Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  “My goodness, what an adventure. And how mysterious.”

  She went off to the kitchen to make some tea.

  “I only have herb teas. Do you have a preference?”

  I thought for a moment and said peppermint, but I realised she did not hear me as she spoke from the kitchen.

  “No? Well, I will make my special blend for you.”

  She came back with a small wooden tray with cups, saucers and a teapot. To the side were two small plates, each with a slice of cake.

  “I thought I would try my new apple and cinnamon cake on you. It is made with corn, rice and ground almond flour.” I groaned inwardly. I was not sure I could eat anything. The knot in my stomach was still present. My mother used to make such scathing comments about my aunt’s strange habits. She used to refer to her cooking as witches’ brew and rolled her eyes at her sister-in-law’s odd herbal remedies. Dotty was considered abnormal in our family and lived up to my parents’ nickname for her. I used to enjoy hearing their stories of ghastly meals and weird behaviour and laughed at the antics of my crazy, dotty aunt.

  “So, you think Edward is our murderer?”

  “He has the motivation and the opportunity. He was quite aggressive with me. Who else could it be?”

  “Yes, indeed. Although, all you have to go on is that he said he had feelings for you and seemed upset when you rejected his advances. To murder your husband and send you threatening letters seems a trifle extreme. Your theory does not explain the loans and cash withdrawals.”

  I felt irritated with the ease my aunt pointed out the flaws in my theory. I took a deep breath. I certainly did not want to start on the wrong foot with my aunt.

  “Yes, I suppose you are right. I have no idea why Mathew withdrew the cash each week. It would be good to get it back.”

  “Good to get it back?” Dorothy repeated softly.

  I looked at Dorothy blankly.

  “I remember my English lecturer, Professor Prendergast, would say to me, ‘Come on Miss Petal’ – Petal was my maiden name – ‘you can do better than that.’ Then I would say something like, ‘It would be a great relief to recover the money.’” Dorothy looked out of the window at the passing white clouds for a moment. “Yes, those would be the describing words.”

  Dorothy went back to the clouds and then as if giving voice to random thoughts muttered, “I suppose for the blackmail theory to hold true, Mathew would have to have done something he would pay everything to conceal. Is that likely?”

  I shook my head as I tried the cake. Although it tasted a little bland it had a satisfying homemade taste. I realised we had not discussed the possibility of my staying.

  “Dorothy, do you think I might stay with you for a few days? I would not impose, but I don’t have anywhere else to go, unless I find a hotel.”

  “No, no, you must stay. I insist. Besides it would be fun to help you solve your little mystery. Now, do tell me how you feel after the tea. I used fresh mint from the garden, camomile, some verbena and grated lemon rind.”

  “I like it.”

  “But how do you feel, Amanda?”

  I shut my eyes for a moment.

  “Good, I feel good.”

  “Describe, my dear. No need to judge.”

  I shut my eyes again.

  “Warm, more relaxed and a soothing feeling in my stomach.”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  Dorothy suggested we play a card game.

  “It is rare that I have the opportunity.”

  I did not feel like it, but she seemed so enthusiastic. I nodded. It gave me a chance to observe her. As we began the game, Dorothy put on her reading glasses. She carefully held the metal frame with two hands as she slipped them into place. Dorothy wore a long flowing maroon skirt with a blue blouse. The skirt looked to be made from silk whilst the top from a heavy cotton. She loosely tied a green and brown patterned scarf around her neck. On her feet were fawn sheepskin slippers over long grey socks.

  To my sense nothing matched. Perhaps her sight was poor or she was colour blind. I heard my mother’s voice proudly exclaiming Dotty had the dress sense of a medieval druid. I am not sure why she assumed druids had no dress sense but where that comment used to make me laugh, I now felt a twinge of guilt. Dorothy looked healthy, whilst being on the cuddly side. Her grey hair formed tight curls. There were wrinkles around her eyes that gave her a playful appearance. Her eyes twinkled invitingly.

  “So how do you feel about life after all these dramas?”

  “I’ll never trust someone with my money again, that’s for sure. I never want to be in love again. I am sure I’ll always carry an emotional scar from all this.”

  I took a deep, shaky breath in and sighed.

  “Never and ever,” Dorothy mused putting down her cards. “Always, too. They are such absolute and final words. Is life ever like that? Tell me Amanda, would you feel different if you thought to yourself that I do not currently feel like trusting someone with my money, I do not want to fall in love for a while, or that I am aware of an emotional scar that needs healing. It might leave more room for other possibilities.”

  I became defensive, shrugging insolently. Dorothy smiled sweetly.

  “If we think in words, our choice of words may become very important as they shape our thoughts and out of that, what we think is possible.”

  I reminded myself of my situation and nodded.

  After we finished playing a second round she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and got up to get ready for her meeting.

  “What is this meeting?”

  “It’s a little hard to explain. They are always unpredictable. Why don’t you think of it as a story that will unfold in its own way.”

  We set out cups, saucers and plates on the low living room table. With Dorothy’s supervision, I arranged the sofa and three chairs so everyone could see each other. Dorothy brought out bowls of dried fruit, nuts, olives and fresh fruit. She placed an array of candles on the table and I lit them for her. Then I lit the incense in the corner of the room. Dorothy drew the full length, purple and gold curtains across the large bay windows at the end of the room.

  For a while it felt like we were preparing for a séance. Were my parents right and she was the leading member of a witches’ coven? Everything was done with a calming ease. Although she exhibited an eye for detail, her arrangements were made as though she had just thought of them. In that sense, her actions were quite childlike. It reminded me for a moment of when, as a child, I used to play house and arrange things in my bedroom. Nothing really mattered but everything was interesting and particular.

  “What do you think, dear? Shall I move these candles over here? Sit down in that chair and tell me how it feels.”

  I sat on the soft, beige chair indicated.

  “It looks good. I like the candles where they are.”

  “Feelings, Amanda, feelings, dear.”

  I shut my eyes again and tried to access my feelings.

  “I feel quite relaxed, but a little excited at the same time. I suppose I am wondering what the meeting is about.”

  “Just describe, dear. No need to justify or analyse.”

  “I feel a sense of anticipation.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful. Now I am going to turn down the lights and you can tell me if you feel any difference.”

  This time I kept my eyes open.

  “I still feel the anticipation, but I am also feeling a bit more secure.”

  “Well, I think that just about does it.”

  As if we were in a stage play, the doorbell rang.

  CHRYSALIS

  CHAPTER 9

  The caterpillar finds a place on a stem or branch and attaches itself by spinning its own silk. About a day later it will wiggle frantically and shed its exoskeleton revealing the chrysalis beneath. Although still on the outside, tremendous activity is taking place inside the chrysalis. The caterpillar is deconstructing itself and recreating itself as a butterfly.


  The first to enter was an elderly man. I guessed he was from India. He looked to be slightly older than my aunt. Dorothy introduced him as Nirmal Rajan. As he took off his long, black coat, I saw he wore a white shirt and grey Indian-style tunic. I smelled a hint of spice. When I looked down at his feet, I was surprised to see he was barefoot, wearing only sandals. He took off his sandals and lined them up neatly by the door. My aunt bent down and put a pair of wool slippers by his feet. Nirmal smiled and said, “How do you do, Mrs Blake.” He then sat on the furthest chair and pulled his legs up so that he sat cross-legged.

  The bell rang again and two people came in together. My aunt introduced the first as Sandy Vox and the second as Henrique Huber, whilst announcing me as her niece. They stood congested by the front door as they took off their coats and hung them up. Sandy slid off her red trainers, slipped on a pair of slippers and came over to me. She gently put her hands on my shoulders.

  “So you’re Dot’s little niece.”

  She looked me in the eye as she gave me a smile and a little squeeze before removing her hands. Sandy wore a long fawn skirt and brown V-neck sweater. I could not see any makeup or jewellery. I watched her take a seat next to Nirmal and curl her legs under her. There was something feline about her movements. With her right hand she pulled her long blonde hair back behind her shoulder. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight. I thought she must be about fifty years old. Henrique Huber interrupted my observations.

  “Good evening, Frau Blake.”

  Herr Huber shook my hand firmly. His hand was very large and warm. He wore a black suit with a blue shirt and red patterned tie. Henrique had a large face with curly, dark hair that was greying at the sides. He let his facial hair grow in front of his ears so that it was level with the bottom of his ear lobes. I looked up at his long, bushy eyebrows. He was at least a head taller than me. Huber took off his polished black shoes, carefully slid his foot into each slipper and walked over to Sandy. He pinched his trouser creases just above the knee and pulled his trouser legs up slightly before sitting down. I imagined he was somewhere between Sandy and Nirmal in age.

  Dorothy waved me to the seat next to her and began by introducing me. She suggested I tell the story that brought me here.

  “It might be therapeutic and interesting to hear other possible perspectives.”

  I swallowed hard as I fought off my initial impulse to hide away. I finished with the line, “I have gone from being a happily married woman with a job and home to being on the run with nothing.”

  I had expected them to be shocked, to exclaim surprise and concern, to make suitably sympathetic remarks and offer condolences. I felt very self-conscious in the silence that followed and then to my horror I heard myself saying.

  “Hey ho, life’s a box of chocolates.”

  They remained still. Sandy looked at me.

  “You know, nothing can be a lovely place to be.”

  Sandy paused for long time, searching into my eyes.

  “From nothing, everything and anything is possible and your transformation can begin.”

  She paused and looked at me with sincerity.

  “If I can be so presumptuous to offer you a tiny piece of advice…”

  Another moment of silence.

  “Try to make that transition with love. Feel the love inside you first and out of that create life. It would be a shame to colour this rebirth with fear.”

  I felt Sandy was sincere, but I did not feel in the mood for any kind of airy-fairy, new-age advice. I needed practical suggestions for sorting out my situation with Pride and for dealing with Edward or whoever was sending threatening letters. I felt quite irritable. I suppressed an urge to say something like, “If you had just been through what I have been through, you would not be sitting there dishing out platitudes.” Henrique Huber lifted his large head. His hands rested on his lap and he opened them and turned the palms upward.

  Herr Huber rubbed his face.

  “I found your story absorbing and I suppose a part of me kept asking why you made the assumptions you stated? As is our nature, you have become entombed in illusions that limit your thinking.”

  I could feel my heckles rise. I was not sure I understood him but he seemed to be accusing me of making it up.

  “I can assure you, everything I told you is fact.”

  Herr Huber looked at me for a moment.

  “Possibly. May I deconstruct a little? It may help. If not, you can disregard it as the insane ramblings of an old German fool.”

  I nodded cautiously.

  “We find ourselves,” he waved his hand to the group, “questioning everything.”

  Huber looked at me again with a probing expression. I was beginning to feel angry. I anticipated his little talk was going to be annoying and I wanted him to get it over with.

  “Go on.”

  “You claim your husband was being blackmailed. I wonder whether there are other choices. Was he a secret gambler? Could he have something like a love child, been part of a secret organisation, involved in a cause that is dear to him? I am fascinated by why you would choose to jump to the assumptions you have. Out of one event you have, as is the human habit, spun a web of illusions that you now believe are real. Do you even know if the police are, as you say, after you? You ran away, on your way to an interview, you were not arrested, and you only have a policeman at the station to support your assertion. I suspect we construct situations that put everything beyond our control and ultimately exonerate us from any responsibility.”

  I felt a storm rage inside me. The injustice welled up. I stood up. I wanted to shout but my voice wavered and instead of yelling abuse, I stammered. Tears ran down my cheeks. I looked around wildly, trying to find some way of venting my anger. I grabbed a glass of water next to me with the intention of throwing the liquid into Herr Huber’s face, but the glass slipped from my hand landing halfway between us, before rolling under the living room table.

  Four pairs of eyes looked back at me. I ran into the hall, slammed the living room door and stumbled into the doorway ahead. I fell onto a large bed and curled up sobbing. The mix of despair, rage and fury became uncontrollable. I pounded the pillow with my fists hysterically. I lifted myself up and flung myself back down onto the bed. I swore and yelled obscenities. Oh Mathew, how could you? Why did you do this to me? Did you hate me so much to drop me into this hell? You’ve stripped me of everything, left me with nothing. Now, as a final evil twist, the police think I killed you.

  I felt as though I was six years old again and my father had just laughingly dismissed my desire to stay home from school. Was Herr Huber was another in a series of intelligent men that I wanted to respect me, but who treated me like a fool?

  My mind returned to Mathew. After all the love, all the compromises, all the giving in to your needs, all the care, this is how you leave me. I put so much into you and you have left me with nothing, except debts, terror and humiliation. My anger turned to a deep sense of hopelessness. Why do men treat me like this? What was so horrible about me? I sunk into despair, feeling the cold grief pressing hard against me. I tried to breathe but my chest felt crushed. I closed my sore eyes tight, as a painful gnawing in my stomach gripped me.

  I heard the door open softly. I heard slow footsteps on the carpet. I felt a hand between my shoulder blades. I slumped. I was aware of someone sitting close to me on the bed. Another hand rested on the back of my head, still at first, before making slow, gentle, stroking movements. I started to feel frozen and empty. I shivered. I turned onto my back and saw my aunt. There was a soothing smell of wild flowers. She leant across me and put one hand over my heart as she tenderly wiped the tears from my face with a handkerchief. Through the darkness of the room I could see her eyes looking back at me. My breathing was shaky, sending spasms and tremors through my body. I could feel my emotional eruption subside. I started to speak but my aunt put her finger across my lips.

  “Shhhhhhh, Amanda, just rest.”

  My
aunt pulled the bedspread across me from the other side of the bed and tucked me in like a child. She rearranged the pillow under my head. Then she lifted a blanket out of the chest at the bottom of my bed and slowly unfolded it before wrapping the wool around me.

  “I’m so frightened.”

  “I’m here and I will stay with you.”

  She put her left hand over my aching stomach and held my hand with her right hand. I felt warmer, cocooned in my aunt’s presence.

  “Try starting each breath with your mind. You decide when to breathe in and when to breathe out.”

  I tried following my aunt’s instructions. I was still gulping the air in.

  “Feel each breath, Amanda. Feel the cool air with each inhalation and the warmth of your breath as you exhale. Focus your mind on just feeling each breath.”

  As I focussed on starting each breath and feeling it, I became drowsy. Exhaustion slowly crept over me.

  “Try to breathe in whatever way feels loving to you.”

  My eyes became heavy. I must have fallen asleep, as when I next opened my eyes, my aunt was sitting in a rocking chair next to the bed. I could hear the rhythmic clicking of her knitting needles. I reached out and she gave my hand a squeeze.

  Next time I woke, light streamed into the room through gaps in the curtains. The room had a sweet scent. I saw that my aunt had put pots with hyacinths in full flower by my bed. There was a note next to me. I pulled the curtain a little to read it.

  Dear Amanda,

  I have gone to my bedroom for a snooze. Wake me up if you need anything.

  Love D x

  She had drawn a heart below. Tears welled up in my eyes. I showered and dressed again. I began to think of Huber’s speech. He did bring up lots of interesting possibilities. I realised I had relied on Pride’s theory and become too narrow in my thinking. My mind raced around different options, including gambling and even giving our money to Scientology. I resolved to be more open to other ideas. In that respect, Herr Huber had been a great help. I still felt it was completely ridiculous to imply it was all an illusion of my own making. A hot flash of anger rose through my body and I quickly moved onto other thoughts.