Boys Life

Saturday afternoon. A window opens on the second floor, and a wrinkled face peers out. “James Lucius!” her voice squawks. “Edward and Gregory! Get up here for your piano lessons right this very minute!”
    She wears blue.
    Two older women I don’t know come out, chasing after the crowd of boys. Good luck to them, I think. And then a younger man emerges, and he stops before me. “Can I help you?”
    “I… used to live here. In Zephyr, I mean.” I am so stunned I can hardly talk. “When did this become an orphanage?”
    “In 1985,” the man tells me. “Mr. Vernon Thaxter left it to us.”
    “Is Mr. Thaxter still alive?”
    “He left town. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what became of him.” This man has a gentle face. He has blond hair, and eyes of cornflower blue. “May I ask your name?”
    “I’m-” I stop, because I realize who he must be. “Who are you?”
    “I’m Bubba Willow.” He smiles, and I can see Chile in him. “Reverend Bubba Willow.”
    “I’m very pleased to meet you.” We shake hands. “I met your mother once.”
    “My mom? Really? What’s your name?”
    “Cory Mackenson.”
    The name doesn’t register. I was a ship, passing through Chile’s night. “How’s your mother doin’?”
    “Oh, just great. She moved to St. Louis, and she’s teachin’ sixth grade now.”
    “I’ll bet her students sure feel lucky.”
    “Parson?” A wizened voice says. “Par son Willa?”
    An elderly black man in faded overalls has come out. Around his skinny waist he wears a tool belt holding hammers, screwdrivers, and arcane-looking wrenches. “Parson, I done fixed that slow leak upastairs. Oughta lookat that ol’ freezer now.” His eyes find me. “Oh,” he says with a soft slow gasp. “I know you.”
    And a smile spreads across his face like day following night.
    I hug him, and when he grasps me his tool belt jingle-jangles.
    “Cory Mackenson! My Lord! Is that you?”
    I peer up at the woman in blue. “Yes ma’am, it is.”
    “My Lord, my Lord! Excuse me, Reverend! My Lord, my Lord!” Then her attention goes where it ought to: toward the new generation of boys. “James Lucius! Don’t you get up in that treehouse and break those fingers!”
    “Would you and your family like to come in?” Reverend Willow asks.
    “Please do,” Mr. Lightfoot says, smiling. “Lots ta talk about.”
    “Got coffee and doughnuts inside,” the reverend tempts me. “Mrs. Velvadine runs a grand kitchen.”
    “Cory, you get on in here!” Then: “James Luuuuucius!”
    Sandy and Skye have gotten out of the car. Sandy knows me, and she knows I’d like to stay for just a little while. We will not tarry long here, because my hometown is not our home, but an hour would be time well spent.
    As they go in, I pause outside the door before I join them.
    I look up, into the bright blue air.
    I think I see four figures with wings, and their winged dogs, swooping and playing in the rivers of light.
    They will always be there, as long as magic lives.
    And magic has a strong, strong heart.
    The End
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    7/6/2010
    LRS to LRF parser v.0.9; Mikhail Sharonov, 2006; msh-tools.com/ebook/