Butterfly Suicide

by Loesch, Mary Ann

  My cell phone buzzes on my desk. Reaching for it, I see Stephen’s house number flash on the display. Maybe he can’t sleep.

  “Hey,” I say, in greeting.

  “Hey.” Long sigh from Stephen. “You okay?”

  “Sure. I mean, we just found out our parents have been shacking up for a while and that your brother probably killed my sister because of it. Other than that, I’m totally okay,” I say. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to see Jude.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to hear him say it. I want him to say our parents are why he did it.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I get it.”

  And I do. Sometimes the truth just sounds different. But then again, so do lies.

  How can really you tell the difference?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  STEPHEN

  The weekend takes forever to get here.

  The more I want the hours to speed by, the slower time ticks. On the other hand, the thought of seeing Jude again is enough to make my stomach ache and keep me on the toilet in gassy pain for an hour. He would love that if he knew. Having control over my bowels would probably make everything he did worth it in his eyes. Asshole.

  Mom practically fainted when I told her I wanted to visit Jude. Considering how adamant I was about never seeing the jerk again, her reaction isn’t surprising. I almost back out a few times, but in the end, I’m just like Monica. Like it or not, I need answers, and right now, I’m not satisfied with the ones I have.

  I want to hear my brother say he killed those kids because of the affair between Mom and Simon Monroe. I want him to spill the sordid secrets of his thought process on this one. Only after I hear those words can I truly believe Monica and I have Scooby Doo’d this awful riddle Jude created in May.

  Because I don’t think we’ve solved anything. The more I think about things, the more I feel something isn’t quite right in this tidy little tale of an affair gone wrong. Jude loved Simone. I know he did. I don’t know if he would really kill her over Mr. Monroe and Mom sleeping together. And Mom seemed a little too needy when it came to wanting the notebook. I don’t recall anything blatant about the affair in it, but then again, I’d only skimmed. Ugh. We’re dancing around a missing puzzle piece. Jude is going to point me in its direction.

  And honestly, I can’t move forward with Monica until this is settled. I know we will have to stay off everyone’s radar to be together, but we don’t stand a chance at making this thing between us real with Jude’s bullshit hanging over our head. Over the last few days, we’ve snuck in several illicit meetings at the park where we discussed everything from books to music to our favorite Marvel characters.

  She loves Captain America, but I’m Iron Man all the way. She also thinks the band Mastodon is too heavy metal and should make an effort to write cheery songs. For some reason, the intricacy of Donnie Darko’s plot bores her—that’s almost a deal breaker for me. But despite these terrible character flaws, I can’t help but be wildly attracted to her. Yes, she’s sexy and I would like to see her naked. Sorry. There’s no way to sugar coat that shit. However, she’s the whole package in the mind department, too. She leans way to the nerdy side of the force and I dig it.

  Monica is what keeps me going through the week. She is what saves me from being too angry or infuriated by the snickers and sneaky words people say when I pass them in the hall. The thought of kissing her in the park keeps me from going insane and beating down a few punks who deserve it. Not that I’m in any shape to do that. My ribs still ache.

  So when Saturday morning finally arrives, I’m feeling pretty confident—until we drive along the dusty country roads to get two towns over to see Jude in the detention center. It’s designed for young offenders, but still has an institutional look to it. Several stories tall, Jude is confined here behind the dark red brick and mortar walls until at least November when the judge will decide whether he should be charged as a minor or an adult. He’ll also determine if my brother was in a sane state of mind when he committed his crimes.

  We check in at the front lobby. A young woman dressed in a police officer’s uniform greets us from behind the safety glass and we hand over our IDs through a special slot. She goes over the rules about visiting: no passing the inmates anything, no prolonged touching, no bringing in weapons or anything that could be used as a weapon. After she gives us back our IDs, she tells us Jude is being brought down. Mom’s hands twist together as we sit in the sterile lobby with its two plastic chairs and wait to be called to the visiting room. When the time comes, there is a knot in my throat, making it hard to swallow and I feel that awful twist in my bowels, a sign of my nervousness and stress.

  What will Jude look like now? Can he touch us? Will he be handcuffed? Is someone going to be in the room with us, listening to the conversation?

  This was a mistake. I can’t do it after all. Screw the puzzle piece.

  The thought of meeting his sardonic gaze causes a thin line of sweat to break out on my forehead.

  The gray security door opens and a guard steps out. “Ms. Valley, ya’ll can c’mon back.”

  He leads us into the inner sanctum of the juvenile detention center. The hallway smells like bleach and very faintly of blood. I wonder if we just missed some sort of altercation.

  We are taken to a large room with shiny linoleum floors and barred windows lining the bare blue walls. The fluorescent lights are harsh and shine down on several scratched wooden picnic tables. They are all empty except for the one my brother sits at.

  Jude is scrawny.

  He wears an orange jump suit, but his head has been shaved, and there is a big bruise over his eye. Without the long hair, his head looks oddly shaped, making me think the demon living in there has been battering against it, trying to get out. The skin around his face and neck is tight. His hands are chaffed and raw as if he has been washing them over and over.

  “Jude?” Mom goes around the table to embrace him, already crying and emotional. The guard steps forward, making sure no object is being passed between them. “Are you okay?”

  He returns her hug, but he’s studying me, sizing me up. I’m reminded of my dreams, the ones where he has those yellow snake eyes with slit pupils, but his real eyes are nothing like that. Today they are a flat, dull green, making it easy to stare back. For the first time ever, he looks away first.

  The balance of power has shifted.

  Jude pulls away from Mom and manages to give her a smile. She strokes his face, scanning him, frowning at the black eye.

  “I’m fine,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “I walked into a door,” he says with just a trace of the trademark Jude snark I remember. “A big one.”

  “Are you being mistreated?”

  “Would it really matter if I was?” He is indifferent, as if he’s accepted the fact his life is going to be behind bars. There is no remorse. All the anger he carried outside of this place has drained away, leaving a tired and world-weary kid behind. What kind of meds is he on? “How have you been, Mom?”

  “Things have been...rough,” Mom admits, glancing at me. “We’ve had a tough time, but we’re managing. Right, Stephen?”

  A tough time? That’s not how I would have put it.

  “I turned your lives upside down,” Jude says.

  Upside down? Wow. Another understatement.

  “Your lawyers tell me you are doing well, that the medication is helping,” Mom says. “What do you think, Jude? How do you feel?”

  “Better. A little more in control. I’ve been able to think more clearly.”

  “Really?” Mom smiles brightly. “That’s good.”

  “It’s not so bad in here,” Jude says. “Most of the time I’m by myself. They keep me isolated. The lawyers think I may be able to plead not guilty due to my mental illness. I’d still be locked up, but at least I
’d be getting treatment. Maybe someday I could get parole or something.”

  The thought of Jude out of prison makes me nauseated. And the way he casually said he might not be guilty due to his mental illness? I shift in my seat, trying to keep calm, but angry heat is rising in me.

  “I think getting treatment is a wonderful option. I don’t want you to get your hopes up about the verdict though. These things are so tricky.” Mom touches his hand, offering a smile. “But who knows? Maybe the judge will be merciful.”

  He looks at me.

  “Hey, Stevie.” Jude knows I hate being called that. “What about you? How you doin’?”

  What a loaded question. It was my choice to come here, my choice to find answers. I’ve been mad over the last few months, but I thought I would be able to control it better or something. Now that I’m here and we’re about to talk, I can’t stamp down how pissed off I am.

  “That good, huh?” he says when I don’t respond. “Looks like you’ve been walking into doors, too.”

  “More like Derek Andrews,” I mutter. “And his friends.”

  Next to me, I hear Mom take in a sharp breath as I mention Derek’s name. I never told her who jumped me.

  “Derek? He did that?” Jude lifts an eyebrow, a shadow sparking in his eyes. “And after I let that little shit go. Why?”

  There he is. There’s the arrogant, ass I know. The one who gets mad because he did someone the little favor of sparing their life.

  “Because of you.” I say. “Because my last name is Valley.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jude’s voice drops back to soft and low. “I am.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “No, man, I really am. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

  “Just those kids in the cafeteria.” I sneer. “That’s who you meant to hurt.”

  “Hey, I—” he starts.

  “Hey what? You were mentally ill? Is that your excuse? What a crock! What the hell did you think was going to happen to Mom and me? Did you think it would all be sunshine and roses? That people would embrace us? Oh wait. I forgot. You were counting on killing yourself so you wouldn’t have to be around to see what happened.”

  “Stephen!” Mom tries to stop me. “Let your brother——“

  “No, Mom. It’s okay.” Jude crosses his arms like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “He has a right to get this shit off his chest.”

  “You’re selfish, Jude. I hope you fucking rot in here forever.”

  “Stephen doesn’t mean what he’s saying,” Mom says.

  “Yes, I do. And your mental insanity defense is crap.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think there’s anything wrong with me?” His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Of all people, I would have thought—”

  “Oh, there’s something wrong with you, but it’s not the kind of thing that medicine can cure.”

  “Stephen! That’s enough!” Mom slams her hand down on the table. “Stop it. This isn’t why we are here.”

  I stop talking and stare at the table. She’s right. My mission is to find out what Jude knew about mom and Mr. Monroe. I’m fucking that up.

  “Jude, you’ve shut me out since the shootings happened.” Mom’s voice is stronger now. “I’ve been so worried. What can I do to help you?”

  “Help me?” He gives her a blank look, like he really doesn’t know what she means. “Mom, you can’t help me. It’s your fault I’m in here.”

  Mom stiffens as if Jude has just kicked her in the stomach.

  “I just called you to come here because I wanted to tell you in person that I forgive you.” His face is so serious. “I forgive you for being a terrible mother.”

  Fucker. That’s it. My body shakes with anger as I stand.

  “You forgive her? For what? For taking care of you these years? For babying your selfish ass?” I’m yelling and I hate it. I sound like a five year old, but I can’t help myself. All that suppressed rage—it’s out now and uncontrollable. “Jesus, she’s not the one who went crazy in May and shot up the cafeteria over some stupid affair with Simon Monroe. Don’t blame Mom for your mistakes.”

  Jude looks at Mom, surprised. She is pale and staring at me as if she’s never seen me before.

  “Yeah, I know all about the affair, Jude. What I don’t understand is why you killed Simone over it!” As I say this, Jude’s face goes blank again and he studies the top of the scratched table. Why won’t he meet my eye? The old Jude would never have put up with this. “Did you really have to kill a bunch of innocent people because you were too self-centered to deal with Mom having a social life? Are you truly a psychopath or are you just stupid?”

  “Stephen,” he says calmly. “I’m unclean.”

  “Don’t hide behind your bipolar bullshit.” I mock. “Oh poor, Jude. He’s depressed.”

  “It’s not like that!” His temper flares and his fist clench. Good. I relish his anger. “You don’t understand.”

  “Make me understand then.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the guard step forward, ready to swoop in if things get physical. I hope they do. This is the most honest I have ever been with him in my life, the least afraid of Jude I’ve ever felt. Maybe it’s because he’s in a prison and can’t really hurt me. Or maybe it’s because I can’t imagine anything worse happening to us. I have nothing to lose.

  “Where is my notebook?” Jude asks quietly. “Do you have it, Mom?”

  “No,” she whispers, wiping at tears. “Neither do the police.”

  “I have it,” I say. “Why?”

  “Why?” He chokes on a laugh. “You haven’t read it, have you?”

  “No. I skimmed some pictures. I don’t give a shit about your crazy take on the world. I’m not going to let your manifesto be made public, Jude. You don’t deserve that kind of fame.”

  “Did you look at the end?”

  “No.”

  “You should. Everything will make sense then. Right, Mom?”

  Jude doesn’t wait for her to answer. He stands, nods at the guard, and walks to the security door.

  “Jude, what are you doing?” Mom gets up and goes to him, tugging on his arm as the guard starts to unlock the door. “Sit back down. Please. Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

  “You should go.” He gently removes her hand. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Thank you for coming. I’m glad I got to tell you what I needed to say in person.”

  “We can come back some other time.” Mom is practically begging him and it makes me sick. “There’s a few things the lawyers want to go over with both of us. I really need to talk to you about some of their questions.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I love you,” she says and kisses his cheek. He doesn’t respond.

  I’m ready to get out of that room. The air is too thick with Jude’s crap to breathe right.

  “Stephen.” Jude glances over his shoulder. I meet his emotionless gaze. “She was my butterfly. Fragile. It was never about the affair, but it was better to get her out of here, out of this ugliness. I had to do it.”

  The door opens and he slips away.

  Never about the affair…

  I won’t come back to this place. I won’t go to the trial in November.

  I’m done with my brother.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MONICA

  Stephen knocks on my bedroom window.

  It is a little after seven on Saturday night. My parents have been gone all day—though not together. Each had their own mission, their own agenda. Neither bothered to tell me what it was. I spent most of the time holed up in my room, watching TV while burrowed in the safety of my bed. There’s nothing like mindless crap on the tube to keep your brain numb.

  “Hey, next time, you can just ring the doorbell,” I say, opening the window and drawing back the filmy pink curtains. “You don’t have to climb up like this. I’m afraid you’re going to fall. How did you even
get up here with your ribs messed up?”

  Something is wrong. His eyes are too bright and his face is smudged with dirt. As he hauls himself in, little flecks of dried mud fall from his shoes and clothes onto the floor. He breathes heavily, obviously in pain from the climb. In his right hand is a gallon Ziploc bag with a notebook inside it.

  Stephen holds it up like it’s his prize.

  “I got it,” he pants. “I dug it up from where I buried it. I wasn’t going to. All the way home, I told myself I wasn’t going to, but then something clicked in my head.”

  He plops down on the floor. I sink into the spot beside him as he shakes the book out of the bag and on to the rug. We stare at it, this medium sized art journal, which holds the mysteries of May. Its black cover is worn, the large spiral spine starting to twist with age. The edges of the paper curl up slightly, making it look older than it really is. Opening it is akin to opening that book in the movie Evil Dead. Who knows what horrors will come out?

  “What do you mean? What clicked in your head?” I ask. He gets this funny look on his face, but doesn’t answer. “How did it go with Jude today?”

  “Things got...intense.” He runs a finger over the glossy book cover, leaving a faint heat impression behind. “Jude says all the answers are inside. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking in it, but now…I don’t know. You’re rubbing off on me. I need to know.”

  Stephen flicks the cover open.

  Together we look through the beginning pages. Jude is an amazing artist. His work is detailed and exquisite, the kind you know should be hanging up in a museum somewhere. Some of his sketches are gruesome, some silly, some breath taking. The drawings of his mother are disturbing. I can’t look at them and Stephen flips past them quickly.

  There is a page titled: People Who Deserve to Die. On it, Jude’s listed ten people in scrawling cursive who have offended him in some way. I recognize some names, but not all. A few people listed are not even students at school. They’re adults around town. None are the names of the people he killed in the cafeteria.