marble journey part III

PIERRE DUCHAMP

Pierre opened the bag of clothes from the New Orleans Salvation Army.

Shirts.

Socks.

Boxer shorts.

Sweatshirts.

A pair of blue jeans.

He knew the people who came in to his Salvation Army. The Baton Rouge branch. He thought of them as his people.

They were certainly more his people than his own family.

—

His own family opened their arms wide in the middle of winter, heads thrown back to the sky, mouths open, drinking in the wet, cold snowflakes. The more snow the better. They worshipped it. His brother snowboarded. His sister skied. His sister’s son played ice hockey, and her daughter did too. She was only ten, but she was already on a team. Had even won a few medals.

And his mother—well, his mother stayed home and made the hot chocolate. She couldn’t watch any of them. Couldn’t stand to watch the speed. Downhill, across the ice, or falling fast from the sky. Ever since her husband, Pierre’s father, had been killed in an avalanche back-country skiing. She couldn’t bear it that all her children had been born with their father’s deep devotion to the snow and speed. She worried for them just as she had worried for her husband.

But she was also proud. She saw her husband in each of them.

Except for Pierre. Because Pierre hated the snow. Even before it took his father away, he’d hated it. Hated how it melted into his skin and numbed him on the inside. And after his father was killed, he hated how it reminded him of his father.

So he had left the snow behind, left his family, and moved down to Louisiana.

He loved the thick, warm air here.

He loved the thick accents and the warm people.

He felt at home.

Even during Hurricane Katrina he had loved the city. In fact, he had found his bravery in that very storm. Saved a little girl who had been sucked into the water and carried away from her house.

Calm-bodied and clearheaded, he had stayed in the rising river for a good part of that first night, helping to rescue people.

—

The bell rang above the front door of the store.

“Hey, Tavius,” said Pierre.

“Hey there, Pierre. How are you?” said Tavius.

“Happy to see you,” he said—and then he blushed. “I heard a few more folks have come to live with your brother,” he added quickly.

“Yup.”

“A boy and his father?”

“You have some magical antennae, don’t you? I was just saying to Enzo, that you’re like a butterfly—”

Pierre blushed a second time.

“Don’t they—don’t butterflies—they have an ability to smell with—you know—with their antennae?” said Tavius. “Not that you really have antennae…” He trailed off as he put two fingers on either side of his head. He wiggled them and laughed. Pierre laughed too.

“The butterflies are at the peak of their life cycles this time of year,” said Pierre.

“They sure are,” said Tavius. There was a pause.

Pierre put his fingers up to his head too, and wiggled them. “I like being a butterfly,” he said. “Peak of my life cycle. I like that.”

Tavius beamed.

“Here,” said Pierre, taking his antennae down and picking up the garbage bag. “Take this bag of clothes. It just came from Cora in New Orleans. There’s some good stuff in here. I’m betting the boy who just came to live with you could use it.”

Tavius reached for the bag. His hand grazed Pierre’s as he took hold of it. Pierre looked up at him and smiled. Tavius was his people, that was for sure. Maybe even his one person.

“Hey,” he said. “Before you go home. Do you want to get some coffee? Or go for a walk?”