Matilda Jasodhra caught her daughter’s distraction and dug her fingers into her daughter’s shoulders. Meera Meera Johna winced. Isabella Tatiana’s smile broadened, but only, Meera Meera Johna thought, for Meera Meera Johna herself to see, and . . . and. And she winked. That was a wink, wasn’t it? All of this, but Meera Meera Johna, nevertheless, drew to her mother’s attention.
A man, whose face was unknown to her, instructed her in a jovial, mischievous, and booming voice that she should ask the nation’s president for absolutely-absolutely anything her little heart desired, and surely-surely it would be granted. The other guests laughed, raucously. Her Excellency Lady Oswald Jones, wearing around her neck a heavy silver chain (that drew attention to itself and away from her bony neck) from which hung a silver pendant inlaid with dazzling blue patterns, managed a stony smile. Meera Meera Johna’s eyes grew big. As much as she was tempted to bring notice to the unfortunate fashion faux pas, Meera Meera Johna kept to herself this queerness. By drawing on knowledge garnered from watching and listening to the main woman in her life, her mother that is, she intuitively conjectured that mentioning the faux pas would surely embarrass the two women, and without any hint of her distraction she simply looked up into the president’s eyes and said, “Really?”
His Excellency laughed and told her to whisper in his ear and he would do his utmost to please her. A squawking chortle erupted on the patio again. His Excellency stooped and Meera Meera Johna whispered away. The president’s face stiffened and he turned gray. He pulled Meera Meera Johna to his chest, pressed her head against him, then whispered back to her, but at least one person heard him say, “I don’t know why he was perched on her. I don’t think that is what was happening. Are you sure you weren’t seeing things?”
Meera Meera Johna understood in an instant, and tried again, “Can I ask another question then?” The president, hesitant this time but bending to the pressure of the audience around him, moved his ear to Meera Meera Johna’s lips. He heard her question and pulled away as if she had spat. He peered across to the far room at his host John Lucknow Mansing, cavorting some distance away. He glanced up quickly at Matilda Jasodhra. He looked at his own wife, and then he looked back at Meera Meera Johna. He shoved his lips in her ear. They tickled her.
“But of course they love each other,” he was heard to say. “How else would you have come into this world? Look at them. Just look at this lovely evening, all these lovely people. They must love each other to be able to create this sort of enjoyable occasion. Now, young lady,” the president continued, “who would you like to be like when you grow up? Have you any heroes?”
Meera Meera Johna thought for a moment and then said, “My father.” The guests clapped their hands in giddy agreement.
The president said, “Well, that is assured. That I can grant you. The sins of the father, et al. But a note of caution, my child. Take care of what you wish for. You may, to your delight—or horror—get it!”
The man with the booming voice said, “Your Excellency, par excellence!” There was laughter, and then John Lucknow Mansing finally arrived on his patio, a good few minutes after his guests. All attention turned to him.
Meera Meera Johna extracted herself from the president’s grip. She inhaled until her chest was as taut as the skin of a balloon, and forced herself to give brave answers to questions like, So, what class are you in now, and, Who made that lovely dress for you, and, What are you eating, child, that is making you grow so tall and so pretty? She took happy note: She was a capable child, capable of all of this, and her chest, still full of air, did not split, nor did a single strand of hair escape the elastic that was now like the fastener on a bag in which her heavy brain pulsed.
Meera Meera Johna had to endure an eternity of ten minutes of adults talking to her as if she were a trick puppy, throughout which she distracted herself by watching her mother. She was impressed by her mother’s administration, the way, like a concert director using the barest nod or a concentrated look, she conducted the servants. Her mother did more with the yardman though. He had been standing still with a tray of empty cocktail plates and scrunched napkins held up shoulder height in one hand (his jumbie-bead eyes indiscreetly jumped about the room, from her mother to the various guests to her father to Isabella Tatiana back on to her mother). Matilda Jasodhra Mansing went over to him and whispered briskly, orders no doubt, for he busied himself. He walked back and forth now, but with the same tray of empty cocktail plates and scrunched napkins. Then, with an equal briskness, she turned to Meera Meera Johna and ushered her back into the depths of the house. On the way, far from the presence of the guests, and outside of earshot of the household staff, Matilda Jasodhra Mansing tightened her grip on her daughter’s shoulders and sternly demanded, “What did you ask Sir Oswald?”
To which Meera Meera Johna whispered, “Nothing. Honest, Mummy. Nothing.”
Matilda Jasodhra, although she had not heard her daughter’s questions nor the president’s answers, knew her daughter well enough to reply, “What is wrong with you? Why are you always asking those horrific questions? Why can’t you simply behave yourself, Meera Meera Johna Mansing? Change into your pajamas and get into your bed this instant. I don’t want to hear another peep from you.”
Long after she was supposed to have been asleep in her bed, Meera Meera Johna got out, crept in the shadows down to the front of the house, into the living room. The three-tiered crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling cast dancing prisms of color on the wood floor. The smell of the polish the yardman had applied that morning still lingered. The room had been vacated of almost all furniture except for some chairs pulled up against one part of the wall. In the low light she moved against the wall and slipped into a corner behind a tall blue-and-white-patterned Chinese vase out of which a Monstera deliciosa grew. She crouched down and was well-hidden. The guests had eaten dinner, and dancing and drinking in earnest were just beginning.
Matilda Jasodhra moved about the room, Cha cha chatting a minute here, another there, all the while catching the eyes of servers and her yardman, who seemed to only need a nod from her to know what it was she wanted. Her father was with a group of men, and Isabella Tatiana That Tatiana Woman was with them. Meera Meera Johna, peeping through one of the holes in a leaf of the Monstera deliciosa, wondered how her dress stayed up without any straps, and was surprised to find that thoughts on the matter made her, very strangely, dizzy, but a dizziness that she, strange to her, enjoyed. These wordless thoughts caused tickles in her mouth, tickles that felt as if they were caused by the wings of butterflies brushing against the interior contents of her chest, and around the inner exterior of her knees, and in between her toes.
A man had his arm around the white woman Isabella Tatiana That Tatiana Woman’s waist—Was it her father’s arm, or another man’s arm?—and she, Isabella Tatiana That Tatiana Woman, had her hand on someone’s back, the back of a man who closely resembled her father. And then Meera Meera Johna had to close her eyes and shake her head. How could two women show up at the same party wearing similar necklaces and pendants? She was sure Isabella Tatiana had worn no jewelry to the party, yet now she wore the same silver chain around her neck as Her Excellency. Perhaps Her Excellency gave her own necklace to Isabella Tatiana, thought Meera Meera Johna. Or then again, perhaps Isabella Tatiana had stolen it from Her Excellency. There was just too much confusion around these adults and Meera Meera Johna became tense—even more tense, that is—and felt a little bit nauseous. Flashes of iridescent blue darted from the pendant that pulled the chain in an insistent and perfect V but stopped just short of tucking itself into her cleavage. Turquoise one flash, then full-moon blue, and full-moon blue again, then black, and back to turquoise, full-moon blue, full-moon blue, as if in time with the Cha cha cha, Cha cha cha. She wanted to jump out from behind her leaf and tell someone about the possibility of a theft. Anyone. But in truth, the necklace looked a hundred times better on the smooth pale skin of Isabella Tatiana. Good
for her, Meera Meera Johna thought suddenly, even if she stole it. Then Meera Meera Johna saw that the man who resembled her father was indeed her father and that it was her father who was hugging Isabella Tatiana. Or so it seemed. It is not easy to see clearly through the hole in a philodendron’s leaf.
The man-who-resembled-her-father-who-was-her-father’s fingertips rested on the beautiful Tatiana woman’s hip bone. Meera Meera Johna imagined her father perched on this woman whom he (or perhaps not he) was hugging, and with the thought came that dizziness, delightful one second, nauseating the next, and there were, too, those butterfly-wing kinds of tickles as seconds before.
She looked away to her mother who was outside on the patio. Her mother’s gaze shot repeatedly to those of the guests with whom she chatted, all the way across the almost empty living room (straight past the philodendron plant) to the room in which her father, and most of the men, and That Tatiana Woman had gathered. Her mother glanced back and forth, her mouth paralyzed in the shape of a smile.
Meera Meera Johna concentrated again on her father. His fingers tapped, just barely tapped that hip bone in time, and rubbed the hip bone out of time, and then tapped it in time again to the music. He extracted himself and went to speak to the deejay. Isabella Tatiana’s eyes followed him. The deejay spun in his swivel chair to reach a pile of albums. He showed them to her father and her father nodded. The music changed from a slinky-sounding Cha cha cha piece to the most popular calypso of the day. In an instant, all the guests began to move their bodies to the beat. In sudden haste, the men and women from both sides came together into the center of the room. The room had filled up fast and with so many people it darkened.
Lady Oswald walked over to Meera Meera Johna’s father. They walked together, several steps away from all the guests. Sir Oswald watched them from a distance, and his face grew darker than the room. Lady Oswald seemed to be scolding Meera Meera Johna’s father. Her father pulled Lady Oswald to him, gave her a small kiss on her cheek, danced away to the light switch on the wall, and, although the room was already dark, dimmed the chandelier so much more that Meera Meera Johna could have stood up and waved her hands and not have been spotted. Lady Oswald stayed still, her back to the rest of the party. She fixed her hair, but she stayed for a good while where she was. The men were beginning, one by one, to loosen their ties and undo the top buttons of their shirts.
Meera Meera Johna watched her father. He was bringing, onto what had been turned into a dance floor, Isabella Tatiana That Tatiana Woman with the black dress the dress that had no straps the dress that had no straps that somehow how on earth it stayed up, and her long wavy hair so wavy. He kept his tie fastened, and did not dance like the other men in what was called a “break-away,” but in his hand he held one of the woman’s, and the other hovered on her waist. He seemed to push and pull her with that hand. They grinned at one another. Lady Oswald walked through the dancing crowd to her husband and he gripped her hand and seemed to pull her hard, to march her straight toward the stairs that exited the house.
Meera Meera Johna’s mother suddenly appeared, walking hurriedly through the mass of dancing people, bumping hard against her father as he danced with this woman. “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me,” she said, her eyes aflame and watery, her mouth still pinned in a smile, but a ragged one now. John Lucknow Mansing let go of That Tatiana Woman as if he had been stung by her hip and her hand, and in an action as smooth as a dance move he wrestled with the reluctant wrist of his wife as he pulled her to dance with them. She continued to try to wrangle her wrist from John’s grip while biting the lower lip of her still smile-shaped mouth. The water in her eyes tried in vain to extinguish their fire. She pointed beseechingly to something on the patio. Meera Meera Johna looked in that direction, but there were no guests there as they were now all on the dance floor, leaving the yardman to pick up their empties. Meera Meera Johna was sure she caught his jumbiebead eyes watching her parents, and there was that sickening feeling in her tummy again. John Lucknow Mansing did not even look in the direction of the patio in which his wife was pointing, but shook his head and seemed to insist that she stay and dance. The floor was so crowded that Meera Meera Johna couldn’t now see what was happening without imposing herself, but in a second her mother had yanked her hand from her husband’s and left the room. Meera Meera Johna hoped her mother would not return and interrupt everything again.
Her father reached his arm around the Tatiana woman’s waist, pulled her to him, this time closer, tighter, firmer. One of his men friends shimmied up to Meera Meera Johna’s father and the woman; he thrust his arms in the air and his pelvis was aimed at the woman’s. Meera Meera Johna’s father had a glazed grin sealed on his face. He stepped back to indicate permission, then spun around on one heel to arrive again next to the woman. The man had by this time finished his gyration, and spoke to Meera Meera Johna’s father. Meera Meera Johna’s father lifted his face to the chandelier, closed his eyes, and had a full laugh. He looked the man in his eyes and shook his head, as if to say, “You know!” The man backed away in time to the music. Meera Meera Johna’s father and the woman put their arms around each other, and they danced side by side. The woman put her lips to Meera Meera Johna’s father’s ear and they moved about there. Meera Meera Johna’s father did not look at her but nodded. He let go of her, slipped away from her, and spun around again.
Her mother did not return, but the following morning, by pressing her ears to the closed doors of her parents’ bedroom, she heard her mother say, “. . . not divorce you, not over my dead body . . . not after all that I have . . . for you . . . and Meera Meera Johna . . .” (Meera Meera Johna was both pleased and frightened, and felt oddly guilty, to have been mentioned.) “And I want to know what your relationship . . . Lady Oswald . . . No wonder Sir Oswald . . . Sir Oswald should have . . . you . . . I will . . . you suffer . . . will have to live with me for the rest of your life.” Meera Meera Johna ate breakfast alone, and then she went out into the yard with her butterfly net in the hope of catching, not her father, but her mother, one big blue butterfly.
Mee Mee Jo, as Brooklynites Vishala, Ursela, Tanya, Susana, Rhonda, etc., called her, was in a most delightful and, so, unfortunate position when she received the first call from her mother telling her that her father had, as she had long worried might happen, succumbed to the effects of breathing in an excess of chloroform.
On pulling Vishala’s lavender-colored spandex strapless top up over Vishala’s head in a hot and flustered state, it occurred to her that she could use the stretchy thing to tie Vishala’s hands together, so she did just that as Vishala made a brilliant show of mock protest, flinging her head from side to side, and wincing, begging for forgiveness. Mee Mee Jo then reached under the lined polyester skirt to find that Vishala had worn no underwear. This so excited Mee Mee Jo she put her mouth to Vishala’s and kissed her softly in gratitude. Then she held the top of Vishala’s skirt and pulled it down and down, side by side, and the hand-tied Vishala struggled slightly even as she lifted herself to make the removal easy, and Mee Mee Jo, having got the thing down, used it to tie the feet of her gorgeous prey who kept on whispering pleasepleaseplease and uhuh uhuh uhuh. Mee Mee Jo lay her naked body on top of her Vishala, grabbed a handful of her long and wavy hair, and held it just tight enough to give the impression of brute force, even as one of the fingers of that same hand stroked Vishala’s face in tenderness, and when Mee Mee Jo placed her hand, hard and stiff, on Vishala’s neck, Vishala gave a cry of pleading and desire all at once, and Mee Mee Jo’s entire body was seized by a raging desire of her own. She achingly, slowly lowered her pelvis toward Vishala’s, Vishala’s thrust upward impatiently wanting, and was about to flick herself at her prey when the phone rang. She would not have answered had it not been for the special ring assigned to her mother.
What Matilda Jasodhra didn’t tell her daughter was that the police were about to take her into their vehicle to transport her to police headquarters to find out why certai
n articles of her clothing were drenched in the deathly sweetness of chloroform, and why John Lucknow (ill-luck then, really) Mansing had cotton fibers in his lungs, and markings of chloroform about his nose and mouth, and just as she was lifting a leg into the vehicle—the yardman trying desperately and in vain to insist that his madam was innocent of everything on earth, so desperately that he had to be restrained—the detective in charge received a call on his cell phone, and after speaking for ten seconds with him and ten with the forensic doctor, she was let go. Oswald Jones, now an old man who had long ago divorced his wife and who, after an initiative led by him in Parliament, was appointed President For Life, had himself, himveryself, telephoned—no one questioned how he might have known of certain details of the current situation, but his foresight in many matters had long been recognized and heralded—and the case was post-haste slammed shut.
What she did tell her daughter was that the newspaper headlines the day after her husband’s, her father’s, death read, Butterfly Killer’s Death Ruled, a Case of Nature’s Revenge. Ignoring the typo, she quoted over the telephone, Yesterday morning southern jeweler and amateur lepidopterist John Lucknow Mansing, eighty years of age, fell asleep on a wad of chloroform-soaked cotton intended for live butterflies, and immediately got on with the business of focusing on dangers associated with butterfly keeping in particular and with animal-related hobbies in general.
Meera Meera Johna Mansing flew to Trinidad in time for her father’s funeral, and to clean up the butterfly mess in his study. There was not to be found there a single one of the beautiful Morphos she had been so proud as a child to net her father. Oh well, she thought, how like him.
The funeral service itself, at the Grant Monorail Presbyterian Church, was a gathering of mostly women, all of whom were divorced or had separated from their husbands, three-quarters of whom wore silver necklaces, or earrings, or rings on their fingers, or belts around their waists, and—it was Meera Meera Johna who first noticed—on some part of the surface of every piece of silver at that funeral was embedded bits of blue Morpho wings, in patterns that varied from flower-like shapes and waves of an ocean to scales of a fish or a snake. There at the front, in spitting distance from Matilda Jasodhra Mansing, was Isabella Tatiana, winking and smiling still at Meera Meera Johna, sporting in her old age a slight Cha cha cha tremble, and Meera Meera Johna noticed that even in her wrinkled skin, That Tatiana Woman was as beautiful as forty or so years ago. And there was Lady Oswald, but not, of course, Sir Oswald, from whom she was long ago divorced, stern and upright as ever, a scowl growing on her face as it began to dawn on her that she was not the only silver-and-Morpho wearer.
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