Butterfly Girl

by Wayne Purdy

  “But the army wasn’t a good place for him, was it?”

  “He didn’t fit in. After all them years under Grant’s thumb, I don’t think Mark was able to obey orders easily. He was always getting’ in trouble. Insubordination, they called it. They moved him into intelligence, and at first, he seemed to thrive. He learned computers. Was getting’ good at it. Said he hoped to get a job with one of them nerd squads at the electronics store when he was done in the army.”

  I smiled. With his training, he would have been qualified for much higher paying jobs.

  “It didn’t last long. Soon, he was in trouble. That’s when he started to embrace who he was, instead of trying to live a lie. He began wearing women’s clothing. Asked me to send him stuff. Underwear, dresses, girlie stuff. I did what I could, but I told him he had to be careful. Men over there wouldn’t understand.”

  “Did he have a partner there. A boyfriend?”

  “He did. He never told me his name. It was an officer. They could have both been in big trouble. The army doesn’t like officers and the enlisted men fucking. They think its okay to kill a man, but you had better not love one. So, they kept the affair secret. The man was real kind. Supported Mark. That’s when he took the name Gracie and started talking about transitioning to a woman. He wanted to start on the hormone therapy. Things were finally coming together.”

  “What happened?”

  “What always happened. Gracie got into trouble with the higher-ups. I don’t know what. Gracie never said, but it was bad. She said they were kicking her out. She wanted to come home, wait for her man to finish his service, and then they could be together. She never made it home.”

  A long silence hung in the space between us. She lit another smoke and took a long puff. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Will you catch him? The man that took my boy…my Gracie?” She corrected herself.

  “I will.”

  She nodded appreciatively. As I let myself out of her home, I turned back. Irene was staring pensively at her little makeshift shrine. If I had any regrets about giving away my service medal, they’d disappeared. Gracie earned it. Maybe Irene had too.

  8

  Hazel

  It was a quarter to three in the morning on Thursday when Hazel finally got home. Jess was asleep on the couch, her novel spread out on her breast, like a comfortable blanket. Hazel gently touched her arm, trying not to startle her.

  “Jess. I’m home.”

  Jess stirred and slowly sat up. “Must have dozed off.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Just Eddie. He tried to come in. I wouldn’t let him. He’d been drinking. You know what I think of him.” Her jaw was clenched. Jess had never been one to keep her thoughts to herself and she wasn’t shy about her opinions on Eddie in particular.

  “I’ll call him in the morning. He knows he’s not supposed to show up here. What did he want?”

  “He wanted to see Jaimie. It was eleven o’clock! She had been asleep for hours. Does he really not know what time kids go to bed?”

  “He thinks they’re little adults.” Hazel sighed in frustration.

  “Which is strange, because he thinks he’s a child. I don’t want him here when I’m looking after Jaimie. He makes me uncomfortable. Sorry.”

  “I understand, Jess. I do. “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I promise.” Hazel paid Jess and walked her out to the door.

  “Tomorrow?” Jess asked, stifling a yawn.

  “Same bat-time, Same bat-place,” Hazel said. Jess smiled. Neither young woman had ever seen the campy Batman series from the 60s, but they both knew the familiar catchphrase. Hazel fumed as she checked in on her sleeping daughter. Eddie wasn’t supposed to show up, especially while she was at work. Jess didn’t charge a lot and she would sit in the middle of the night. It wasn’t easy to find a babysitter that would. Unless Eddie wanted to step up and care for his daughter while she worked, Hazel simply couldn’t afford to lose Jess.

  Jaime was curled up into a tight little ball, the blankets kicked off and pooling on the floor. Hazel picked up the blanket and tucked Jaimie in. Jaimie’s arms held a stuffed teddy bear close to her, as though she were providing it with comfort and not the other way around. Hazel bent, and lightly kissed her cheek. She went into the kitchen and pulled out the wad of bills she had earned and added a twenty to the Dream Jar. It was quickly filling up.

  Then she went into her bedroom and changed into a comfy pair of pyjamas. Returning to the kitchen, she took a quart of Ben and Jerry’s from the freezer and plopped down onto her second-hand sofa, turned on the tv, and queued up the Ted Bundy documentary that she’d been meaning to watch. It had gotten good reviews, and she always liked the true crime documentaries. She planned to watch just one episode before going to bed.

  Hazel woke with a start. She was on the couch, her head positioned uncomfortably on the armrest. The television was on, with a screen asking if she was still watching. What time is it? The digital display on the cable box flashed 4:33. Then she heard it again; a clumsy knocking followed with a barely restrained whisper. “Haze? You up? Hazel?”

  It was Eddie. She opened the door a crack. Eddie stood in the hallway, teetering. He reeked of beer.

  “Haze,” he said, forgoing any efforts at keeping quiet. “Let me in!”

  “What do you want?”

  “Let me in, Haze.”

  Reluctantly, she opened the door, more to keep him from waking the neighbours than anything else. Eddie tottered in like a sailor trying to find his sea legs. A funk of stale beer and cigarettes clung to him like a desperate lover. His light brown, shoulder length hair was dishevelled. The bags under his eyes were dark and heavy. His shirt tails were partially tucked or untucked, depending on your perspective, and his skinny jeans were stained with grass and dirt. Once invited across the threshold, he leaned in for a kiss as if he were one of the charming vampires in Jess’s books. Hazel recoiled.

  “You smell like a brewery.”

  “I had a couple drinks, so what?” He pulled her close to him. She could feel his arousal through his jeans, burning hot against the flat of her stomach. She pushed away from him, sending him reeling.

  “Do what you want, but don’t think you’re getting anything from me. You think you can come here and just fuck me whenever you want?”

  “Come on, babe,” he said, reaching a hand around her and planting it firmly on her ass. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.”

  “I don’t care,” she said, wriggling out of his grasp. “I told you last time. We’re through.”

  “We can’t be through. There’s too much history.”

  “Not much of it is good.”

  “Why do you have to be so mean? I just came here to-”

  “To what?” Hazel asked, her blood rising, daring him to complete the sentence.

  Foolishly, he took that dare. “You give it away free every night,” he said petulantly.

  “I’m not a whore!”

  “You should be grateful that I want you. That anyone could want you, after what you did.” He jutted his chin out, proud of the blow he struck. It hit its mark; he could tell by the way she stiffened.

  Hazel’s eyes narrowed. “You always have to throw that in my face.” She tried to keep her voice even, not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

  “I’m not throwing anything in your face. You act like you’re so special, but you’re no virgin. We both know that. Besides, you let men see you naked every night.”

  “Maybe if you’d throw in a few dollars now and again, I wouldn’t have to dance-”

  “Now she calls it dancing! Meanwhile, anyone with a couple bucks gets a peep, and anyone with a couple more bucks gets to-”

  She slapped him before he could finish the sentence. The hurt blossomed into anger. He stared at her but couldn’t match her white-hot rage. He changed tack, looking sorrowful. “I’m sorry Haze. I didn’t mean that.”

  “You need to leave. Now,”
she said, her nostrils flaring.

  “Come on, Haze. I said I was sorry.”

  “Eddie, I love you. I don’t know why, but I do. The thing is, you’re bad news. You’re bad for me and you’re bad for Jaimie. I’m trying to do better. To be better. If you want to be a part of our lives, you’ll do better too. Jaimie deserves that, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m trying. I’m writing a screenplay. Did I tell you that?”

  Hazel rolled her eyes. Eddie the dreamer. Just what the world needed was another unfinished screenplay to complement the scores of all his other truncated magna opera. “Get your shit together, Eddie. Dreams don’t pay the bills.”

  “I will. I promise. Can you spot me a couple bucks? Help me get on my feet?”

  “No, Eddie. I can’t. Not one more dime from me. You’re a taker, Eddie. You take and you take. I can’t, Eddie. Not until you make changes.”

  “Momma?” A little voice said, breaking through the tumult. “Are you mad at Daddy?”

  Hazel turned and saw Jaimie cradling her stuffed elephant to her chest. “No, Pookie. We’re just having a disagreement.”

  “Is Daddy having a disagreement too?”

  “Yes. He is too.”

  “Is Daddy staying?”

  Hazel and Eddie shared a glance. Finally, Eddie spoke. “Daddy’s going home.”

  “Okay,” Jaime said.

  “You need to go to sleep.” She took her by the hand and started back to her bedroom.

  “Good night, Daddy.”

  “Nighty night, Jamie.”

  Hazel turned towards Eddie and mouthed, Go.

  “I’m going. Gotta take a piss first.”

  Jaimie giggled. “Daddy said a bad word.”

  “I know he did.” When Hazel returned to the living room, Eddie was gone.

  Morning came too quickly for Hazel’s liking. Eddie had gotten her dander up and sleep didn’t come easily, if it did at all. She wasn’t sure if she slept. She didn’t feel rested. She poured Jaimie a bowl of sugary cereal and made a piece of toast with peanut butter and jam. The pint of ice cream had melted into a slurry of Cherry Garcia. Jaimie wasn’t pleased to see the wasted ice cream, which would prove to be a bone of contention for the rest of the day. Hazel had a cold shower, hoping it would jolt her into alertness. Then she blow-dried her hair before brushing it and applying makeup. She wore a pretty sundress with a knitted cardigan, covering up her tattoos. Her grandmother knew about them. She didn’t love them, but she liked them better than the scars. She laid out a cute little denim dress with a striped shirt for Jaimie.

  “I want to make a drawing for Sobo,” Jaimie said.

  “Good idea, Pookie.” The little girl went into her bedroom and returned to the table with a piece of purple construction paper and a pack of crayons. Sobo, Hazel’s grandmother, was the only member of the family that still talked to Hazel. Everyone else either distanced themselves or disowned her outright when she’d gotten into trouble. She’d brought shame to the family, but Sobo felt the greater shame was abandoning family, especially when they needed help the most.

  When Jaimie finished her art, mother and daughter made their way to the subway and boarded the eastbound train. They got off at Victoria Park, and waited for the bus. The commute took an hour, but they dutifully travelled it every week. It wasn’t a chore. Hazel loved her sobo. Most of her friends had lost their grandparents, and Hazel knew it was a privilege to still have one of hers, especially her favourite.

  ◆◆◆

  They arrived at the retirement home, the Claremont Byrne Place. The nurse at the check-in desk smiled as they entered. Hazel visited every week, and the staff all knew her well. There were common areas interspersed throughout the building, with floral couches and chairs for family members and residents to sit on. The hallways were wide, to accommodate wheelchairs and other mobility devices, and potted plants appeared in clusters around bay windows. In one corner, there was a piano, a vase of pink lilies sat on its top board. An old woman with purple-gray hair sat at the bench playing an old jazz tune. Another woman stood and started dancing purposefully, with careful, but graceful movements, like playing an old super 8 in slow motion.

  They went through the side door nearest Sobo’s room. Her door was closed, so Hazel knocked. There was no response, and Hazel opened it a crack. “Sobo? It’s Hazel and Jaimie.” The bed was neatly made, and the curtains opened. A bar of light wafted in and washed the room with its warmth.

  “She must be in the lounge.” Jaime, drawing in hand, ran ahead. Hazel trailed behind, stopping to talk to Sobo’s neighbour, Mr. Costanza. Mr. Costanza was in his late eighties. He had thin white hair that was always neatly parted to the side in the style that he had all his adult life. His face was lined with wrinkles and liver spots, but his blue eyes twinkled with a youthful mischievousness. He walked, slowly, with a cane, and his posture was hunched.

  “Hazel,” Mr. Costanza said. He used his free hand to take hers in a warm greeting. There was still strength there, she noted. His body was weakening, but not weak. “You looking for Dusty?” He called Sobo that affectionately. At ninety-two, she was fleet of foot. She used a walker to get around, but she broke land speed records with it. The running joke within the residence was that she left a cloud of dust everywhere she went.

  “How are you, Mr. Costanza?”

  “I’m on this side of the turf. At my age, that’s as good of a way as any to start the day.”

  “My age too.”

  “I suppose it is. Your grandmother is one stubborn woman,” he said in a mock serious tone.

  “How so?”

  “Everyday, I ask her to marry me, let me take her away from all this,” he spread his arms in a wide arc, cane whipping around hazardously, drawing attention to the common area of the Claremont Byrne Place. It was not a place anyone needed rescuing from.

  “I’m sure she’ll come to her senses one day.”

  “I’m an old man. She’s racing the clock.”

  “You’ve still got a lot of years left on the odometer.” Hazel patted him endearingly on the arm and parted company. He spotted the woman dancing by the piano and turned his charms on her.

  Jaimie sat on Sobo’s lap, showing her the drawing. Sobo sat on a red, velvety armchair that looked as comfortable as a cloud. She held her great-granddaughter tightly, gleefully taking in the drawing.

  “Aren’t you clever?” Sobo said to Jaimie, pinching the apple of her cheek. Sobo was a tiny Japanese woman, the first of her family to be born in Canada. She was fifteen when the government took her family, robbed them of everything and locked them away, fearful that they might be enemy agents during the war. It was ridiculous. Sobo’s parents had considered themselves Canadian, at least until that day. Her father died a broken, bitter man, unable to forgive the country that had betrayed him. Sobo was able to put it behind her. She had loved, raised a family, enjoyed her grandchildren, and now, her great-grandchildren. Life had been good to her.

  Sobo shrunk in her old age, but her presence loomed beyond her physical self. Her white hair was thin, bald in places, and she had even more wrinkles than Mr. Costanza. Her smile reached her umber eyes and radiated an amiable approachability. People liked Sobo. They always had. Hazel envied her that. Hazel could be aloof to the point of arrogant.

  “I was just talking to Mr. Costanza. He says he keeps asking you to marry him,” Hazel said.

  “That old letch. He doesn’t want to marry me. He just wants to get into my pants,” Sobo said, without missing a beat. Hazel hoped she was joking. She recalled a news report about a gonorrhea outbreak in senior’s homes, because of the rampant, unprotected sex. She shuddered at the thought, but then pushed it away. If Sobo wanted to get her freak on, who was Hazel to judge? She wasn’t going to clam jam another woman, certainly not her own grandmother.

  “Can you blame him?”

  Sobo laughed uproariously.

  Hazel took the three of them to the little diner down the street for dinner, and
then brought Sobo back to her room. On their way to the main foyer, Hazel spotted a familiar figure entering the building. She was an older, petite woman, with streaks of iron-grey in her short, dark hair. The woman wore a pair of dark slacks and a blouse underneath a lilac windbreaker. She saw Hazel, stopped, and started to turn around, but Hazel spoke first.

  “Hello mother.”

  The woman looked at Hazel with a stony gaze, but it softened when her eyes fell on Jaimie. “Is this my granddaughter?”

  “This is my daughter. Jaime.”

  Hazel’s mother squatted down to Jaimie’s level, and held her hand. “I’m your Sobo.”

  Jaimie looked at her mother, eyes wide as saucers. “I have my own sobo?”

  “She hasn’t seen you since you were a baby.”

  Hazel’s mother looked up at Hazel. “That was your decision.”

  “I needed you and you threw me out.”

  “After everything that you did. What choice did we have?” Her hands came up like a martyr’s.

  “I don’t want to talk about it now, Mother.” Hazel took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

  “What did you do, Momma?” Jaimie asked. The notion that her mother could do anything wrong was foreign to her.

  “I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Hazel said, knowing that it was a lie. How could she ever tell her daughter about all the things she had done. All the men who lay on top of her, grunting, planting their semen inside her, reducing her to a receptacle. The abuse she had put herself through. Brent Turner and Raj Patel drunk with lust and cheap beer, and their cruel betrayals. Her equally cruel revenge. The hot bath and the cold razor. She could never tell Jaimie any of that. She could scarcely think of it herself.