Kids like a bit of magic, same as everyone, only they ain’t ‘shamed to say so. ‘Fore you get set on arguing that, pause one minute and think about some little thing would break your heart to lose. Necklace, maybe, or an old scratched photo, a coin you never spend. Me, I got a sweet little gold bracelet with a heart and my name ‘graved on it. My youngest give me that, not long ‘fore she hopped on out of the nest. Couldn’t get my eyes off it for the longest time. I still like seeing them marks that little chain leave on the inside of my wrist.
Lorella Bitton was no different. She were born, oh, long ways from here—cain’t rightly remember where. When Lorella was still too little to sit up proper, her momma brung her home on the Greyhound one day. Took a couple weeks for that poor woman’s bruises to heal and a couple of years ‘fore she’d say much, but her Uncle Morris was right good to her and one fine day she gets to smiling again.
Lorella’s going on four when Morris’ old heart attacks him some. Not too bad, Doc says, but he needs being careful. Lorella’s momma working on up to the post office by then, so me and a few others volunteers to help out. Whole thing’s kind of upsetting for that tiddly bite of a gal, so we gets up a story on how she’s helping us old biddies by coming to keep up company while her momma off working. Then that sweet child cain’t be talked out of it when Morris is up good and proper on his feet again. No matter to us old biddies, ‘cause she’s the sweetest little piece of pumpkin pie a body could hope for.
Lorella’s seven years old, and so proud of her reading and writing, when she come by my place one Thursday. Has this little red jar she say Miz Harold give her. Now Miz Harold is Lorella’s Friday, so I hear a story coming. That cute little popover don’t have more than two bites of her cookie down her ‘fore she’s screwing off the lid and spilling her treasures.
“What’s all this, precious?” I ask her.
“Magic,” she whispers. “I told Miz Harold I wanted a magic something. Like that Aladdin boy?”
“Oh, I heard of him, yes indeed. I’m recollecting he had him one mean uncle, though. Hope you don’t need that for magic.”
Lorella’s eyes go wide. “Miz Harold say this here’s magic and no fooling.”
“Well then, I guess it’s magic all right. Now what you got else?”
Seemed she had her one magic penny, one magic spotted pebble, and one magic piece of blue glass with corners polished so she couldn’t cut herself. While she chatters on about her collection, I’m thinking what to add. Sure ain’t gonna be the only one not contributing. In the end, I think to open one of them moth-begone sachets my next to oldest give me for my birthday the year before, and I fetch out a couple cedar chips for Lorella to put in her jar. Not much, but she like them bits of wood just fine, rubbing her fingers down the grain and exclaiming how nice they smell.
It’s one sad little duckling comes to see me the next week. “Why that long face, Lorella?”
She don’t say word one for quite a bit, and she don’t give the cookie and milk I got laid out more than a look and a sigh. “Ain’t magic,” she says finally.
“What ain’t magic, darling?”
“Ain’t none of anything magic,” says Lorella, and the tears come rolling down silent, which is always a bigger concern than noisy wailing, as you likely know.
“Your magic jar and things didn’t work like you wanted?”
She shook her head. “Worse than that.”
I patted my knee, which I hadn’t done for a good long bit, but it seemed right. “Come on up here, child.” She climb up without more urging, and snuggle like a chick tucking under a broodie’s wing. We rocked for a bit. I figure she’s gonna let it spill when it wanted to come.
“Thought to find my own magic,” she says at last.
“Did you, love?”
“Found me the prettiest butterfly, I mean, moth. Uncle Morris says it were a moth.”
“They can be right beauties,” I say, but my heart is already sinking.
“He was this pearly gray with white and brown spots, and so feathery and soft. I thought he was the perfect magic.”
“As would anybody, I dare say.”
“So I put him in my magic jar.” She burrowed a bit deeper under my breast. “He weren’t moving when I looked this morning. Uncle Morris says the poor thing’s heart attacked him proper and now he’s dead.”
I rubbed her back, still rocking. “Guess that happens, sweetling.”
“Uncle Morris give me a matchbox to bury him in but I don’t want to. Ain’t gonna be no proper Christian burying, so why should I?”
“Your Uncle Morris only want to give you some bit of comfort, baby doll. Some like to think the good Lord don’t go squabbling about should He let moths and such into heaven.”
“Don’t care.” Her foot started kicking out with every rock back, a nice recuperating sign, I was thinking. “Ain’t nothing magic and that’s that.”
My eyes fell on my gold bracelet. “Oh, I wouldn’t go saying that, Lorella. Maybe you wasn’t thinking on magic rightly, is all. That red jar and them treasures inside is all somebody saying how they loves one special gal name of Lorella. Even that little old moth, being such a piece of beauty in this big old beautiful world.”
“But he’s dead.” She stopped kicking and turned her face to mine.
“Live things need a bit of room.” I tapped a finger on her nose. “How would it be if I was to love you so much I went and locked you in the closet so as to keep you?”
She leaned her head to one side. “I want him to be alive. That would be magic.”
“How about you keep him in that matchbox your Uncle Morris give you? Keep it in your dresser drawer and now and again just take him out to have a little look. Might be one day you’ll get thinking how he’s magic after all.”
She give me a queer look at that, but she hopped down and went straight to her cookie and milk. After her momma come for her, I sat me down for another rock, fingering the little heart, turning the tiny chain, and tracing the letters of my name. Put me in mind of so many things, including the last time I seen my youngest, her belly a grapefruit working toward a watermelon, her husband looking so proud and protective.
Maybe it’s only coming in or going out we gets our eyes open proper. Magic’s right there in front of a body’s nose. Guess I’m getting too old to be ‘shamed of saying so.
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