Free Butterfly Sunday by David Hill Page A

breathing alabaster sculpture. Beyond all that, Leona had an aura, a grace that came from within.

    Blue had noticed it even before he had met Leona, back in the days when he and Lucy had attended Averill’s church. Many times he had stood in the churchyard after the service and watched Leona move through the crowd, talking and shaking hands with people. There was no one in the world but you when Leona tapped your shoulder to say hello. There was no sound but your voice when she gave you her ear in a noisy throng. It was as if she pulled an invisible cord and left a light on in every living soul she met.

    Though now he saw something in Leona he had never noticed. She was lonely. There was a long, sad story in her eyes. He almost wanted to tell her everything would be all right. Yet she hadn’t exactly comforted him just now. Where did she get her license to act so damned sanctimonious? And what made her think she knew what had happened between him and Lucy seven years ago?

    “Forgive me, Blue. I talked out of turn.”

    “Fuck you.”

    “I meant no harm, I apologize.”

    “I worked two jobs so she could go to nursing school.”

    “I misjudged you and I apologize.”

    He had more to say, though, a lot more, and it made her feel even worse. She hadn’t guessed it all wrong. Blue had talked Lucy out of an abortion. They were seniors in high school. They kept her condition a secret until after graduation. She was four months by then. By the time their parents knew and calmed down a little, she was almost five months. That was when her mother finally took her to the Memphis doctor who told them there was something wrong with the baby.

    “She never forgave me for talking her into having that baby.”

    “That doesn’t matter, Blue. You have to forgive yourself.”

    “She tried to love her at first.”

    “Then why is she in an institution?”

    “Lucy got afraid she’d kill her.”

    Everybody lived with something. Everybody had some kind of blood on their hands. How many killed themselves and each other trying to hold the lid down on their secrets?

    “Lucy was brave to tell it.”

    “I know.”

    “Blue, I didn’t think anything could be worse than delivering a stillborn child.”

    “Who’s to say, Leona?”

    “Lucy is.”

    “Why?”

    “My loss is terrible and immense, but hers lives and grows.”

    “All she had to do was love her.”

    “Do you?”

    “I have to.”

    “From guilt?”

    “It’s what fathers do. Mothers too.”

    “But Lucy …”

    “Refused to love her. That’s what’s twisted her.”

    He was no Tyler Crockett. He didn’t need a suit of armor. She had been a thousand percent wrong about him. She was ashamed, but more than anything she was happy, happy to know he was so much more than he seemed. More than that, it gave her all kinds of hope to look into a man’s heart and admire what she saw there.

    It was very dark outside. The moon was a strange yellowish blur through the thinning clouds. She didn’t know what it meant beyond the moment, but she had never felt as close to another person, or as safe. She had no idea if he had the same tender inclinations. She didn’t tell him any of that then. She was afraid to breathe out loud, terrified it would scare him away. They sat in close stillness some unmeasured time, then a clap of thunder broke the spell.

    “Enjoyed my visit.”

    “Stop by any time.”

    “Thank you.”

    “I’ll give you a ride.”

    “I know the path like the back of my hand.”

    Then the darkness swallowed him. She listened to his footsteps fade. She had no idea when she might ever see him alone like this again. She had no other situations against which to compare this particular lightness inside, so she couldn’t give it a name. One thing she realized with a start, one little star switching on somewhere. She was stunned to know it, but know it she did. She could love somebody again.

    Meanwhile, Blue had run about a quarter of a