“And I told her that lizards weren’t that color,” Emma butted in. “She told me that artists could do whatever they wanted.”
“That’s right.” Filly glued colored stones on her pink egg. “Artists have the rule of the world. We can do whatever we want. If people like it, that’s great. If they don’t, that’s their problem.”
“Speaking of artists and their rights, Em painted today. She did an amazing picture that y’all have got to see,” Sophie said, and then glanced over at Emma. “Is it all right if I show them your painting?”
As usual when she was nervous, Emma’s hands began to tremble. Living with her mother had taught her early in life to read people by their body language and expressions. She would know if Arty and Filly thought her work was crap, and she wasn’t ready for that. If she was ever going to sell her work so that she could be independent, then she had to learn to accept criticism, constructive or otherwise. “Sure, but it’s not dry yet,” she finally said.
“No problem,” Sophie said and jogged from the table to the trailer. In minutes she was back with the small painting in her hands. She laid it down, and everyone leaned in for a closer look.
Emma sat on her hands, determined not to start wringing them. Everyone stared at the small picture for what seemed like an eternity. She was sure that they were trying to figure out a way to tell her that it was childish—nothing more than a coloring book painting that any six-year-old could have done.
“That’s about the most powerful picture I’ve ever seen,” Filly said. “It tells a story of a lost soul coming out of the dark and into the light. That dewdrop is a nice touch, and the sunlight reflecting off the butterfly wings is breathtaking with all those dark clouds back behind it. You need to make more of these, Em.”
The weight on Emma’s heart crumbled into tiny pieces. If Nancy had asked her how she felt, she would have said, “Like the darkness is gone.”
“Sneaking the word hope into the wings is the crowning glory,” Arty said. “You should put that word into all your paintings to mark them as yours. Folks will go crazy to own a hope painting by MM.”
“I didn’t see it, but I do now. That makes it even more amazing.” Filly kept staring at it.
“And the MM, for Em Merrill, is a great way to sign your work, but I’m wondering why you’ve been hiding such great talent all these years,” Josh added.
Oh, Josh, I didn’t hide it. It was stolen from me, but I’m finding it every day now, thanks to everyone here in this trailer park.
“When are you going to do another one? Leo comes Wednesday. Think you could have one more done by then?”
“I didn’t even notice the MM down there in the spines of the cactus,” Sophie said. “Nice touch, Em.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Y’all did miss one tiny detail, though. And I plan to put something like that in every painting I do to give it life.”
“What is it?” Josh leaned closer to the painting. “I was right there with you . . .” He smiled. “I see it.”
“What?” Sophie bumped Josh’s forehead with her nose, trying to get a closer look.
“Right there.” Emma pointed. “If you look close, I embedded a tiny cactus spine into the paint.”
“Perfect!” Filly clapped her hands. “But what is that symbolic of? Buyers will want to know.”
“That life has thorns, but there’s hope in each new day.” Emma had been through the briar patch for more than a decade, but now she was smelling the flowers. Hopefully, someday she would be able to forget all the pain of the thorns and wouldn’t even remember the rape.
Filly nodded and smiled. “That’s powerful. You do realize that this place is your muse, don’t you? You should consider staying right here with us forever. If Josh won’t let you rent a trailer permanently, you can live with me when Sophie leaves us.”
“Thank you, and I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather live than here,” Emma said. “There’s no telling where we’ll all be in another few weeks, but right now, this minute, I would love to stay right here. My mother threatened to lock me up forever, but now that I’m thinking clearly, I know that it was just something she was using to control me. I’m an adult, and I had to sign myself into the last few places where she thought I could get treatment.”
“Well, the offer has no time limit,” Filly said. “Which reminds me . . .” She pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to Emma. “With this necklace, I christen you a bona fide flower child, just like me.”
Emma slipped the necklace over her head. The soft leather with small feathers attached felt like silk, or even freedom, against her bare skin. The flat rock with a picture of a rose painted on it hung down between her breasts. She felt like she had just been given the Hope diamond.
“I love it,” Emma whispered.
“I’m making matching earrings, but they aren’t finished yet. Every real hippie needs dangling earrings,” Filly told her.
“I’ll wear both them and this necklace with pride.” Emma smiled.
“Good,” Filly said. “Now, let’s finish up these eggs so Arty can hide them. What’s your favorite memory of Easter, Em? Hunting eggs? Getting a new dress?”
“My folks are CEO Christians. That means Christmas and Easter only.” Emma toyed with the necklace. “Mother picked out an outfit for me to wear to church on those occasions, and I never did like it, so getting a new dress wasn’t a good memory.”
“Why didn’t you like it?” Filly asked.
“They were always so stiff and fit so tight, and the shoes hurt my feet,” Emma answered. “I would rather have had something like I’m wearing now. New shoes nearly always made blisters on my heels, and I couldn’t wait to get home and take them off. The only time I ever hunted eggs was when Sophie’s mama let us decorate them with crayons and watercolors and then hid them for us. That would have to be my favorite memory.”
Arty chuckled. “I love that about being a CEO. That’s what most folks probably are. I grew up in a big family. Twelve kids in all, and I was the baby of the whole bunch. They’re all gone now, but on Easter, my mama would boil dozens of eggs, and we’d color them. Daddy would hide them for us out in the pasture. But my favorite memory is the last year she was alive, when she let me help her make the family dinner. We had ham and baked beans, and she even showed me how to make her hot rolls. How about you two?” He nodded toward Josh and Sophie.
“Mine’s the same as Em’s.” Sophie smiled.
“Easter was just another day before I moved here,” Josh answered. “I do remember the year before he died, Grandpa and I went fishing. I always liked spending time with him, whether it was a holiday or not.”
“We had broom-jumping weddings on Easter when I was a little girl,” Filly said.
“I thought that had to do with the Black community,” Emma said.
“It did and it does, but there’s a dispute about just where it did originate. My folks liked to think it started in Romania at some point in my ancestors’ ethnic community. The Romani didn’t feel like the government should have any part or place in their marriages. They had rules, too. The feet of both parties had to be in the air, and later if the Romani elders condoned it, they could annul a marriage by jumping backward over the broom. In the carnie life, even though some of the folks weren’t Rom, and even if some of them went to the courthouse and had the whole marriage license thing, we still had the ceremony to celebrate their union,” Filly explained.