Dead Butterflies by Lacee Hightower

Author:Lacee Hightower
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lacee Hightower

17

Derek

“The loneliness and all these questions inside me sometimes eat away at my gut.”

I gaze deep into Dalton’s dilated pupils. “That’s the coke fucking with you, bro. Lay off. Please. For me.”

“A little blow never hurt anyone, Derek. It gets me through the day.”

“Does it, Dalton? Does it really?”

Saturday morning rolls around after another hellishly long week, and I get up early and drive to the Park Cities to visit my dad and brother. While I don’t give two shits about all the fancy cars at my fingertips, women offering themselves to me almost daily, exorbitant bank accounts, or any kind of cushy lifestyle, there’s one thing I do still care about.

Wallace Kinnard.

My father wasn’t just a parent, but the backbone of our family and the pillar of strength. Not only did he teach us lessons in numbers and word skills, but also how to appreciate, respect, and love unconditionally. The endless hard worker who built an empire from the ground up while raising children and caring for a wife lost damn near everything that mattered to him when my brother—and ultimately my mother—died.

I owe the man absolutely everything.

“Yard looks good, Dad. Flowers are really blooming this year. Mom would be thrilled.”

“They do look good. But hell if I’ll ever figure out why the monarchs quit coming. Your mother loved those damn butterflies.” Damian and I exchange a quick stare at Dad’s mention of butterflies and the way his eyes tear up just by mentioning them.

“Come on, Dad.” Damian takes a seat on the sofa and motions our aging father to do the same. For a good hour, we discuss business, then talk briefly about the death of Sean’s great-niece. After Dad says he hasn’t eaten anything besides a handful of saltine crackers, Damian throws a couple of potatoes in the microwave and I cook rib-eyes—medium rare—on the outdoor grill while Dad reclines in a lawn chair and empties two bottles of Miller Lite.

Damian and I stick to water.

Lunch ends and we spend a few minutes reminiscing about old times. Mom’s coconut cream pie. Dalton’s love of hair gel. Sunday dinners. Then, same as every time, Dad gets emotional and my insides end up in pieces. Dalton’s death devastated my dad.

Nothing heals a heartache from losing a child.

When I notice Dad getting tired, I plead with him to sell this house of sad remembrances and move into one of those swanky senior citizen complexes. Like every other time, it does no good and gets me the same response as it always does. “Save your breath for something worth breathing, son. I’m dying right here in the same bed your mother died in.”

Once the mess in the kitchen has been settled, I tell Dad I’m gonna get going and hug him a little tighter than normal. “Sons,” he says at the front door, “are either of you ever going to settle down and give me a grandchild? It’s the one thing I’d like to have before I leave this earth.” Amusement twinkles in his eyes and I know what’s coming—a bad joke.

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