Rise of the White Lotus Read online

  Aunt Irene said my coming was the best thing that ever happened to Uncle Julian. It made him want to be a better man.

  "He was already a good man, mind you Jane, but you bring something out in him that is special," she told me one day.

  Aunt Irene was a beautiful woman. She had hair the color of strawberry gold that fell in perfect little ringlets to the middle of her back and eyes the color of the Caribbean Ocean surrounded by a pale amber ring. The color changed in intensity based on what she was wearing or what her mood happened to be. Her skin was a perfect milky cream, and she did much to keep it so. The Texas sun was unforgiving friend to skin so fair and tender, yet she managed somehow to maintain her flawless complexion even in a place that turned everyone else to rough, leathery rawhide.

  My aunt had a few delicate freckles that graced the bridge of her nose and trickled across her cheeks like the golden footprints of tiny angels. She had a smattering of them across her shoulders as well, but to me they made her skin more beautiful, like subtle cinnamon sprinkled upon the cream.

  Just as her complexion had no blemish in it, Aunt Irene's figure was without flaw as well. She was what Uncle Julian referred to as 'the perfect specimen of a woman.' She took great pride in the feminine gifts she had been given and used more creams, lotions, and powders than anyone I have ever known. When I asked her why she was so compelled to lather and primp in such a manner, her response was quite simple.

  "Well, sweet Jane," she said, "God gave me what I have, and I aim to take the best care of it that I can. I know I can't add a single day to my life, but I am gonna do my darndest not to subtract any days prematurely." She went through and explained the use of every single beauty product, cream, powder, and ointment she had in her arsenal.

  It made so much sense, it wasn't long before I was following my aunt's retinue of beauty process, to the best of my seven year old ability.

  Aunt Irene was of an average height for a woman, but when compared to the stature of my uncle, she looked petite - almost delicate. Of course, just about everyone looked petite next to my uncle, including most men, but my aunt's appearance was deceptive.

  Though she could be delicate and tender, my aunt had a fierceness to her you did not want to encounter. Like a tempest that, once touched, would tear you to bits and leave nothing but rubble in its wake. I had seen the aftermath of hurricanes and typhoons that seemed kinder than the force of my aunt's rage. It took a valiant effort to provoke such a storm from her, and thankfully no one else was ever injured by the tempest save the one who caused its creation.

  With such potential for destruction seething beneath her lovely exterior, one might think I would fear my aunt, but in truth, I loved her fiercely. No one could have done more to help chisel away at the hardness in my heart than my Aunt Irene.

  At times when I believed I wanted nothing more than to crawl inside myself and never come out, Aunt Irene would find a way to draw me back into the world that had seemed so ugly and dark to me. Her effect on me was magical, and I have often likened it to her coaxing a butterfly from its cocoon. Her methods would often begin with a story.

  "Did I ever tell you about my great Uncle Wally?" she would ask. "It was back during World War II, and things were bad overseas. Our boys were getting killed, but Uncle Wally wanted to serve; help 'em out. Uncle Wally was a country boy, born and raised in these parts. He was no more than seventeen when he volunteered to join the Army. He was as green as a gourd and as thin as a turnip green, but they let him in on account of the fact that he could shoot a gnat's ass off at five hundred yards. I didn't even know gnats had asses, but apparently they do, and he could shoot 'em every single time. At, any rate, he joined the Army aiming to be a sniper, but Uncle Sam had other plans however. With as good as Uncle Wally was with his riffle; he was even more adept when it came to reconnaissance, and the Army needed information on the enemy's movements. Uncle Wally could blend in better than anyone in his platoon, even with that Texas twang of his."

  "You mean he was a spy?" I asked, almost against my will. Aunt Irene's stories always drew me in.

  "In a manner of speaking, I guess he was," she said. "He spied on the enemy and brought the information back to his command. Sometimes his spying was done in the countryside where only a few people lived, but sometimes his spying was done in towns or villages where the population denser. Old Wally was good at not getting caught and acting like he belonged if ever he was seen. The information he brought back saved lives, and it earned him a medal for bravery when he took a bullet to save the lives of his fellow soldiers when the enemy tried to set up an ambush. He crawled over two miles after being shot to warn the troops the enemy was lying in wait for them. Every last man would have been massacred had he not made it back in time to sound the alarm."

  "Did he die from his wounds?" I asked, biting at my fingernails with anxious worry.

  "No sweet Jane," Aunt Irene said. "He came home to a hero's welcome, and raised a family right here in Ironco."

  "Did he ever do any more spying after he came home and got better?" I asked.

  "Well baby girl," Aunt Irene said. Her voice took on a conspiratorial whisper, and she drew close to me as she looked around, as if to make certain no one else could hear. "The best spies never let on they are spying. Not even to their families, so who knows. Maybe Uncle Wally had his secrets even in dusty old Ironco." She winked at me, gave me a smile, and fixed me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  My life with Aunt Irene and Uncle Julian would be filled with many more stories and fascinating histories that would help shape my future. They would spark my imagination and eventually serve as the basis for my own transformation, but much would happen between being seven years old and the moment of my alteration. Until then, I was granted a respite in the dusty town of Ironco, Texas.

  Birthdays Cheeky's Style

  My eighth birthday turned out to be the best and hardest of my young life. It was hardest because it marked the first festivity without my family. So many traditions had been established as part of the impending celebration of my birth; traditions that went back as far as my nearly eight-year-old brain could remember. The loss of those simple traditions seemed as great a blow as the murders themselves because it reminded me once again how permanent my loss had become.

  This wasn't just an extended visit with my aunt and uncle; I was in Ironco to stay. My life would never go back to the way things were. My birthday would not be commemorated by a yearly trip to the zoo. There would be no balloon animals or ice cream at the park. My circumstances were forever changed, and at nearly eight years old, it seemed more than I could handle.

  It was the best birthday of my life because everything changed. I just hadn't gotten to that point yet.

  As the big day approached, Aunt Irene found me crying beneath my favorite oak.

  "Why all the tears buttercup?" she asked.

  All I could get out was a shutter-y "my birthday's going to be different."

  I broke out into wracking sobs and threw myself into my aunt's arms. Aunt Irene held me in her arms and cooed at me in her sweet, soft voice.

  "Don't you worry sweet Jane," she said as she stroked my hair. "I know things are different now. It is a terrifying thing to lose everything you have ever known - your family, your traditions, your way of life - and go on to accept something new. It takes courage to do something like that, and I think you are very courageous. Why, it reminds me of one of my ancestors."

  The promise of one of Aunt Irene's stories helped me put my grief aside. I sniffled, wiped the tears from my eyes. I was all attentive and wide-eyed.

  "Her name was Jane, too" Aunt Irene continued. "Jane Tower. She lived back during the time of the Revolutionary War. Now, she and her whole family were Patriots. There was nothing they despised more than the sight of a Red Coat. It just so happened that Jane fell in love with a Tory. He was handsome and dashing, but he was still the embodiment of everything her family despised. Now this charming young man wanted
to marry Jane, but him being a Tory fighting for the British, well...it just wasn't going to happen. So you know what Jane did?"

  "No, what?"

  "She told that Tory love of hers that she would marry him on one condition," Aunt Irene continued. "He had to switch sides and become a Patriot. Now that was asking a mighty heavy price for her hand, but she stood by her conditions. Well, that young Red Coat must have loved her something fierce because he met her conditions. He burned his uniform and joined the Rebel cause. When Jane found out what he had done, she hoisted her feather bed out the window of her room, leapt down upon it, and ran to meet him. They eloped the very night of his conversion."

  "What happened after that?" I asked, forgetting for a moment the sorrow in my heart.

  "That my dear is history," Irene said with a wink. "The lesson for you now is that change takes courage. Only you can decide what course you are going to take with it staring you in the face. You have been dealt a heavy blow, sweet Jane, but you still have folks who love you and want to be a part of your life. Now, with your birthday coming up, you can grieve the loss of past traditions, or you can choose to make new ones, while cherishing the ones of the past with a grateful heart. The loss you have experienced will always hurt, Jane. I can't take that pain away, nor do I have the right to try, but I can offer you a life filled with love. It is yours for the taking, if you want it."

  Aunt Irene kissed me on my forehead and left me under my tree to think.

  Children are remarkably resilient. I decided beneath the shadow of the old oak tree I would give these new traditions a try. Sorrow and loneliness had yet to become old friends to me, and my heart longed at that time to feel something - anything - but the anguish which resided there. I followed Aunt Irene into the house, and we began making plans for my birthday celebration.

  Ironco lacked an abundance of places for a soon-to-be eight year old girl to host a birthday party. Truth be told, I was only acquainted with a handful of people were we to find an appropriate establishment in which to organize my celebration. The invitation list would be depressingly short and not entirely age appropriate.

  There was my aunt and uncle, the lady at the checkout at the small grocery store we frequented (whose name I did not know), Mrs. Draper at the local antique store, and Mister Hoskins who lived in the house next door. Five people would be the extent of my guest list. It was a dismal list at best.

  Mister Hoskins was the most frightening person on the list, too. He was as old as my favorite oak tree and as slow as winter molasses. He was always trying to feed me the odd leftovers he kept on his counter, like warm potato salad, stale sausage biscuits and soggy tomato sandwiches, cut with a rusty knife he never washed. I don't think he owned a refrigerator, which worried me considerably after watching a special on PBS about the kinds of deadly bacteria that can be found in the average kitchen.

  I always told Mister Hoskins I had just eaten, whether it was true or not, but thanked him for his kindness nonetheless. He was a nice old man, but he offered me scary food. I wasn't certain I wanted to include Mister Hoskins on the invite list especially since pot luck was part of the plan.

  Aside from the few random individuals previously mentioned, I was acquainted with a few of the illustrious ladies from Cheeky's. On account of that association and the limit of party places, Aunt Irene talked to the owner of Cheeky's about allowing us to use the club for the party. The owner was a corpulent fellow that went by the name of Grubbs. He agreed to let my aunt use the club for my party. Since the club closed its doors on Sundays, he said we could use the club for the entirety of the day so long as we cleaned up after ourselves and made it presentable for the next day's business. He even contributed some money for balloons and food after Aunt Irene told him my story.

  The club was decorated in pink and purple streamers with balloons tucked into every corner. Even the strippers' poles were wrapped so that one could easily forget what type of business was housing my delicate, pastel birthday bash.

  The ladies of Cheeky's went all out. I had never seen so many presents before. The ladies even made it a family affair by bringing their children, if they had them, or nieces and nephews, if they didn't, so I wouldn't feel so alone. It was to this thoughtful inclusion that I owed the introduction to the person who soon became my very best friend for the time I was in Ironco.

  His name was Igthorpe Jenkins. It was a most unfortunate name, to be certain, but 'Igthorpe' was a favorite within his family. He was the fifth Igthorpe within his family line from what I understand; the first Igthorpe having served honorably in the Revolutionary War. His mother was proud of such an historic association, and she made it her daily pledge to remind the boy of that prestigious connection.

  Igthorpe did not share his mother's enthusiasm for the name, nor did he quiver with joy over the deep historic connection. In fact, he despised his name with an unbridled passion. His fiery distaste towards his name manifested only when his mother was not within earshot. It was not safe for him to express it otherwise.

  Upon our initial introduction, he blushed ten shades of red and whispered to me, "Please, whatever you do, call me anything but Igthorpe."

  It was a difficult task to come up with a fitting name for a person I had just met, but when I saw the look of anguish on his face and the desperate plea within his eyes, I wanted more than anything to be his saving grace. What name could I give a stranger?

  "What if I called you Iggie?" I asked, uncertain if it was any better than his given name.

  It was Igthorpe's turn to ponder, but in a moment, his face erupted into a glorious smile.

  "I like that."

  So Iggie he became from then on.

  I never called Iggie by his given name unless he vexed me or unless I meant to tease him mercilessly, which seldom happened either way. Iggie represented something in my life I had never hoped to have again after my family's murder - a sense of normalcy. From the day of our introduction, we were inseparable.

  The party was a roaring success in every way that a Texas party for an eight years old can be. We played games, ate more barbeque than was decent, ploughed through every last piece of cake, and had the time of our lives underneath the glow of Cheeky's disco ball. When it was time for presents, Iggie sat next to me, indicating which brightly wrapped gift should be my next selection. I read every card, took care with every gift, and thanked every giver.

  One of my favorite gifts was the variety pack of intimacy jellies that a Cheeky's dancer named Candy Rose got for me. The flavors were like none I had ever heard of in a condiment before. Straw-bury It Deeper Kiwi, Bang-her Banana, Grape-ape It Up, and Cinnamon Burn were the delectable flavors in my assortment of body jellies. I could hardly wait for breakfast the next morning to try it on my toast.

  When the other children wanted to know what kind of jellies I had gotten, Aunt Irene snatched the box from me and said, "That's quite enough." She glared at Candy and said under her breath, "What were you thinking in getting her this? She is eight years old for Pete's sake!"

  Candy blushed.

  "Well, I wanted to get her a unicorn or something like that, but Maxine's Fantasy Fun store in Roswell didn't have any," she said. "Besides, you said the girl liked to eat, so I got her these." Candy pointed at the box.

  Aunt Irene growled, "They aren't for eatin', Candy."

  I never saw my collection of jellies after that.

  The party broke up around four in the afternoon and by six, we had it ready for the following day's business. Uncle Julian had left early so it was just me and Aunt Irene driving home together in the old Chevy Apache. When we pulled up to the house, Uncle Julian was standing there waiting for us. He had a strange smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes I had not seen before.

  "It's about time you two got home," he said. "I've been waiting forever."

  Aunt Irene winked at him and said, "We were just cleaning things up like Grubbs asked us to, that's all."

  "Well, I want to give Jane my p
resent," he said.

  Uncle Julian walked over to the barn he used as a workshop and stood at the door. I followed behind him, full of anticipation. Uncle Julian knelt so we were face to face. I could see a look in his eyes; a look of uncertainty. It was not an expression that set well upon his features.

  "Now Jane, I want you to try and see the potential in what I am about to show you," he said. He cleared his throat a few times before continuing. "Some things are like diamonds in the rough. You can't see how pretty they are until you start polishing them."

  Aunt Irene came up, put her hand on Uncle Julian's shoulder, and said, "Just show her Julian."

  Uncle Julian nodded and opened the barn door. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there in the center of the barn, bathed in dusky sunbeams was a car, or what used to be a car. It was more like the shell of one.

  "I know it ain't much to look at now, Jane, but that is a 1970 Chevelle 454 SS," he said. "It had a standard 360 horsepower engine that with an LS6 upgrade could top 450 horsepower. It was and still is the best ever made in a muscle-car. I thought....I thought we could restore it together. It will take some doing to find the right parts and a lot of elbow grease and hard work to put it all together. I figure by the time you are old enough to drive, we will have this baby in showroom condition."

  I walked over to the car. Little was left of it but the chassis and the engine, and from the looks of it, not even that was complete. The chassis was solid though with no rust I could see. The odor of old oil and metal held an allure I had yet to explore, but I could feel its seductive charm as I examined my gift. It was beautiful in its decay, and my mind's eye began to imagine what the car might look like with a little love and attention.