I’d been mowing lawns all morning, trying to get all my accounts caught up before the dark, puffy clouds that had begun to darken the southwestern sky reached Oak Creek.

Each time I came home for more water, Uncle John was glued to the news, listening to the meteorologist report on pressure changes and wind gusts. Thunder had been rolling for the last hour, growing louder every ten minutes or so. After my last yard, I ran home and showered, grabbed my camera, and tried very hard not to look like I was rushing when I reached Catherine’s porch.

Her thin, sleeveless blouse stuck in different spots to her glistening skin. She picked at the frayed edges of her jean shorts with what was left of her chewed nails. I struggled to breathe in the muggy air, glad for the sudden chill in the air as the sky darkened and the temperature dipped. Leaves began to hiss as the cool wind from the storm weaved through and blew away the heat that had danced above the asphalt just moments before.

Mr. Calhoun rushed out, straightening his tie. “I have a couple of interviews, Princess. See you this evening.” He trotted down the stairs only to hurry back up. After planting a quick kiss on her cheek and then giving me a look, he ran for the Buick and backed out, stomping on the gas.

The swing bounced and the chains shuddered when I sat next to Catherine. I pushed off with my feet, sending us in an uneven back and forth. Catherine sat quietly, her long, elegant fingers catching my attention. I wished I could hold her hand again, but I wanted it to be her idea this time. The chains of the porch swing creaked in a relaxing rhythm, and I leaned my head back, looking up at the cobwebs on the ceiling and noting the pile of dead bugs inside the porch light.

“Camera?” Catherine asked.

I patted the bag. “Of course.”

“You’ve taken hundreds of pictures of grass, the water flowing at Deep Creek, the swings, the slide, trees, and the railroad tracks. We’ve talked about your parents a little bit and mine a lot, at length about Presley and the clones, football, our dream colleges, and where we want to be in five years. What’s the plan for today?” she asked.

I grinned. “You.”

“Me?”

“It’s going to rain. I thought we’d stay in.”

“Here?” she asked.

I stood and held out my hand. So much for waiting for her to do it. “Come with me.”

“What? Like a photo shoot? I don’t really . . . like getting my picture taken.”

She didn’t take my hand, so I hid my fist in my pocket, trying not to die of embarrassment. “No pictures today. I wanted to show you something.”

“What?”

“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever photographed.”

Catherine followed me out the gate and down the street to my aunt and uncle’s house. It was the first time in weeks we had walked somewhere without our clothes being soaked with sweat.

Aunt Leigh’s house smelled like fresh paint and cheap air freshener. The fresh vacuum markings in the calico carpet told a short story of a busy housewife and no children. The ivy stencils and plaid came straight from 1991, but Aunt Leigh took pride in her house and spent hours a day making sure it was immaculate.

Catherine reached for a painting on the wall of a Native woman with long, dark hair, adorned with a feather. She stopped just before her fingers met with the canvas. “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“It is beautiful, but not what I brought you here to see.”

“She’s so . . . elegant. So lost. Not just beautiful . . . the kind that makes you want to cry.”

I smiled, watching Catherine stare at the painting in awe. “She’s my mother.”

“Your mother? She’s stunning.”