Page 66 of The Sky in Summer
I feel the eyes on me. “To answer your question honestly Sam, I don’t know what the big deal is actually. It sounded like a good idea at the time.”
There is a crack in my wall.
Three days and three hundred thoughts about the meaning of my life later, I’m at her door. The bracelet now inside a jet-black velvet soft bag. Scarlett added the red shiny birthday cake charm to the ties.
The setting sun warms my back.
“Bon jour!” Barbra says, opening the door.
“Bon soir, mes ami.”
“You know that’s like catnip to women? You could sayplease take out the trashand we would immediately get pregnant. So when are you going to introduce me to some other Lyon lion? I need a wild animal in my life!”
It all spills out in a stream of consciousness as I step inside.
“I don’t know any that could handle you.”
“Damn. It was worth a try. Come on in, we’re making margaritas.”
“It’s my birthdaaaaaaay!” Layla sings in her best Oprah imitation.
I follow the voice to the kitchen, where she stands at the sink, rinsing blueberries. David and Tyler cut and arrange vegetables on a tray.
“Not until midnight,” I say, placing the gift on the bar.
“Hey,” I say to the boys. “You were drafted, huh?”
Not sure they understand the reference. Or they think it’s about football. Layla’s eyes land on the velvet bag.
“Is that for little ole’ me?”
“Yes, mam. Rowdy picked you out somethin’ real pretty at the General Store.”
The boys react with smiles. David’s is more subdued. But he likes our play, regardless of the underwhelming response.
“You two and your voices.” The protest is weak.
“I want to play!” Barbra says, putting a dish towel around her shoulders.
“I’m Miss Dixie Belle, the school teacher.”
“First of all, we are in the old west, not in the Deep South. Secondly, the job is taken. I’m the school marm. Pick someone else. Like a gunslinger or something.”
“Oh yeah! Okay, I’m Annie Pokely, the gunslingin’, hard drinkin’, cattle rancher.” She lowers her voice, picks up a straw and uses it to chew on. “My spread is just a few miles outta town.” She says it pitching a thumb, cowgirl style. A tip of her imaginary Stetson is the cherry on the sundae. She’s good at this, like her sister.
“Now I see where you got your imagination,” I say to Layla. “It’s in the DNA.” I grab a carrot stick and dip it in Layla’s famous onion concoction. “You guys must carry the theatrical gene too.”
“Not me,” David says firmly.
“You two should play! Pick names.” Layla claps her hands, inviting the twins into the fantasy.
What she gets in response is an eye roll from David and a two-word answer. “No way.”
But Tyler is another matter. Willing and able, he puffs out his chest in authority.
“I am Sheriff Jim Bodine, Jimbo to my friends and enemies. And there’ll be no gunfight inmytown. I’ll be watching you, little lady,” he says with a perfect cowboy twang.
Layla is thrilled one of her children still wants to play. It’s all over her face.
