I
“C’est la vie”, said the old folks, “it goes to show you never can tell…”
Every first full moon of the fall season, Ethan would bake butterscotch cookies in the middle of the night and leave a full tray out on the window for the fae to find. This would make the entire neighborhood homes beam in cheerful light and often made his neighbors dream of fairy tales and adventures in far-away places. He would start the endeavor by telling Peaches and Biscuit the story of how the Crowley family had first arrived to Kingston and had built Crowley Manor, a beautiful Queen Anne style home with a spectacular rounded veranda that covered most of the lower level façade, with Palladian windows on the third one. It had a large domed roof supported by simple columns and sturdy balusters and there was a central bay window above the veranda that gave a nice view of the entire surrounding neighborhood. The garden was big enough to keep Peaches and Biscuit – two beautiful Golden Retriever dogs in full contempt, but too small to keep the pony that Ethan had dreamed of having since he was a little kid. He kept trees around the garden fence, most of them apple and peach trees, and a small flower patch with lavender, poppies, and primrose (where Peaches and Biscuit were not allowed to enter but somehow he always found them sleeping in) next to the backdoor. After he told the story, he would then proceed to bake the cookies he would leave for the fae and then he would settle down in front of the T.V. for the rest of the night or until he eventually fell asleep while the infomercials showed how he could make his abs of steel or how he could improve his sex-life with the use of an odd-looking pump that cost 59.99 plus shipping and handling.
At thirty-two, Ethan Crowley thought he would have a different life than the one he was living. When he was younger, he had made a blueprint of his life which included going to Africa and runaround with those people who save the animals from hunters and poachers, marrying Farrah Fawcett and having eight kids (two girls, four boys and a set of twins), and discovering something so important that humanity itself would not be the same afterwards. So far, the closest he had been to Africa and Farrah was via the posters he had on his bedroom walls (the Africa one was particularly cheesy as it had a sunset and the silhouette of a giraffe with the words “Your talent is God’s gift to you” written in golden, fancy letters). As for the invention, he was convinced that whatever he could muster in his B+ mind had already been thought of, laughed at, and tossed to the bin of stupid ideas by other, brighter people. No, Ethan was not in Africa, he was not married to a movie star, and he was not the genius inventor of the family. He worked at a pet hospital as a pet-nurse during the week and on the weekends he loved to take Peaches and Biscuit to small trips to the lake or just hang around the house, working on the flower pad, watching T.V., and (on special occasions such as the first full moon of the fall season) bake cookies he would leave out for the fae.
He wasn’t sure, however, if it was the fae or the dogs the ones eating the cookies.
It wasn’t as if Ethan believed in faeries, but the memory of his grandparents and Amelia was kept alive through the tradition of leaving food out for the “good folk”. His grandfather would sprinkle thyme on windows and doorframes while singing gadflykins, gladtrypins, gutterpuss and cass, come to us fairily each lad and lass. Amelia, his twin sister, would laugh at the sound of those words. She was a cheerful and delightful girl, with bouncy ebony curls and bright almond eyes who could brighten up a room with her sole presence. She loved to hear her grandfather tell the fae’s stories, often dressed like a backyard fairy using her pink tutu dress and tin foil to make frilly wings. Their mother would use stems from the lily of the Nile blooms to make excellent wands and the frail flowers to make necklaces Amelia would then wear until they dried and fell. He would pretend, like any older brother, he didn’t like the stories and he would often tell Amelia that faeries weren’t real to which statements Amelia would often react with anger and tears because it was a well-known fact that faeries died when people ceased to believe in them. He would then apologize profoundly and swear (spit in hand) that the faeries lived in their backyard and that they came out dressed like fireflies to dance in the moonlight when the year’s wheel turned.
Amelia was only seven when the wheel turned for her and Ethan would feel her ghost following him all the time after that, particularly during the spring, when the flowers bloomed and it seemed as if the entire garden came to a magical rebirth.
“This old tabby came to my house this morning again. I thought you said you gave it to that nice family in Toronto.”
Ethan smiled politely. Beverly Swanson was eighty-seven years old and always wore that bright-flowered hat with her big, bug-eyed sunglasses on Tuesdays, even if there wasn’t sunny outside. “I did, Mrs. Swanson. I think she must’ve walked.”
“Well that’s some journey. I can’t have her at my place, not with George and his arthritis acting up during the winter. Can you take her in and find her a good home again? This time tell her to stay there.”
“Of course Mrs. Swanson,” Ethan said taking the tabby in his arms and turning to place it in one of the pet carriers behind him. “How is George?”
“Grouchy. Cold weather makes him want to pee every other hour and makes him get up from the mat near the fireplace to do his business in the yard. He’s all achy and winy from the arthritis, but that old mutt doesn’t lose his sense of decorum, I’ll give him that.”
“Be that as it may, you still need to bring George in next week to get his yearly shots, okay?”
“We’ll be here, dear, don’t you worry about that. So, how is your grandfather?” Beverly asked as she took several doggie treats in the bowl they had there as a courtesy.
“The same he was last month, and several years before that: dead.”
Beverly looked over the glasses’ frames. “Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure. I was at the funeral home the day he died,” he said, as if proud of it.
Beverly growled and slowly shook her head. “So young,” she muttered under her breath and walked out. Ethan followed her with his eyes until she disappeared across the street. He then turned to the cat. “That is not your home anymore and you know it. Why do you keep going back there when you know they’re going to catch you? Might as well just move your furry little kitty ass here and save yourself the trouble.”
The cat blinked and meowed. He chuckled. “Nice try,” he said, “but I can’t take you in either. Sorry pal: you’re just going to have to settle for a warm blanket and free food – for now.”
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