Grinning, I wiped a hand over my face. “I caught your sickness.”
“I like this,” she said quietly. “Talking things out, without the fight.”
Reaching over to grab my drink from the side table, I noticed that a framed picture of Scarlett and me at her father’s cabin in the woods was missing.
“Brando?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I want you here.” And she started to cry.
It was harder to let go after a prolonged period of being together. Not only for her. I reassured her that the two weeks was going to go by fast, and I’d be home before she even had the chance to miss me. She settled after some time had gone by. Then she told me to check my bag. She had packed a shirt for me.
I laughed, reading the shirt out loud. “Real men marry dancers.”
“You better wear it,” she said, the sadness still lingering in her voice, but I could tell she smiled too.
“I wouldn’t dare not to.”
“There’s something else—look in the left pocket. A reminder.”
Another note. I unfolded it. She had written:“Entreat me not to leave you, Or to turn back from following after you; For wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge…I go wherever you go, Fausti.”
I cleared my throat. “There are three things that amaze me—no, four things that I don't understand: how an eagle glides through the sky, how a snake slithers on a rock, how a ship navigates the ocean, how a man loves a woman.”
“My sickness really is catching,” she said, her voice thick, more tears falling.
“It’s a killer,” I said, closing my eyes to the distance between us. “Regardless, an honor to die in your arms.”
* * *
Natchitoches wasn’t prepared for the turnout, but at least they were ready in one aspect.
Marjorie, the woman who had put together the event for Scarlett, had decided to unveil the statue during the annual Christmas Lights Festival. It began in November and lasted all through December. Each day held a different attraction, or more.
People who had driven for the occasion sought me out. Others were local and came to catch up. Most of them had young girls who were enchanted by Scarlett, their ballerina superhero. Violet took pictures of some of them with me to send to Scarlett.
Her mother and father had turned out, along with her sister, Charlotte, and her husband, Travis. Charlotte had taken a seat on an iron bench directly across from the covered statue, eyes narrowed and lips pinched. She claimed her feet were swollen. She was about six months along now. Travis had no marital sense whatsoever. He was oblivious to the sneers he would receive when he would compliment his sister-in-law in front of his wife.
“Charlotte,” he said, taking a bite of fudge that tasted like whipped marshmallows and cherries, “they named a fudge after Scarlett.The Contrary Ballerina. It’s delicious. Here—” he shoved it toward her face “— have a bite.”
She turned away from him, crossing her arms over her belly. He shrugged at her cold shoulder. “Brando, have you tried this?” He lifted it in my direction. “It’s just about sold out.”
“Yeah,” I said, a grin on my face. “Best thing I ever tasted.”
Violet snorted and Mick laughed, bouncing Mary in his arms. Peter and Paul were racing around with the other kids, high on cold air, sweets, and Christmas lights. Scarlett’s father was deep in conversation with the mayor, while her mother, Pnina, narrowed her eyes at me, arrows posed to shoot from tightly coiled bowstrings.
“A word?” Pnina said, pointing to a spot close to the river, where a stage had been built. Mitch and his band were going to play before the unveiling.
I stuck my hands in my pockets the closer we came to the water. The Cane rippled, lights moving over the surface, freezing wind using its fingers to play the river like a harp.
When we were in front of the stage, she turned on me. “What is this?” She had a tote bag on her shoulder, and she whipped out one of the magazines with the scandalous pictures, shoving it at my chest. Reflections of the red, green, blue, and white lights strung over the city danced across the glossy paper. “What is she thinking?”
“She’s a woman now.” I gave her back the magazine. I’d had my fill of it. “She makes her own decisions in regards to her career.”
“You are her husband!” She hissed. “You must stop this madness at once! You are the only one who can talk sense into her.Mati—”Mother“—would have never wanted this for her! She is a ballerina, a lady, she is grace!” She held the magazine up, shaking it. “She is not this!”
Pnina and I had a peculiar sort of relationship. I loved her like a mother, but I didn’t care for her as a person. I would respect her, though, and always be thankful for what she had done for me.
