On Shadowed Wings (An Ash Grove Short Story) by Amanda DeWees

 
On Shadowed Wings
    (An Ash Grove Short Story)
     
    “Don’t move!”
    Gail Emerson froze at the command. She was
kneeling with her hands in the dirt around the roots of a butterfly
bush. It was a sunny spring day in North Carolina, and up to now
nothing more menacing than an early mosquito had put in an
appearance.
    Her eyes darted around in search of her
trowel—she could use it as a weapon if he threatened her or Joy—and
then the man’s voice came again, less commanding this time.
    “You have a Diana on your head,” he said. At
a lower volume, his voice was pleasantly deep and rich. “I want to
get a picture.”
    “I have a what on my head?” But she
tried to keep still all the same.
    For a second there was silence, and she could
hear the sound of the Hiwassee River rushing by just across the
road at the bottom of the hill. Then there came the synthetic click
of a digital camera shooting, and the voice said in satisfaction,
“Got it. You can move now.”
    Gail stood up and turned around. The man
holding the camera was a lot younger than she’d expected from his
voice, probably around eighteen, like her. He had sandy hair in
need of cutting and wore glasses, and his smile was shy but
friendly. His t-shirt showed off strong shoulders and arms, and she
found herself wishing she was wearing something nicer than her
grubby gardening jeans and hadn’t just scraped her hair back into a
ponytail instead of doing something with it.
    “I’m Jim Brody,” he said, holding out a hand
to shake. She hadn’t expected that formality, and she stripped off
her gardening glove to take his hand. Before she could introduce
herself, a child’s voice piped, “What’s a Diana?”
    Joy had been sitting so quietly on the front
steps with her book that Gail wasn’t surprised when Jim started.
Joy was regarding him with the curiosity she greeted most new
experiences with. She wasn’t a timid girl, unlike most of the other
bookworms Gail knew.
    “Its full name is Diana fritillary,” said
Jim. “But you probably know it by a different name.” He didn’t talk
down to her, Gail was glad to notice, but kept his voice
matter-of-fact. Joy was smart for her age and caught on a lot
faster than most adults realized. She was short and sturdy with a
button nose—not exactly pretty, but cute.
    “Can I see?” she asked, descending the
steps.
    “Sure.” He hunkered down to her eye level and
showed her and Gail the camera display: the top of Gail’s head, her
brown hair in its messy ponytail, and a blue-and-black butterfly
poised there.
    “It’s a butterfly,” said Joy, surprised. “Why
did you call it a Diana something?”
    “Because that’s its proper name,” Jim
explained. “Most animals have specific names. You know how dogs can
be poodles or dachshunds or terriers? Well, butterflies are like
that too. This one just happens to be called Diana.”
    Joy said thoughtfully, “That’s almost my
mother’s name.”
    “Oh?” Jim’s eyes went to Gail questioningly,
and she gave an incredulous snort.
    “I’m Joy’s sitter, Gail. How old do you think
I am, anyway?”
    “I’m bad with ages,” he said apologetically.
He did look a little dreamy and vague, as if he was calculating
equations in his head. “For instance,” he said, addressing himself
to Joy again, “you look like a young lady of around… twelve?”
    Joy wrinkled her nose. “I’m seven.”
    “See? I told you.”
    Gail relaxed, thinking the dangerous subject
had been averted. But then he asked Joy, “What’s your mother’s
name?”
    “Anna.” Joy’s blue eyes were very grave, but
the guy didn’t take the hint.
    “Well, there is actually a butterfly named
Anna,” he told her. “It’s called Anna’s Eighty-eight, because the
markings on its wings look like the number.”
    “Is that true?” Joy’s freckled face lit up,
and Gail wished she knew the guy well enough to signal to him to
talk about something else.
    But he was encouraged by