“You know that pastrami expired last week, right? And the mustard died in 2023.”
“I’m really quite happy that you got your new sparkly readers, Grace.”
“Oh, me too! It’s like a new lease on life.”
“For all of us.” Beau continued to spread mustard on his pastrami sandwich.
“Beau, did you know that somebody carved ‘Hank cheats at Solitaire’ into the bottom of this lamp table—in teeny tiny script?”
Beau stopped chewing. “Uhm, why are you looking at the bottom of the lamp table?”
“I dropped my Pink Sparklers.”
“Not sure how we made it before you could read six-point type, Grace.” Beau took a large bite of his pastrami sandwich.
“Also. I noticed the scent plugins have some really nasty chemicals in them.”
Hank and JP came fluttering in just then. “Has anybody seen JP’s Peafowl Feed can?”
“Oh yeah, I tossed it out last night, it expired six weeks ago.”
Hank started to say something, thought better of it, took a breath. Then, “Seeds, Grace. They don’t expire.”
“Not what the can said.” Grace was holding her readers like a magnifying glass, examining the interest rate rules on the company bank account.
Hank looked at Beau.
Beau looked at Hank.
Jean-Paul surveyed the room with the jaundiced eye of a bird who understands the fine print.
Grace looked up from the bank paperwork. “What?”
Neither answered.
“Well. I have some fruit in the fridge. J-P likes blueberries.” She reached for Jean-Paul and nestled him on the settee next to the lamp table.
Hank turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll make him a little fruit medley.”
Grace went back to the fine print, putting her readers on properly.
“I should take a look at the—whoa. J-P, what is that?”
She leaned in closer. Pushed her Sparklers up her nose.
Grace had noticed something.
Even J-P wasn’t cool enough to let it bounce off. The bird flinched.
A small golden-brown feather in Jean-Paul’s otherwise shimmering blue chest feathers.
“Y’all. Look at this!”
Beau shuffled over, licking mustard from his thumb. Hank returned with a bowl of blueberries he set down next to J-P. Grace pointed to the feather as though she’d uncovered the mystery of life.
“That does look…odd.” Beau leaned in closer, interest picking up.
Hank started googling. From Peacock Lore and Other Rabbit Holes dot com, he discovered that peacocks have been associated with royalty, paradise, and even immortality.
Hank held up his phone, an image of an Indian peacock wearing a crown—which may or may not have been photoshopped—glowing on the screen.
“Does Jean-Paul look regal to you?”
“He’s always looked regal,” Grace replied.
“I mean more than usual.”
“He does seem to command attention,” Beau added.
“He could be a royal Indian Peafowl,” Hank surmised.
“You mean we’ve been partying with royalty this whole time?” Beau gave a subtle nod to Jean-Paul. “Your Highness.”
Jean-Paul looked calmly at Grace. Or maybe just emotionlessly. It was hard for her to tell most of the time.
“My man should be wearing a crown!” Hank pointed at Grace. “And you made him wear a pink cowboy hat.”
“He liked it!”
“Pffft.”
“Says here the Romans believed peacock flesh didn’t decay after death. Early Christians picked up the peacock as a symbol of immortality and resurrection.” He looked at Grace. “Resident Catholic over here never thought to divulge that little tidbit?”
“That’s not doctrine, Hank.”
Beau looked at the screen. “You know, J-P is d—”
“BEAU!” Grace shushed him.
“Oh. Sorry. I forgot. He’s sensitive.”
“He’s regal.”
“That too.”
“Dawg, you ain’t wrong though. He hasn’t decomposed.”
Beau stared at him. “He’s taxidermied.”
“And still…”
“Well. We’ve got a stuffed peacock over here eating Grace’s fresh blueberries while I’m eating expired deli. Sounds about right.”
“You know…” Hank continued. “He moves.”
“What?”
“He moves.”
“Nobody has ever seen him move.”
“Exactly.”
The three studied Jean-Paul. He blinked at them. Or stared. Or maybe he was daydreaming. Still too difficult to tell.
“That time I found him in the kitchen when I swore I left him in the front parlor,” Hank remembered.
Grace nodded. “He does always seem to prefer the window seat, even when I leave him next to the radio.”
“He’s always waiting at the bottom of the stairs for me in the morning,” Beau joined in. “Grace, I figured you did that every night.”
Grace shook her head, eyes wide.
“So what are you saying? We have an immortal alien prince in our living room?”
Hank squinted at J-P’s royal brown chest feather. He thought for a minute. “That’s where the evidence is pointing.”
Grace put her Pink Sparklers back on. She leaned in closer. She gingerly reached toward the feather. It was loose. It wasn’t attached at all!
She looked over at the guys, eighteen clicks deep in Peacockian Lore. She looked back at Jean-Paul, who refused to make eye contact, which wasn’t that unusual except that this time, Grace knew it meant something.
“And remember that time at the Grand Opening?” Hank said.
“That’s right. He ended up seated right next to Nelly, like he’d been there the whole night, but…” Beau nodded.
Grace reached for the loose feather. She held it under the lamp. With a closer look, the feather was really more taupe-brown than golden. The same shade as most peahe—
Grace had noticed something. Again.
Nelly!
Grace glanced at Hank and Beau, then slipped the feather into her pocket.
“Uh… hey Beau?”
“Yeah?”
“How was that pastrami sammy? I mean, besides being more expired than a taxidermied peacock?”
“It was fine, Grace.”
“You ate expired pastrami? Grace, you throw out perfectly fine Peafowl Feed and let the man eat that?”
Grace snorted.
“Like I have any control over what he eats. But anyway. I was wondering if you were still hungry.”
“I could be.”
“Applebee’s?”
Beau was already standing.
“Wonton tacos?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, I could handle some Applebee’s. As long as it ain’t the one in Tifton.” Hank chimed in.
Grace winked at Jean-Paul. He didn’t wink back. Grace knew what he meant. And that he’d probably be on the windowsill when they returned.
Check out Life in the Fine Print, the full three-parter, at readSWG.com.
All because the widow wavered.
Hank wants to know why JP now has a tiny pink hat. Said, "that ain't right."