Astronaut.
next thing i knew
She had been married when she met Noah. For about one year, she had been with a handsome businessman from Maine. He was a competent husband, a real gentleman… except she didn’t love him. Well, she thought that she did. Jupiter Anne was absolutely positive, when she said ‘I do’ at the tender age of seventeen, that she was deeply, madly, and insanely in love with him. Not that this helped her remember his name years later, after she left him.
Her grandmother made her wedding dress, all white with lace and beautiful flowers sewn in at every angle imaginable. The buttons running from the base of her neck to her tail bone had been gorgeous and shimmery in silver light. Her bouquet had been white tulips and baby’s breath. The church itself had been old and rickety, but beautiful for what it was. The stained-glass windows showed renditions of Christ’s birth, death, rebirth, so on, so forth. The music playing was classic and heart-breaking. Her grandmother cried. It absolutely appalled Jupiter, but then again she would never say that to the sweet little creature that had raised her since she was – oh, how old had she been when her mother up and left, leaving her with Mama? Seven? Not even that old.
Jupiter and the gentleman from Maine went on their honeymoon to New York . It wasn’t what she wanted, and the loss of her maidenhead was sour and disappointing. He didn’t make up for his lack of humor in bed, that’s for sure. When they returned, she was sore and tired of him, but would never say anything because her grandmother would become depressed. Not that Jupiter always listened to what Mama said – it was just a tradition to hear.
And her little sister, as cute as a button (left as a bundle of fuzzy-headed joy in the mailbox at three months old, of all places and times) and only seven years old when her big sister Jupie went away and never came back. But she did come back, of course. She would drag her husband back to her not-so-small hometown, just so she could see Lora Joan, the adorable little thing who loved to balance on white picket fences and box with the neighbor’s cat. “Poor Lora Joan,” people would say (it boiled Jupiter inside), “can’t go a week without getting a fever."
Lora Joan was born with a special kind of disease. No one knew the name for it; when the doctor came each month with her medicine, he would shake his head and walk out, stethoscope hanging like a noose around his neck and a sad twinkle in his dusty blue eyes. Lora, you see, was very prone to illness. She would be fine one day, dancing with butterflies and singing with the birds, and the next she would be moaning and groaning in pain, dormant in her lacy white bed and hiding her head from visitors because her tummy hurt.
When Jupiter met Noah, it was at Mama’s funeral. It was Jupiter’s duty to bury her right; if there was no other way to put her to proper rest, it was this. Jupiter didn’t let anyone know how devastated she was inside, especially not her sister. Lora Joan had begged not to be left at the big house – the one with ivy covering the wall like a blanket and the red autumn trees dozing in the front yard – with her husband. Jupiter loved that house. She had been loathing leaving, just because of a silly marriage. She had wanted to stay with Lora and Mama. But now Mama was gone, and she had to bury her.
It was a mournfully sunny day. All the people who lived across the street or sold Mama bread or washed her automobile or cut her curly old-people hair came and bid her farewell. The city was the special kind of religious where everyone believed that if you lived to be over 65, you went immediately to Heaven. Jupiter thought it was absurd, but she would never say that out loud – Lord, no.
There were flowers and tears and little white chairs. Someone mentioned that the war was to blame, that she had been so stressed from watching those damned programs that her little heart just gave out. Jupiter tried not to glare at them. The war had nothing to do with her Mama’s death.
“Jupie, help me pick up these flowers, ‘k?” Lora Joan was trying to lift a bouquet that was, as their Mama would say, bigger than her head. There were roses and daffodils and little pink ones Lora Joan had picked up from the side of the road. She had almost been too weak to bend to retrieve them, poor baby. Except she wasn’t a baby anymore, not really. She was grown up! That’s what she was proud to tell people. She had her mother’s deep umber eyes and long brown hair, but she had her father’s nose. That’s what Jupiter always told her; she had never met her own father, much less Lora Joan’s, but she simply assumed since she had seen pictures of their mother. She was an angel, with dark skin and a gorgeous complexion. Jupiter thought she got her fair skin from her father, whom had remained nameless her entire life.
“Sure thing, pumpkin,” Jupiter said with a smile. She gently took the thick stems of Lora Joan’s roses and held them in her tiny arms. Lora Joan had known Mama all her life, but she wasn’t a very attached child. The only person she ever clung to was Jupie, her big huggle-muffin, as she called her. Jupiter giggled softly and tucked a loose strand from Lora Joan’s French braid behind her ear. “Come up here, okay?”
The small crowd of people parted and left a short walkway towards the open coffin. It was cedar, with white paint on the inside. “Mama looks like an angel,” Lora Joan whispered, like a conspirator spreading secrets. Jupiter nodded and bent down to kiss the beautiful old woman’s soft brow. There was a lullaby playing on a guitar not far away, one that made Jupiter turn her head. It was familiar, yet she had no idea where it came from.
Lora Joan was busy watching an army of little black ants march across the dirt path. There was another little girl crouching next to her, the end of her blue flower dress dragging in the dirt. They were a cute partnership, poking at the ants and watching them detour to the grass. Jupiter smiled and went to find the guitar. When she found it, she was faintly surprised to find a man sitting on a stone bench with the instrument cradled in his arms. He was wearing an almost painfully casual outfit. Grey shirt, black pants, shoes that looked like he hadn’t had a new pair in years. His hair was black and messy, a shining mass of curly locks that dangled over his nape and made him look slightly wild. His head was bent over the strings of the guitar, so that she could only catch a glimpse of his face. She hadn’t noticed until just now that she was standing in a small building with no real walls, only white pillars. It reminded her of her lessons on Greek mythology. There was ivy swaying everywhere, and the sun – which had been morbid and depressing only moments earlier – set the man aglow in a way that made her question his mortality.
The lullaby continued, deepening in beauty and rising in sound. His fingers danced across the strings in a fluid motion that dazed Jupiter and nearly made her collapse. It was so beautiful, the way he nodded every few moments and tapped his foot like it was the only time in the world. He was so careful, so delicate with it, and yet he made it sing so passionately that it made her heart flutter. She had a childish thought about how he might treat a woman the same.
Her shoe crunched on a twig, and the music halted like a heart beat. She stopped walking toward him immediately and met his gaze with a gasp. His eyes were the sun, plain and simple.
“What are you doing here?” he asked softly. Her heart, if it had stopped before, leapt into her throat and tried to strangle her. His voice was deep and comforting, but at the same time careful and timid. He looked up at her like she had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
She blinked in astonishment. “What am I doing here? It’s my grandmother’s funeral, that’s what I’m doing here.” She frowned and looked him over, trying to see if she had missed something at first glance. He wasn’t the brightest, was he?
He shook his head and stood. The guitar made a scraping sound as he set it on the ground. “Not ‘here.’Here.” He motioned at the bench, then looked sternly at her. “And who said you had to go to her funeral?”
Jupiter was horrified. “She raised me for more than half of my life! Not to mention my little sister. We owe it to her!”
The man frowned and turned to set his guitar gently on the stone bench. She saw that his hands were big and calloused, but tender at the same time. It confused her. “You don’t owe it to her. Do you honestly think she would want you moping around a place like this?” He turned his golden eyes to her and stared like she was an idol.
“Yes? What about you? Why are you here, if it’s so bad?” She felt a need to protect herself. It was her job to bury Mama, it didn’t matter if she would have wanted her there! She had to be responsible! That was why she had decided she and her husband would take care of Lora Joan from now on. Like she had her own child. But different.
The man rolled his eyes and took up his instrument. He slipped the strap over his shoulder and twisted it around so that it rested, upside down, against his back. “It’s what I do, ma’am,” he said, and saluted her before walking away.
Jupiter almost let him go. Almost. “Wait!”
Guitar man turned and looked her up and down like a magazine model. “Yes?”
Now she was shy. Her cheeks burned and she shuffled her feet. “What’s your name?” She wouldn’t meet his gaze because she was afraid she would be paralyzed if she did.
He smiled slightly, and though Jupiter wouldn’t know this for some time to come, he thought she was a very beautiful girl. If it hadn’t been for the small ring on her left hand, he might have offered to buy her a coffee. But she had it, and so he couldn’t. “I’m Noah. Noah Fairburn. What’s yours?”
Her red lips pulled into a smile as she looked up at him through her long eyelashes. “I’m Jupiter Anne Davis.” As if on a second thought, she added, “You play very beautifully, Mr. Fairburn.”
Noah smiled slightly. “Thank you, Jupiter Anne Davis. I hope to see you again.” Then he nodded, and left.
Jupiter forgot his name, too.
Her grandmother made her wedding dress, all white with lace and beautiful flowers sewn in at every angle imaginable. The buttons running from the base of her neck to her tail bone had been gorgeous and shimmery in silver light. Her bouquet had been white tulips and baby’s breath. The church itself had been old and rickety, but beautiful for what it was. The stained-glass windows showed renditions of Christ’s birth, death, rebirth, so on, so forth. The music playing was classic and heart-breaking. Her grandmother cried. It absolutely appalled Jupiter, but then again she would never say that to the sweet little creature that had raised her since she was – oh, how old had she been when her mother up and left, leaving her with Mama? Seven? Not even that old.
Jupiter and the gentleman from Maine went on their honeymoon to New York . It wasn’t what she wanted, and the loss of her maidenhead was sour and disappointing. He didn’t make up for his lack of humor in bed, that’s for sure. When they returned, she was sore and tired of him, but would never say anything because her grandmother would become depressed. Not that Jupiter always listened to what Mama said – it was just a tradition to hear.
And her little sister, as cute as a button (left as a bundle of fuzzy-headed joy in the mailbox at three months old, of all places and times) and only seven years old when her big sister Jupie went away and never came back. But she did come back, of course. She would drag her husband back to her not-so-small hometown, just so she could see Lora Joan, the adorable little thing who loved to balance on white picket fences and box with the neighbor’s cat. “Poor Lora Joan,” people would say (it boiled Jupiter inside), “can’t go a week without getting a fever."
Lora Joan was born with a special kind of disease. No one knew the name for it; when the doctor came each month with her medicine, he would shake his head and walk out, stethoscope hanging like a noose around his neck and a sad twinkle in his dusty blue eyes. Lora, you see, was very prone to illness. She would be fine one day, dancing with butterflies and singing with the birds, and the next she would be moaning and groaning in pain, dormant in her lacy white bed and hiding her head from visitors because her tummy hurt.
When Jupiter met Noah, it was at Mama’s funeral. It was Jupiter’s duty to bury her right; if there was no other way to put her to proper rest, it was this. Jupiter didn’t let anyone know how devastated she was inside, especially not her sister. Lora Joan had begged not to be left at the big house – the one with ivy covering the wall like a blanket and the red autumn trees dozing in the front yard – with her husband. Jupiter loved that house. She had been loathing leaving, just because of a silly marriage. She had wanted to stay with Lora and Mama. But now Mama was gone, and she had to bury her.
It was a mournfully sunny day. All the people who lived across the street or sold Mama bread or washed her automobile or cut her curly old-people hair came and bid her farewell. The city was the special kind of religious where everyone believed that if you lived to be over 65, you went immediately to Heaven. Jupiter thought it was absurd, but she would never say that out loud – Lord, no.
There were flowers and tears and little white chairs. Someone mentioned that the war was to blame, that she had been so stressed from watching those damned programs that her little heart just gave out. Jupiter tried not to glare at them. The war had nothing to do with her Mama’s death.
“Jupie, help me pick up these flowers, ‘k?” Lora Joan was trying to lift a bouquet that was, as their Mama would say, bigger than her head. There were roses and daffodils and little pink ones Lora Joan had picked up from the side of the road. She had almost been too weak to bend to retrieve them, poor baby. Except she wasn’t a baby anymore, not really. She was grown up! That’s what she was proud to tell people. She had her mother’s deep umber eyes and long brown hair, but she had her father’s nose. That’s what Jupiter always told her; she had never met her own father, much less Lora Joan’s, but she simply assumed since she had seen pictures of their mother. She was an angel, with dark skin and a gorgeous complexion. Jupiter thought she got her fair skin from her father, whom had remained nameless her entire life.
“Sure thing, pumpkin,” Jupiter said with a smile. She gently took the thick stems of Lora Joan’s roses and held them in her tiny arms. Lora Joan had known Mama all her life, but she wasn’t a very attached child. The only person she ever clung to was Jupie, her big huggle-muffin, as she called her. Jupiter giggled softly and tucked a loose strand from Lora Joan’s French braid behind her ear. “Come up here, okay?”
The small crowd of people parted and left a short walkway towards the open coffin. It was cedar, with white paint on the inside. “Mama looks like an angel,” Lora Joan whispered, like a conspirator spreading secrets. Jupiter nodded and bent down to kiss the beautiful old woman’s soft brow. There was a lullaby playing on a guitar not far away, one that made Jupiter turn her head. It was familiar, yet she had no idea where it came from.
Lora Joan was busy watching an army of little black ants march across the dirt path. There was another little girl crouching next to her, the end of her blue flower dress dragging in the dirt. They were a cute partnership, poking at the ants and watching them detour to the grass. Jupiter smiled and went to find the guitar. When she found it, she was faintly surprised to find a man sitting on a stone bench with the instrument cradled in his arms. He was wearing an almost painfully casual outfit. Grey shirt, black pants, shoes that looked like he hadn’t had a new pair in years. His hair was black and messy, a shining mass of curly locks that dangled over his nape and made him look slightly wild. His head was bent over the strings of the guitar, so that she could only catch a glimpse of his face. She hadn’t noticed until just now that she was standing in a small building with no real walls, only white pillars. It reminded her of her lessons on Greek mythology. There was ivy swaying everywhere, and the sun – which had been morbid and depressing only moments earlier – set the man aglow in a way that made her question his mortality.
The lullaby continued, deepening in beauty and rising in sound. His fingers danced across the strings in a fluid motion that dazed Jupiter and nearly made her collapse. It was so beautiful, the way he nodded every few moments and tapped his foot like it was the only time in the world. He was so careful, so delicate with it, and yet he made it sing so passionately that it made her heart flutter. She had a childish thought about how he might treat a woman the same.
Her shoe crunched on a twig, and the music halted like a heart beat. She stopped walking toward him immediately and met his gaze with a gasp. His eyes were the sun, plain and simple.
“What are you doing here?” he asked softly. Her heart, if it had stopped before, leapt into her throat and tried to strangle her. His voice was deep and comforting, but at the same time careful and timid. He looked up at her like she had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar.
She blinked in astonishment. “What am I doing here? It’s my grandmother’s funeral, that’s what I’m doing here.” She frowned and looked him over, trying to see if she had missed something at first glance. He wasn’t the brightest, was he?
He shook his head and stood. The guitar made a scraping sound as he set it on the ground. “Not ‘here.’Here.” He motioned at the bench, then looked sternly at her. “And who said you had to go to her funeral?”
Jupiter was horrified. “She raised me for more than half of my life! Not to mention my little sister. We owe it to her!”
The man frowned and turned to set his guitar gently on the stone bench. She saw that his hands were big and calloused, but tender at the same time. It confused her. “You don’t owe it to her. Do you honestly think she would want you moping around a place like this?” He turned his golden eyes to her and stared like she was an idol.
“Yes? What about you? Why are you here, if it’s so bad?” She felt a need to protect herself. It was her job to bury Mama, it didn’t matter if she would have wanted her there! She had to be responsible! That was why she had decided she and her husband would take care of Lora Joan from now on. Like she had her own child. But different.
The man rolled his eyes and took up his instrument. He slipped the strap over his shoulder and twisted it around so that it rested, upside down, against his back. “It’s what I do, ma’am,” he said, and saluted her before walking away.
Jupiter almost let him go. Almost. “Wait!”
Guitar man turned and looked her up and down like a magazine model. “Yes?”
Now she was shy. Her cheeks burned and she shuffled her feet. “What’s your name?” She wouldn’t meet his gaze because she was afraid she would be paralyzed if she did.
He smiled slightly, and though Jupiter wouldn’t know this for some time to come, he thought she was a very beautiful girl. If it hadn’t been for the small ring on her left hand, he might have offered to buy her a coffee. But she had it, and so he couldn’t. “I’m Noah. Noah Fairburn. What’s yours?”
Her red lips pulled into a smile as she looked up at him through her long eyelashes. “I’m Jupiter Anne Davis.” As if on a second thought, she added, “You play very beautifully, Mr. Fairburn.”
Noah smiled slightly. “Thank you, Jupiter Anne Davis. I hope to see you again.” Then he nodded, and left.
Jupiter forgot his name, too.
♠ ♠ ♠
71 subscribers. Amazing comments. Tell break.my.bones how awesome she is. She came up with like, 90% of this. Just sayin’.Anything that’s in italics is a flashback. There’s going to be a lot of that in this story.
“Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” – Kevin Arnold