little flowers
Who: Elle and Jamey
Where: Fontaine Park
When: Early afternoon
The day held promise. The weather wasn't much different from usual but the slight break in the routine dreariness meant that there was a faint possibility of a sunny sky. Even if it may not have been today. Still, that small chance was still a chance, and the idea alone brightened Elle's spirits.
There were plenty of reasons to be cheerful. A new movie opening was one very big one. Her initial wave of excitement had made her start her way over to the Apollo but the more she thought about it, the more its appeal dwindled. No doubt there would be a crowd, drawn by the same enthusiasm and the lure of cheap tickets. It would probably be bustling and noisy. An atmosphere in which it would be easy to drown. There would be plenty of time to catch the new release. Once the rush had died down.
Instead she had opted to go to the park. The open space was a well-worn haven and the scent of the greenery after the rain had a comforting familiarity. Yet there was always a fresh kind of beauty to it, if one looked hard enough. She sat at the broken fountain and wondered, just for a moment, if anyone would ever fix it. It would serve as a lovely centrepiece if someone only cared for it.
At one side of her was an ever-present umbrella, her bag resting the other side. In her lap was a brand new notebook. This one had been covered in pale yellow material (finding that material was another reason to be cheerful) ready to be embellished further. She retrieved a needle and some light blue thread from her bag and began to work rather slowly and very carefully on stitching a delicate floral pattern.
Jamey poked his head out the
Jamey poked his head out the door and closed his eyes, breathing in the cool air. He had been holed up too long in the parish house, the click of his rosary beads the only sound for hours, and he felt half-mad. Although the sky threatened, the rain had stopped, and Jamey took that as a sign he was free to go -- however brief -- and he jumped at the chance. Yanking his jacket from the peg by the door, he started down the street, growing more cheerful with each step.
Crossing the street briskly, he hopped a puddle, then skirted down an alleyway toward Fontaine Park. At the entrance, he slowed, breathing deeply. The stench of the city's muck was still there, but it was easier to ignore after the rain. With no destination in mind, Jamey followed the steady march of cement around the park, his hands shoved in to his trouser pockets. He tried not to think of anything; he tried to open himself to God.
It wasn't until the cracked fountain appeared in his way was his reverie interrupted and he started in surprise. Then he spotted the young woman and he removed his hat.
"Excuse me," he murmured, offering a smile. "Lost in thought. I didn't mean to startle you." Squinting, he tried to identify the woman, unsure if she might be one of his parishioners.
.
Shaken out of her own engrossment, Elle looked up at the man with wide eyes. The rabbit in headlights expression was quickly replaced with a smile back at him. She set her little project down beside her and got a different notepad out of her bag. This one was far less pristine, with battered corners and coated in magazine clippings that had started to fade. It may have looked like a pointless exercise but it was part of Elle's own private ritual - a notebook wasn't ready, or fit, to be written in until it had been appropriately decorated. It was partly due to the fact that as it served as her method of expression she felt it should be pretty, and partly because she simply enjoyed pretty things.
She wrote quickly in blue ink, as that was a calm sort of colour and quite fitting for the day, then turned the pad around to show him. It's okay, I don't mind. I think I was a little lost myself. I didn't mean to look frightened or anything, if I did.
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Jamey smiled, puzzled, when the young woman reached for another notebook rather than respond, and when she turned the notebook toward him, he blinked, surprised. Shuffling closer, he bent down a hint, leaning in until the words finally stopped blurring. Without realizing it, his lips moved as he read and when finished, he glanced up at the woman, brows furrowed.
"Sore throat?" he asked gently, gesturing at his own as if speaking to someone who didn't understand English. "Might not be a good idea to sit out in the wet if so."
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There was a brief flicker in her eyes and this time the smile she gave was just that little bit tight, despite the fact she really tried to make it not be. Though she was used to all sorts of reactions, and had a practiced smile for each, she could never quite shake off that pang that they brought. But she couldn't blame anyone for their puzzlement, their comments, not really.
Even though she understood him perfectly, she still felt a flush of embarrassment and bowed her head. Hello, I'm Elle. Please excuse the notebook, it's the best way for me to talk to you, she wrote, trotting out her standard greeting. She also added, Thank you for your concern but I'm alright. I have my umbrella, too.
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Instead of taking his paternal concern with a grateful smile, the woman turned back to her notebook; and a moment later, Jamey repeated his earlier actions, down to the soundless mumble of his lips.
Was there a note of dismissal in her words? Jamey smiled, hesitant this time, and he offered his hand. "Father Jamey Ruarke. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Elle." Afraid he had earned her ire somehow, he joked, a bit weak: "Your hand must get awfully tired. I'd recommend a typewriter but I suppose you couldn't cart one around with you."
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She shook his hand and made a mental note to be especially polite and especially gracious, given that he was a man of God. She wasn't particularly religious but it never hurt to err on the side of caution.
It's very nice to meet you, too. The words were accompanied by a bright smile. A sort of reassurance that it was, in fact, nice to meet him rather than pleasantries for the sake of it. She looked thoughtful for a moment then wrote, I could get a trolley and pull it along behind me. I could pose as a great writer or get myself some glasses and simply look very serious and intellectual.
She gave a nod followed by another beaming smile.
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When the radiant smile appeared, Jamey relaxed, and he gestured at the lip of the fountain where Elle sat.
"May I?" He removed his hat as he sat down, holding the felt fedora in his hands, and he played with the rim as Elle wrote. It was easier to read now and he simply canted his head before he roared with laughter.
"Quite serious," he agreed, his smile turning into a sly grin. "One might wonder why you weren't parked at a desk with it, but we'll both know that's part of your mystique."
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Her smile widened as he laughed, pleased by the reaction and as a way of joining in with the sound she was unable to make. Not to mention the inspiration of the great outdoors, she continued and gestured around the park with her free hand. Being tied to a desk would make something creative more like a dreary task. Not that I write. But I think that's how I would do it. Though she rather liked the idea of having mystique, even if it was only pretend. It made her think of someone like Greta Garbo and the allure of being exotic.
The pen hovered above the paper as she debated whether or not to add anything more. She felt as though she should, considering how she was criticizing something she didn't really know anything about. I'm sure great writers don't need to look outside to find a story. They already have a world inside their heads and the one outside probably serves to be a distraction more than anything.
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It was odd to carry on a conversation like this, Jamey thought, his head tipped to read the steady stream of writing. Odd, but not unpleasant. Her final comment made him smile. "Emerson agreed with you," he pointed out. "St. Francis. Walt Whitman. You're in good company.
"We all have a world inside our minds," he countered; then he grinned, lifted his head, and closed his eyes. "To see a world in a grain of sand, And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour." He paused after the last word, savoring, then he looked to Elle, giving her a bashful smile.
"I hated memorizing poetry in school. Funny I should remember it now."
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She looked down shyly, a little smile on her face. Though they might not have experienced so much rain, she replied. It was half a little joke, half a somewhat melancholy reflection. She cast an absent-minded glance up at the sky but the sun was still lurking somewhere the clouds.
Elle gave him a clap. Hopefully it didn't come across as mocking. The written word took on a new vibrancy when read aloud and Elle was more than happy to listen to it in all forms. My father likes Walter Scott, she wrote. Her nose wrinkled, suggesting that she wasn't all that keen on him herself. She rested the pen in the middle of the notebook and gestured for him to continue with the recitation, head bobbing with quick, enthusiastic nods.
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"More?" he asked, surprised, and he laughed sheepishly, ducking his head. "Oh, now you've done it. I'll be lucky to remember the next word." Still, he tried to comply, and he closed his eyes again. Under his breath, he repeated the opening, tapping his hat against the palm of his hand as if to keep time. "A robin redbreast in a cage, Puts all heaven in a rage," he said suddenly, a little louder, and his grin returned. Giving Elle a triumphant look, he squared his shoulders: "A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons, Shudders hell thro' all its regions."
He had to close his eyes once more to call up the next bit, but he immediately brightened. "I remember: it gets a bit dark here, good for a rainy day like today," and he grinned with relish. This was his idea of literature. "A dog starv'd at his master's gate, Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road, Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare, A fibre from the brain does tear."
He stopped suddenly; his features reddened and he closed his mouth. "I'm getting carried away," he apologized, fiddling with his hat again. "You shouldn't ask a priest for a recitation. We like how we sound."
.
Head tilted slightly to one side, she listened closely. The more enthused he became, the more carefully she watched him and the performance soon had her rapt attention. She had always been one to be easily caught up in things. Now that her ear had grown more finely tuned to the way people spoke as well as what they actually said, she often found herself swept away.
There was a continuous smile on her face, her fingers curled around the top of the notebook rather than poised by the pen. The content of the poem may have been a tad gruesome but she enjoyed it regardless. She could understand the feeling behind it. When he came to a close, her eyes grew wider and she waved her hands in front of her. A signal, and perhaps a plea, for him not to be embarrassed. She reached for the pen and told him, I don't mind at all. I like the way you sound.
She contemplated on this response for a moment before putting next to it, I like the way people sound. Another brief pause. But I'm sorry if I've embarrassed you. I really did enjoy it and I think it's okay to get carried away sometimes.
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His blush deepened but Jamey grinned, touched by the young woman's sweet words. "Thank you," he murmured, and he shook his head when he read her next words. "You didn't embarrass me." He wondered then if he looked ridiculous, spouting poetry to a girl the age of his baby sister, like some love-struck boy. Even at his most optimistic, he never recited anything to Siobhan.
"My father used to say the only person who could make me look the fool was myself." His voice was cheerful but his shoulders hunched in a resigned sort of shrug. Then Jamey opened his mouth to ask her if she ever got carried away, but stopped himself in time. Too familiar, too forward. Gaping for a moment like a fish, he blushed again and coughed, trying to cover up his embarrassment.
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Brow furrowed, she rapped the pen on the edge of the notebook. When whatever it was came to her, she jotted it down in an elegant cursive, the careful hand intended to add emphasis to the short sentence. Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. It was punctuated with a smile.
The bright expression faded to one that was quieter, contemplative. Perhaps he was trying to protect you. After all, that's what fathers do. And it's much better to make a fool of yourself than feel others are making you one. At least that way you can laugh along.
Watching him, somewhat bemused, she waited for him to speak. The fact that he had flushed red made her think it was either something interesting or something terrible. She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to make him uncomfortable by pushing, then looked at him squarely, questioning.
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Her expression was emphatic, clearer than any words, and Jamey now understood how well the mute woman communicated. "Speaking of foolish wits," he muttered, and then he took a deep breath.
"I only wondered if--" He hesitated again, giving Elle a cautious look, then finished: "--if you ever got carried away." He reached, his finger tapping at her earlier sentence -- I think it's okay to get carried away sometimes -- and he offered an apprehensive smile. "I don't mean to be forward, Miss Elle," he added, his voice low and hurried. "Merely -- rudely -- curious."
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The answer came in the form of a single, definite nod coupled with a smile. If she had said that the curiosity offended her it would have been a case of the pot calling the kettle black. She knew she had plenty of curious moments herself. Bordering on nosy, some might have said.
You aren't being rude, she reassured him. It's only a question. As for getting carried away, I don't see what could be wrong with it. Sometimes things can be drab and getting caught in a moment can make it brighter. Or it can take you away from things. The city isn't always a nice place and if sitting at a fountain reciting a poem makes a person smile, that person shouldn't think of it as a bad thing. She gave him a little smile. While she did truly believe in what she said, a small part of her also thought that perhaps she was a tad silly and too caught up in dreams. People had implied as much on occasion. At least a world seen through rose tinted glasses was a pleasingly coloured one.
.
It's only a question. Jamey very nearly shook his head but he stopped himself; he didn't want to embarrass the girl. It was the kind of question, in a different place, at a different time, that a man would use to pick up a woman, and he's relieved Elle didn't take it that way.
Instead, he smiled brightly at her and nodded. "And a moment like this was what I needed," he admitted. "All the rain," he gestured at the sky. "And, well, the cathedral is pretty chilly."
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I'm glad I could help. I like to see people smile. She smiled shyly herself then. Even in the city's stormiest, darkest days, the thought of people finding some sort of happy solace kept hope alive. The hope for that day when the sun shone high in the sky. It'll clear sometime, she wrote and mimicked his gesture. Holding up her hands, she crossed her fingers.
I find the cathedral a little - The pen stopped in mid sentence as she tried to find the right word. - intimidating. Worried she may have offended him with that comment she quickly added, The gargoyles make me kind of shivery. It's the way they're always watching, I think.
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He laughed at the hopeful sentiment, touched by Elle's sweet optimism. It was refreshing after days of meditating on guilt and sin.
Her observation about the cathedral made him grin, and he nodded his head sympathetically. "I wouldn't mind something smaller myself," he admitted. "Although I suppose I should find it awe-inspiring." Pensive, he fell quiet a moment, then shrugged a little, offering Elle a half-smile. "Still, it's sanctuary."
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Head tilted to one side, her expression remained neutral in an attempt to exude a casual air. You don't find it to be? she asked, the words appearing on the page more slowly than usual. Not by much, but noticeably so. It struck her as something that could have been seen as a loaded question and, in a way, it was. So she tried to tread lightly and with some trepidation.
As if to compensate, she gave an earnest nod. I think we need one. Or rather everyone should have one. The church is meant to welcome and forgive, isn't it? She glanced over at him; it was a genuine question rather than a snide comment. Gaze returning back to the paper, she twirled the pen in her hands.
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His smile turned wry and he lifted his eyes to heaven before returning his gaze to Elle. "I find it..." A pause as he weighed his word choice. "Intimidating. Like my old man." With a dismissive shrug, he grinned harder. "I guess he was awe-inspiring but..." He didn't want to think his father, not when the girl next to him was so sweet and optimistic. When she started writing again, he was relieved to have something else to talk about, and he read the blossoming query eagerly.
"The Church welcomes all," he says seriously, bending his head a little to catch Elle's eye. He's never above recruiting a new congregant, even if he has lost some of his evangelical zeal in the last few years.
"And in these troubled times, sanctuary is needed more than ever."
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Nodding sympathetically, didn't respond right away. It sounded as though it might have been a touchy topic. That she could understand. She wasn't sure if she wanted to open that can of worms for either of them. In the end she decided that it would be best to offer something that was empathetic without overstepping the mark. I think it's the way fathers are. They have to have that authoritative air, don't they?
Again she hesitated, brow furrowed. I've never really been to church, she admitted, feeling quite guilty about it. She wasn't sure if she believed that there was a divine force, particularly a merciful one. At that moment, she felt guilty about that too.
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He was immensely relieved with Elle started writing again; there was something soothing in the steady flow of letters that slowly became words. He wanted her question about fathers to be rhetorical: between his Lord, the bishop, and his own father, there were too many authoritative men frowning at him right now.
Another sentence emerged after a pause and Jamey grinned, relieved to be on more welcome territory. "Sunday comes every six days," he teased gently. "No need to feel as if it's too late to start attending."
.
Elle offered a small smile. You're right. I'll make sure to visit. Whether she would or not remained to be seen. She had good intentions but underneath those, she knew that it might have been a hollow promise. If there was a God, she felt that her and He were on shaky terms. Lying to a priest wasn't going to help that situation much.
Posture growing awkward, a frown fell on her face. If you've done wrong, if you're a sinner, do you think that you can repent enough to get back into good graces? It might have been too strange a question. She tucked her hair behind her ear, for something to do more than anything, but it soon fell back against her cheek.