Cotton Barrington

By M. Pilotte

Cotton Barrington is a twenty-something woman recently married to Lonnie

Gordon, a widower with a young son. She would like to have a baby but but fears passing down undesirable traits since she doesn't know the identity of her birth father. Her mother, Vivian Brice a famous stage actress, has told her she couldn't be sure of the paternity. In the meantime, Charlotte Brigham, Cotton's best friend, needed her to do a favor at the rectory of Father Henry Quinlan, a close family friend of the two women, and former boyfriend of Cotton's mother. While dusting a bookshelf in the priest's inner office, Cotton found what she believed was evidence that the priest was her father. This jolting revelation sent her on a frenzied journey to shed past demons ad present obsessions in a place of refuge where her life became endangered, leaving her frail and in a muddled state of mind. She all but dropped out of life and ended all commerce with Father Henry, and by association, his religion.

From that point on, the lives of Father Henry and Cotton diverged. Her adjustment as a new stepmother and wife proved daunting enough, but her greatest challenge was healing which meant restructuring her thoughts and her outlook on life. And Father Henry, disturbed by this sudden alienation with Cotton, left town for Africa where his professional and personal lives took on unanticipated changes. Throughout it all, Charlotte, Cotton's loyal friend who seems to have it all, plays a pivotal role in their lives. She may have had the best of intentions in her attempt to reunite Cotton and the priest, but in the end, could she really be trusted?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wexford Falls Independent Press
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224531899

M. Pilotte

M. Pilotte has always enjoyed writing, whether it be for academic purposes, newspaper reporting, or simply as a creative outlet. A lifelong learner, she earned a Ph.D. from UCONN. Following her retirement as an educator, she wrote several plays. She and her husband reside in Connecticut. email: [e-mail] web: www.mpilottebooks.com

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PART I

CHAPTER ONE

The Favor

IT HAD TO BE THE HOTTEST June Cotton could remember since coming to Connecticut—a far cry from Dow East Maine where she was born and raised, having taken up residence in a neighborhood of older homes, tastefully restored to pay homage to their historical roots. And that was thanks to a dear family friend who had bestowed on her a fixer-upper home that had been in his family for generations. Actually it was in a lot better shape than she’d been told. But by then she’d given up on her hopes for a career as an artist for monetary reasons—lack thereof—and so she fell back on her second choice, that of beautician, for which she’s had few regrets. It was clearly a more physically active choice and people oriented, for which she was well suited. Now that she’d navigated the elongated and distressing period of post-adolescence, she began to settle into her ‘age of maturity’ as she often referred to it, tongue in cheek.

And so she was complaining of the stifling June heat to whoever would listen to her. That would give her and her clients something else to gripe about, relegating the topics of burgeoning prices and insensitive husbands to the back seat. The local women may frequent the Parlor of Pearl for whatever services the stylists may offer, but they thrived on the gab. And Cotton was the listener par excellence. She’d uh-huh and mm-hmm as appropriate and so the clients were drawn to her. She kept current in all the latest styles, and clients would invariably ask for Cotton above the other stylists. Plus she always sported a unique do, which was admired and often copied, despite Cotton’s urging that it might not suit them, especially when it involved a change of color. In general, her prettiness derived in a good part from her demeanor and her positive attitude.

But this hot, humid, middle of the week day morning was busier than usual as the young mothers had to get home at the close of school—half-day—as it was ‘promotion day. The long summer recess would follow, and children would be scampering in yards and parks, freed of the burden of backpacks, and too often, oblivious to everything else but their electronics, much to the chagrin of their parents.

June 21 was late for the school dismissal this year due to the number of make up days resulting from an unprecedented spate of ‘snow days’ the past winter. June 21—the summer solstice—was the longest day of the year, and lore had it that the dream you dream that night will come true. And Cotton had read something about programming your dreams, and would spend the last few minutes between clients sweeping mindlessly, lost in reverie, concocting what would be her choice for the future. If only that could work, she said to herself. She’d mentioned that prospect to her boss Pearline Stevens, the parlor’s septuagenarian proprietress, who told her she was crazy if she believed in that garbage, but that was just her, and Cotton took her jibes in stride, well, most of the time. Over time the two women had actually become good friends. But then everybody liked Cotton. She was that kind of person.

Cotton wiped her damp brow, fluffed her long, side-swept bangs and contemplated the advent of summer break as she headed just blocks away to the classic colonial she’d come upon so fortuitously. She hoped in time hers would fit right in with the others, or better still, not distinguish itself as the least worthy to belong to the neighborhood. People have a tendency to single out eyesore properties and regard them with disdain, asking themselves—how could anyone let their place go like that?

Lately Cotton had reduced her work schedule and relished extra time alone to complete the renovation projects she’d begun in the early spring. She was still engaged in updating her home but making any more progress on her pet projects would be challenged or even thwarted by the presence of her new stepson, Dennis. Yes, it would be a long, hot summer in every sense of the word, she feared. She figured she’d have to keep Dennis meaningfully and creatively occupied, and in the process, retain whatever sanity she could hang onto. Plunging into such uncharted waters was a challenge as well. She figured she knew kids, having been one herself not all that long ago, but was that enough?

The last day of school—she’d recalled fondly how Gram Brice, her maternal grandmother, always had a platter of warm, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies cooling on the kitchen counter, waiting for her along with a pitcher of thawed frozen lemonade, and the two of them would get right into it. Cotton would pause between bites to share her end-of-the-year report card and babble incessantly about the new teacher she’d been assigned to for the next school year and if any of her friends would be in the same class or not. And her Grand Brice would smile absentmindedly and munch along with her, occasionally wiping chocolate and crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. Even when Cotton had received a ‘C-’ in penmanship along with some unflattering comments, Gram said that was just fine—no need to get your feathers ruffled over that. Maybe you’d be a doctor some day, and she’d punctuate her rejoinder with uproarious laughter. Cotton thought that was hilarious; she had no such intentions of pursuing a career in medicine. She’d become an artist if she could and that had nothing to do with perfecting the Palmer Method of penmanship. Those promotion days, all she wanted to do was change into her swimsuit and go for a swim in the chilly waters of the bay behind their home. After all, wasn’t summer break for for fun, fun, fun?

Therefore thinking it was the right thing to do, Cotton got home as quickly as she could, dug into the freezer compartment of her fridge and voilà, just minutes later, there appeared a batch of chocolate chip cookies—the slice and bake kind from a cylindrical container—and she arranged them just so, interspersed with a scattering of Hershey’s kisses on a brightly colored platter for seven-year-old Dennis, thinking it was sure to please the finicky child. She made sure the milk was ice cold, just the way he preferred it. It seemed the ideal way to begin his summer break before he was sent next door to the Espinolas, a retired couple in their sixties, where he’d spend four mornings a week while Cotton worked. Those were the plans, and he seemed to get on with their whole family, which both surprised and delighted Cotton. She’d tread gently with Dennis whereas the Espinolas just went about their business, she assumed, and Dennis was fine with that or at least seemed to be on his previous visits next door.

She knew Dennis would be relieved that the school year was over. He’d been in the local elementary school only a few short months when Cotton and his dad had gotten married. This would be the first summer away from his mother’s home that he’d also shared with his maternal grandparents, who doted on him even more so following the death of their only child, his mother. And that was more of a concern for Cotton than for her new husband Lonnie. Whereas Lonnie acted adoringly towards Cotton, Dennis showed her only indifference. But one could attribute this apathy to the multiple adjustments he’d had to make in his young life. Cotton did her all trying to please the child, to second-guess him, when his actions and reactions seemed out of the ordinary. And then Lonnie would tell her she was trying too hard, that all would work out in time, that kids were just being kids. And Cotton had to confess that she really didn’t know kids after all, in particular kids in extraordinary circumstances.

Thinking that the trio, the newly reconstituted little family, might be too much of an overload for Dennis to contend with, Cotton had an idea. Dennis and Lonnie should make it a weekly ritual, just the two of them. She would bow out. Lonnie would take Dennis to mass each Sunday to infuse some spiritual sustenance into his soul in hopes of mitigating his sense of loss and pain. After that, they should visit his mother Brenda’s grave. Dennis would place the wildflowers he’d gathered out in the back yard by his mother’s gravestone. Cotton thought it was wise to establish this father-son routine, something that was next to impossible to do while Brenda lay dying a year ago while hope was as fragile as a butterfly’s wing and the fear of impending loss gnawed at the child, upsetting his sleep and affecting his schoolwork and his demeanor. And as well-meaning as his grandparents were, they merely added fuel to his simmering fire of anguish. They’d reassured him, telling him that his mother’s health was improving when everyone else knew better. But she’d not responded to the latest treatment protocols for scleroderma, not in the least. And before their very eyes, Brenda grew weaker and more skeletal day after day until she lapsed into a coma and her organs failed and finally her heart gave out.

Father Henry Francis Xavier Quinlan, or more familiarly Father Henry, his preferred appellation, told Cotton it was the best thing for the child—attending mass regularly and then visiting his mother’s grave at the cemetery—at least for now, he’d added. Upon further consideration, Cotton agreed with the weekly mass but wasn’t so sure they needed to visit the cemetery quite so often knowing that Lonnie reported that his son seemed ‘blue’ even as they ate their lunch at McDonald’s, which had always been a special treat for him. But then that wasn’t the end of it. The rest of the day Dennis would sequester himself in his room as the ‘blues’ turned to the ‘blahs’. He had to be coaxed to the table for the evening meal. And Cotton was at a loss of what to do next. As the Sunday morning routine persisted, with Father Henry’s approval and encouragement, Cotton had the wild idea that the priest was only trying to recruit boys and young men for the priesthood in light of the dwindling number of young men currently choosing that path. But then upon further reflection, she willed that thought to dissipate—the thought of his having such an ulterior motive was unthinkable.

As for Lonnie, to be blunt, he was an infidel, Cotton’s very word for her new husband, but not to be taken too critically, she’d explain, and so it was very much a sacrifice for him to attend a two-millennial-year-old rite he didn’t understand or even care to. It didn’t bother him that Cotton embraced Catholicism more out of habit than out of obedience for her grandmother who’d inculcated in her that religion in her mother’s absence, figuring it would do her more good than harm.

Lonnie stayed with the routine, never voicing a single complaint He was so smitten with his new wife that he would have done almost anything for her. And as for his son, if it provided any comfort, then it was worth it. However, that Lonnie had no religious upbringing or inclination did not make him any the less of a person: he was by nature good, kind, considerate, and yes, if you will, in Cotton’s estimation, the best joke teller she’d ever met. It was hardly a major criterion for a good husband but it did lighten things up, especially when times were bleakest and levity was welcome.

Dennis, at the impressionable age of seven- and- a-half, as he would stress, didn’t know what to believe in any more or who to trust. He believed his grandparents that his mother would get better, and she didn’t. And Cotton told him he’d love his new school, and he didn’t—he hated everything about it, same with her ugly, rickety old house. The nightly creaking sounds spooked him so that he’d awaken his father and ask him to sleep in his room with him. Further, he did not believe Cotton that he’d have a wonderful summer vacation—not in that house. In short, he was not inclined to believe much of what Cotton told him.

But he and his were dad were tight—they could do guys stuff when his dad returned from work, like toss the baseball or go bowling—without Cotton, and so Wednesday evenings belonged to them. They’d go out to supper since that was Cotton’s one week-night at the Parlor. Lonnie knew he should put more time and effort into building a solid relationship with his son and Cotton, as a family unit, but he was weary and often achy after a long day’s work welding in the boatyard where he’d been employed since high school. Then, he’d relish quality time with Dennis. Cotton referred to the father-son time as male bonding activities. Dennis wanted less and less of Cotton and more and more of his dad telling tales and delivering limericks spontaneously and singing little ditties that made him shake with laughter. They usually returned home a little after Cotton. She could tell when they were coming in as she could hear laughter, but never in her presence.

In Dennis’s puerile opinion: Cotton was OK enough, or more accurately, she’d been no threat to him those times when she stopped by Lonnie and Brenda’s house to style the dying woman’s hair. But after Brenda had passed, and Lonnie seemed to take an interest in Cotton other than her hairstyling skills, things changed. Dennis could tell because his dad smiled at her all the time even when it wasn’t funny, and then a little later, they took to holding hands, at first, secretly, so no one could see them, then later, more openly. And then when it was clear to him that his dad had a girlfriend, he began avoiding Cotton, distancing himself from her and hiding out in his room. He knew his grandparents, who remained in their part of the house, did not approve of a romance so soon after losing their daughter, thought it bordered on shameful. He’d overheard them tsk-tsking about the liaison that was blossoming before their very eyes, and what about dear, sad little Dennis? Where were their priorities, the elderly couple wondered.

When Cotton came to visit, she’d always brought a chocolate bar for Dennis, but as the flirtation progressed into a serious relationship, he’d stashed the candy in his desk until it attracted ants.  Lonnie thought it best not to tell Cotton about this. He had faith they’d get on with each other once they became a family.

This very sun-drenched day of the summer solstice, Cotton talked herself into a super- confident frame of mind. She could do that every now and then, and this was a perfect time for it to work. Dennis may not have said two words to her when entering the kitchen and dropping his report card on the table, but he scarfed down two misshapen, flat cookies and drank his milk in one giant gulp, leaving the glass right there on the table, before running up to his room and banging shut the door. If Cotton cringed as the sound reverberated in her insides, a visceral sensation, she swiftly brushed off any negative feelings before they could take root.

Tapping into whatever confidence remained at the moment, she told herself that the three of them would become one happy family—she just knew it—and they’d keep Brenda’s memory dear to their hearts. She’d see to that. And so, infused with a burst of positivity, she told herself that this night of June 21, this night of the summer solstice, she would have that special dream she’d mulled over earlier in the day, and it would come true and then life would be perfect.

Cotton wiped the dampness from her broad brow, crimping her wispy damp bangs, mashing them up away from her eyes, often referred to poetically as the mirrors of one’s soul, but which she’d always hated because they often drew stares, and not admiringly ones. They were her curse, she believed, when she became more aware of them. How could God have done this to her—spited her with this uncomely genetic aberration—a pale, nearly translucent, watery looking green eye, coupled with a mismatched dark mate, a brown umber hue, lacking a sprinkle of gold flecks she’d often seen in brown-eyed beauties? If these were the mirrors of her soul, then what blight had befallen her? She wondered as a child: had God gotten distracted and made a mistake, drawing from the wrong supply of colors, when he should have been focusing on his task of handing out proper, matching eye color for the pair?  And if she was destined to be a mismatch, then why not a captivating shade of hazel coupled with a rich warm golden brown? No one could provide a plausible answer for her, other than its name—heterochromia—and that’s where it ended.

In middle school, as she got more used to the lighter colored eye, she wanted to wear a patch over the dark one and tell everyone she was descended from pirates, the captain of course, which made her some kind of princess of dubious lineage. In high school, she hid the dark eye with a blue-greenish contact lens, hoping to achieve some sense of balance and avoid questions. In her heart of hearts though, she believed her eyes to be a punishment, for the faulty Baptismal rite that didn’t do the trick, or perhaps it was a reminder to her mother who could not or would not and now cannot name the man whose sperm helped engender Martha Mary Adelaide Brice, aka Cotton Barrington.

DESPITE THE MANY KINDNESSES shown by Father Henry over the years, Cotton never made it a habit to fill in for his housekeeper; she had quite enough to do in her own house, and now compounded with her new role as stepmother, filling in was definitely a no-go. But today was different; it was one of those crises for her closest friend Charlotte Brigham, her first new friend when she arrived in town and who had welcomed her as though she was family or already her dearest friend. And Charlotte turned out to be her first client at the Parlor of Pearl. She never missed her bimonthly appointment to perpetuate the same hairstyle she’d probably had since high school. The two women also had a standing lunch date most Sundays, but Cotton thought that would have to be modified since her recent marriage to Lonnie, but then with his and Dennis’s new Sunday routine, the two women may not have to change a thing.  In the meantime, Charlotte thought she’d wait it out and let Cotton decide to keep the same arrangement or change it to another day. She was always protective, where Cotton was concerned, a big-sister sort of friend, knowing and loyal, and at times, just a tad envious, for Charlotte was still on the look-out for just the right man, whom she referred to as Mr. Perfect. She was positive he was out there—somewhere—just waiting for her, and if the planets were aligned just so, they’d meet and they’d know it was the real thing.

But today Charlotte was desperate. A crisis, she fairly shouted over the phone, and she was one to exaggerate on occasion. According to her account, she had an early flight to catch and had come down with a pesky, unanticipated bout of intestinal flu, for lack of a proper medical term, up until the last moment, and dear Father Henry, she realized, was due back in town some time later today. He was such a kind, special individual, and so fastidious about his surroundings. On and on she went until Cotton had to place the receiver away from her ear. But she did hear loud and clear—could Cotton please help out just this one time? Just a little light housekeeping was all she was asking. Cotton could hear the words forming in her head—no, no, no, I can’t, not today—straining to come out. It actually surprised her when she heard herself say, Well, if you’re really stuck, OK, I suppose I can do it, well maybe just this time, but don’t make it a habit. Feel better now, and safe flight.

What difference would it make? The men in her life would be out celebrating the close of school and Dennis’s promotion to third grade. Lonnie would be getting off work early today to be with his son. So it would be only a little surface cleaning—no different from what she does at her own house. Happy summertime, Cotton wished herself silently, sensing the dampness spread, causing her blouse to stick to her skin. She smiled a limp smile of resignation.

But before she could leave, she checked with her neighbor Lulu who said it would be no problem to have Dennis at her house. Why would he ever want to accompany her to the rectory and watch her clean? Ridiculous, she said, he’d have nothing to do but sit around and wait. And Dennis gave Cotton no grief about going next door although he did cut through the hedges and not go around to the driveway as he’d been told, she noticed. That too would take some time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Lulu often said after listening to Cotton’s complaints about Dennis. Lulu thought he was a little angel. And she indulged him—offering perfectly shaped anise-flavored pizzelles and other treats.

And so Cotton reflected on what she’d do at the rectory, that lovely mansion which fit in with all the other majestic, older homes in the area. However, unlike hers, it was restored and maintained. It was well known that Father Henry came from old money and that he and his family were generous, in his case, to a fault, probably how she came upon the gift of her house because of the connection between her grandmother and Father Henry’s cousin or aunt; she wasn’t quite sure she’d gotten the connection right. Or possibly related somehow by someone’s marriage. And it wasn’t worth the time or energy to get it straight.

Her house, that gift, was a handyman’s special—more of a nightmare in Cotton’s humble opinion, but with time, the carpentry skills of Charlotte’s man du jour and one of his friends, and the money from a savings account her grandmother had held onto for her, the house was gradually regaining its lost splendor. Now with Lonnie in the picture, things would progress at a less pokey pace.

CHAPTER TWO

The Likeness

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, Cotton changed into more comfortable clothes and headed over to the rectory. She drove up the circular drive past the rows of brightly colored flowers, graduated in size, smallest to tallest, showing great attention to symmetry and hue, ornamental grasses being the tallest, framing the other plantings. She retrieved the key to the front door in the spot Charlotte had explained, under the smaller of two urns on the wide front stoop. You had to fumble around on the indented underside until you felt the metallic bulge. It could easily be missed by someone that didn’t know it was concealed in that very place. Cotton was half hoping she couldn’t find it so she could get out of this bothersome chore she allowed herself to be bamboozled into doing. And what if she didn’t do a good enough job? Would Charlotte get reprimanded? Cotton was sure her friend would never say she’d farmed the job out to someone else. Finally, Cotton was resigned to do a favor for her best friend. That was all there was to it. Gram Brice’s words echoed in her head—if friends weighed and measured favors, they wouldn’t be real friends, now would they? Always Gram’s words of wisdom resonated in her head at the right time and place.

The air-conditioning must have been set just low enough so as not waste electricity with no one at home. Cotton figured she’d better leave it alone. She didn’t like to fiddle with the temperature in someone else’s house, and certainly not Father Henry’s. And so once inside, Cotton assembled the cleaning materials from