When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  Pressing against the dark green door, I suddenly remember those times Grammy Claire held my hand as we walked down to the bayou and caught dragonflies and frogs and fished off the dock. We had picnics with strawberry jam sandwiches and cold lemonade. Crunchy dill pickles and cupcakes with candy sprinkles.

  Emotion burns my eyes, makes my throat close up hard and tight.

  When the knob doesn’t turn, my stomach drops all the way to my toes. Then I realize that I haven’t turned the key in the right direction. Using both hands, I jiggle the key in the lock, and hear a wonderful, distinct click.

  The door gives a creak as I push it open and enter a long, dim hallway.

  This door actually enters on the second floor. The house is built on a sloping hill so the kitchen and dining room and great room are on the lower part of the hill. Our secret back door enters a different part altogether, right into the middle of the house.

  Guest rooms and bathrooms occupy the second floor, as well as a small sitting room. The hallway ends right smack on a brick wall. Next to the wall is a door that looks like a closet, but when I open it, a winding set of stairs leads to the ground floor. I tiptoe down to the first landing and peek through empty space to the foyer below. I hear shuffling feet as Butler Reginald comes in with the luggage. I see my backpack sitting in the middle of the pile as well as a raincoat and briefcase and assorted boxes filled with groceries.

  I run back up the staircase so he won’t see me. There’s a closed door at the other end of the hallway, which hides another set of stairs leading to the third floor.

  When I pound up the carpeted steps, the air is thick and motionless and steaming hot. Sweat dribbles into my eyes, but memories are coming back, faster and faster.

  On the third floor is a library with tables and rugs and so many books I stand stock-still in shock. The library is cool and shaded by one of the oak trees. There’s even a set of doors leading to a balcony for reading outside. I hug myself, thinking about how this library is mine now.

  More doors on the third floor open up to linen closets and storage closets filled with boxes and junk and old furniture, bird cages and trunks. When I throw open the last door on the east side of the house I let out a squeal of delight. “It’s here, it’s still here!”

  Grammy Claire always called this the morning room. Wide-paned windows stretch across the east and south walls, so big they are almost ceiling high. The windows give a panoramic view of the dark oaks, magnolias, and cypresses — the bayou running like a milky brown thread just a few hundred yards away.

  The first sunlight of the day pokes its rays into this room. We used to have breakfast here before my grandmother went to work — or before we took hikes or went picnicking.

  When I was eight, nine, and ten years old, I got to spend a week here during summer vacation, but I never remember Riley being here. Only me. Did Riley not want to come? I don’t know and don’t remember.

  I’m so glad to be here I want to dance and shout, but part of me wishes that I wasn’t alone. Just me and Butler Reginald. And some lady called Madame See — a very strange name. Why not Miss or Miz? I wonder how long she’s worked for Grammy Claire. Maybe they met while she was researching in Africa or India or China. I could never keep track.

  There’s still one more floor at the top of the house, and I practically race up the narrow steps, my sundress swishing against my legs, the brass key bouncing in my pocket. I’d buttoned the pocket just in case, so I wouldn’t accidentally lose the key.

  The fourth floor only has one fat, heavy door, and I’ve never been inside. Grammy Claire never let me up here — and the small, crooked steps in the dark, windowless passage are creepy.

  She told me there were delicate and complicated science experiments going on in this room and I was not to disturb them. Ever.

  I wonder what will happen to her laboratory equipment now that she’s gone. Maybe Butler Reginald’s instructions are to clean out the fourth-floor laboratory while I have a little vacation and Mamma has time to recuperate. I try not to think about how lonely I’ll be the next week without Riley. Instead, I’ve got the freedom to do whatever I want every single day.

  I pull the hallway light switch and as soon as the bulb glows, the faint sound of music wafts through the floorboards and oozes out the walls. Shimmery music, like an angel choir. Where is it coming from?

  A moment later, Butler Reginald calls my name from the bottom of the house.

  My stomach growls again, empty. Looks like my appetite is coming back. I hope Madame See fixes real food and not just rice with chopsticks and soy sauce.

  “Miss Tara! Where are you?”

  I run to the stairwell and yell, “Coming!” Then hurry back to Grammy Claire’s laboratory to check the doorknob, but it is truly locked. And I have no key.

  In the dim light, I see a note clipped to a nail on the door. Just a small square of cardstock hanging silent as a mouse. And written in my grandmother’s beautiful, familiar handwriting are the words, Not yet, Tara. Not yet. All my love forever, G. C.

  If nothing ever changed, there’d be no butterflies.

  ~UNKNOWN~

  Dinner is fried catfish and hush puppies and coleslaw with sherbet for dessert and fresh sliced strawberries spooned on top.

  I eat until I’m stuffed. Then I feel a bit sick when Butler Reginald shows me to my room. “I think my stomach shrank,” I whimper.

  “Madame See is an excellent cook. A warm bath will do you a world of good,” he tells me in his comforting accent. “Your private bath is right next door.”

  “Um, where is your room?”

  “I have arranged my belongings in the downstairs guest room. So the second floor is yours alone, Miss Tara.”

  I chew on some of my hair and nod. “So where is Madame See?”

  “She’s in a bedroom right by the kitchen. It was a servant’s room when the house was first built. She prefers it that way. Her English is only passable and she’ll only be with us for a few weeks before she returns to the island. Then you go home and so do I. Very simple.”

  “Did Grammy Claire know her from that island?”

  “I believe so. I’ve never met her myself until today. Your grandmother arranged all of this in case of an untimely death. She knew you would need quiet and privacy. There’s an open-ended airline ticket for myself and Madame See in case of an unexpected, um, situation such as her sudden demise. Your grandmother took precautions, planned ahead, and always thought of you and your sister.” He says this last part in a tight voice and I realize that he’s grieving a bit, too.

  During dinner, I’d caught glimpses of a round, short woman with thick black hair piled on top of her head. I’d figured she was from China or somewhere near it, but now that I think about it, she looks more like some sort of islander. From World Geography, I know that the Pacific Ocean is filled with thousands of islands. Grammy Claire had once shown me a map, but I know I won’t be able to find the right island again without someone pointing it out to me.

  When I’d dragged my suitcase and stuff upstairs, I’d heard the sounds of pots and pans and crackling hot oil coming from the kitchen. The smells had been heavenly. The food even better.

  “Where’d Madame See learn to cook like a Southern gramma?”

  Butler Reginald retrieves a set of bath towels from the linen closet. “The kitchen is well stocked with recipes and cookbooks. A professional cook learns how to make just about everything. Dinner reminded me of fish and chips as a boy in Leeds. Your grandmother wanted familiar, home-cooked food for you these first few days. She thought of everything. Even the menu.”

  I’m overwhelmed by Grammy Claire’s detailed instructions as I take the stack of towels and yawn, anxious to get a bath and unpack.

  Grammy Claire had also chosen my room for me, but it turned out to be the same room I’d used in the past, a bedroom overlooking the flower garden on the west side of the house.

  The walls are pale pink with green trim, the floorboa
rds so old they creak. The closet is one of those old-fashioned wardrobes. I hang up my clothes and then grab my nightgown and clean underwear and head for the bathroom.

  After I’m done bathing, I’m even sleepier. I close the curtains and notice that someone brought my pillow from home. I’m so tired and grateful to Butler Reginald, I almost break down crying again.

  While I comb out my wet hair, I put shirts and socks into the drawers inside the wardrobe. When I open the second to last drawer, it’s jammed shut. Some sort of tall wooden box inside is preventing the drawer from opening. Wiggling and tilting, I finally yank it open.

  An envelope slides out, too — and my name is on the front!

  The box is about the size of a jewelry box. On the lid there’s a swirl of knots and loops, inlaid with black onyx and amethyst. Wow. I’ve never seen this box before. It’s so gorgeous I just stare at it, running my hand over the purple stones. It’s also locked — with a big, fat, ugly padlock.

  I dig into the letter, dying to read what Grammy Claire is going to tell me next!

  Once again, the envelope is sealed, and the letters C.T.C. pressed into the wax while it was hot. Grammy Claire’s initials. The wax makes a hardened puddle, covering most of the envelope’s flap. If somebody else opened it up before I did, I’d know it for sure.

  Inside the new envelope are three notes numbered 1, 2, and 3. The first note is made of a cream-colored cardstock that’s been folded in thirds and taped shut. When I slit the tape and unfold it, a small silver key is fastened to the cardstock. A key tagged with the words Number Two.

  This key will probably open the jewelry box!

  When I stick the silver key into the padlock, it makes a popping noise. I jerk out the bolt and pull it apart to lift the lid. Inside the box is a huge assortment of keys, in all sizes and shapes. Modern keys and old-fashioned keys and skeleton keys. Every single key has a tag attached to it, looped with a thin gold thread — just like the key still sitting in my sundress pocket.

  I set the keys across the yellow embroidered coverlet, putting them in order. Number Three, Number Four, Number Five, Number Six, Number Seven, Number Eight, Number Nine, and finally Number Ten.

  Grabbing Key Number One that opened the back door to the house, I add it to its correct spot, as well as the key to the padlock, which is Key Number Two. I stare at all those keys until my eyes bug out of their sockets. Ten keys. Ten locks.

  Hurriedly, I open Note #2.

  Dearest Tara,

  What a treasure, eh? The keys in this beautiful box all belonged to me and now they belong to you. Guard them with your life. If I told you right now what they opened nothing would make sense, but all in good time, darling child. When the time is right, you will know the answers to all your questions. You may have to figure out a few mysteries and puzzles along the way, but I know you can do it. If you need Riley’s help, know that you can trust her.

  I stop reading and frown. Now that Riley’s gone, she’s no use at all. I’m angry at her for leaving, but she misses Daddy more than I do. She’s got more memories of him.

  And now I realize that I miss her — even if she yells a lot. This house is so very quiet, but I keep reading, shivers dancing along my arms.

  Remember what I said from the first letter earlier today.

  All my love forever,

  Your Grammy Claire

  P.S. If you’re wondering where the unique box came from, I received it as a wedding gift from your old romantic granddaddy. He got it from Miz Annie Chaisson, a woman who lived in the swamp and one of my dearest friends before she passed two years ago. She was also a healer, a traiteur, which is a Cajun French word for someone who treats and heals sick folks. Miz Annie had a special knowledge of herbs, too. Your mamma has suffered from “melancholy,” ever since she was a teenager, but don’t hold it against her. When I took your mamma to visit her, Miz Annie always knew what concoction to give Becca, plus all those prayers and love Miz Annie blessed her with. Your mamma — she really does need you. Forgive her and love her. And Riley, too!

  My mind whirls as I run a finger over the paper and chills run down my neck.

  “I’ll bet Grammy Claire’s talking about the mother of Miz Mirage, the woman who lives in the swamp,” I say out loud. “The one all the kids at school call a swamp witch.” I’d always heard she was spooky and might put a spell on you. Now I wonder. “Maybe what she does ain’t bad magic at all.”

  Words dance in front of my eyes. Herbs. Healing. Prayers. Love.

  Swallowing hard, I think about that new girl last year at school, Shelby Jayne, the daughter of Miz Mirage. I think about how I teased her and dared her to jump off the old broken pier into the bayou where the alligators swim.

  I feel myself go hot as I realize that since my Grammy Claire used to take my mamma to get healed by Miz Annie, she must also know Shelby Jayne’s mamma, Miz Mirage. How peculiar. I also notice that Miz Annie has the same last name Grammy Claire does. Were they related? Or is it just coincidence?

  Another thought races into my head. A good one. Miz Mirage is a traiteur — and she’s still alive. Maybe she can help my mamma now, just as Miz Annie did all those years ago. I can’t stand the thought of Mamma rotting away in that South Wing for the rest of her life, and now me and Mamma and Riley are all in different spots around the country. Separated. Alone. Doesn’t feel right at all.

  I take a shaky breath and open Note #3, written on the same paper as the first two.

  Key Number Three is next, Tara: You’ll find it will work in my bedroom, but more details than that I cannot give you. It’s a matter of security. You’re a smart girl and I have no worries about you. As long as you know that the nipwisipwis is the most important thing in the world right now. Above anything else! Even your very life!

  IMPORTANT: Destroy Note #3 about the key ASAP!

  My heart is beating so fast I can barely hear myself think. Destroy this note? What is my grandmother afraid of? Cold chills run along my arms and legs. And what the heck does nipwisipwis mean? How can nipwisipwis be more important than my own life? Is someone gonna kill me over some freaky-sounding word like nipwisipwis?

  I hold Grammy Claire’s new letter with all its words and stories tight to my chest, wanting to hug it, wanting to kiss it, wishing so bad I could hug her one more time.

  The letters are more of a treasure than the box or the keys. I read every word ten times over, soaking it up, laughing because I can hear her voice in my head, like she’s talking to me.

  Except for that whole nipwisipwis thing … which is giving me the heebie-jeebies.

  I scoop up the ten keys in my hands, cupping my palms to hold them all together. Ten mysterious keys straight from Grammy Claire. Ten keys that unlock what?

  I pour the jumble of silver and gold and brass through my fingers like the keys are jewels, the tags fluttering like wings as they fall on the bedspread.

  I feel like I’ve got ten secrets.

  With a start, I notice that my yellow bedspread is embroidered in butterflies, and that every one of them is outlined in gold thread. The bedspread is like an omen, and I can’t shake off the memory of the four butterflies I saw today. Two flying right into my window, the blue butterfly and Mamma, and the orange-and-black monarch fluttering behind our car. What do those butterflies mean? Probably nothing. I’m probably turning as loony as Mamma. But I get chills when I remember the purple butterfly looking into my eyes, like it was reading my thoughts. The way it clung to my finger, then landed on my heart for that single, magical moment. I get shivers all over again.

  No, there were five butterflies today. A butterfly had died a dreadful death on Riley’s dresser. I can still picture the smashed wings, the broken body. I wish I could have saved it.

  A butterfly had come to Riley, too. It was a sign. And she wasn’t here.

  I’m so tired I’m about to fall over, but now I have to go to Grammy Claire’s bedroom.

  First, I have to destroy the note as instructed, bu
t I can’t just tear it into pieces. Someone could come along and tape it back together. I decide to burn it and then flush it down the toilet.

  As I tiptoe down the main staircase to find a box of matches in the dark kitchen, the front door crashes wide open. And someone starts yelling at the top of their lungs.

  There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it’s going to be a butterfly.

  ~RICHARD BUCKMINSTER FULLER~

  I leap off the bottom step, slip, and slide on the polished floor. And crash-land right into Riley.

  She’s like a ghost come back from the dead. Or, rather, from Hollywood.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask her, completely shocked to see her.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She dumps two suitcases, a duffel bag, a backpack, and a couple of black hoodie sweatshirts onto the floor of Grammy Claire’s foyer.

  “What happened to the flight? Did you already go and come back again?” I’m puzzling out how she could have flown there and returned so fast. My brain isn’t working.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You said that already.”

  “What part of, ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ don’t you understand?” Her eyes are wild in the dim light. Her skin looks pasty white like she hasn’t eaten or slept in a week.

  “But Daddy sent you a ticket! I didn’t think I’d see you until school starts again — if you didn’t desert me and never come home again.” That scenario had actually crossed my mind.

  “That makes two of us.” Her voice is edged in broken glass, and she looks like she wants to claw someone — anyone.

  But I feel strangely relieved to see her. I want to hug her, but I don’t dare. She might draw blood.

  “Was the flight canceled?”

  “No!”