The Lovebird Read Online Free
overjoyed one.
“Margie,” he said. “This is for you, Sweet.” He proffered a big pin-on corsage of roses, embellished with ribbon that exactly matched my frock, freckled with an explosion of baby’s breath, and shimmering with sprays of tiny plastic pearls and rhinestones.
Now, sometimes, in quiet moments, I think about Dad talking his way into that locked flower shop and pleading for a corsage. He looks at all the flowers, unsure of their names and their mysterious meanings—the spidery chrysanthemums, the obscene orchids, the sunny gerbera daisies, the voracious stargazer lilies. He feels frightened and rushed, but then sees the roses and grows calm, and chooses them, because they are what he knows, they are the smell of the Virgin Mary, they are the totem of Saint Thérèse, and they tell him all will be well, at least for a while.
I think of him watching that fledgling florist create the corsage, watching in that close way of his, with his long mouth compressed into a horizontal line. She scowls and wants to rush, but because Dad is hovering she has to do a good job and stick all the pieces together tightly with stem-green floral tape, and make a corsage that won’t fall apart, not that night at the dance, and not after, not even after it is all dried up and laid in a shoebox where, fifteen years later, it will slumber alongside a few seashells, a red resin bracelet, a buffalo-shaped belt buckle of brass, a penny minted the year I was born, a recipe for invisible beauty, and four beaded amulets shaped like turtles, not ever.
I think of him watching her reach for a black or a white goes-with-everything ribbon, and I hear him say, “No, wait,” and see him run his finger across the rack of ribbons, landing on the one that echoes my dress, because Dad has a talent for remembering the exact nuances and moods of colors, even after seeing them only briefly. “Use this one,” he says. The girl asks in an impatient tone, eyes rolling, hot glue gun aimed skyward, “Rhinestones or pearls?” And he, unable to choose between the two, tells her, “Both.”
I think of him paying, and tipping the girl an exorbitant amount for her trouble. He turns and sees me waiting for him, with my mouth moving to the words of a song he cannot hear, and he feels a little better, a little glad. This is what I think about, sometimes, when I think about Dad—these few minutes out of our lives.
In the car, I offered a sprawling smile to keep his uplifted mood afloat. He pinned the flowers to me, frowning at his shivery hands. “I don’t want to make a hole in your dress,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
A ladybug emerged from the dense ruffled petals of a rose. She crawled out, paused, and appeared to survey her unfamiliar surroundings.
“Well, look at that!” Dad exclaimed in amazement, as if the bug had nudged him out of the constant fog in which he lived, lifted the veil that hung between him and the rest of the world. “There’s a lady with us,” he said.
“Yeah.” I bent my neck to study her.
“Should I take her off, put her out the window?”
“No, no,” I told him. “She can stay.” She crawled back into her bed of petals. Dad hummed as he drove.
The signature song of the dance was “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” a hit from 1925, and the school gym was decorated speakeasy style. We had our picture taken in front of a big paper mural featuring an assortment of jazzy horns surrounded by music notes. The photographer arranged us, coming so close I could hear the faint whistle of his nose when he breathed. He steered Dad into a glossy, high-backed leather chair and then stood me beside him with my hands resting elegantly, one atop the other, on his shoulder. I wondered if we had ever ended up similarly configured at home. “I blinked,” Dad said when the camera flashed.
We danced a lot, and he even dipped and twirled me, which inspired the other dads to do the same with their daughters. When my arms got
“Margie,” he said. “This is for you, Sweet.” He proffered a big pin-on corsage of roses, embellished with ribbon that exactly matched my frock, freckled with an explosion of baby’s breath, and shimmering with sprays of tiny plastic pearls and rhinestones.
Now, sometimes, in quiet moments, I think about Dad talking his way into that locked flower shop and pleading for a corsage. He looks at all the flowers, unsure of their names and their mysterious meanings—the spidery chrysanthemums, the obscene orchids, the sunny gerbera daisies, the voracious stargazer lilies. He feels frightened and rushed, but then sees the roses and grows calm, and chooses them, because they are what he knows, they are the smell of the Virgin Mary, they are the totem of Saint Thérèse, and they tell him all will be well, at least for a while.
I think of him watching that fledgling florist create the corsage, watching in that close way of his, with his long mouth compressed into a horizontal line. She scowls and wants to rush, but because Dad is hovering she has to do a good job and stick all the pieces together tightly with stem-green floral tape, and make a corsage that won’t fall apart, not that night at the dance, and not after, not even after it is all dried up and laid in a shoebox where, fifteen years later, it will slumber alongside a few seashells, a red resin bracelet, a buffalo-shaped belt buckle of brass, a penny minted the year I was born, a recipe for invisible beauty, and four beaded amulets shaped like turtles, not ever.
I think of him watching her reach for a black or a white goes-with-everything ribbon, and I hear him say, “No, wait,” and see him run his finger across the rack of ribbons, landing on the one that echoes my dress, because Dad has a talent for remembering the exact nuances and moods of colors, even after seeing them only briefly. “Use this one,” he says. The girl asks in an impatient tone, eyes rolling, hot glue gun aimed skyward, “Rhinestones or pearls?” And he, unable to choose between the two, tells her, “Both.”
I think of him paying, and tipping the girl an exorbitant amount for her trouble. He turns and sees me waiting for him, with my mouth moving to the words of a song he cannot hear, and he feels a little better, a little glad. This is what I think about, sometimes, when I think about Dad—these few minutes out of our lives.
In the car, I offered a sprawling smile to keep his uplifted mood afloat. He pinned the flowers to me, frowning at his shivery hands. “I don’t want to make a hole in your dress,” he said.
“It’s okay.”
A ladybug emerged from the dense ruffled petals of a rose. She crawled out, paused, and appeared to survey her unfamiliar surroundings.
“Well, look at that!” Dad exclaimed in amazement, as if the bug had nudged him out of the constant fog in which he lived, lifted the veil that hung between him and the rest of the world. “There’s a lady with us,” he said.
“Yeah.” I bent my neck to study her.
“Should I take her off, put her out the window?”
“No, no,” I told him. “She can stay.” She crawled back into her bed of petals. Dad hummed as he drove.
The signature song of the dance was “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby,” a hit from 1925, and the school gym was decorated speakeasy style. We had our picture taken in front of a big paper mural featuring an assortment of jazzy horns surrounded by music notes. The photographer arranged us, coming so close I could hear the faint whistle of his nose when he breathed. He steered Dad into a glossy, high-backed leather chair and then stood me beside him with my hands resting elegantly, one atop the other, on his shoulder. I wondered if we had ever ended up similarly configured at home. “I blinked,” Dad said when the camera flashed.
We danced a lot, and he even dipped and twirled me, which inspired the other dads to do the same with their daughters. When my arms got
Readers choose
Alexandra Brown
Autumn Markus
Yvonne Jocks
Jaimie Admans
MaryJanice Davidson
Peter Morwood
Virna DePaul
Kaye Dacus
James Wallace