The Time of the Fireflies by Kimberley Griffiths Little
“And, Larissa,” Daddy added, heading out the kitchen door, “finish opening up the second floor, would you?”
“Thanks for leaving it for me.”
“Just stick close. Mamma’s doctor appointment is at ten.”
After I finished eating, I washed up the dishes, rinsed and dried, then ran upstairs.
Opening up the second floor meant some light dusting, checking for cabinet keys, fluffing dolls’ dresses, rolling back the lids on the desks, and double-checking that everything had a price tag within easy sight.
I found a few stuffed animals tucked behind some glassware on a shelf. Several old-fashioned hats scattered here and there. A red-and-white-checked apron left on the floor near a bookcase. Leather button-up shoes inside a crate of holiday lights and ornaments.
And the sliding glass door to the doll case was open a crack.
“Huh?” Had Mamma unlocked it and forgotten? Some of the dolls were left out on top of the glass. The rag dolls and the Barbie dolls, ones that weren’t as valuable as the antique dolls.
I crouched down to slide the door closed and searched for the key. The porcelain doll’s piercing blue eyes caught mine, willing me to look at her. A shiver crawled along my shoulders, like a spider’s legs scuttling across my bare skin. “You are beautiful,” I whispered. “But why do you give me the creeps?”
Her blue eyes seemed to flash, and I blinked. Then her gaze seemed to grow darker, like she was angry at my words. Her mouth froze into an eerie smile. The scar along my face began to itch. I reached up and scratched at it, feeling the welt rise. “Ouch!” I lifted my hand and there was a smear of blood on my fingers. I rubbed at it some more, but it only got worse, so I found a box of tissues and held one tight to my face to stop the bleeding.
At last I spotted the key sitting on the window ledge. A tremor of movement caught my eye as I locked the case. I would have sworn the beautiful antique doll had moved ever so slightly. But that was crazy. I’d probably bumped into the case when I reached for the key.
I backed away, my eyes locked onto the doll, an ugly, prickly feeling washing over me.
“This is stupid,” I finally muttered. “It’s just a doll.”
A sudden pain in my cheek made me double over. “Dang, that hurts!”
I hurried to the bathroom mirror. Sure enough, my scar was swollen and angry, a streak of blood where I’d scratched too hard. It was my own fault. I needed to leave it alone. Now Mamma was gonna be fussing at me. I’d just have to stay out of her way today. I pressed a cold, wet washcloth against my cheek to get the swelling down.
Instead of putting my hair into a ponytail and clipping back all the stray flyaway hairs, I left it hanging down. I knew I’d get sweaty later, but I brushed my hair down over the right side of my face, covering up part of my eye, too. Didn’t want to scare off customers when my parents took off for the doctor appointment.
I spent most of the morning reading a book and staring out the front window by the cash register. It was a slow day for some reason. Maybe we’d get more tourists as June got better under way.
By the time Mamma got home and made lunch, my face looked more normal.
“Does the doctor know whether it’s a boy or a girl?” I asked, trying to distract her as she spread mayonnaise and mustard on a row of sliced bread. I laid out slices of turkey and ham, then got out a pitcher for lemonade.
“We pretty much decided to be surprised,” she said, refilling the paper towel dispenser. “But since — since we’ve had trouble in the past, they insisted on an ultrasound so they could see the baby and what’s going on.”
My mouth went dry. “It is okay, isn’t it?”
“Of course. The baby is growing perfectly normally. You have nothing to worry about.”
But I knew that sometimes there were things wrong that you couldn’t see. Things inside that made a baby sick. Or made them die after birth. The lungs or the heart.
“You could tell, right?” I pressed her.
“I’ll let Daddy tell you.”
“Is it another boy? Think I’ll finally have a brother?”
Mamma smiled mysteriously. “Go take this sandwich to Daddy and let him tell you.”
I grasped the plate with the turkey-and-ham sandwich and a couple of dill pickles and headed to the front counter.
A customer left, clanging the bell. Daddy said, “Perfect timing, shar. I’m starving.”
He wolfed down a big bite, then picked up his glass of lemonade.
“Spill it!” I demanded. “What are we having? A boy or a girl?”
Daddy chewed some more and all the while he kept grinning at me.
I stuck my hands on my hips.
He finally stopped eating. “Larissa, in six weeks you are gonna be a big sister.”
“I know that already!”
“You’re going to be a sister to a little baby sister. We’re having a girl!”
A girl. A girl? Never thought that would ever happen. Not after two lost baby brothers. “Doesn’t seem possible.”
“It was clear as day on the ultrasound not two hours ago.”
“Did you want a boy?” I asked, almost afraid to say it.
“You kidding me? I love my girls, and I can’t wait to see if she’s as pretty as you.”
“She’ll be prettier,” I heard myself say. “You’ll forget all about me.”
My daddy set down his sandwich. “Now where’d you get that idea?”
“You’ll have me fetching diapers, making bottles, giving her a bath, doing extra chores. Guess you can call me the new maid.”
Daddy winked at me. “I suppose you’re right, shar. But it’s gonna be a whole lot of fun.”
I shrugged my shoulders, not sure if it was going to be much fun or not. Two older women with gray hair and big black handbags came through the front door. Daddy nodded at them and said, “Good afternoon.” Then he said to me, “Hopefully, two daughters will be quieter than a rowdy boy.”
“Girls squeal and scream, Daddy. Believe me, I know,” I told him, sudden tears biting at the corners of my eyes.
“As long as I can count on your advice and expertise,” he said, finishing up his lunch real quick and heading off to answer any questions for our new customers.
“A sister,” I whispered, heading back to the kitchen. My eyes swam with the most peculiar emotion. My throat felt funny. I had a bubble of excitement imagining a real sister to play with. Someone who’d look up to me. But I felt lost all of a sudden, and the feeling stuck in my throat like a prickly burr.
I was used to having Daddy all to myself. I pictured him cuddling the new baby, holding her hand as she learned to walk — and me standing off to the side, watching my family being happy again.
All year long I’d wanted Mamma to stop bothering me about my hair and my scar and not making any friends except Shelby Jayne. Pretty soon she’d focus on the new baby instead of me. I’d become not only an invisible girl at school, but right here at home, too.
A whimper choked at my chest, and I gulped past the pain. At least I had a secret of my own. The clock ticked by slow as molasses as I waited to go down to the bayou, my secret growing bigger and more special with each hour. But after eating my plate of fried shrimp and leftover coleslaw, I worried about leaving the house. Especially after I’d run out last night.
Daddy came out of the office with a stack of bills and invoices for mailing. “Would you walk all this down to the post office, shar? Stamped and ready to go. Just put it in the slot for Outgoing Mail and it should get picked up first thing in the morning.”
It couldn’t have been more perfect.
I traded my sandals for socks and sneakers so I could run fast if I needed to. Or at least faster.
I left my parents sitting on a couple of settees on the second floor, their feet resting on a pair of boxes, while they discussed the pros and cons of rearranging stock.
As I passed the side street where the county sheriff’s office resided, Alyson
I pushed through the heavy glass post office door, shoved the pile of mail into the slot, and then jogged down to the main intersection and turned left.
The sun nestled against the tops of the cypress trees, sending out streaks of orange and red. I slapped my arms as the mosquitoes came out and picked up speed.
Find the fireflies.
Trust the fireflies.
The smell of barbecue dripped through the still air, making me hungry, even after a big supper of my own.
Down at the water, the evening was motionless and still. Not a person in sight. I walked along the bank, skirting elephant ears, studying the forest of cypress. When I reached the broken bridge, I gazed across at the even denser trees that engulfed the deserted island. My mamma had lived over there when she was young. They’d moved away when her sister, Gwen, drowned.
I’d always wanted to see the deserted house. We didn’t own a boat, and Miz Mirage, Shelby’s mamma, always said to leave the place alone, to let it rest with its memories and sadness.
Crouching down, I hugged my knees, careful not to sit on the damp mud. Mamma would know right away where I’d been. She was afraid of the water. Just like me. And yet the bayou fascinated me, drew me to it like a magnet.
The air grew more humid as the sun shivered along the tops of the cypress forest on the island. Not a whisper of a breeze. Only water shushing against the shoreline, kissing the cypress knees that stood in uneven rows above the waterline.
I glanced down the empty stretch of road that ended at the sugarcane plant, thinking I should probably start back. But when I pushed myself up from the ground, that’s when the lightning bugs arrived. A huge swarm rose up out of the elephant ears and tupelo leaves, as if they’d been there all along, hidden behind a trick of the light or a magic mirror.
I moved toward the cloud of fireflies slowly, not wanting to scare them off. They were so beautiful, so otherworldly.
“Okay,” I whispered aloud, creeping closer. “I found the fireflies. Now what?”
The tiny lights dazzled my eyes; their little wings spun around me. I reached out and wiggled my fingers, feeling them flicker and bounce off my skin.
I was walking inside the cloud of fireflies. Hundreds of lights pricked at my eyelids, lit up the sky around me, circled me like a halo. It was incredible. It was magical.
The column of lightning bugs moved forward, with me right inside the deep golden light. They were darting, zooming, and I practically felt like I was flying. Not a second later, my eyes dropped, and I gasped. My chest tightened and my palms turned sweaty. I was standing in the danger zone right where the broken planks of the bridge began.
“What are you doing?” I cried to the fireflies. “Don’t take me out there!”
I stepped back to return to the safety of the bank, but the fireflies swarmed me again, blocking me from fleeing, urging me forward instead. They wanted me to follow them off the edge of the bridge into the water? That was unthinkable. Horrifying. What had I gotten myself into?
A moment later, the bridge began to shimmer. I held my hand above my eyes where the sinking orange sun peeked through the cypress trees. I’d swear there were lights coming through the trees on the island. More lightning bugs — or real electric lights?
Gulping, I tried once more to return to the safety of the bank, but I was at least twenty feet from shore now. How did that happen? I yelped, but my voice sounded small and pathetic. Strangest of all, the planks of the bridge were firm under my feet. They weren’t swaying or rocking. The bayou water swished calmly around the now-sturdy pilings.
“I — I have to go back,” I moaned, but the fireflies wouldn’t let me.
They darted like wild things, touching my arms and legs and hair, like they were trying to pull me forward. “I am not falling off this dang bridge ever again, so just let me go!”
“Trust the fireflies,” the voice came to me. I twisted my head, wondering if the girl on the antique telephone was there, but of course, I was alone. Except for the fireflies.
“Okay, I’ll go a few more steps and that’s it.”
Nervously, I stepped forward. Every single plank was there and locked into place. I shook my head, baffled.
A last ray of sunlight broke through the trees, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The bridge crossing the water was glowing in the golden sunset, but it wasn’t broken anymore. Each plank was firmly in place — not a single one missing — all the way to the opposite shore. I shook my head, hoping I hadn’t gone a touch crazy.
I couldn’t look down. I just focused on the cloud of fireflies guiding me across. One step at a time. If the lightning bugs suddenly disappeared, I swore I was going to race back home as fast as I could. My heart thudded with terror. If a single plank disappeared I’d crash straight into the bayou. If that happened, I was a goner. Nobody knew I was here. Nobody would ever find me.
I nearly turned around for the third time, but gritted my teeth and kept going, the swirly column of fireflies carrying me across. Two steps later, I was on the muddy bank of the far shore and I thought about kissing the earth in relief.
The fireflies dipped and danced, releasing me from their protective cloud. For several moments, all I could see was a sky filled with thousands of lightning bugs, but seconds later they were disappearing under the leaves, burrowing into the mud, or whatever fireflies did.
It was muggy and hot, and my stomach felt strange, but I’d miraculously made it across in one piece. Along the shore to my left was a dock, small but sturdy, the wooden planks painted a clean, fresh white. Tied to the moorings, several boats bobbed on the quiet water.
Wiping my hands on my shorts, I took a deep breath and peered through the trees along a winding overgrown path straight ahead of me.
That’s when I heard the sound of voices up ahead.
The voices were indistinct, but definitely human.
I crept along the narrow path, searching through the trees for No Trespassing signs, but I didn’t see any.
When the path opened up, I was standing at the edge of a clearing, staring at a huge white house on a sloping rise in the middle of the crowded cypress.
The voices were louder, but still no sign of anyone. I circled the edge of the woods, keeping out of sight. Shelby Jayne and my mamma always said how run-down the old house was after being abandoned for twenty years. Broken windows, sagging porch, and gaping holes. Stained and mildewed walls and floors.
That wasn’t true at all. This house was spectacular. Pristine white paint gleamed under the slanting evening sun. Columned porches looked brand-new. Curving steps led to a grand double front door. Perfect flower beds hugged the house. And a pond, including a waterfall, gurgled in the far corner of the yard. A sweep of emerald grass ran all the way to the banks of the bayou on the far side of the island.
I kept circling the house from the safety of the cypress woods, but all of a sudden, I halted. There, only a few feet ahead of me, were the owners of the voices.
A girl about my age sat on top of an overturned bucket. She had her chin on her fist as she scrutinized an older man wearing cotton overalls and a striped work shirt. He was digging with a shovel into the soft dirt between the lawn and the woods. The girl studied his work intently and every few moments she’d lean over and inspect the hole he was digging.
She was wearing the frilliest, most girlie-girl dress ever. Her hair curled in dark ringlet sausages, smoothed back from her forehead with an array of butterfly hair combs studded with gemstones. That fancy hairstyle must have taken hours to create.
I blinked, crouching down into the damp leaves, unable to take my eyes off her.
The girl shifted her feet and I saw that she was wearing button-up shoes. Just like the ones I’d returned that morning to the trunk of old-fashioned clothes we kept in the store. This girl was the essence
She was probably the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Prettier even than Tara Doucet. Her eyes were big and a deep blue color with long black eyelashes; her mouth and lips were cute, showing white teeth that didn’t need braces; her nose was the perfect size without a single bump. She had a creamy porcelain complexion, perfect flawless skin. I ran a finger against the ridge of my scar and wanted to hate her just a little bit.
“Now remember, Mister Lance,” she said, leaning closer. “This is our secret. I’m counting on you.”
The elderly gardener shoved back his straw hat and scratched his head around a thinning patch of gray hair. “Aye, Miss Anna. Mum’s the word.”
He rocked back on his heels, surveying the expanse of lawn stretching clear around the house. Magnolia trees dotted the yard, as well as pink blossoming crab apple trees and giant oaks. I spied several outbuildings in the distance, a barn painted red, a shed, and a roof over an open space that might have once been an outdoor kitchen. There were also a couple of outhouses as well as a long row of weathered shacks that probably housed slaves back in the olden days.
The air was steamy, like a damp rag, and Miss Anna surreptitiously swiped at the sweat along her forehead.
Gazing along the line of trees closest to me, I glimpsed holes dug up next to the cypress and oaks. What the heck were they doing? The older man rubbed at the stubble sprouting on his chin. “You sure we lookin’ in the right place, Miss Anna?”
The girl nodded firmly. “That’s what my grandmother told me. That the silver forks and spoons got buried in the yard. When they got wind that the Yankees were coming. The Yankees stole everything, you know. All the local folks’ money, their chickens, even their silverware. She said they were lucky they didn’t burn down the house.”
Mister Lance’s demeanor grew wistful. “True, that. Most houses got burned to the ground. Y’all was lucky them soldiers used your house as their headquarters.”