The Butterfly Garden

by Mary Campisi

  Jenny knew by the expression on his face that he was talking about much more than a butterfly. “It’s your ex-wife, right? That’s who you’re thinking about, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I’m talking about life and people in general.”

  “Oh, the old ‘If you love something, set it free’ thing?”

  Elliot smiled. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I never caught anything long enough to set it free,” she said, on a half-laugh that sputtered into silence.

  He watched her, his dark eyes intense. “Why haven’t you ever married?”

  That came out of nowhere. She opened her mouth to throw out a flip answer, tell him she couldn’t find a guy with the right highlights in his hair or some equally ridiculous answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Truth and honesty, he’d said.

  “I almost got married once in college.” She looked away, her eyes on a cluster of lavender. “His name was Reed Maxwell and he was in his second year of law school. I used to sit in the library and write ‘Mrs. Jennifer Maxwell’ all over my notebook, in cursive, block, print, curly-Q’s, you name it. I thought he loved me, and I think maybe he really did, but then he took me home one weekend to meet his parents and when we came back, he dumped me, told me he didn’t think I’d make a ‘good corporate wife,’ said I was too ‘bohemian,’ too outspoken. And then,” her voice fell to a whisper, edged in pain, “then, he asked me why I couldn’t be more like my sister.”

  “He was a fool.”

  She went on as though she hadn’t heard him. “And I think that’s what I resented the most, not the fact that he didn’t approve of the three-inch hoops I wore or the suede satchel I carried everywhere. It was the comparison to Grace, the fact that he made a point of bringing it out in the open, making a statement. ‘Why can’t you be more like your sister?’ I’d spent my whole life hearing my mother say that, wondering it myself, and then to hear it from the man who claimed to love me? For a long time after that, I resented him, and for a while I even resented Grace. I used to do outrageous things just to get a reaction from people even if it wasn’t what I really wanted to do. It was something I felt I had to do, a way to hold onto my own identity. But sometimes I used to wish I was more like Grace. Then I would have married Reed, not that it would have worked, because obviously, it wouldn’t, but it would have been my choice and it would have been so much easier to be like her.”

  “And how is she, Jenny?”

  “Accepted.”

  “And you’re not?”

  She shrugged. “Not always.”

  “I accept you.”

  She looked at him and there were tears in her eyes.

  He leaned toward her, brushed her lips with his mouth. “Never change, Jenny,” he whispered. “Never change.”

  19

  Elliot lifted an orange dahlia from the plastic flat beside him, plopped it in the hole next to the marigolds. He tamped the ground around the flower in place, whistled as he turned back to the flat.

  “Well, well, aren’t we in a chipper mood this morning.”

  He shielded his eyes with his forearm. “Hello, Eleanor.”

  “And I can tell you, the last one, the biochemist, she never made you whistle like that. No indeed.” She waddled toward him, her gray bun flopping with each step. She wore a bright green skirt and a white, short-sleeved blouse with stockings and green sandals. How did someone as round as Eleanor have such tiny feet? Jenny’s were long and slim, her toes, delicate…

  “So, how is our Jenny?”

  He figured she’d taken to calling Jenny “our Jenny” to try and give him an extra push in Jenny’s direction, not that he needed it, not after yesterday. His pulse tripled and shot to his groin. Was he ever going to be able to think of anything but yesterday? Jenny lying naked underneath him, Jenny straddling him, Jenny throwing her head back in pleasure. Jenny…

  “Elliot?” Eleanor raised her voice. “How is our Jenny?”

  “Fine,” he mumbled, turning back to the dahlias. And her touch, soft and gentle…

  “And?”

  …and her tongue, oh, yes, that tongue…

  “Elliot Drake, are you listening to me?”

  He shook his head, tried to push Jenny and her throaty laugh out of his mind. “I’m listening, Eleanor.”

  “So, tell me, what did you two do?” She moved so she could see his face. “Did you go to dinner? Talk for three hours?” Her voice dipped. “Stare into each other’s eyes? Kiss? Did you kiss her, Elliot, make her all flushed and flustered?”

  Flushed and flustered? Now there was a question. He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Eleanor, yes to all of the above.”

  * * *

  The doorbell rang while Jenny was putting away groceries.

  “I’ll get it,” Grace called from the living room.

  “You will not. It’s probably some salesperson anyway, and you don’t need to deal with that.” Jenny hurried from the kitchen and through the living room, preparing her “Thank you but we’re not interested” speech. She opened the door and stared at the tall, very handsome man, holding a bouquet of white roses. He had a deep, golden tan and high cheekbones with a straight nose. Very nice. His eyes were silver and shiny, like a new coin. His hair, the color of warm caramel, brushed his shoulders, with golden highlights and a cowlick in the front. He wore a black T-shirt with a camel-colored sport jacket, black pants, and black leather loafers.

  “Hi. Is Grace here?” His voice was smooth and velvety, like a fine bottle of Chardonnay.

  “Uh…sure. Come in.” Who was this guy? Correction: who was this gorgeous guy and why was he holding a mountain of roses?

  “Guy!” Grace made her way toward Mr. Gorgeous, eyes bright, a smile spreading over her lips. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  The man named Guy was at her side in three strides, his face filled with concern. “I didn’t know, Grace,” he said, and there was pain in his voice. “I didn’t know…” He set the flowers on the end table and pulled Grace into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

  Grace sniffed, swiped at her eyes. “Thank you. How could you have known when you were halfway around the world?”

  “But I should have been here, the way you were here for me.”

  “I wasn’t alone. Jenny was here.” She turned to Jenny, who felt as though she were in a play where someone forgot to give her a script. “Jenny, I’d like you to meet Guy Delacroix. Guy’s the art teacher at Keystone Elementary, or was; he took a sabbatical to paint in France. He and I have known each other for years.” She extended her hand. “Guy, this is my sister, Jenny.”

  He smiled at her. “Ah, the infamous Jenny.”

  Jenny smiled back. “Infamous? I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

  He stepped forward and took her hand in his. “I’ve heard only good things from Grace.”

  “Of course I showed him pictures of your condo,” Grace said.

  “I especially liked the herb garden.” He nodded and she spotted the glint of a gold hoop in his left ear. “Your designer is quite creative.”

  “Stefan does take pride in his creativity.” Who was this man, really? And why was he here? Jenny hadn’t missed the way he looked at Grace as she walked toward him…like a long-lost…what? Soulmate…friend…more than friend?

  “Come in, Guy. Sit down and tell me all about France.”

  “First, I want to hear about you, Grace.” He touched her shoulder, his voice dipped. “I want to hear how you’re doing.”

  “Well, I think my hair suffered the most,” she said with a laugh, patting the pink flowered bandanna on her head. “It’s a close second to ground cover.”

  Guy didn’t laugh. “You had beautiful hair.”

  “It’ll grow back.” She motioned toward the couch and sat beside him. “I’m so happy to see you. And thank you for the beautiful roses.” She glanced at the bouquet behind her, reached out and fingered a petal. “Now, I want to hear all about France.”<
br />
  “But you—”

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice shook, leveled out. “I’ve lived it every day for weeks. I…I just want to let it go, okay?”

  He took her hand, smiled. “Sure, Grace. That’s fine with me.”

  Jenny slipped into the kitchen but neither of them noticed.

  For the next two hours, Jenny put away groceries, made hamburger patties for tonight’s dinner, stared out the window reliving every minute detail of yesterday afternoon with Elliot, down to the whisker burns on her right breast, and wondered about the man in the living room.

  She tried to catch snippets of conversation, but aside from an occasional laugh or an “Oh, really?” Jenny couldn’t tell what they were saying. Finally, at 4:00 o’clock, Guy Delacroix left.

  At 4:02, Jenny descended upon her sister and said, “Okay, what gives?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the guy. Guy? Who is he?”

  “I told you.” Grace dropped into her recliner. There was color in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright, happy. “Guy is a friend from school.”

  “Right.”

  “His wife and I shared a kindergarten class. I had mornings and she had afternoons. Guy and I became friends when Pam was diagnosed with leukemia.” She paused. “She only lived five months.”

  “I saw the way he was looking at you,” Jenny said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “What way? He looks at everybody that way.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “We’re friends,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “I’ll bet he’d like it to be more.”

  “How can you even talk like this? Grant hasn’t been dead—”

  “Grant? What’s this got to do with Grant? He had a girlfriend, remember?”

  “He was still my husband.” Grace sucked in a deep breath. “I still loved him.”

  “I know. I’m just asking about this Guy person.”

  “This is so silly; he’s not even my type.”

  “Oh? From what I could tell, a man who looks like that would be just about any woman’s type.”

  “He’s younger than I am.”

  Jenny raised a brow. “How much younger?”

  “He’s thirty-two,” she said, playing with the fringe on a beige pillow.

  “So what’s four years?”

  “He’s not my type.”

  So. Had she thought about it? Possibly considered it? “How do you know that?”

  “His hair touches his shoulders.”

  Jenny laughed. “Oh, my God, Grace. His hair touches his shoulders? He should be jailed.”

  “Oh, be quiet.”

  “Is his hair length the major reason that you’ve decided he’s not your type?”

  “No.” She said the word with such authority, such finality.

  Jenny waited.

  “He,” she paused, looked away. “Has an earring.”

  “That’s right, I noticed. So, he has an earring, is thirty-two, gorgeous, let’s not forget that, with hair touching his shoulders. Anything else?”

  “No. He’s just a really nice guy. That’s all. A friend, Jenny,” she said, “a friend.”

  * * *

  “I’ll carry the watermelon,” Jenny said, hefting it onto the kitchen table with a thunk. “You get the macaroni salad.”

  “Fine.”

  Grace had her back to Jenny, staring out the window, shoulders ramrod straight. Laura had expected them at her house fifteen minutes ago. Grace hadn’t wanted to go to the block party, had tried every excuse to beg off; she needed more time, everyone would be looking at her, asking too many questions, drawing too many conclusions, her hair was too short, her smile too wobbly, her pain too new.

  She was probably right. But Jenny had persisted, pushed past her sister’s initial resistance, and convinced her to make an appearance, shoulders back, head high, as a woman, alone, yes, but proud and alive. A survivor. She could do it. And Jenny would be right by her side, warding off the too-curious, spurning the naysayers.

  “Are you ready, Grace?”

  “Just give me a minute.”

  Something in her voice caught Jenny’s attention. Grace was staring out the window, but her right hand clutched a wooden spoon, her knuckles white and straining.

  “Grace?”

  “What?” She tore her gaze from the window and plunged the wooden spoon into the macaroni salad, turning it with quick, forceful strokes. Or perhaps pounding would have been a better word. Ten more rotations and they’d be eating mush salad instead of macaroni salad.

  Jenny grabbed the end of the spoon. “Stop. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Grace said, with about as much conviction as a thirteen-year-old saying he’d rather eat his mother’s meatloaf than pizza.

  “Come on, Gracie. It’s me, remember? I’m supposed to come to your aid in time of need and all that, so do me a favor and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Grace turned to her then, a slight half-movement, but it was enough to see the agony carved out on her face. “Oh, Jenny,” she said, her voice raw with pain, “I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

  Jenny touched her sister’s shoulder, squeezed. “Sooner or later, you have to, Gracie. I’ll help you.”

  “But all those people,” she breathed. “Laura said most of the neighborhood would be coming.”

  “What better time to show everybody you’re alive and well?”

  “Look at me,” she said, swinging around to face Jenny. “Look at me! I’m pitiful. No, I’m more than pitiful. I’m pathetic.”

  Jenny looked at her sister, tears shimmering in eyes the color of molasses, and thought she was beautiful. But then she’d always thought that, ever since they were kids. Not in the classic lines and shapes that people write about and magazine covers try to enhance as angular, hip fashion, but in a soul-deep, connected, luminescent type beauty, the kind that touches you when she smiles and makes you say, “Ah, yes!”

  “I think you look beautiful,” Jenny said. And she did. Not quite the same as before, because her hair was clipped and covered with a burgundy bandanna. But there was something else, something deeper than a mere visual that changed her appearance. Maybe it was vulnerability, hovering just below the surface, spreading through her, into her smile, her eyes, her fingers. Spreading everywhere.

  “Haven’t you noticed the way I tremble sometimes?” Grace asked, a tear spilling down her cheek. “For no reason?” She held out both hands, palms down. “I think of the accident, of what happened, and it starts.” Her eyes grew wider. “And even when I force myself not to think of it, I still feel my body shaking.”

  Maybe Jenny had seen it once or twice, a fine shiver running over her sister that she’d attributed to cold or maybe a split-second recall of the accident, but it was fleeting and Grace never mentioned it. Neither did Jenny.

  “I wake up in the middle of the night and I’m soaking wet,” she said. “Elliot tells me it’s anxiety.” She laughed, a brittle sound filled with despair and betrayal. “Anxiety, Jenny. Think of that.”

  “I’m sure it’s normal, Gracie,” Jenny said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Normal?” She swiped at a stray tear. “Nothing will ever be normal again.” She shook her head and sniffed. “Not for me.”

  Jenny rested her hands on her sister’s shoulders, met her gaze. “Then you’ll do the best you can,” she said. “You will get through this.”

  “I’m so tired of pretending. I don’t think I can face everyone today. They’ll all be telling me how sorry they are, what a wonderful couple Grant and I made, how tragic and pointless it all is.” She drew in a deep breath, held it a second, blew it out. “And I’ll have to stand there and nod and smile, when all I really want to say is what a cheating, lying bastard he was and how I’m better off without him. I’m glad he’s dead, Jenny,” she whispered. “Isn’t that horrible to say about the girls’ father?”

  “No, n
ot considering the circumstances.” Or the fact that if he weren’t already dead, Jenny would have killed him herself, after she’d castrated him, of course.

  “I feel guilty,” she said, swiping at her eyes. “I should put it all behind me, maybe even try to forgive him. I know that’s what I should do. I know it’s the healthy thing to do. Mentally, physically, emotionally.” Her lower lip started to quiver. “You have no idea how I hate him.”

  No, she didn’t know. If it was Jenny, she’d still be plotting revenge, even though he was six feet under.

  “Hate is so insidious. I know that. And yet, I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “I know.”

  “But Elliot says there will come a time when I have to choose between feeding the hate or living my life.”

  Jenny chewed on her lower lip, thought of Elliot. “I think he may be right,” she said.

  Grace nodded and her eyes welled up again. “But not now. Not yet.” Her gaze shifted to the refrigerator. Jenny’s followed. There were three magnetic picture frames trimmed in white daisies, lined up on the white door just below the refrigerator’s logo. Inside the cut-out vinyl frames were three smiling faces; Grace, Danielle, and Natalie. There had been a fourth frame, next to Grace’s. Jenny noticed it the day she arrived, the day Grant died. Now, it was gone, all traces of its existence erased, a sad testimony to love, marriage, and the age-old institution known as family.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Grace blew her nose, splashed water on her face, and picked up the glass bowl of macaroni salad covered with plastic wrap. Ten minutes after that, she followed Jenny, Danielle, and Natalie down the street to Laura and Hank’s backyard, the central food dropoff, grilling location. They’d just deposited the macaroni salad and watermelon on one of the long red-white-and-blue paper-covered picnic tables when Jenny heard a familiar voice.

  “Grace!”