The Butterfly Plague

by Timothy Findley

  Many more people had arrived on board by now, and George turned his back on them contemptuously. The new Hollywood was nothing to him, compared to the old. It was the old order (his) that had created the picture industry, and these new people, as someone was to remark in a later era, did not even have faces. In the teens and twenties of the century there had been faces and personalities of epic grandeur, suitable to their station as America’s pantheon of gods and goddesses. Now, for heaven’s sake, there were people like Myra Jacobs, Peggy Gauntlett, Alice Gray, and Ajax Apollo, if you would believe it. Pretty people, nice people, with not a remarkable nose, nor a square chin among them. Without cheekbones, without their own eyelashes, without character and without the majesty of silence. They spoke and when they spoke they spoke with the voices of Potato, Idaho; Rivers, Missouri; Halibut, Massachusetts. Flat, stale, and, for some ungodly reason, profitable. Where was the mystery? Where was the greatness? Where was the allure? There had never been and never would be stars the like of Letitia Virden in this new era. Stars who could incite the passions of the adult, not the louse-brained, sexless passions of a bunch of fourteen-year-olds. (New York blanched and clutched its black bags.) Peggy Gauntlett, indeed! The woman wore pigtails! Or Myra Jacobs, who was all body and no brain, whose fame resided in a pout and a wiggle. A woman who showed what she was, when what was needed was mystery, allure, the promise of virginity hidden beneath the mask of maturity and guile—not the mask of puberty.

  George’s motto had always been, “Don’t give ‘em what they want, make ‘em want what you’ve got.” For twenty years (between 1908 and 1928) it had paid off. With stars like Letitia Virden, Naomi Nola, and the rest, and with pictures like Queen of Hearts, Daughters of Desperation, The Belt of Satan, and so forth, George had had a hand in forging the American Dream. Now his hand was tied. In 1928 he had brought in his six brothers and his seven nephews, and one by one they had eaten away at his empire until even brothers-in-law, third nephews twice removed, and cousins he had never heard of were into his pockets with scissors and into his back with knives. In 1936 (two months after Ruth had departed for Germany) a nephew from Colorado Springs had walked into George’s office and said, “Uncle George, I’m here to tell you that they want you in the front office,” and when George had replied that “This is the front office!” the nephew from Colorado Springs had said, “Not any more, Uncle George. We need this room for storage,” and that had been that.

  Dolly, on the other hand, had been sensible and lucky. At the age of twenty he had fallen in love with a photograph of J.J. Niles, Jr., and had gone to work for the father, Walter Niles, unaware that “J.J.” stood for Jasmyn Jo, who loved horses and dressed like a boy. Thus, at approximately the same time as one Damarosch career was beginning to decline (1929) the other was beginning to ascend—albeit up the wrong ladder, but that did not matter. It could be corrected…and was.

  The brandy was rapidly disappearing. Myra had not yet appeared. The atmosphere thickened.

  George’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose you wonder why we’re here.”

  “Yes. We do,” said Dolly.

  “You hold your tongue,” said George.

  “Yes, sir,” said Dolly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Speak only when you’re spoken unto,” George snapped. He always had been prone to biblicality, and he always had been rude—part of the trappings of his grandeur.

  “You see those tarts and gigs out there?” he said, making libelous jabs with his finger in the exact direction of four or five well-known stars who were visiting the set. “You see ‘em?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “America goes to bed every night with a whore in its arms.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “That’s what they want,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Stop saying yes, you little twirp. When I want a yes-man, I’ll get one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Took at ‘em. Pro to the teeth.” He gave the stage a look of disgust, almost launched into a sermon, thought better of it, and turned back to his son. “I won’t go into it,” he said. “I could, mind you, but I won’t. I know the habits of every man and woman in this town. And they revolt me. Perverted. Every last one. A bunch of American wet dreams. Masturbators. Every one of ‘em. (New York shifted and stood on one foot.) What we need in this bloody country is a revival of virginity.” (Here came the pitch.) “I tell you, every man, woman, and child wants to get back their virginity. They don’t know it, but they do. The Virgin Image.” (His voice became actorish; it delivered his “speech.”) “The Image of the Virgin. This once was known as the Virgin Land. Did you know that?” Dolly nodded. Where was Myra? “Let it return to that. Let it go back from prurience to purity. I tell you, that is the American Dream—not some babe in slacks and a sweater. And the sooner they know it, the better off they’ll be.” George was red-eyed now, brandy-eyed, and hoarse. But he was delivering his message. His message to his son. And now came the strings.

  “Don’t you give ‘em what they want!” he cried, almost in tears, while Dolly watched amazed and the rest sat incredulous. “You give ‘em what you’ve got! And you’ve got virginity. You’ve got it coming out of your ears and that is what this country needs. Is begging for. Is crying for. Is on its knees and praying for.”

  Ajax Apollo reappeared. Myra’s dressing-room door was mysteriously opened, although no one was seen there.

  “A long time ago,” said George, now aware that his audience had grown in size, “a long time ago I ruled this roost. I told them what to do and what they wanted, here. This little roost called Hollywood. I was the king. Now I am not the king. But that does not matter.” (Humility is a great weapon. More faces turned toward him.) “I am here on the sidelines, in the gutter. But I don’t care. I was the king and that is enough of that. But when I ruled this roost, I understood this roost. And better still, I understood the roosts beyond this roost. The little roosts all over this great lovely farmyard of a country. America. And I knew what the chicks of America wanted. Wholesomeness. And I knew what the hens of America wanted. Wholesomeness. And I knew what the cocks of America wanted.” He breathed in. “Wholesomeness. Virginity. The Virgin Image, personified in the virgin body and the virgin face that could be fit to match the virgin mind of this great wide land. The image of an immaculate hand, worthy of the masculine grasp of American manhood. Worthy of the trusting grasp of American children and the friendly, sisterly grasp of American womanhood. This hand” (he held up his own) “this immaculate hand would lead up, God knows where.” His voice shivered with the mystery and promise of his words. “It would lead us to a future worthy of our planning, and a heaven peaceful enough for our dreams. And I tell you that I know,” he said, letting his hand fall down into Dolly’s lap, “I know unto whom…this hand belongs.”

  He stopped. The listening stopped. He waited. So did the others. Nothing came of it. Only silence.

  George said to Dolly, “Have you got a million dollars?”

  “No,” said Dolly, whose mouth had dried up. He didn’t know how to remove his father’s hand from where it lay. “No, sir. I haven’t.”

  “Has anyone?” George turned to the stage in general.

  No answer.

  “Well,” said George, at last reclaiming his hand, “what have you got?”

  “Why do you want to know?” said Dolly. His ears were still singing with his father’s epic speech, and he could not even begin to fathom the connection. “What has that got to do with things?”

  “Never mind that,” said George. “Just tell me what you’ve got.”

  “Well,” said Dolly. Pause. “I have nothing but doctor bills. And that’s all.”

  “You’re making a great mistake,” said George, his eyes narrowing. “A great mistake.” He leaned forward. The secret came out. “Letitia Virden is going to make a comeback.”

  Dolly gasped.

  George smiled.

&n
bsp; “The Little Virgin is about to be reborn,” he said. “Her image will rise once more to sweep America the way it did before. She has asked me to find investors. I thought you were wise. But I see that you are an idiot.”

  He gave Adolphus time to reconsider. But Adolphus was staring at Myra’s door in silence. Titty Virden. Back.

  There was not much time to think about what his father had said, for presently George wept, taking from his pocket the magenta handkerchief, frayed at the corners, with a hole to one side, and blowing his nose and going quite scarlet at the ears, he said, “I’m finished, then. I’m really washed up forever.”

  “She’s asked you for money?” said Dolly.

  “Yes.”

  “And you still want her?”

  “Yes.”

  “But a million dollars is ridiculous, Father.”

  “Is it?” said George. “But, I love her.”

  “Of course it is,” said Dolly, whose disgust spread rapidly from his father to the thought of Letitia Virden. “No one has a million dollars.”

  “Ah,” said George. “Ah, Dolly-Doll. You just don’t know where you live. This is America. The land of entrepreneurs and daring…”

  He dried his tears and rose.

  “Well,” he said. “I won’t stay.” He took two steps away and one back. “Are you sure,” he said, “you have nothing?”

  “Positive,” said Dolly. “But I’m sorry.”

  George was looking for a line that would not come, and he managed only: “To have a thankless child is like being bitten by a worthless snake!”

  And then, as though he had indeed been bitten, just so, on his heel, he turned and limped—stumbling with much drunkenness and some age—out of sight into the washrooms.

  Dolly sighed.

  Myra appeared.

  10:30 a.m.

  She wore a blue robe. Her hair, its golden curls curled more tightly to resist the water, looked gorgeously seductive.

  Ida, her maid-companion, danced down the steps of the dressing room and over to the stricken Adolphus.

  “She’s ready, Mr. Dolly,” she said.

  Adolphus looked.

  In blue and gold, with all the promise of what lay beneath the robe, Myra Jacobs was indeed a star of stars.

  She smiled her lost smile, her pupils large and black, her eyebrows arched. Her hands were nervous. They had that job to do. The loosening of the robe.

  Her slippers were Mexican silver. Her ankles divine. A shell might have served to act as her vehicle. Ida danced back and caught her mistress’s hand.

  “Oh, Mr. Dolly! This lady is the be-all and end-all.”

  Dolly rose, using the cane.

  Myra Jacobs.

  New York frowned.

  Mr. Cohn hid higher.

  Myra’s shoes kissed the floor—one—two—three steps nearer.

  Dolly’s eyes wet up with tears.

  “Hullo,” he said.

  “Hello,” said Myra, the last of the passengers to board the ship.

  10:45 a.m.

  The standins were removed, Dolly having adjusted lighting, camera set-up, sound, and mood. Ajax disrobed again and housed himself across the pool. Myra stood at the edge. Ida held her hands out.

  “Dolly,” Myra said.

  Dolly toed forward.

  “Yes?”

  “Kiss me just once before this robe goes off. Please.”

  Dolly kissed her hand.

  Ida sighed. Such a lovely picture…

  Walter put his hand (both hands) into pockets.

  New York fell upon Myra’s image expectantly.

  George came out of the washroom.

  Mr. Niles, on the sidelines, bit his nails.

  Myra…undid the robe.

  The ship sank.

  The Chronicle of

  the Three Mothers

  Thursday, September 29th, 1938:

  The Beach at Topanga

  9:30 a.m.

  “All right, who’s missing?” said B.J. Trelford.

  Seated around the twelve-foot plank table, her children were sipping orange juice through colored straws. One glass was unattended. One chair was empty.

  “Who is it?” she said. “Come on.”

  The children regarded their mother with those blank faces that children can muster when they are in the midst of a lie or of a secret game. They did not smile. They did not look serious. They just looked blank.

  “All right,” said B.J. “Very well then. No beach.”

  This produced a slight panic, for the children were already dressed for their morning swim. Each wore a swim suit, each carried a pail and shovel, each was loosely tied into green water wings.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, Pete.”

  “We can’t tell you, Mama.”

  “Why not? What is this?”

  “Well,” Peter gazed with his leadership eyes around the square of faces. He was next to the eldest, the eldest being a girl, Mary Baker Eddy Trelford. Mary Baker was thirteen at this juncture. Peter was twelve. Mary Baker had renounced leadership (she read books) and thus the role of leader had fallen to Peter, a wide-eyed, solemn boy who led more through concern than through desire. Peter, however, had one flaw—the kind that is fatal to leaders of any age. He lacked a good memory. He forgot where he left his water wings; he forgot what time it was; he forgot how old he was; and he forgot the names of his brothers and sisters. What he could remember (and what enabled him to remain concerned about each of their problems) was the set expression of each of the children’s faces in repose. Josh, aged six, for instance, had lost his Teddy bear the other day (it had been carried out by the tide) and his expression was now one of brinked tears and no smile. Gloria, aged ten, had stolen a quarter from B.J.‘s purse on Saturday, and was now afraid to spend it lest her mother ask how she had achieved her purchase. Consequently, Gloria spent a lot of time hiding, rehiding, and forgetting where she had put her money, and this produced a constant and furtive eye. “Where? Where? Where?” her expression read. That was Gloria.

  Michael, the baby, talked to himself, Charity had an invisible friend, Marilyn was a foreign spy, etc., etc. Each private worry or occupation produced its own gaze and it was this that Peter recognized and counted by.

  Now, at the table, what bothered him was that he could not recall which gaze was missing. Was it…he looked intently into each face…the lost Teddy bear? No. The broken shoelace? No. The wet bloomers? No.

  “Well,” said B.J., “we will sit here, inside, until someone ‘fesses up. It’s not me who’s gonna miss my swim this morning, and the low-tide sand castles, and the lady with the orange parasol. Nosirree. And it certainly won’t be me that’s gonna hafta explain this to your father!”

  She sat back and lit a cigarette.

  In the mother-part of her mind, of course, she was concerned. No child had yet drowned, but the possibility was always present. However, this morning, none of the children had as yet ventured out onto the beach. She knew that. They were not allowed to do so until all were dressed and ready to go.

  The faces stared at her.

  They stared at Peter.

  Then back at B.J.

  “Is it Marilyn?”

  “No, Mama. I’m here.”

  “Is it Gloria?”

  Gloria went pale under her tan. The very sound of her name on her mother’s lips threw her into a panic.

  “No, Mama. No. No,” she protested.

  “What’s the matter with you, Gloria?”

  “Nothing, Mama. Nothing. Nothing.”

  “You look pale. You got a temperature?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Flushes?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “What’re you holdin’ back from me, Gloria?”

  “Nothing. Honest. I don’t know where it is.”

  “Where what is?” B.J. said, standing up suspiciously.

  “Wha…wha…wha…”

  “She means who,” said Peter calmly.

 
; “Who?”

  “Who it is who isn’t here,” said Peter.

  “Oh,” B.J. said. Her voice rose. “It beats me all hollow! You kids! Let me tell ya! Don’t you people even know who you all are? Each other? What’s the matter with you? What is this? Can’t you keep track of each other?”

  Mary Baker dreamily put down her book of verses and spoke.

  “Can’t you?” she said to her mother, insolently. She was just at that age.

  “I’ll whomp you one, Mary Baker,” said B.J. with equal insolence. She could play all the parts—and had to.

  “I was only askin’,” said Mary Baker, without losing her infuriating tone of practiced innocence. “You don’t need to get all mad, Mama.”

  “Now you listen to me, you bunch of gamesters! One of your brothers or one of your sisters is missing. And if you do not immediately recall for me which one it is, in exactly and in precisely and in only one minute,” she paused here and gave the full power of her glare into each of the assembled faces, “you’re gonna hafta pose. That’s what!”

  A gasp took in the whole room. And was held.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” said B.J., sensing her triumph. “Children’s Crusade!!” she further announced. “That’s what!”

  “The Children’s Crusade” was the very worst of punishments. It was a gigantic work that sat out back in the shed where, from time to time, Noah added to its dimensions. He was interested in the project, but it was difficult to get the children to pose for it. They had at first been entreated on the basis of filial duty, then on the basis of payment (lollipops, lemonade, and comic books), then on the basis of threats, and finally, when all else failed, on the basis of punishment. Sometimes, when Noah was extra-anxious to work or unavoidably inspired toward the piece, the charges had to be trumped. But this was rare.

  Each child had his own pose—some drowning, some bent over with “the agonies,” as they called them, some dead (the very worst pose of all), and some dragging reluctant others to the edge of the “sea,” which was represented by bales of hay that itched the toes and hurt the elbows. Consequently, each child hated and feared “The Children’s Crusade” for his own reasons, and would do anything rather than have to suffer it.