butterfly
tattoo?
Rage simmered just below the surface, and he swore,
catapulting to his feet and pacing once more. He pocketed his keys
and left the room that had begun to close in on him.
He slid behind the wheel of his rental, a white
Cadillac Escalade. Backing away from his spot, he turned toward his
childhood home. No time like the present. He noticed the changes as
he drove along, liking what he saw. The place still had a small
hometown feel to it. Some days in Hollywood, he missed that. Missed
the niceties that come with knowing your neighbors.
As he pulled up to his parents’ house, he took
several deep breaths. Parking behind his father’s old truck, he
killed the engine. The front yard, meticulously maintained, as
usual. The house appeared in need of a new coat of paint, but it
wasn’t anything serious.
He opened the door and climbed out. His old rope
swing no longer hung from the large Cottonwood in the yard. He
strolled up the path to the steps, steps he’d fallen off, jumped
from, and rolled down more than once. The railing, smooth beneath
his hand, gave him purchase as he went to the screen door.
The television was on; he could hear it through the
door. It was accompanied by the scent of his mother’s cooking.
Brody pushed the doorbell and waited.
“I got it, James. You stay there.” His mother’s
southern drawl was a balm to Brody’s soul.
She approached, wiping her hands off on her apron.
“Yes?” she asked before she stopped and gasped. One hand over her
mouth, she pushed open the door, never once taking her eyes from
him.
“Brody?” she asked, that same hand reaching out to
him. He couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble.
He removed his sunglasses. “Hi, Mama.”
Tears filled her large eyes as she reached for him.
“Oh, my baby is home. Brody’s come home. James, Brody’s back,” she
called out, her strong arms holding him the way only a mother’s
strength can.
Over his mother’s head, he looked up to see his
father standing there. “Hello, sir,” he said.
For a moment, he thought his father would turn around
and walk away. Then, he reached out a hand. Brody shook it, more
grateful than words could ever say about being home once more.
“Come inside,” his mother said, stepping back but
tugging on him. “I’m fixing dinner.”
“I know. I could smell it outside. Been a long time
since I’ve tasted your home cooking.”
The familiar bang of the screen door behind him sent
him farther down memory road. Summer nights, running in and out of
the house, only to circle it on the veranda then back in again.
Chasing the lightning bugs to put in jar and bring to his room,
only to release them the next night and do it all over.
His father shut off the television and joined them in
the kitchen. Brody sat at the table, accepting the tall glass of
tea his mama gave him.
“So, what have you been doing all this time?” she
asked.
“I’ve been in California. Acting.”
“And, they don’t have phones out there you could call
your mama?” she reprimanded as she began filling the potpies.
“They have phones, yes. I know I did this wrong, but
I did the best I could. I sent money.”
His father opened a beer. “Through some man we never
even heard of before.”
“He’s my agent.”
“We’re your parents.”
“James, please.”
There was no denying the plea in his mother’s voice.
His father grunted and drank some of his beer.
“I wanted, needed to be anonymous. I had to see what
I could do.”
“And, what did you find?” Her question had him
turning from his father to look at her.
“That Alton Rivers is a great actor. I came home
because I had to tell you, I’ve been offered a part opposite a big
name star, and if this movie does well, they will find out who I
really am, and people may come here to see what my childhood home
and parents are like.”
“Alton Rivers?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the name I use in the movies.”
“Your middle name is
tattoo?
Rage simmered just below the surface, and he swore,
catapulting to his feet and pacing once more. He pocketed his keys
and left the room that had begun to close in on him.
He slid behind the wheel of his rental, a white
Cadillac Escalade. Backing away from his spot, he turned toward his
childhood home. No time like the present. He noticed the changes as
he drove along, liking what he saw. The place still had a small
hometown feel to it. Some days in Hollywood, he missed that. Missed
the niceties that come with knowing your neighbors.
As he pulled up to his parents’ house, he took
several deep breaths. Parking behind his father’s old truck, he
killed the engine. The front yard, meticulously maintained, as
usual. The house appeared in need of a new coat of paint, but it
wasn’t anything serious.
He opened the door and climbed out. His old rope
swing no longer hung from the large Cottonwood in the yard. He
strolled up the path to the steps, steps he’d fallen off, jumped
from, and rolled down more than once. The railing, smooth beneath
his hand, gave him purchase as he went to the screen door.
The television was on; he could hear it through the
door. It was accompanied by the scent of his mother’s cooking.
Brody pushed the doorbell and waited.
“I got it, James. You stay there.” His mother’s
southern drawl was a balm to Brody’s soul.
She approached, wiping her hands off on her apron.
“Yes?” she asked before she stopped and gasped. One hand over her
mouth, she pushed open the door, never once taking her eyes from
him.
“Brody?” she asked, that same hand reaching out to
him. He couldn’t help but notice the slight tremble.
He removed his sunglasses. “Hi, Mama.”
Tears filled her large eyes as she reached for him.
“Oh, my baby is home. Brody’s come home. James, Brody’s back,” she
called out, her strong arms holding him the way only a mother’s
strength can.
Over his mother’s head, he looked up to see his
father standing there. “Hello, sir,” he said.
For a moment, he thought his father would turn around
and walk away. Then, he reached out a hand. Brody shook it, more
grateful than words could ever say about being home once more.
“Come inside,” his mother said, stepping back but
tugging on him. “I’m fixing dinner.”
“I know. I could smell it outside. Been a long time
since I’ve tasted your home cooking.”
The familiar bang of the screen door behind him sent
him farther down memory road. Summer nights, running in and out of
the house, only to circle it on the veranda then back in again.
Chasing the lightning bugs to put in jar and bring to his room,
only to release them the next night and do it all over.
His father shut off the television and joined them in
the kitchen. Brody sat at the table, accepting the tall glass of
tea his mama gave him.
“So, what have you been doing all this time?” she
asked.
“I’ve been in California. Acting.”
“And, they don’t have phones out there you could call
your mama?” she reprimanded as she began filling the potpies.
“They have phones, yes. I know I did this wrong, but
I did the best I could. I sent money.”
His father opened a beer. “Through some man we never
even heard of before.”
“He’s my agent.”
“We’re your parents.”
“James, please.”
There was no denying the plea in his mother’s voice.
His father grunted and drank some of his beer.
“I wanted, needed to be anonymous. I had to see what
I could do.”
“And, what did you find?” Her question had him
turning from his father to look at her.
“That Alton Rivers is a great actor. I came home
because I had to tell you, I’ve been offered a part opposite a big
name star, and if this movie does well, they will find out who I
really am, and people may come here to see what my childhood home
and parents are like.”
“Alton Rivers?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the name I use in the movies.”
“Your middle name is
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