#mollybeth

February 1920 St. Denis, Lemoyne

“...and then Belinda turned to Clem, saying with a defiant and proud tilt to her chin, ‘You may drag me through all this desert at your will, Mr. Hanratty, for I’ll never love you.  I curse your offer of a blanket, as you are no gentleman to pretend such a thing!  I would rather sleep out cold and uncomfortable in the prickly pear, for it feels more honest.  Do what you will to me, but you can never destroy my love for Joe--”

Molly glanced over at Mary-Beth, busy writing at her desk.  “Prickly pear?”

Mary-Beth looked back at her, eyes alight with the familiar glee Molly knew all too well from when she was inspired by her writing, and she loved the sight of it.  “Yes, prickly pear!  You remember, those cactuses--cacti?  I can never remember which it is.  The ones with the pink-skinned fruit with that dark purple juice that stained everything it touched.  That nice dove-grey skirt I had never came clean again.  And I loved it so.”

“I don’t remember that, Beth.”  She said it as gently as she could.  It had been such a long time.  Of course memories would blur, and it touched her somewhat that Mary-Beth imagined Molly had been there alongside her for that.  “I wasn’t with any of you when you were in the desert.  For me, it was California and Montana and the trip over the Grizzlies, and then…”

Then.  They both knew what the then entailed.  Blackwater, and then everything beyond.

“Oh.  Well.”  Mary-Beth sighed.  “It all blurs after a while.  You understand.”

“Of course.  But really, ‘prickly pear’ sounds so...”  She searched for the words, trying to be honest but not offend.  “This is Belinda’s big moment of defiance against Clem Hanratty and…then you come in there with prickly pear.  The sound of it, and all.  I’m sure the fruits were delicious, but it takes something away from her words, don’t you think?  Something more dramatic, perhaps?” 

Mary-Beth tapped the end of her pen against her lips in thought.  “You might have the right of it, Mol.  Lucky me, having a poet here thinking about the sound of words.”  She pointed the pen at Molly, obviously excited now.  “A thornbush!  That sounds dreadfully painful, and Belinda is willing to suffer for her love for Joe.  It sounds much better towards that notion, don’t you think?”

Molly couldn’t help but smile.  Her own fire for poetry had pitched up bright and fierce after meeting Mary-Beth again at the Krewe of Minerva party three months ago.  Being invited to be a part of Mary-Beth’s life, let alone a part of her new work like this, being able to read her scraps and efforts at poems aloud and have someone to listen and give her own thoughts, made her heart flutter in a way it hadn’t in so long.