Page 214 of His Pretty Little Duet

I blink at him as he turns to face forward, the backs of my eyes burning. He is dealing with his thoughts in isolation.

“How far away is Stormy River Junction from here?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes or so, little deer,” he responds absently, but pulls our hands to his lap, authoritarian and dominant, and continues to stroke my skin with the pad of his thumb. That is it; his way of letting me in, and I can accept it. From a man like Clay Butcher, even the glimmer of vulnerabilities should be cherished, noticed, and appreciated.

I relax my hand in his. “Can I show you something? Can I take you somewhere, Sir?”

“Of course.”

Looking through the clean tinted windows at the slums of Stormy River, it seems like a million years have passed since I lived in this neighbourhood.

Housing flats shadow the road on both sides. The lawns have stories to tell?—secrets in the blades. Like every patch, every dried circle of dirt and roots, tells of a party or a stripped vehicleor a tent from an evictee. The poverty and boredom echo, the grass never having time to recover.

That’s poverty.

Patches of grass.

“Here.” I point, and the vehicle pulls up beside a brown-brick block of flats with a dozen men—older than me but younger than Clay—sitting on the steps.

They rise to their feet, eyeing the sparkling Chrysler like a prize as we park. Behind us, our convoy lines the street, including one shiny red beauty—my car driven by mybutler/rat.

Clay steps out in that suave effortless confidence I adore. That everyone is drawn to, envious of, that speaks of danger and warning without the need to scream or demand it. It’s implicit. Infallible.

From inside the vehicle, I watch him take his time, smooth down his tie, and calmly assess the neighbourhood, the park across from us, and the flats to our side.

He rounds the black bonnet and opens my door for me. The air is stale and lacking as it enters the car. Everything in Connolly smells like something: flowers, lawn clipping, cigars, roses, but here, there is little to settle on.

Nothing and too much all at once.

I climb out, and my nerves spike, butterflies taking flight, seeing the world I no longer belong to reflected at me in the stares of the men now swaggering slowly towards us.

Clay faces them, his expression as impassive as the Devil’s might be staring at angry stray dogs. Unimpressed. Unaffected.

Our driver appears beside Clay, halts by the car, and sweeps the sides of his black jacket back when he grips each hip. Guns on both sides flash in the sun.

The gang of men freezes on a patch of dried lawn. A new memory collects there. The day Clay Butcher came to town. Themen converse quietly and then return to their spot on the steps, deciding not to cause trouble.

Staring across the street at the open park with the old tombstones, I take a big breath and thread my fingers through Clay’s. I lead him across the street and into the cemetery. It was the cheapest one in the District at the time.

I only had the money from the sale of the caravan to use, and it all went on this plot. “Cremation is cheaper,” they had told me. But how would she become a butterfly if they burned her body? It was an unbearable question.

It still is.

It represents my innocence.

It instils my ideals.

The parts of me that are ‘her.’

My eyes start to scorch, hot pokers of sorrow sliding in while tears are wanting out. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m suddenly affected by this place, by her. I just wanted to introduce Clay to my mum. Thought he might talk about his if he knew more about mine.

We get to the spot—at least, I think. I use my sandals to move the overgrown grass on the metal plates until I find her. Then I sit down on the grass, folding my legs below my backside.

I read the plate. “Ashlee Harlow… mymum.” I pause and look up at Clay. His dark brows are pinched together, a thick worry line protruding between them. I like his frown. All his emotions, really.

Every. Single. One.

“Mum, this is Clay Butcher.”

---