Forever Friday (3 page)

“Those is orchids,” offered a sudden pleasant voice from the opposite side.

Startled, Huck spun to face shirtless bib overalls hanging below a trustworthy face with clear eyes. Her opened mouth met only air.

The stranger removed a weathered wide-brimmed straw hat and
laughed. “Guess all your sound got lost in reciting them fancy words of Mister Shakespeare.”

“It’s
those
fancy words,” Huck replied, knowing better than to correct an elder but being unable to help herself. “And those
are
orchids.”

“Ain’t that what I said?” He barefooted across the glen and eased down beside the orchids. “They’s Anacacho orchids. Just in case you was wondering.”

He toted a hand-smoothed cane with diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades carved on the handle, but he didn’t limp. Sweat glistened on his bare scalp like thick dewdrops.

Especially because she was a girl, Huck had been sternly warned about talking with strangers. Each year, her father was hired on as a mounted guard at the nearby state penitentiary when his crops were laid by. “A man you don’t know could be an escaped convict,” he’d said. “Some convicts are killers, some have mental problems, some are rapists.” When she asked him to explain “rapist,” he grunted, then mumbled, “A bullet’s the best cure for them.” Huck chose not to inquire further. However, she soon relayed the conversation to her twin. “I probably shouldn’t tell you,” Cutter had whispered, “but a rapist is a man who doesn’t wear clothes.”

Since the stranger wore overalls, Huck didn’t have to worry about that. But there had been recent gossip of an odd character loitering about. Descriptions were vague and no one could pinpoint his exact location.

The stranger pulled a red bandana from the crown of his hat. “When I was your age, I had a head full of curly hair.” He mopped his scalp. “Wasn’t the same color as my eyes, though. Your hair and eyes is a perfect match.”

Huck frowned. Not only was her hair straight, it was dark-brown-boring. Plus, she’d have given anything for blue eyes. “Who are you?”

“Reckon I’m a teacher, of sorts.”

“A professor?”

“Maybe. Depends on what you want me to profess.” His swath of friendly teeth widened into a chuckle.

“Do you have a name?” Huck asked the stranger.

“Name?”

“What do people call you?”

Again the grin. “Folks call me all sorts of names. Most ain’t polite enough to travel past a young lady’s ears.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Huck inched closer. “What name follows Mister?”

“Oh that.” He thought for a moment. “I s’pose the name following Mister is Jack. I’m Mister Jack.”

Huck eyed the cane. It looked suspiciously prison-made, being fashioned from the same yellow pine an inmate had used to carve a rolling pin for her mother. “Why the playing card suits?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Mister Jack studied the carvings. “This here cane reminds me to be content with my own hand. To hold my best card as long as possible and not blame the dealer if my game goes sour, though it can be a little tricky deciding which card’s best. Question is … how does you know what to keep and what to throw away?”

Again, her open mouth was accompanied by silence. Huck knew Mister Jack wasn’t talking poker and prided herself at deciphering adult riddles spoken in the presence of children. So instead of feigning ignorance, which she nearly always followed with suppressed laughter, she
returned the question to its giver … a strategy her father employed when discussing business. “Back that ornery mule up,” Ethan, her father, once told her. “The tail end may not be pretty, but it gets folks moving a lot faster.”

“So how do you know what to keep and what to throw away?” Huck asked.

Mister Jack fished a slender pine straw from the emerald bevy in his front pocket and picked his grin. “Look deep into a man’s eyes and you’ll see his hopes and dreams. Woman’s eyes too. Look deep enough and long enough and you’ll know their future, along with all the bad things they done.”

“The bad things?”

“Oh they’s there all right. Sneaking ’round and hiding behind the good. Everybody’s guilty of something. Even you.”

“Then what’s my future?” Huck asked, deciding her father’s mule analogy wasn’t appropriate in every situation.

“Hmm.” Mister Jack rubbed his chin.

It was a question she’d asked the fortune-teller each year at the county fair, knowing the answer would be bogus from the get-go. No one could predict the future, at least no one
human
.

“Your future,” Mister Jack said finally, “has to do with this here Anacacho orchid bush. Fact is, this bush and your future is kin. Just as this bush shares itself with youngsters like you, you will share yourself with your children.”

“You’d better look deeper because I don’t want any children.” With so many bossy siblings, except for Cutter perhaps, she’d dreamed of being an only child. A house full of grimy urchins was the last thing she wanted, even if they were her own offspring.

Mister Jack examined a fallen Anacacho blossom and gently stuffed it into his pine needle pocket. “Your future is also about hope, ’cause nobody stays on this earth forever, which is backwards to the way originally intended.”

“Like children who die before their parents,” Huck shot back, then immediately wished she’d never broached the subject. Death was something she’d rather not discuss.

“You know there ain’t no guarantees about living long,” Mister Jack answered, then added softly, “even for children.”

He was right, and it was the primary reason she didn’t want kids. One of her brothers died a few weeks after his birth, and a sister at age eight from a ruptured appendix. Her mother still cried from time to time, always on their birthdays.

Mister Jack continued. “Most young’uns become adults, but not before causing their folks to grow a peck of wrinkles.” He grinned again.

“Or a bushel,” Huck replied, picturing her own parents and an array of prune-skinned kinfolk. Wrinkles meant “old” and she wanted no part of that. “Then the only way I’ll ever have a child is to birth one already grown.”

The grin vibrated into a booming laugh. “Now what will your future husband think about that?”

For the third time in her ten years of life, and during the same afternoon, Huck Huckabee was speechless. Dreaming of a future husband was her most private endeavor and Mister Jack knew that too.

“Ain’t nothing unusual in a little wishful planning ’bout your soul mate.” Mister Jack fingered the symbols on his cane. “Look deep and you’ll find that best card. Grab hope and never let go. And don’t forget
what I said about the dealer and the game.” The laugh boomed again. “Now close your mouth before Mister and Mizz housefly change address.”

In her bed that night, hours after the laugh had dissipated, Huck stared out her open window and reasoned final thoughts concerning Mister Jack. No killer she’d ever heard about valued eyes, Shakespeare, and flowers. And someone with mental problems probably wouldn’t be savvy enough to compare life to a card game and God to the dealer, although she wasn’t quite sure how the Almighty felt about that.

What intrigued her most, however, was the term
soul mate
. It was new to her, and she instantly adored the obvious implication. So after referring to the enormous family dictionary, dubbed “The Unabridged,” she decreed it part of her vocabulary and came to a logical conclusion: Since Mister Jack knew so many secret things about her—including her most private dream—he wasn’t human. Therefore, he must be an angel. Her guardian angel. She’d never considered angels being teachers, carrying playing-card canes, wearing bib overalls, or speaking with incorrect grammar. And since angels—at least the good ones anyway—always told the truth, she could stop worrying about being an old maid like her older sister Molly Beninna. It was common knowledge that most husbands wanted children, and Huck still felt adamant about never having any. But if Mister Jack was really who she believed him to be, he’d somehow change her mind. At least, that’s what she hoped. Perhaps that was the “hope” he wanted her to grab.

As Huck drifted into slumber, she again heard Mister Jack’s unusual laugh, this time floating high atop the night breeze. Her mother swore God created chickens because he had a sense of humor. If God
laughed, then so might his angels. But Huck and Mister Jack had discussed subjects far more compelling than funny-looking birds. Perhaps his laughter possessed a deeper, more fearless meaning: a heavenly grin meant to destroy the smirk of evil.

For the next two years, she returned often to her secret glen but never saw Mister Jack or the Anacacho orchids. As a rule, she eagerly shared the events in her life with Cutter. Girlfriends were too wishy-washy emotional, and sisters couldn’t be trusted. But what if her twin thought she was being silly or, worse, wouldn’t believe her? The encounter with her guardian angel had been much too personal to risk belittlement or disbelief. So Huck vowed to save the story for her soul mate, which made finding him a priority.

She kept her vow, but as each green summer ripened into autumn gold, her life matured in different directions, blurring the lines between adolescent reality and childhood belief.

At age sixteen, Huck fell from the rumble seat of a moving car and suffered a broken collarbone, along with possible internal injuries. Because of a modern x-ray machine, she was rushed to Houston’s Baptist Sanitarium and Hospital. The hospital had six floors and 115 beds. On top of the sixth floor was a combination garden area and “baby camp” equipped to care for fifty babies. Part of her recovery was to relax in the fresh air and sunshine of the roof garden; however, the constant giggles, gurgles, and cries transported her thoughts back to the Anacacho orchids and Mister Jack’s words of hope: “You will share yourself with your children.”

The day before Huck’s discharge, Molly Beninna broke the news. “The doctor says you’ll never conceive,” she said softly, her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Don’t cry, sweet sister,” Huck replied, determined to remain strong. “Mother’s conceived enough for us both.”

As soon as Molly Beninna left, Huck rolled over in her hospital bed and wept.

After meeting Mister Jack, she’d grown somewhat inclined to the possibility of parenthood, which kept his words of hope alive. Kept her guardian angel real.

Until the accident.

Why had she been so irresponsible? Celebrating the last day of her junior year atop the rumble seat of a speeding roadster. Dancing like a daring wing-walker on a high flying biplane.

On a breezeless morning two days later, Huck set out to revisit her secret glen. As the lazy summer sun peaked above tree line, she reached the glen, its far side partially hidden behind a vanishing mixture of dark shade and humid haze. “For your information, Mister ‘Teacher of Sorts,’ ” she whispered sarcastically, “there won’t be any children.” Then started to add, “Nor probably any future husband either,” when she spied the familiar pale pink blossoms. It was the first time she’d seen them since meeting Mister Jack. While rushing toward the delicate flowers, her mind immediately flashed to his words: “They’s Anacacho orchids, just in case you was wondering.”

Reaching out, she then carefully plucked a perfect bloom and supported it with both hands. Several moments passed, timeless, with understanding. She took a deep breath and slowly spoke. “Just as this orchid I’m holding shares itself with me, I will share myself with my children.” The answer from her angelic “teacher of sorts” had been there all along. She’d share herself with her children by becoming a teacher. Would study hard and make education her profession.

And hope?

Hope her sadness over being barren wouldn’t last forever.

Hope to meet a man who would understand.

So with the childbearing dilemma solved, Huck Huckabee returned to her favorite pastime. A young woman’s soul mate search, known only to herself and Mister Jack.

March 1926

Houston, Texas

Gabe

Gabriel Robert Alexander untied a fish-spattered apron and watched the most striking woman he’d ever met walk out the door of Cecil’s Fish Market & Seafood Emporium. He took a deep breath, savoring her scent. If a man was lucky, a woman’s perfume would linger behind her for a second or two. Huck Huckabee’s did, reminding him of spring’s first blossoms. It was an alluring fragrance he’d never forget.

“You let her leave without paying,” an anxious young clerk said. “If old man Cecil wasn’t in Dallas, he’d—”

“He’d dock your pay and well he should.” Gabe pitched the apron to the disheveled clerk. Fish scales floated to the floor. “You let me do it.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry, Louie. Cecil’s much more interested in attending his grandson’s wedding than monitoring your imprudence.” Gabe patted the clerk’s bony shoulder and grinned. “I’ll ask the bookkeeper to fix it. He won’t mind.”