Chapter 24
Henry
Uncle Jay’s wooden blue jay stares at me with its black eyes that seem to bleed into the band around its chest. Its high head crest makes it look kingly, like it might be judging me or, at the very least, sizing me up.
The last time I saw the bird was yesterday, when Mr. Massie pointed it out beside the cash register in the foyer.
Now, it’s on my desk atop my composition notebook.
Did I mindlessly bring it upstairs? I don’t know, but I’m a grown man, a father, and far too old and busy to get the creeps.
Instead, I sit down, move it aside, and fill page after page of my new journal, pouring my heart out about Venus.
I never stopped being your friend, Henry.
Her words have inspired a flurry of memories and regrets. I stopped being her friend more times than I can count.
In third grade, when she came to school with her butt covered in mud. Everyone called her Mud-Butt, and though I didn’t join in, I did nothing to stop it either.
In the sixth grade, when she announced her period to the entire class after our teacher refused to let her use the bathroom.
In ninth grade, when some girls slipped her a secret love note from a popular upperclassman.
Venus confronted him in the cafeteria, and though she politely refused him, not knowing the letter was fake, he made fun of her in front of everyone.
“I’d never want someone like you,” he shouted. I didn’t defend her.
Then, there was the flytrap debacle. And probably hundreds of small chinks in her armor that I don’t know about, or was too selfish to notice, or too afraid to act on. She never stopped being my friend, but she should have.
The doorbell rouses me from my pity party. I race downstairs, taking two at a time, and end up needing my inhaler before I reach the door.
Venus stands on the other side, carrying a plastic tub of loose, leaning plants that serve as a barrier between us.
“I’m here to install the garden,” she says, unnecessarily, “so, please direct me to the location, and I’ll get started.”
“Hi,” I blurt with an awkward smile. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, thank you,” she says, robotically, before adding, “Hi.”
She offers a weak smile. My heart dips in my chest at how fast it fades.
“Um, come in. May I take that for you?” I ask, holding the door open.
“I’ve got it.”
I lead her through the main museum to a wide staircase with a thick mahogany bannister that curls at the end, and red carpeting. Marnie insisted on keeping it this way for its antique vibe. Admittedly, it looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.
Pushing out the heavy door at the top, I introduce her to the cluttered space.
“We installed lightweight wood tiles for a nicer look,” I explain, motioning to our feet.
“And the selfie sign.” I point to the beautifully painted, rectangular sign along the outer wall, overlooking the river, that advertises the Weird But True Museum.
“But we wanted to have the gardens installed before arranging anything else. So, pardon the mess.”
She scans the unique outdoor sculptures Marnie has acquired, presently tucked into a corner, and the supplies to build a fairy garden. She bypasses that for the stack of gardening supplies and the large, plastic raised beds that Dr. Blake had delivered here.
“Water?” she asks.
“Over there.” I point to the gray barrel along the edge of the building that’s full from last night’s storms.
“Good. I’ll run some tests to confirm the pH and mineral content are correct. Rainwater is best. Never water them from the tap,” she instructs.
“No tap for the traps. Got it,” I chuckle, but she’s unamused.
“I’ll be creating two mini-bogs with moats to filter the water. You shouldn’t need to do much once the garden is finished.”
I nod. “Just the way I like it.”
After a brief inspection of the materials, she sets her bin on the floor. “I’ll retrieve the other bin from the Land Rover and get started.”
“Can I help?” My words bubble up slowly through sudden, inexplicable nerves. “I could help, if you want.”
“No need,” she says blankly, “but thank you.”
She edges around me for the door and flees down the stairs.
I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to spend time with her, gathering up pieces of her before she’s gone altogether. But I understand why she wants to keep her distance. I find work to do in the museum, close enough that she knows where I am, but not so close that I’m hovering.
She wears a teal scarf today, holding only half her hair. The rest waves lightly on her shoulders as she bounces down the steps ahead of me and soon returns with her second bin of plants. She doesn’t look at me as she strides by, but keeps her eyes on the path ahead.
Her aloofness feels devastating. But I reason out my feelings with reality—I don’t need the complication a relationship would bring, especially with a woman who won’t stick around. Focus on work—that’s what has helped before.
But it’s not as effective this time.
Nearly two hours pass. Dot shows up, looking for her “little black tablet,” which holds her schedule and supply lists for her projects. “If it’s not here, I’m screwed,” she announces, barging inside.
“I haven’t seen it, but I’ll help you look,” I offer, glad for the distraction, but the doorbell chimes again.
Mr. Massie stands on the other side of the glass, holding his black case and looking determined. “I know you’re busy, but I believe you need me, Henry.”
“Need you for what?” I ask, trying not to sound annoyed.
“To help you run this place,” he answers, like it’s obvious. “I’ll chat up the guests with my stunning personality and delight the masses with my sword swallowing routine while they view your incredible exhibits. I’ll work for tips. You wouldn’t have to—”
“No, Mr. Massie. No offense, but I don’t want an act for the museum.”
“But you haven’t even seen it yet. Please? All I’m asking for is fifteen minutes. You’ll be amazed. I promise.”
My shoulders slump before jerking up again as items clatter to the floor inside. “I should help her.”
“I’ll come, too,” he says, pushing through the door.
“Damn it!” Dot looks up from her frantic searching when we appear through the hallway. “I don’t know what I’ve done with it. What did we do yesterday?” She scratches her black hair under her ball cap. Then, she snaps her fingers. “The witch!”
She flees into the inner room and returns, holding the tablet up like a trophy. “I set it down when I moved that display case in there on Friday... Oh, what’s up, Eric the Sword-Swallower?”
“Hoping to show Henry my act,” he says dramatically. “He’s not too keen, though.”
Dot slaps my shoulder. “What harm would it do? You know, except to his internal organs?”
“No Erics will be harmed in this production, but it might blow your mind,” he quips, laughing.
Dot snort-laughs. “I’m game to have my mind blown. How ‘bout it, Henry?”
“Um, well…” My refusal catches in my throat when Venus descends the stairs over Mr. Massie’s shoulders. Her delicate fingers dance down the banister, and her hair flows like a golden cape behind her.
Dot leans closer. “Ah, I see what’s gotten you so tongue-tied.”
“It’s Venus.” Mr. Massie gawks like a cartoon character. He drops his case and falls to his knees, blocking her path. “Ah, Venus! Please say you remember me, or my heart will break into a billion pieces.”
She tilts her head and quirks her brow. “Mr. Massie, hello.”
“You remember him?” I blurt.
“He used to do so-called magic tricks with an invisible ball and a paper bag, remember?”
“You never fell for it,” he laughs, taking her hand and holding it in both of his. “Still, it’s a pleasure to see you again. You’re lovelier than ever.” He kisses her hand before jumping to his feet. “You’re just in time to see my real act.”
“What real act?”
He bows, like they’re meeting for the first time. “Eric the Sword-Swallower, at your service.”
“She’s not interested, Mr. Massie,” I say, annoyed by him and especially by that hand kiss.
“That’s an erroneous assumption,” Venus snaps, her green eyes wide and twinkling in a challenge. She turns her attention back to Mr. Massie. “You’re a genuine sword-swallower?”
“Bona fide and verified,” he coos. “I’m happy to show you, if Henry will allow it.”
All eyes land on me, and I must relent. “Fine.”
Mr. Massie grabs Venus’s hand and escorts her to a bench against the wall. He motions for me to take the seat beside her. Then, he asks Dot, “Fancy being my assistant?”
“Does that mean I get to call 9-1-1?” she says.
“That won’t be necessary,” he says, unbuckling his case and opening it on the floor between them.
My arms fold over my chest as I prepare my thanks-but-no-thanks speech for when this is over.
“Why the reluctance?” Venus asks beside me as he gets ready.
“I’m trying to get away from the carnival vibe and turn it into something more authentic, historically, and locally. This guy might as well be a fake Elmo in Times Square,” I whisper back. “I’m surprised you remember him.”
Her shoulder brushes mine as she shrugs. “I barely remember, but Maggie didn’t like him, and… he and I had that in common.”
I side-eye her, adjusting my glasses. “You shouldn’t have felt unliked by Mom or anyone. They didn’t know you enough, didn’t give you a chance to be liked. Truly, I’m sorry.”
Astonishment flashes across her face for a nanosecond. “It’s fine. That was the norm. You were the anomaly. They had valid reasons to dislike me, especially Maggie.”
“You aren’t unlikeable, Venus. Far from it. Mom was… is overprotective.”
“She’s right to be, and I don’t blame her, even after—” Her lips clamp shut abruptly. “Sword swallowing is an ancient art—”
“Even after what?”
“Ladies and gentlemen, what you’re about to see is not for the faint of heart,” Mr. Massie announces loudly. “Never try this at home.”
He goes on with his short, dramatic spiel while Venus leans closer, whispering in my ear. “Keep an open mind, Henry. I think you’ll like this.”
He asks Dot to test his swords, ranging in length from sixteen to twenty-four inches.
I cringe when he licks the first blade, tilts his head back, and sends it down his gullet.
He extracts it a moment later, seemingly unharmed.
Then, he holds the longer blade in his hand, bringing it closer for us to inspect.
I don’t bother, but Venus picks it up and gives it a careful inspection.
“Impressive,” she decides.
He returns to his act while my hands clench against my knees, and I consider reaching for my inhaler to stave off the shock of it.
Venus leans into my shoulder. “It’s amazing, the discipline and control it requires.
First, the swallower must learn to control his gag reflex, which is as much mental as it is physical.
Then, he tilts his head to straighten the esophagus.
A safe insertion is achieved through relaxation and focus and by allowing gravity to guide the blade into the esophageal tube—a very flexible structure that enables the blade to pass near the heart and lungs without notice. One wrong move and…”
“Getting tongue-tied has a new meaning?” I finish, leaning closer.
A rare grin appears on her face. “He’ll be at a loss for words, that’s certain.”
“His real act will cut both ways,” I quip, smirking.
She chuckles. “Like a hot knife through butter… but the butter is his aorta.”
“I don’t think he’s the sharpest tool in the drawer,” I answer, only barely containing my laughter.
“Oh, that cliché cuts like a knife,” she says, and we both lean into each other, snickering, like kids again.
Mr. Massie clears his throat. “Pardon me, but are you two paying attention?”
“Our apologies,” Venus says. “We don’t want to cross swords with you.”
Dot cackles. He rolls his eyes, looking bothered that the gorgeous woman beside me has stolen his big performance. She sits more upright, restoring the gap between us, and I dislike the separation.
On the third and longest sword, he bends over and lets Dot gently push the blade down his throat. I’m amazed and appalled.
But Venus pops from her seat with applause when Mr. Massie bows. Dot joins in, and he blushes at the attention.
“I witnessed a performance in India,” Venus tells me, sitting back down. “The art originated there. It takes years to perfect it, if one ever can, and only a few dozen people in the world can do it. It’s not a carnival trick, Henry. It’s an art.”
“Do you think I should hire him?” I ask, arms still folded.
“I think… you have a sword swallower living here. What could be weirder or truer than that?”
She leaves me, disappearing into the short hallway and heading outside for whatever brought her downstairs in the first place. Mr. Massie sanitizes his blades, carefully returning them to his velvet-lined case. Dot plops into the seat beside me.
“Took my sage advice, I see,” she says, her dark brow cocked high on her forehead.
“She’s here to install the garden. That’s all.”
“That’s not all. You just had the cutest I-want-to-suck-your-face moment with her,” she says.
Venus strolls back into the museum, carrying a garden trowel. Her fanny pack bounces against her hips as she rushes by us for the stairs. I lean my elbows against my knees, trying not to watch her but failing.
Dot pats my back. “If I may offer one more piece of advice…”
“As if I can stop you.”
“You’ll want to hear this, Henry. It’s not from me, but from a romance expert—my buddy, Jack Graham.”
“The bestselling romance author? Fine. What would he say?”
“When it comes to love, always chase.”
I consider her words—his words—and shake my head. “When I chase, she runs.”