The Black Butterfly

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  Suddenly the shower curtain opened and a towel-clad George reappeared. I wondered if I’d fallen asleep—I didn’t even hear the water stop. “Already?” I asked.

  “That’s all I needed. Take your time though. Soak.”

  “No arguments there. But stay. I…want you to stay.”

  “Okay.” He tightened his towel and knelt down beside the tub. His eyes were saying something too fragile for words, something hushed and important. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t translate the message. I just liked watching him send it. “Now will you tell me what happened?” he asked.

  I took his hand and squeezed it. “Let’s not think about that. It’s done. You saved my life, and I owe you everything. Now let’s move on.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I’m the one who left you alone out there, remember? You could’ve died because of me. I have to live with that knowledge, and it would really help if I could just understand what happened.”

  “I don’t know, George. I walked out on the dock—for the view—and the boards collapsed right under me. I don’t remember anything else. Just that it hurt.” This was a bald-faced lie. I may have had trouble remembering my first encounter with Starla, but not this one. Something clicked this time, and all the details of her murderous plot sat indelibly in the front of my brain.

  “Maybe we should get you looked at.”

  “Get the dock looked at. I’m fine.”

  “Are you really?”

  “This bath was the perfect thing. I think I’m ready to get out now.” Another lie. I could have soaked for hours, but I couldn’t deal with any more questions.

  “Okay, all right. I’ll give you some privacy.”

  But I didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, I pulled it to my cheek. Slid his fingers down to my neck. Past my shoulder. Over my collarbone. Onto my breast, still hidden behind the bubbles. I guess the whole near-death experience gave me some mettle.

  “Can you feel my heartbeat?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything, but I knew he felt it. My heart was palpitating.

  “I can feel yours too,” I said. “In your fingers.”

  He glided his hand to my ribs, my belly. I flinched when he hit the ticklish spot near my bellybutton. We kissed. Nuzzled. Breathed. Then, with one final brush of my cheek, he stood up. “You’ll be okay getting out?” he asked.

  “I think so. If I need you, I’ll pull the emergency chain.” I pointed to the chain-pull toilet, which made him laugh.

  While I dried off, got into my robe, and lightly blew my hair, George went to his room to dress. He scared up an electric blanket too and was putting it on my bed when I emerged from the bathroom. I took one look at the four-poster and knew I’d been born to crawl into it. I was ready to drop—beyond exhausted and starting to feel disoriented again.

  “All set,” he said, plugging in the blanket. He pulled back the covers, and I fell in. “Get some rest,” he ordered.

  “Are you going to…” I started. No, that’s not what I meant to ask. “Did he tell you what she tried to…” Oh no, what was I saying?

  “Shhh,” he said. “Just sleep. I’m leaving your door unlocked so I can check on you later.”

  “You won’t tell Rita or Bubbles about this, will you?”

  I was asleep before he could answer.

  When I woke up, Blue was standing at the foot of my bed, his arms crossed and his eyebrows knotted.

  “You can walk through walls?” I croaked.

  “No, George left the door unlocked.”

  For a moment, I didn’t even remember how I’d gotten into bed, or why. Then everything came crashing in on me. “Will you make me a…” I had no idea what I was saying. “I mean…wait, yeah, are you standing guard in case Starla tries to kill me again?”

  “Starla will be leaving you alone from now on,” he said. “I promise.”

  I pulled the electric blanket up to my chin. “What makes you so sure?”

  He unfolded his arms and came over to my side. “She and I have come to an understanding.”

  “Starla doesn’t seem like the kind of person you can…” I couldn’t find my thought. “…the kind of person you can negative—I mean, negotiate. The kind of person you can negotiate with.”

  “Negotiating had nothing to do with it. It was more like a…”

  “A thread?” I asked, vaguely aware that it was the wrong word.

  “Something like that.” Looking to the door, he said, “Someone’s coming down the hall—probably George.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Nothing. He won’t see me. I’ll leave when he opens the door. Just act like I’m not here.”

  “When will I see you?” I asked. He didn’t answer, so I added, “Bring your…thing. That thing you tap, okay?” What was wrong with me?

  When George came in, I pretended to be asleep for fear of what I might let slip this time. He set a glass of water on the nightstand, straightened my bedcovers, stroked my cheek. He’d saved my life, and now he was nursing me back to health.

  Chapter 7

  December 23

  A photograph is a secret about a secret.

  The more it tells you, the less you know.

  –Diane Arbus

  I woke up around 3 a.m. with a nasty lump on the back of my head and muscles the consistency of jello. “Hello?” I rasped into the blackness. No response. Still, I didn’t dare assume that I was alone—my door was unlocked, after all. “Starla?” What I needed to do was force myself up to lock the door. Instead, I rolled over and fell back to sleep.

  When I woke again, it was just past eight. Beyond the valances and the frosty windows, the sky glowed all pink and gray. The sun hid behind the pine trees, shooting little jewels onto the snow. The lustrous light made it look almost mild out there, but I wasn’t fooled. It was bitter cold outside—and lusciously warm under the blankets. I had no desire to get out of bed, no desire and very possibly no capacity. I was still so tired.

  I reached over and took Facts and Fancies off the nightstand. Yes, I thought as I propped myself up with pillows, a little reading, a little picture gazing, and then I’ll either get up or go back to sleep. It was still early, after all, and besides, what else did I have to do?

  According to Alda M. Eldenberry, the birds I saw yesterday were diving ducks—either Oldsquaw or goldeneye, which are the “only feathered friends hearty enough to endure our winters.” In springtime though, “the island is flush with the songs of warblers, sparrows and thrushes, while summer brings guillemots, eiders and laughing gulls.”

  I learned that the island has no squirrels (just as I’d suspected), rabbits or raccoons, and that there are public toilets at the wharf, the Grindle Point Shop, and, seasonally, Katie’s Salon Divine. There are no liquor sales, but efforts to make the island smoke-free have failed.

  I found photos of lobstermen, beach bathers, maple sugarers and quilters. Sailboats, snow forts, pickle barrels and wedding cakes. Stolen kisses and champagne toasts. But the picture that really caught my attention was a black and white photo of a young man—maybe still a boy—hammering nails into the frame of a house that was going up. He was shirtless and smiling brightly, as if he were enjoying the workout. The caption said: “Tommy Klingler, of the A&J Klingler Building Contractors family, died a few weeks after this photo was taken, circa 1916, when he fell off the roof of the house being built for painter Cleo Easton. Construction on the site was halted for nearly a year, eventually being completed by a contractor from Massachusetts.”

  Another tragedy in this place. Poor Tommy Klingler. I stared at his smiling face for a long time, wondering what he had for breakfast that day, if he had a best friend, whether it scared him to perch so high on those wooden beams. I even imagined a life for him, the life he’d have had if not for the fall. He’d have fallen in love with a hot daughter of Cleo Easton, eloped to the Bahamas, stayed on to build spas and luxury homes in the islands, and made love to his wife every night on the beach. Poo
r Tommy. It would have been a great life. Why did he have to fall? Because life’s a bitch and then you die, apparently. I closed the book and my eyes.

  When I finally had the oomph to get up and get dressed—slowly, achingly—I headed downstairs, making certain to lock my door first. I listened for voices outside the Tiger Lily and Foxglove Rooms but heard none. Looking behind me every couple of seconds, I finally made it to the parlor, where I found George fiddling with the Christmas tree lights. He didn’t notice me, so I stood behind him and took a couple of moments. One moment to catch my breath—I was still wobbly—and one to admire the rear view. Then I touched him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Hmm?” he said, turning around and taking a red bulb out from between his lips. “Hey, you’re up.” He kissed me lightly. “How you doing?”

  “Pretty…uh…well. Watcha up to?”

  “Just fixing some distressed decorations. Then I’ve got to help Mike Smitty cut back some branches that’ve been dangling over the roof since last week’s storm.”

  “So he found his cordless saw?”

  “Guess so. Hey, you must be hungry after missing supper last night. How about I walk you to the dining room?”

  Alone in an unlocked room? No thanks. Not before I’m strong enough to run for my life. “That’s okay,” I said. “Not sure how much longer I can stay vertical anyway. I just wanted to say hi. I’m gonna head back upstairs.”

  “Take my arm,” he said, offering me his elbow. “You look like you could use an escort.”

  Escort? Bodyguard was more like it.

  All secrets are deep. All secrets become dark. That’s the nature of secrets.

  –Cory Doctorow, Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town

  As soon as George and I rounded the top of the curved staircase, I spotted Blue sitting next to his drum outside my room. I was relieved to see him—to know I wouldn’t have to be alone—but I couldn’t show it, not in front of George.

  “You’ll be okay?” George asked when we reached my door. “You look a little…washed out.”

  “I’m fine, just tired. Don’t worry.”

  He leaned in to kiss me, but I couldn’t do it with Blue sitting right there. Not a real kiss, a lover’s kiss. In a preemptive strike, I reached up and planted one on his cheek. Just a peck, a thanks for walking me home kind of kiss. “Be careful out there,” I said, turning to unlock the door. “Come by later?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good.” I opened the door, and Blue followed me inside. “See you later.”

  Once inside, I fastened the lock and leaned my full weight against the door. The simple act of climbing the stairs had depleted me, and so had that uber-weird threesome. I was thankful to be back in my bolted fortress, where I was safe from Starla and free to acknowledge Blue. “Hi,” I said wearily.

  Blue walked over to the hearth and sat cross-legged on the floor. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, dropping onto the floor with him. “I mean, I’m sore and tired and still weirded out, but I’m fine.”

  He raised an eyebrow of doubt.

  “Okay, all right,” I said. “Maybe I’m not fine yet, but I’ll be fine, really.” If I can survive long enough. “How about you? How has your day after been?”

  “My day? Hard to say.” He lifted his drum onto his lap. “Time doesn’t pass like that for me anymore—yesterday, today, a beginning in the morning, an end at night. It’s more like a long road that doesn’t go anywhere. At least, that’s how it was until you got here.”

  The muffled drone of a saw buzzed from somewhere overhead. “George and Mike Smitty are taking care of a branch,” I said, hoping to change the subject.

  He started drumming, slowly at first, then picking up the tempo after a minute.

  “I like that,” I said.

  “I’m glad.”

  “The dream journey I had, it was so real. Like I was right there with my mother in Mexico, seeing, hearing, feeling everything she did.”

  “Was it unpleasant?”

  “Not at all. It was amazing.” I closed my eyes and focused on the cadence of his music. He slowed the rhythm again, until I found myself waiting longingly for the next beat.

  “I haven’t seen Starla today,” he said. “Is she…”

  I didn’t hear the rest of his question.

  This time there was no misty tunnel or dizziness, just the beat of the drum and the sensation of motion. I felt Blue next to me, and then I didn’t. I was transported.

  I found myself in a dark, windowless room, lit only by garlands of glow sticks and a disco ball. Forty or fifty people were hanging out, dancing to tunes on a boom box, hitting the chips and soda, trying to talk over the noise. When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw that most of the people—girls and guys—had heavily made-up faces complete with lipstick, mascara and blush. One of the girls, decked out in neon green eyelids and orange lips, walked up to one of the guys and said, “Feed me, Seymour.” He stroked her hair and asked, “Does it have to be human?” “Feeeeed me!” she replied.

  Had Blue drummed me into a slasher bash or what? I was looking for the nearest exit when my eye caught the poster taped to the cement wall: “Bangor High School presents Little Shop of Horrors.” Thank God. I wasn’t at a perv meetup. I was at a cast party in some kid’s basement. I took a deep breath and wandered over to the snack table, since it was at the opposite end of the room from the boom box.

  Seymour and the orange-lipped girl were still role playing when another guy joined them. “Hey, Audrey,” he said, “I think someone slipped your sister a mickey.”

  Audrey lost her Broadway smile and grabbed the guy’s arm. “What? Where?”

  He pointed to a grungy couch pushed against the wall, where a girl was curled up, her hair dangling over her face, a plastic cup lying on her lap, dripping Coke onto her jeans. The girl looked younger than me, and she was clearly pregnant.

  “Jeezus F-ing Christ!” Audrey said. She ran over to the couch and shook her sister’s shoulder, but the girl was out cold. “Wake up already, will you?” she muttered, lightly slapping her sister’s face.Then suddenly Audrey was screaming. “She’s not breathing! Call 911! My sister’s not breathing!”

  Someone killed the boom box, and the room turned silent. Audrey started blowing air into her sister’s mouth and then pushing hard on her chest with both hands. “Come on, come on,” she panted. Now I joined the crowd circling the sofa, wishing there was something I could do. Only then did I see who Audrey’s sister was: Starla.

  Something happened to the room then. Or maybe to me. The air turned cold and windy. Blue’s drumbeats rang in my ears, faster and harder than before, like an emergency, like the racing of my pulse. Everything was vibrating. And then everything was still and warm again.

  I was in a hospital, standing outside a neonatal unit. Big sister Audrey and another girl where there too, peering through the window at the baby in the incubator. The tiny thing was attached to all kinds of tubes and monitors, and his eyes were bandaged shut. From one corner of his high-tech bassinette hung a necklace with a pendant shaped like a crescent moon. A crescent moon.

  Audrey rested her forehead against the window and stared at the preemie. “He’s so tiny.”

  “He’s beautiful,” said her friend. “You have a beautiful nephew.”

  Audrey put a fisted hand on the window and nodded. “I just wish they’d saved Starla instead of him.”

  The friend massaged Audrey’s shoulders. “They didn’t have a choice, kiddo. It’s a miracle they didn’t both die. You know that, right?”

  Audrey didn’t answer. Or maybe she did—I don’t know. Suddenly I was back in the Lilac Room, trying to breathe. All at once, I knew. I knew who Starla was waiting for. I knew why she came to the Black Butterfly. She wanted to be with her son. With George.

  “Steady now,” I heard Blue say. “You’re back. You okay?”

  “Uh…huh.”

  Why didn’t Starla wan
t Blue to know she was a mother? Was she afraid he’d see her differently? Should I tell him? I wanted to—I wanted to tell him everything I’d learned. And why shouldn’t I? It wasn’t like I owed Starla her privacy or anything else. And yet…

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Anything.”

  “Do you have feelings for Starla?”

  “Yes—murderous ones. Are you kidding? She almost killed you.”

  “But before that. Before I came here. Did you like it? Did you like knowing someone loves you?”

  He ran his fingers over the top of the drum. “It’s one thing to be loved. It’s another thing to be loved by the person you desire.” His gaze slipped down to my lips.

  I felt an ache, a sadness that frightened me. I’d seen it before, the way he was looking at me. Heard the misery in his voice. Felt the strong, hungry way he held me in the ocean yesterday. But I hadn’t let myself dwell on these things because…because it was just easier that way. After all, if I accepted the fact that Blue had feelings for me, then I’d have to sort out how I felt about him.

  He half-smiled at me. I knew I had to say something, but I couldn’t form a distinct thought, much less put it into words. “Blue, I…I mean…it’s like…”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not. It sucks.”

  “What sucks,” he whispered so quietly I had to lean in to hear him, “is that I just heard the Tiger Lily Room door open. She’s probably eavesdropping right now.”

  “Damn her,” I whispered back.

  “I’d better go.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just think it’s the right thing for your sake.”

  “So you’re not convinced she’s going to leave me alone.”

  His vast brown eyes pierced mine, but he said nothing.

  “I hate letting her dictate,” I said.