Dragonfly by Jaxn Hill

Torstein caught up to us and said, “That was the devil you know.”

“Huh?” I’d never before heard him say anything about any devil before.

“She hasn’t got any life back there, but it’s all she knows. We offer her a new life, a real life, and she doesn’t take it. She’s afraid to take it. There’s a saying: better the devil you know than a new god.”

We were going easy because of the kid, stopping frequently, but now we were at the outskirts of the city, the industrial edges with warehouses and factories. Fewer hospitable places to stop, occasional chain-link fences and big parking lots. It was late afternoon and the sun was beating down on us and the concrete around us. Torstein had taken off his green jacket and was carrying it. Maggie was walking beside him and she said:

“That girl was right, you know. Without a spouse and children, what’s the point?”

“It doesn’t take a spouse and children to make a legacy if that’s what you want,” Torstein said. “Already yesterday you were more of a mom to Sully than Angel’s been. And, Maggie, you never wanted kids before. When I first saw you, I saw a career woman all the way. No time for kids.”

“I got pregnant once,” she said. “I was just a teenager.”

I was a few steps behind them, and I hadn’t wanted to hear that. But Torstein seemed to take it in stride, and Maggie hadn’t taken any particular care that no one else should be listening.

“I’m sorry,” Torstein said. “That must have been scary.”

“It was.”

She drew a little closer to him, but I could still hear her voice ...

“I had a little girl.”

“I bet she was beautiful,” Torstein said.

“Of course she was!” Maggie’s voice was a little husky; like she was crying, or laughing. Maybe both. “I gave her away you know? Put her up for adoption. Since then ... I always wondered ... where she was, how she was. Who she was.”

“Then you decided, instead of making babies, you’d make money. And you did that, Maggie, you did that really well. You did the best you could for your child, and you’ve done very well for yourself.”

“But what’s the point?” she said. “If I die in a year, like the lady in your story, or in 50 years, who will remember? Who will care?”

“That depends on what you do with your year, or your 50 years. You don’t have to get married and have children to make a difference. Other people besides your own children can remember you and cry at your funeral. Look at me. I’m a single guy. You think no one will cry for me?”

“You’re different,” she said.

“No denying that!” he said, laughing. “But I’ll tell you something. I’m not going to have a funeral. What would be the point?” He spotted a convenience store in a strip mall ahead and whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Pit stop!” he called. “Big Gulps!”

We swarmed into the place, 20 or 25 of us all together, and the clerk looked sour. He gave up the key to the bathroom with a great show of reluctance. And when we all began to line up to pay for our small purchases separately, he seemed incensed. We knew from experience it worked better this way than trying to get everything on the counter and pay for it all together and then dole it back out. But I don’t think that would have made the clerk happy, anyway. Nothing about us was going to please him.

Sully was picking out sweets, and Maggie was putting them back and trying to interest him in a cold, hard apple from the refrigerator section. My brother and I got bottles of water, and Torstein got GatorAde. He was the last one to pay, and he offered the clerk some sunflower seeds.

The clerk motioned to a rack of sunflower seeds for sale and said, “I think I have enough sunflower seeds, buddy.”

“I see that you do,” Torstein said, handing over the money for the GatorAde. “Perhaps I can offer you something else.”

“What are you , a smart ass?” the clerk barked.

“No,” Torstein said. “I don’t mean to be. You seem unhappy here. Why don’t you come with us?”

“Why don’t you get the hell out?”

Torstein laughed. He was sort of impossible to offend. That was part of his Charm.