Mrs. Butterworth's

Mrs. Butterworth’s

I.

            The whole bunch of ambitious youngsters dwell in a bulky, yellow house on the corner of Stump and Wallace. Drafty, because half-shattered windows warble and well-wrinkled frogs wander. Go in, sniff a big whiff of. . . . Cinnamon cigar, drying Paint-By-Number, faceless trophy melting in the fire.

            The Crepe House. They call it that, because one of the lads knows a Crepe House from back home, and, well, naming a thing is hard work and youngsters are all about laziness these days.

            Trix is the laziest of all. While others scrub dishes or rake non-existent grass, Trix has one chore — barista. She climbs upstairs in the mornings with a grand pot of coffee. Mind you, not every morning. Mostly she sleeps straight through her alarm. Or else, like today, she burns the coffee and wears a sort of sheepish expression around her eyeballs.

            The house reeks. “Oh, it’s not your fault, Trix,” Cal says glumly. He’s the journalist — the local liar of the college troop. The sort of chap folks are strangely drawn to.

            So the coffee maker and the liar sit together on the deck. Watching a burning-wax sun dissolve a tissue-paper moon.

            “Oh, it is my fault all right!” Trix grimaces. “I mess up all the little chores because I’m bored with them. Trivial things,” she mutters. “I can’t break through the shell, Cal. I’m living, but life here in this tiny college town is hardly worth it.” She sighs, “Most things seem quaint but I’m just so sick of the very quaintness of it all!”

            Her words don’t sit well so the breeze carries them away, and she has to protest more to make up for nature.

            “Quaint things flatten my hair. Get me a big city any day and that cute percussionist in the San Antonio Symphony. Then I will grin and just keep on grinning for ages and ages!”

            Cal pats her jeweled hand and taps his foot on the porch for a bit. He’s trying to think of what to say but not coming up with much. He can’t help but imagine Trix surrounded by a thick shell, poking her sharp nose up to break through the blasted thing. “Well, you do that, then. Crack open your shell!”

            “Yes. Just like Humpty Dumpty! I sure hope nobody puts me back together again, either! I’d rather be famous and shattered than ordinary and put together. Imagine sitting on a brutally uncomfortable wall all day and watching as glamorous people trot by . . . bring me a crepe, won’t you, you good egg!”

            Cal frowns. And in all the ordinary frowning of the situation he accomplishes a lot of noticing of the world around him. Of the baby paint cracks in the white, lattice porch. Of the soft scent of porridge from Mabel’s early morning dash. There’s that same good old sky, stained-glass and all the colors washed out.

            “Now, do you want some syrup with this, Trix?” That’s what Cal wants to know.

The self-proclaimed lady doesn’t bother to look up at him. She leans back and stretches, drifts of sun caressing her frustrated forehead and lighting up like moths on her eyelids. “No! It’s not real syrup, is it? I don’t know why you always ask. I despise fake syrup. I despise Mrs. Butterworth’s. It’s not good enough for me. Feed it to the likes of Mabel or Justin, by all means, or just drink it up yourself!” She giggles. Only cliché characters giggle.

II.

            In the winter they play Hearts. I suppose they play Hearts during the spring as well, but they just aren’t as focused then because of the—

            Well, not because of the blossoming trees. Not because of the lilacs or the budding leaves. They simply know each other better by the spring. All the sudden, tricks and points aren’t as important as hysterical laughter, catching on and rolling from one humble soul to the next.

            “Oy, check out the new cherry-pitter,” Justin whips a red kitchen tool out of the drawer and gallops about with it.  “Won’t give it a try?” He winks at Mabel and she glares back. “Sure,” she teases, “But only because you won’t be able to make it work.” 

            Sure enough, the cherry-pitter gets lodged in the cherry and by the time they all pull it out, the cherry is all a-tatter and full of holes. A sad fact of reality.

            But everything in the Crepe House lingers in a whimsical mist, and none of them wish to exit so they all tap their feet to Joe’s sweet harmonica tunes. Their hands grow numb from Egyptian Rat Slap, from gripping the tire-swing chain in back yard and holding on for dear life. All of them try using the cherry-pitter and it doesn’t work for a single soul and that’s ok. Even better. 

            And then there’s Trix. She sits in the corner, face half in the shadows, and says things out of the blue because she’s disconnected from reality. “’First, think. Second, believe. Third, dream. And finally, dare!’ That’s what Walt Disney says,” mumbles Trix, in a rocking chair with her curling hair. 

             “Huh?” Someone says what they’re all thinking.

             “I’m moving out.” There’s lipstick on her tooth. “I’m going to audition in York Town. You betcha.” An ominous tone stifles her announcement, because Trix makes declarations about every other month, but nothing ever comes of her grand plans. She never moves out. She never auditions. Get this — the “actress” has never even been in a Kenwood Community production! It seems that good old Ken isn’t good enough for her. You betcha.

              If you haven’t noticed, there’s something about the people of Kenwood. Most of them are quite nice. So, when an individual dreams nobody wants to cut them down. Nobody says “no” and nobody wants to be “mean” and they all include everyone so

             that’s that and a bunch of listless, nodding heads. 

III. 

           Later on, a hummingbird whirrs by and lights on the crimson glass feeder — probably the only glass not broken in the house, thanks to Mabel, who does a lot of plodding around. 

Mabel with her cardinal hair and low set, glassy eyes. She noticed the sound of the hummingbird’s wings for the first time. Ghastly, like the clearing of a throat in a menacing conversation.

           So all of the sudden Mabel thinks of Trix, and what to do about Trix, and what to say to Trix, because Mabel isn’t so nice as other people in Anne Harbor, so that’s that and a bunch of wagging fingers.

           Mabel snatches a paisley napkin from the counter. Steals a lidless pen from the junk drawer. 

         Here’s a note for Trix’s pillow. “Dear Trix, all of that thinking, believing, dreaming, and daring might have worked for Disney, but there’s no guarantee it will work for anyone else, and especially not for you. I’ll say you’re still in the thinking stage anyway.”

          On the way out of Trix’s room, Mabel catches herself in the mirror. Well, there’s her cracked nails. Her dry lips. A closet of overalls and dust ruffles, and a mouth full of day-old porridge. But she doesn’t mind any of that. Not really. Because these things are familiar to her and she wouldn’t have anything else if it were gilded in gold! Heavens-to-Betsey, all Trix’s grand plans will just go to rot. If only she would seize the local prospects and stifle her pride.

At day’s end Mabel fries herself a crepe and collapses into the tire swing. Her ears fall into the sound of hummingbird wings, and she drowns her far-fetched ambitions in Mrs. Butterworth’s Original Maple Syrup.