“I strayed one time from our marriage with someone I’d always been in love with. I knew it was wrong, but when I found out I was pregnant, I couldn’t bear to hurt Bud with the truth.” Mrs. Valley looks up. “I never cheated again while he was alive.”
She slumps back on the couch and whispers, “I never thought it would go as far as it did between Jude and Simone. Really. They were such opposites. So different. I didn’t even know they were dating until after they’d been together a few months. Simon didn’t know either at first, and he was the one who finally told me. You know how secretive Jude could be, Stephen. He rarely wanted to share anything with us.”
“I remember.” The coldness in Stephen’s voice could freeze ice. “Jude could keep secrets.”
“What else?” Mrs. Valley asks, sharply. “What other secrets did he have?”
“He loved to use me as a punching bag, loved to leave bruises and marks and then threaten to add more if I told you.” Stephen walks over to the picture of his Dad and runs his finger along the frame. Over his shoulder, he adds, “Don’t act like you don’t know or that you never saw them. You had to know.”
For a moment, I think she might deny it, but then her face crumples in defeat.
Oh my god. What a bitch. My heart aches for Stephen.
“I’m so sorry,” she cries. “So sorry.”
“And let’s not forget about the time he shot me.” Stephen is relentless. “Yeah. That was a lie Jude told about me playing with the gun and it going off accidentally. He tied me up, Mom. He missed on purpose to teach me a lesson about spying on him.”
“I suspected…something wasn’t right.” She gets up and goes towards him, but he won’t have it. Stephen shakes her off, the rage on his face frightening even me. “Please, forgive me, Stephen.”
“Today, when Jude told you he forgave you, I thought he was being arrogant and cruel. Now, I don’t know. I hate him so much, but it’s definitely not my forgiveness you need.”
This argument has been smoldering a long time. I can’t bear to hear more. All these revelations are too overwhelming. Quietly, I slip onto the front porch, leaving Stephen to hash this out with his mother, but as I stand there, staring out at the rundown neighborhood, the tears well up and I break down, sinking to the cold concrete.
It feels like I’m crying for everyone. For my dad. For Simone. For Stephen.
Even for Jude.
The wind blows hot and warm, lifting my hair, brushing my tears as I sit on the Valley’s front porch, unable to escape the rise and fall of their voices. The telephone rings. At first, they ignore it, too wrapped up in their emotions to pay it any mind, but it keeps going on and on. Finally, the ring is cut off and their voices fall silent.
Then I hear the scream from inside the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
STEPHEN
My mother drops the phone. Her anguished scream echoes through the house, short but piercing. She covers her mouth, muffling the next scream into a guttural wail as she grips the back of the couch for support.
Shocked, I pick up the phone.
“Hello? Hello?” A man’s deep voice booms through the line. “Is anyone there?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m here.”
“Who is this?”
“Stephen Valley.”
“The brother?” The man doesn’t even wait for me to confirm. “I’m calling from Davenport Correctional Facilities. I regret to inform you that your brother has died.”
Jude is dead. Gone. How is that even possible? This man has made a mistake.
“We just saw him today.” Dimly, I remember how bruised his face was. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone had snuck up on him and finished the job. “Did someone kill him?”
“No.” The man pauses. “I’m afraid he harmed himself.”
He shares some other details, something about bed sheets, but I barely hear the rest as shock sets in.
Jude is dead. Jude is gone. Jude can’t ever hurt us again.
I am crying. Why? I don’t even like Jude.
It is Monica who takes the phone from me and hangs it up. She hugs me, her body warm.
“Jude’s dead,” I whisper, aware my mother is on the floor now, crying as if she will never stop. “He hung himself.”
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Monica whispers back. “I’m so sorry.”
“He was a coward.”
“He was the butterfly.”
Butterfly suicide.
The words whisper through my mind. She is right, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. The answer is just out of my reach, clouded by all the emotions churning in the room.
“One time Simone called him a butterfly. If you touched his wings too hard, pressured him too much, he would crash to the ground because he couldn’t stand the real world,” Monica says. “She knew all along he was the fragile one. And deep down, Jude knew it, too.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Because of the picture, Stephen,” she says softly. “The last one. Look in Simone’s eyes. Jude drew himself as Simone saw him.”
I’m not sure what she is talking about. Obviously, she saw something I missed.
Mom weeps on the floor. My anger is not squashed, but it is diminished once again by my brother who has to have all the attention. Fine. This time he can have it without me holding a grudge. I bend down and help her up. She is so distraught she doesn’t even know what’s going on. She clings to my arm, her grip viselike and painful.
“I’m going to take her to her room,” I say to Monica. “Give me a minute.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I help Mom to her bedroom. She lies down on her bed, the mattress squeaking beneath her weight while she stares at the bumpy ceiling, murmuring incoherently. The window curtains have been pulled back, but I close them, shutting out the world for her. The action makes the room dark and I carefully make my way around the simple bedroom furniture to her bathroom, rummaging in the cabinet above the sink for the sedatives I know she has. Xanax. That should do it. I fill a small cup on the sink with water.
She swallows three pills, ignoring the water I offer.
“He’s gone,” she whispers, grabbing my arm again, her eyes wide. “It’s over.”
“I know, Mom. Try to relax. Everything is going to be okay.”
“That day…that day when I heard what he did, I actually prayed to God that Jude…that Jude would die.”
That she felt that way too lessens my guilt at harboring the same feeling that day, but I can’t deny it shocks me she is admitting it.
“I prayed he would kill himself, that he would be dead so we wouldn’t have to deal with everything we have. I was so scared Jude had left the book somewhere for people to find so he could punish me.” She closes her eyes tight. “Oh god, I’m an awful person, an awful mother.”
“You need to try to sleep.” Gently, I push her back against the pillow, afraid of the despair in her voice. “Try to relax. Everything will be better in the morning.”
“I’ve failed you, Stephen. You were right. My love for Jude blinded me to his flaws. I didn’t want to see them, didn’t want to believe he was capable of hurting others. I didn’t want to see how he was hurting you.”
I always felt like she never thought I told the truth about anything. She always believed him over me.
I cover her with a blanket before creeping out of the room, leaving her to stare at the ceiling.
Monica is slumped on the couch looking as exhausted as I feel.
“Are you okay?” she asks, glancing at the closed door of my mother’s bedroom. “Did she calm down?”
“I gave her some Xanax. It should kick in soon.”
I walk to the front door of the house, peer out the keyhole, and wonder if the lawn will be covered with news trucks again in the morning. Right now, the neighborhood looks quiet. A few porch lights are on, but no one is outside.
Jude i
s dead.
I rest my forehead against the door.
My brother is gone.
Monica puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Stephen, I’m going to stay here tonight,” she says, her voice a comforting tickle in my ear.
“What about your dad? What’s he going to say?”
“I’ll call him. He should know about Jude before the news people get the story.”
I nod and sit on the couch while Monica calls her father. She’s going to stay her tonight. I should be thinking dirty thoughts, should be plotting how best to lie out the course for her to end up sleeping in my bed naked. That’s what anyone else would be doing.
But right now I’m not anyone else. I’m Jude the Rattler’s little brother and once again, he’s uprooted my life. Sex is not at the forefront of my brain.
His notebook is on the coffee table and I pick it up, setting it in my lap. How will Mr. Valley take the news? God, no wonder he hates me. He must have had serious flash backs to Jude and Simone when he saw me with Monica.
“What should we do with that journal?” Monica asks after she gets off the phone.
“Burn it,” I say. “He doesn’t get to tell our secrets or destroy us further. No one needs to know.”
She nods, sits down, and puts her head on my shoulder, grabbing my hand. I’m so glad she’s there, so glad I’m not alone. Tomorrow will be a big day. The news of Jude’s death is going to cause ripples.
We talk for a while, then exhaustion hits.
We fall asleep on the couch, my arms wrapped around Monica.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MONICA
Someone is banging on the front door.
Panicked, I wake up, unsure where I am. The answer trickles to me. I’m at Stephen’s house. He is sleeping on the couch with me, his arms wrapped around my waist. The TV is turned down but the screen is flickering with images of an old black and white movie. Gentle snores come from Stephen, tickling my ear, calming me.
Jude is dead.
Before I can process it all over again, someone pounds on the door. The clock on the fireplace mantel says it’s three thirty am. I shudder. My grandmother used to tell me three thirty am is a bad omen, that you shouldn’t wake up then.
Bad luck is definitely at the door.
Stephen stirs when the sound happens again.
“What...what is that?” he asks, sleepily.
“Someone is trying to get in.” Whoever is causing the racket starts shouting. I frown, recognizing the belligerent voice. “Oh shit. I think that’s my mom.”
The front porch lights illuminate Mom’s disheveled appearance as I crack the door open. Her normally glossy hair is matted and snarled. There are several dark stains on her low cut, white blouse, which has come untucked from her black Capri pants. She only has on one silver sandal and her pedicure is chipped. Her bloodshot eyes widen, surprised.
“Monica, what are you doing here?” She puts a hand on the doorframe to steady herself and the stench of alcohol assaults me. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“What are you doing here?” I counter.
“I’m here to speak to that woman.” She sways. “I’m here to send my regrets that her son is dead.”
Daddy must have told her. Glad I wasn’t there for that conversation.
“It’s late. Go home, Mom.”
“Where is she?” Mom demands.
“She’s sleeping,” I say. “Something you should be doing, too.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”
She gives me a smile, reminding me of a shark about to strike. Chills go down my spine. She doesn’t look like the mother who raised me, the one who used to let me do her nails, the one who liked to work on puzzles at the kitchen table with me.
I glance over Mom’s shoulder. Her car is in the middle of the lawn. The engine is still running and her other sandal is in the yard.
What a mess.
“You aren’t in any condition to talk to Mrs. Valley.”
“Mrs. Valley?” she snorts. “She always wanted to be Mrs. Monroe. If she’d played her cards right she could have been your mommy.”
“I’m going to call Daddy. He can come pick you up.” I try to shut the door, but she slaps her hand against it, stronger than she looks.
“You know about her and your father, don’t you?” Mom is concerned only with making sure I know the family dirt. “You know about how they’ve been fooling around, right?”
“Yes. I do. You told me, remember? And I know about Simone and Jude. About their...real relationship to each other. Brother and sister.” I roll my eyes, thinking how disappointed she must be not to get to throw that one at me. “So you don’t have to bring it up.”
Mom freezes. Her mouth forms an “O” of surprise but nothing comes out.
She didn’t know.
She swallows hard and covers her mouth before stumbling back.
OH MY GOD! What have I done?
“Mom,” I say softly, opening the door wider. “Wait. I’m sorry. I thought…I thought you knew.”
But all the words she was going to spout at Mrs. Valley have dried up. She staggers to her car and roars off, leaving me staring after her, wondering if she’ll even make it home.
What if she doesn’t? Panic sets in.
“Come back inside,” Stephen says behind me. “You have to let her go.”
“What if she gets hurt? What if she gets into a wreck?”
“Call your father. Let him know.”
Call Daddy. Yes, that’s a good idea. Though the hour is late, he answers right away. He sounds so tired and alone. He’d taken the news of Jude’s death in silence when I’d told him earlier and hung up without saying goodbye.
I explain the situation with Mom, and he promises to text me when she gets home so I’ll know she’s safe.
“Between your mother and mine, we’ve become the parents,” I say after disconnecting. “We’re the caregivers, the ones always worrying.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m tired.”
He takes my hand and leads me back to the couch. We lie down and his arms wrap around me, keeping me safe and secure. I try to go back to sleep, try to find some normal.
But what does normal mean now?
****
Stephen wakes me three hours later.
“You have to get up,” he says, his breath hot on my neck. “The reporters will be here soon.”
“Reporters?” I mumble, trying to clear my head. The couch is sticky from both of us laying on it. “What reporters?”
“He’s old news, but there could still be a few reporters who want to drop by to talk about Jude’s death.” Stephen shakes me gently when I try to fall back asleep. “You don’t want to be caught here. What would everyone say?”
I force myself to keep my eyes open. Ugh. I don’t care what people will say anymore. Life is too messed up already to worry about that. But Stephen’s bruised face reminds me that it’s not just about me. Being caught at his house the morning after his brother’s death could be a real problem.
“You going to be okay?” I yawn. “Has your mom gotten up yet?”
“No. She’s conked out.”
We talk a few minutes, but I sense Stephen’s urgency to get me out of there. He is twitchy, shifting back and forth on his feet, trying to be patient as I get a drink of water and spend time in the bathroom.
“So…will you call me later?” I ask, standing at the front door.
“Sure.” He grins and kisses me lightly. A little tingle goes straight through me. “Probably not until tonight though.”
“See you.” I peek out the door. Light is streaking across the sky, a soft orange announcing the sunrise. “All clear.”
I walk home, enjoying the peace of the early morning. Since it’s Sunday, there aren’t any cars rushing to get to work. Everyone’s blinds are still drawn closed. There is a sense of being the only p
erson in the world.
I like it.
Two vans marked with competing news emblems rush by me. Stephen is right. I got out of his house just in time. I can’t imagine having to face reporters. Sure, there may be a few hanging out at my house, but I doubt an interview with my family will be as big a deal as getting one with Jude Valleys’.
When I get home, both my parents’ cars are in the driveway—sort of. My dad’s is straight, but my mother’s is half on the driveway and half in the yard. He’d texted me about ten minutes after I called him that Mom made it home. I wonder if he checked out her parking job.
Inside, the house is trashed.
Broken glass from the pictures above our fireplace is sprinkled all over the living room floor. Two chairs are over turned. There is a crack in the plaster of the far wall, and judging from the smell and the large stain on it, I’m guessing a wine bottle may have been thrown there.
In the kitchen, the trashcan has been pulled out from beneath the sink and dumped over, leaving a trail of leftover junk everywhere. My mother is slumped over the table, passed out.
She must have come home after my slip up last night and let my father have it.
Drops of blood leading to the stairs make me uneasy. I follow the trail. It stops outside of my parents’ room. Worried, I turn the knob and peek inside.
Daddy snores in the bed, the sound a relief. There is a Band-Aid on his forehead, probably where my mother got him with some object. Other than that, he looks okay.
He’s alive anyway.
What should I do now? Go back to bed?
I’m too awake, too alert to settle down now. Might as well make myself useful.
The glass clinks in the trash bag. I try to pick up as much as I can from the living room floor with my hands, but there’s no way I can get all the little tiny shards sprinkled across the carpet. That will require a vacuum.
I straighten things, wipe down tables and chairs, even dusting a little.
Then I go to the kitchen.
Wish I could clean up Mom.
Butterfly Suicide Page 20