Free Seventeenth Summer by Maureen Daly Page B

Martin Keefe.
    Margaret and Art had gone for a ride and didn’t get back until just before dinner was served. Art went out to the kitchen with his hands behind his back, walking in his funny way like a Teddy bear. In one hand he had a jar of green olives and a can of black olives in the other. Each Sunday he stops at some grocery store that is open late and brings home a contribution.
    My mother was just lifting the roast out with two forks, dripping with sputtering hot fat, and Art set the olives down on the table to hold the meat platter for her. She saw them and looked at him with a softness in her eyes. “What’s that for—a bribe?” she laughed and patted his cheek.
    Until she met Art, Margaret had always gone with a different kind of boy—tall fellows who moved fast and laughed deep down in their throats and showed square white teeth when they talked. But after she met Art she never went out with another boy. He was just a little taller than she with thick, dark hair and warm brown eyes that were as soft and mellow as his voice. We got used to his queer humor and odd gentleness till we liked him so well that to say “Margaret and Art” was as easyand natural as “bread and butter” or “dark and handsome.”
    Later, when dinner was over and we were sitting around the table in a contented, Sunday-afternoon apathy, Kitty pushed back her chair, excused herself, and went out to play on the front lawn. She walked about listlessly, flipping off clover heads with a short stick, humming to herself in dejection. Every now and then she stopped to stare down the street.
    My mother looked out at her and shook her head. “Really, we’re going to have to do something about that child,” she said. “When you three girls were younger you had each other—but there is no one on this street for her to play with. Angie, you don’t seem to have any more interest in her than the man in the moon. If she wants to play dolls, you’re dusting; if she wants to go swimming, you’re just washing your hair. It will be a good many years before she can go dancing!”
    It’s funny how, having nice thoughts in your head, it is so pleasant to pull them all out and think them all over again. And I wanted to think about Jack just then, so I said, “Mom, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take Kitty for a walk in the field. We can pick violets or something …” and my conscience didn’t even prick at the deception.
    Our house is the second from the last on our street from the edge of town. Beyond the end house runs a gravel road and then a broad stretch of undeveloped real estate, run wild with weeds and low, scraggly bushes. We have always called it the Field.
    That afternoon Kitty and I just wandered aimlessly through the long grass that was still lush and fresh with the last rains of spring, not going anywhere. It was early summer and the water was still puddled in the ditches along the grassy road and underfoot the ground had a soft, spongy feeling. The sky was dotted with cotton cloud-puffs and Kitty walked along, zigzagging with her head back and watching it till she was tired, and then plumped down to rest. I sat beside her. The breeze was like a gentle breathing and the sun hot on our faces till both of us were mellowed with contentment, basking in the almost liquid warmth of the sunshine.
    Kitty rolled over on her back. “Angie,” she said, her voice slow with thought, “did you ever wonder where the butterflies go when it rains?” I had to admit that until that moment I hadn’t even thought of it.
    “Well, I was thinking about it the other day, Angie,” she told me, “and I figured that seeing they don’t have holes or nests or anything, they must hide under leaves. That’s the only place they could be. Probably under big leaves like on the rhubarb plants. Next time it rains remind me, and I’ll go to poke the leaves with a stick. I won’t hurt anything. I just want to see if the butterflies come out….” and she