Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon

— Sophie’s age. Mystic
Seaport, that was it. Tristan high up on Harry’s shoulders,
pointing at the big sailing ships, their tall masts, a clump of
daddy’s hair in his little fist. Harry holding his feet, smiling.
They were a family that weekend, a strong yearning in her satisfied
for at least one weekend. They jumped on the motel beds, sang songs
in the car.
    Had she loved him then, or just the idea of a family?
Was her heart a stone? He had left her, years ago.
    Merle stopped. “I don’t blame him. Or her. He
deserved love — everyone does — and she loved him. I didn’t. I
didn't love him. Not for a long time. I — ” She shrugged. “I just
didn’t.”
    They were next to a flower stand overflowing with
color and petals. Buckets of tulips vied for attention. Which one
is the prettiest, the red, the yellow, the pink, the white?
Daffodils, pussy willows. Lilacs on woody stems, their smell
enticing.
    Stasia was talking. Merle could see her lips move.
Taxis were honking, an old woman pulled her shopping wheelie down
the curb. Merle sucked the air on the sidewalk. Her chest felt like
it was in a vise. Why can’t I breathe?
    An open palm crossed Merle’s face. The sting felt
hot. She didn’t blame her sister. What is family for if you can’t
count on them to set you straight when you need it most, even in
the middle of Greenwich Village? Her own sister smacked her hard
across the cheek, bringing her back, holding her upright, making
her grab onto the scraps of her rag-tag life.
    “ You didn’t love him. It’s fine. It
doesn't matter.”
    Merle held onto her shoulder. “Okay. Thanks,” she
croaked.
    Stasia pulled her close and whispered in her ear,
“Breathe. And repeat after me: Case of courage. Bucket of
balls.”
     
    Poor Elise. She had no idea.
    Merle looked over the orderly crowd on folding chairs
on the lawn at Whitman and slumped lower in her seat. Her mother
gave her a little frown and she straightened again. Must be
respectful. A solemn and joyous occasion as the last Bennett girl
takes the harness.
    Elise clutched her diploma to her chest, flushed, her
dark hair pulled back and red lipstick on her baby doll lips. Merle
was distracted, sweating in a sleeveless navy shift. She’d had to
tell Sauvageau about the new wrinkle, that Harry had another child
who would inherit. But only if Courtney found out. And how would
she? She didn’t seem the suspicious type. On the contrary, she
seemed naïve, crushed and pathetic. Another ethical conundrum
raised its ugly head. Ah, but to a lawyer, that was nothing. Just a
thought to be compartmentalized.
    The speeches were mercifully short, the May heat
rising from the damp earth to surround the well-wishers in the
steamy scents of spring. Finally they rose and gathered around the
graduate on the lawn. After an interminable, clammy hugging session
they decamped for a cool restaurant.
    The Bennett clan was tricked out in understated
prep-wear. Her father had gone with the red bowtie, always a
winner. Bernie wore a navy blue suit with a collarless white blouse
that dated from the sixties, somehow surviving a thousand
washings.
    Her father had insisted on Merle sitting next to him.
Jack Bennett had given her shoulder a pinch of affection and sat
silently through the toasts. His hearing wasn’t great so he liked
to just smile at these big gatherings. The salad came and he dug
in.
    On her other side Francie wore a low-cut flowered
dress that showed off cleavage and tan. Francie was the knock-out
sister, with auburn highlights and turned up nose, a smattering of
freckles across her cheeks and bright blue eyes. Merle had invited
Betsy, who knew all the sisters and got along especially well with
Elise, but her daughter Lynnie had a soccer game. Just as well,
Merle thought. No point in the friends suffering.
    At the kids’ end of the table, Tristan wore his black
blazer and a half-pressed blue oxford cloth shirt with a wonky
collar, both last seen at his father’s