The Black Butterfly

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  I walked over to the shelves and pretended to survey the books. Finally I gave up the ruse and sat on the far end of the sofa to watch him flip stations. Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol, A Very Brady Christmas, Chainsaw Noel, the 24-hour Yule log, a holiday beauty product infomercial. Then finally success: It’s a Wonderful Life, the movie about the underappreciated, overworked George Bailey, who’s about to commit suicide until an angel shows him how bad his loved ones’ lives would be if he’d never been born. I smiled as George Bailey promised Mary the moon.

  “You like this junk?” George asked.

  “I happen to love it. What’s so terrible about liking a clean story with a happy ending?”

  “Nothing.” He sat up. “It’s just that George Bailey spends his whole life putting himself out for other people and then resents it and doesn’t take care of himself. I have no patience for people like that.”

  “Well, there’s the holiday spirit.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “It’s great what he does for others. But if it drives him to suicide, then what good is he to the people who count on him?”

  This threw me a little off guard. As much as I wanted to disagree with George, I couldn’t deny that he had a point here. Nor could I ignore how vividly green-blue his eyes shone when he spoke passionately about something. “Look, I’m a bit defensive about George Bailey,” I said. “I guess I always dreamed of having a dad like him.”

  “Yeah, me too. I guess.”

  Deep down, way deep down, I believed my father actually was that kind of man, a George Bailey kind of man who’d have been a fabulous dad if only things hadn’t gone wrong between him and Mom. But I would never say that to anyone, not ever.

  We didn’t speak much for the rest of the movie. George immersed himself in the story, and I tried to figure out how to convince him that I’m not a complete jerk. He sat politely through the Clarence the Angel scenes, and when everyone lived happily ever after and the credits rolled to the tune of “Buffalo Gal,” he suggested making hot cocoa. I said okay, even though the knot in my stomach still had a death grip on my innards.

  If you are not feeling well, if you have not slept, chocolate will revive you. But you have no chocolate! I think of that again and again! My dear, how will you ever manage?

  – Marquise de Sevigne, February 11, 1677

  In the kitchen, George swore I’d never had hot chocolate if I hadn’t tasted Belgian hot chocolate. He pulled out a saucepan—a thick one, I learned, so the chocolate wouldn’t burn—and started poking around the pantry. “Ah, Callebaut bittersweet,” he said. “Perfect.” Soon he was warming milk and a vanilla bean in the saucepan, chopping up a mound of chocolate, and setting out colorful ceramic mugs on the island. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I grabbed a dishtowel and started wiping up his crumbs. This made George laugh, and I wondered if I’d swept chocolate dust onto my chest.

  “Will you relax?” he said, taking the dishtowel out of my hand. “This is a kitchen, not a still life.” Then he told me to watch the pot and let him know when bubbles started forming around the edge. “We don’t want the milk to boil.”

  I watched vigilantly. When a small orb of air appeared at the edge of the pan, and then another, I called out, “It’s bubbling!”

  “All right, now for the fun part.” Slowly, he added bits of chocolate to the milk. As he whisked, the liquid changed from satiny white to beige and then from russet to dark chocolaty brown.

  George tended the pan affectionately, like a painter performing fine brushwork. I watched his hand, his arm and his shoulder move with the precision of a dancer, losing myself in a daydream. We were slow dancing right there in the kitchen, without any music save the humming of the stove. Hand to hand, cheek to cheek, hip to hip. The daydream lasted until he took the pan off the flame, whisked it one last time to make foam, and filled our mugs to the rim.

  Propped against the island, George took a mouthful of cocoa, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. He seemed poised for a kiss. My lips were burning, even though I hadn’t touched my steaming mug yet. George opened his eyes—now they were both sapphire—and asked in a velvety-chocolate voice, “Aren’t you gonna try it?” So I did.

  Wow. Wow squared. I once heard Dr. Ruth compare good chocolate to sex. Now I’d at least tried one of them. I took another sip and closed my eyes. It was so sumptuous, so creamy and pungent, like droplets of pure indulgence.

  As I was about to lift the mug to my mouth again, eyes still closed, I sensed George moving closer to me. Wait, was he moving closer? Did I want him to? I didn’t dare open my eyes. He was completely silent, but still I felt him standing nearer than before. Or was he?

  “You like it?” he said so suddenly, so straight into my ear that I dropped my mug, which cracked on the floor and heaved its contents all over the place. I must have looked as mortified as I felt, because George instantly offered, “It’s okay, it’s only a cup. Watch your step. You didn’t get burned, did you?” He picked up the broken pieces and then started wiping up the cocoa.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem.” He used his foot to swish the dishtowel over the chocolate puddle. “Almost done already.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m sorry about.” I dropped onto a stool. “I mean, I am sorry about that, but I’m even sorrier about this afternoon. About being so…not myself.”

  George stopped swishing and peered at me for a second before returning his focus to the floor.

  “And I’m sorry I didn’t stay at the lunch table,” I continued.

  He kept wiping. I wanted him to say something, anything, but he just continued making concentric circles with his foot, the towel, and the last licks of cocoa.

  “Did I miss anything good?” I asked.

  “Not much.” He picked up the soaking dishtowel and tossed it into the sink. “Iris is transferring to her girlfriend’s college next term.”

  I tried to look surprised.

  “Buddy stopped by to say hi,” he went on. “So did Mrs. Walker the Talker. Iris was worried about you, about your being gone from the table so long, but when I spotted you at the magazine rack, I figured you wanted some space.”

  My throat prickled with embarrassment.

  “I have to tell you,” he said, “I got the feeling you were really mad at me. Like, you were thinking the worst of me. Which seemed pretty mean.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I decided to borrow something someone else once said. “Never attribute to malice what can adequately be explained by stupidity.”

  “What?” He took off his sneaker and started rinsing the chocolate-stained sole under the faucet. His sock had a hole at the big toe.

  I joined him at the sink. “I made a mistake, a dumb one. But hey, James Joyce said mistakes are the portals of discovery.”

  “Can you please speak English?” he said, pulling his sneaker back on.

  “Sorry, it’s just, sometimes other people can say things better than I can.”

  “Don’t you get it, Penny?” He straightened up. “I want to hear what you have to say.” A drop of cocoa had formed on his upper lip, and he wiped it off with his thumb. “What do you have to say?” He took a single step toward me.

  Suddenly I was all jittery. I was drawn to George and afraid of him at the same time, and it paralyzed me. He stepped back and said in a resigned voice, “Well, if you don’t have anything to say, I do. I told you Iris was just a friend from growing up, but you didn’t believe I was telling the truth.”

  “I—it’s just that different people have different definitions of the truth, that’s all,” I said. Different definitions of friend, of just happened to be there, of sweetie. How was I to know Iris wasn’t interested in him or any other guy?

  “So I’m right—you thought I was lying.”

  “No, not lying. Just not necessarily telling me the whole story. Like I said, different people have different definitions of the truth.” Unaware of what I was doing, I
moved back a pace.

  “Penny, what are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid. I don’t know what I am, but…” I cleared my throat, hoping the right words would somehow find their way out, when to both my surprise and relief, the kitchen door swung open and there was Rita in her bathrobe and slippers.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she said. “I did not mean to interrupt. I just thought I heard a thud or something. Is everyone okay?”

  “We dropped a mug,” George said. “No worries.”

  “All right then. Good night.” She turned to leave, but not without first tossing us a wink and a half-smile that might as well have shouted, “Looks like you two are getting cozy, after all.”

  “You’ve gotta love that woman,” he said when she was gone.

  I nodded my agreement, then yawned.

  “You sleepy?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I’m still just waking up from a major snooze.”

  “Hmm.” He ran the faucet for no apparent reason, then turned it off. “Well, if you feel like it, we could go take a look at the tree. I haven’t had a chance to, you know, take it in, give myself a pat on the back.”

  So he wasn’t giving up on me. He wasn’t going to force me to do any more explaining either. He was willing to move on. Which was probably more than I deserved.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “Yeah, show me what I missed.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a glass and rusty metal decoration. We were making our way around the tree in what George called a 360º inspection.

  “Ma made that. It’s supposed to be a boy skiing, but I always thought it looked more like a spider. See that one up there? That’s the same boy ice skating.”

  “Where?”

  “Almost at the top.” He put one hand on my back and pointed with the other one.

  “Oh, yeah…ooh, this one here is my favorite,” I said, touching a handmade paper angel. The body was a toilet paper tube, the wings were cutout tracings of a child’s hands, and the face was a school photo of a small George, complete with baby teeth and cowlicks.

  He rolled his eyes. “Kindergarten project.”

  “It’s adorable.”

  “It’s toilet paper. C’mon, let’s sit down.”

  So we did, right there. We sat on the marble floor and just admired the glittering tree, which seemed even taller and broader from this perspective. They must have spent hours trimming it. They must have had so much fun. Now every time they walked past it, they’d remember what a great time they all had together. And every time I walked by it, I’d remember how badly I blew it.

  Eventually, I allowed myself to look over at George. His eyes reflected the tree lights in a kaleidoscope of twinkling greens and blues. When he blinked, the patterns shifted into a new collage, beautiful but unreadable. The stubble on his face was coming in red, I noticed, which surprised me but also pulled me in. I wondered how it might feel to the touch—spiky or downy, cool or warm? The questions made my fingers tingle.

  George gave me all of three seconds to soak him in before he turned to face me. I didn’t look away soon enough. He leaned in and whispered, “Whatcha thinking about?”

  Damn, caught in the act. “I-I was just, you know, just…”

  “The truth, please.”

  “Can’t I pick dare instead?”

  “Why, do you have something to hide?”

  “No, of course not. All I was thinking was…” Should I tell him the truth? The real truth—that I was thinking about his body? Yeah, right. I could tell him a truth, but not the truth, no way. Not that, not yet.

  “Well?”

  “I was thinking how much fun I’m having here. How no one is more surprised about that than me, that’s all. What about you—truth or dare?”

  His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Dare.”

  Crap. I didn’t want to concoct a stunt for George to perform. I wanted to discover who he was. I wanted to find out his deepest darkest secrets. I wanted to know what he was feeling this very minute. “Okay, smarty pants,” I said, “I dare you to tell me why you’re here alone.”

  George gathered his elbows to his sides as if he were trying to cushion himself from something. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth, then shrugged. “I was dating someone at school, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “But a couple of months ago she decided she needed a break.”

  “Do you hope she comes back?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to hear the answer.

  “I think hope was invented by some ancient Greek slaveowner to keep the oppressed masses in a state of inaction.”

  “Pretty cynical there, George.”

  “If you must know,” he began tapping his foot against the marble floor, “she did try to come back, and I told myself okay, it’s not perfect, but maybe we’ll be happy someday, and aren’t I happier with that hope than with being alone?”

  “And?”

  “And then I realized I wanted someone I could be happy with right now.” He deflected his eyes but then glanced back at me, and I saw the hope.

  If only guys knew how appealing they are when they let their guard down. He reminded me of Tuna Breath when Gigi first adopted him: timid, trusting, willing. Suddenly my shadow self wanted to mold my body into a single shape with his. I wanted us to be a living, breathing, wrestling work of art, just the two of us.

  Like that was going to happen.

  My eyes dropped to his crescent moon pendant, which hung at an angle on his sweater. “Did she give you this?”

  He lowered his chin to admire the necklace. “This? This was my birth mother’s. Your turn.”

  I didn’t want to play the game anymore. I wanted to keep talking, learning about him, trying to figure him out. But I didn’t want to press too far either. “Dare,” I said at last.

  He stood up. “Kiss me.”

  “I want to change back to truth.”

  “Too late.”

  I wanted to kiss him—I really, really did, just not as part of some game. I wanted to be romanced, not dared, not watched. But maybe this was romance, George-style.

  What if I disappointed him though? Making out with Charlie Warner a few times after school didn’t exactly qualify me as a makeout expert. My kissing exploits had almost all been in my daydreams—imaginary guys giving me perfect, imaginary kisses. The question now was: could I kiss George the way I’d always longed to be kissed?

  I stood up to join him, unsure whether I could do this. I stepped closer. He exhaled with a slight quiver in his throat. There was no running away now. No more chances to falter or laugh off the tension. It was time to act.

  I raised my hands and cupped the back of his head. His hair, lush under my fingers, made me think of wild animals, of powerful cats and long-maned horses. On tiptoes, I lightly kissed his temple and behind his ear. His skin was electric. I let my mouth slip across his cheek, slowly, slowly, taking in each nuance of muscle and bone, until I reached his parted lips. He took over from there.

  It was a long, deep kiss, our lips dovetailing over and over. I couldn’t get enough. Kissing George was like taking that first forkful of a sumptuous meal when you’re ravenous: peak pleasure and a maddening hunger for more. Smooth and spicy—like the ginger sorbet they were sampling at Whole Foods last month. Hot and chilling—baked Alaska. Sultry and tender—the ripest tropical fruit. There was barely time to breathe between helpings.

  Much too soon, George lightened his hold on me.

  “I hope you choose dare next,” I whispered. “So I can dare you to kiss me again.”

  “Dare,” he said, and his mouth pressed against mine once more. He caressed me with his whole body, it seemed, speaking in small sighs instead of words. Suddenly I was in the Chagall poster we have taped to our bathroom door in Cambridge, the one where the lovers are floating over the world, which has stopped turning just for them. When our kiss ended, George stayed wrapped around me. He glided us onto the sofa, where we wound ourselves into a ball, just holding each
other, the Christmas tree lights twinkling over us like stars in Chagall’s sky.

  Chapter 6

  December 22

  I hate the outdoors.

  To me the outdoors is where the car is.

  —Will Durst

  “It’s January thaw come early,” was how George talked me into the snowshoeing idea the next day just because the temperature had nudged above zero. One minute he was saying the snow looked perfect, and the next minute I was out back of the inn, wearing his oversized ski pants, fleece vest, down jacket, neck gator, and up-to-my-elbows mittens. He knelt to snap on my snowshoes, his hair falling over his red headband, then stepped into his own snowshoes and kissed me—a quick, warm peck—before taking a few effortless strides across the yard. “Ready?” he asked.

  I lifted my left foot and moved it cautiously forward. When I tried to lift my right snowshoe, I realized—too late—that I’d stepped on it with my left one. Down I went on all fours. George helped me up and told me to try again. “That’s right,” he said when I’d managed to stay upright for a few steps. “Just keep walking. How do you feel?”

  “Graceless and dorky.” I stumbled for a few more paces until he wrapped a steadying arm around my shoulder.

  “Well, you look great.”

  I kept my eyes on my feet and concentrated on not falling. Somehow in his agility George managed to keep our snowshoes from colliding with each other. When it looked like I was going to remain vertical, he let his hand slide down to the small of my back. He wasn’t holding me up anymore—he was just holding me.

  Eventually, I took my eyes off my feet and looked around. It was gorgeous out here, an ocean of snow followed by an ocean of water, covered by an ocean of pearly clouds. Being here with George, just the two of us, felt like sharing a secret—intimate, private, familiar. I looked at him, and he tightened his hold on me. In this winter light, his eyes were the richest blue, the boldest green, like the primordial blue and green from which all blues and greens evolved. Almost too strong to look at directly. Almost.