Page 70 of Every Sweet Thing Is Bitter

“Fancy seeing you here, butterfly.”

Grace peeks out from behind my father’s shadow like a mouse snared in a trap. The sleeves of her plum-colored shirt flutter in the wind. One hand grips the hem, pulling the fabric down to keep it from riding up and exposing her midriff. A familiar crucifix necklace adorns her neck. I recognize Jesus’starnished body lashed to a rose gold cross, the crown of thorns upon his bowed head. Our mother’s necklace.

“But Mom,” I say, ten years old, as we walk out of church,“what about the two thieves crucified next to Jesus? Why don’t we make jewelry for them too?”

My father notices me staring at the necklace. He caresses our savior with his thumb, his other fingers relaxing on Grace’s collarbone. Her skin revolts against his touch by turning crimson beneath his calloused fingertips. “Your sister looks beautiful in rose gold, doesn’t she? I think it brings out her eyes.”

“That was Harmony’s favorite necklace.”

“Harmony has enough jewelry. You’ve seen the rock on her finger.” He focuses on Sara, who has not yet faced him. She busies herself with a cigarette. The smell, somehow, does not drive the eavesdropper away. “And who is your friend here?”

“I’m Sara Walking Elk. You don’t know me, but I know you.”

“And how’s that?”

She angles her head enough for him to see her profile. She refuses to do the courtesy of meeting him in the eyes or shaking his outreached hand. “You make your blood money selling liquor to my tribe.”

“As long as their money’s green, I don’t turn ’em away. Just trying to make an honest buck.”

“You should come to Long Grass sometime, Tom. You can see what your honest buck looks like from our side.”

He rubs the back of his neck and smirks. “All due respect, I can see you’ve got an axe to grind. Your quarrel isn’t with me.”

“You’re exactly who my quarrel is with.”

“How is it you know my daughter?”

“I shared a cell with her.”

This is the last straw for the woman with the romance novel. She drops her book in her purse and hurries down the street,grocery bags swinging from her arms like wrecking balls. In the distance, the clouds swell and darken with rain.

“Then you’ll forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to take morality lessons from a criminal.”

“From what I hear, you’re no paragon of virtue yourself.”

I trifle with the hem of my dress so no one can see me cringe. Sara is using ammunition that is not her own, my pain dimmed so hers can shine brighter. When I’m in my father’s presence, I like to pretend none of it ever happened. I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing he still haunts me.

My father’s hand returns to my shoulder. “I want us to go in there together, butterfly, all three of us. Harmony needs us to be a united front.”

“I’m sitting with Sara.”

“She’s not your family.”

Sara starts to say something, but I drive my elbow between her ribs before she can toss another match into the fray. “I’m not sitting with you,” I say.

“Gracie and I insist, butterfly.”

They will pack us into the courtroom seats like cattle into the slaughterhouse chute, not an inch of space between us. An entire side of my body will press against my father’s, and I will leave the courtroom smelling like his aftershave. I will scrub my shoulder raw where he touched me. I want to slough off every inch of my skin at the thought.

“You should go,” I say at last. “I’ll see you when I get in there.”

“Stubborn as an ox, like your mother used to say.”

“She said you should go.” Sara tries to take my hand, but I recoil.

Grace starts toward the courthouse, but my father won’t leave until he launches his Parthian shot. “She’d be disappointed in you. You never gave her one goddamn thing to be proud of.”

“She’s dead. She doesn’t give a shit anymore.”

---