The Black Butterfly

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  “Almost there,” Vincent said. “Jimmy works out of his garage, did I say? A non-commuter type, just like me.” Then he began crooning about Frosty the Snowman’s “corncob pipe and bloody nose and two eyes made out of sole.”

  I was about to suggest that perhaps it was a button nose, but something else caught my attention. Something behind me. Movement. A slight, wispy sound. A draft. I glanced in the rearview mirror.

  It was Starla. She must have been in the van the whole time! Oh, God, now what?

  She was climbing from the trunk to the backseat. One leg up and over, then the other, until she fell into the seat with an airy laugh. “Hello, Penny,” she said. “I haven’t been out riding in a while. This is a treat.”

  I didn’t speak or even turn around, but I’m sure she sensed my panic.

  She leaned forward and laid her hand lazily on Vincent’s shoulder. “Tell me now, what brings the two of you out on a wintry day like this?”

  “Vincent,” I said, my throat burning. “I…you need to stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “The van. Something’s wrong.”

  “I’m telling you, Penny, it’s just a bumpy road, that’s all. We’re fine.”

  “No, we’re not.” As I said this, Starla was on the move again, climbing from the backseat straight onto Vincent’s lap, where she put one hand on the steering wheel. “Don’t!” I said without thinking. “I mean, sorry, Vincent…I just really think…would you please…”

  We came to a sharp curve in the path. The ravines on either side of us were menacingly deep. “Vincent, please—”

  “Get ready now,” Starla said. “This is where the ride gets fun. This is where you have a terrible accident.” She gripped the steering wheel with both hands now. “To the left, I think, don’t you?”

  “Stop!” I shouted. I grabbed the wheel and yanked hard to the right. “Stop it!”

  Vincent slammed on the brakes and tried to straighten the wheel. We skidded. Fishtailed. Kept on moving, no matter how hard he pumped the brakes. Kept going straight ahead, even as the road twisted. Within seconds, our front end slid off the road and dipped down toward the ravine. We halted just before the back wheels went over the edge.

  “Christ!” Vincent said, gunning it in reverse. The two rear wheels had to do all the work, and they didn’t like it. They spun and buzzed and screeched before finally pulling the rest of the van back onto the path. The front fender hit the dirt with a clunk.

  “Oh dear,” Starla said with counterfeit concern. “Not exactly the results I was hoping for. Too bad.”

  Vincent and I sat there stupefied for what must have been a full minute before either of us spoke. “What the hell was that about?” he asked, pulling the emergency brake. “You could have gotten us killed.”

  Oh God, he thought it was all my doing—that I grabbed the wheel for no reason and drove us off the road! “Vincent,” I started, but he was already stepping out of the van to check for damage. Starla got out with him.

  “Bye, Penny,” she chirped. “I’m going to walk the rest of the way. See you at home.” She sauntered along the curve in the road, quickly disappearing from sight.

  “Seems okay,” Vincent said when he got back in. “Fender’s dinged a little, that’s all. Thank heaven for all-wheel drive.”

  I dropped my head against the headrest and blew out a lungful of air. “I’m so sorry, Vincent. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess…”

  “Never mind. Just, no more touching the steering wheel, all right?”

  I nodded, and we drove the rest of the way to Jimmy Bigelow’s in silence.

  Yes, I’m the great pretender

  Pretending that I’m doing well

  —The Platters

  When we got back to the inn, Bubbles was standing in the doorway waiting for us. “George, Penny,” she gushed. “It’s Christmas Eve—do let’s spend it together!” With those words, my plan to run straight upstairs evaporated. All I wanted was to find Blue, tell him what happened, and fall apart in peace, but instead I had to suck it up and pretend to be in the holiday mood. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough—or good enough an actor—to get through the evening intact.

  The three of us sat at Bubbles’ favorite table for supper—minted lamb and mushroom kebabs, asparagus with walnut dressing, roasted pepper salad, and bread made from filo dough. Too bad I had zero appetite, not even for that amazing-looking tiramisu eggnog trifle at the end. Instead, I played with my food, cutting it and rearranging it on the plate to create the appearance of eating.

  A two-hour meal didn’t get me off the hook either. After dessert, Bubbles wanted to finish her (third) glass of wine in the study, so off we went, piling onto the sofa, Bubbles in the middle, to watch the tail end of A Christmas Story. Of course, once we were settled there, Bubbles insisted we stay on for Miracle on 34th Street, which reduced her to tears when everyone believed in Santa Claus at the end.

  “Mercy, it’s almost midnight already,” she said when the commercials came on after Miracle. “We should all get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day, after all.” She got up off the couch and strolled to the doorway. “Night now, you two.”

  “Finally,” George said, scooting over and wrapping his arm around me.

  I put my head on his shoulder and faked a yawn. “Wow, I’m zonked all of a sudden. Today was my first time out since…the accident. I think it’s hitting me.”

  “You feeling okay?” he asked, massaging my arm.

  “Yeah, fine, just really sleepy. I think I better call it a day.”

  “I’ll walk you up.”

  Just then Bubbles reappeared in the doorway, swaying slightly, looking happy and a little confused. “Why don’t you walk your mom up instead?” I suggested. “She looks like she could use the help.”

  The truth is more important than the facts.

  —Frank Lloyd Wright

  As soon as Bubbles and George were gone, I ran upstairs to the Foxglove Room. “Blue?” I whispered, hoping no people were in earshot. “Blue, let me in. I need to talk.”

  I heard footsteps move quickly across the carpet and a hand grab the knob. The door opened, and Blue appeared, looking worried. “Penny, what’s wrong?”

  “Everything. I was out—”

  “Come in. We shouldn’t talk in the hall.”

  The Foxglove Room was similar to the Lilac Room, except that it was navy blue instead of lavender, it had armchairs instead of loveseats, and there was a mirror instead of a print hanging above the mantel. Blue sat down on the bed and motioned me to join him.

  “She almost killed me. Again,” I said.

  Blue’s face darkened.

  “Vincent too this time. While we were out in the van.”

  He closed his eyes and took a shallow breath. “I never should have let it go this far in the first place.”

  I wished more than anything that I could put my hand on his cheek and that he could take comfort from my touch. But I couldn’t. He couldn’t. We couldn’t.

  “She’s won, Penny. You must know that. I’m going to give her what she wants and stay away from you.”

  “What? No! No way.”

  “It’s not worth your life,” he said.

  “Yeah, but she’ll keep trying to kill me anyway. Even if we never talk again. Because she doesn’t want me around George either.”

  Blue’s eyes widened. “You think she loves George too?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. George is her son, Blue. He’s the person she’s waiting for.”

  Blue’s mouth opened a sliver. “Why do you think that?”

  “My dream journey. It was all there.”

  “Penny, I told you, dream journeys aren’t always factual, not in a literal way.”

  “I know, but I know this one is true. It fits with what George has told me. And besides, it felt real—literally, factually real.”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Have you noticed how careful s
he’s been to spare George in these so-called accidents? How she lured me to the dock only after George was safely out of bounds? How she didn’t pull the car stunt when George was on board? She doesn’t want to murder her own son. She just wants to keep him from getting involved with a girl who can see her prowling around.”

  Blue shook his head.

  “Don’t you see?” I said. “Starla will have it in for me even if you drop me. So there’s no reason for us to stop…hanging out.”

  His eyes seared mine with that incredible flame from behind. After a long minute he said, “I need some time to think. Can you give me that?”

  Panic rose in my throat. ”But—”

  “Please,” he said softly. “I need to be alone.”

  Unable to speak, I stood up, went to the door, and walked grimly out of the room.

  Chapter 10

  December 25

  I know the answer! The answer lies within the heart of all mankind! The answer is twelve? I think I’m in the wrong building.

  –Charles M. Schulz

  Another sleepless night. Sleepless, terrified, heartbroken, furious. Was Starla already hatching her next plot against me? Was Blue truly going to shut me out? Was he telling Starla as much right now—and was she trying to get all toasty with him this very minute? God, she made me sick.

  Between tossings and turnings, I had the on-and-off urge to call Mom. I felt an overwhelming impulse to confess everything I now knew to be true about ghosts. Don’t do it, I warned myself repeatedly. Don’t tangle Mom up in your odyssey. Don’t tangle yourself up in Mom’s mania. But it would be so easy to tell her, and such a relief. No. No, no, no. But what if she called tomorrow, for Christmas? Would I be able to resist the opening?

  As the night wore on, I started obsessing about George and me. He seemed smitten now. He was acting chivalrous now. But what would happen once we parted—once he was back in college, surrounded by girls, living in a different state from me? Would I still be worth the hassle? Or would I be out of sight and out of mind? The thought of losing both him and Blue was like a taste of death.

  I finally gave up on the idea of ever falling asleep. Sitting up in bed, I watched the world outside my window turn from black to charcoal, and from purplish silver to steely grey. When the snow started to look white instead of slate, I decided morning had arrived. Christmas Day. The day to be merry, or at least to act merry.

  The idea of playing Perky Penny made me so tired I lay back down for half an hour. I probably would have stayed horizontal longer, but suddenly Alvin and the Chipmunks were downstairs singing “Christmas Don’t Be Late” at the top of their rodent lungs, so I dragged myself out of bed, changed into my red snowflake sweater and good jeans, ran a brush through my hair and my teeth, and headed downstairs.

  “Penny dear, good morning,” Bubbles said in her consummate hostess voice when I arrived in the parlor. “Welcome to Christmas at the Black Butterfly.”

  George, Rita and Vincent walked in from the direction of the kitchen, carrying trays of Darleen’s Delectables, which they set on the coffee table next to several pitchers of juice. Then we all wished each other happy holidays and started filling our plates. George touched my hand as he passed me a juice glass, and my feelings for him swelled to overflowing. It was such a warm, reassuring touch, I wanted to bottle it and keep it with me always.

  Once we sat down, Bubbles did most of the talking—surprise, surprise—which was fine by me and, I think, by the others. I nodded and smiled at her when it seemed appropriate, and kept my mouth shut when it didn’t. Finally she drained her glass of orange juice (or maybe it was a mimosa), blotted her crimson lips, and announced, “All right, shall we get to the goodies?” Everyone except me went to the tree and retrieved the newspaper-and-foil-wrapped packages they were about to exchange.

  This year, it turned out, Bubbles had drawn George’s name, and she was obviously thrilled to pass on a jade and crystal chess set to him. George gave Vincent the magnifying glass. Rita presented Bubbles with a pewter moose, and Vincent gave Rita a poster of every kind of mushroom.

  “Did I not give you this poster a few Christmases ago?” Rita asked Vincent playfully.

  “Yes,” he said, “and I’m looking forward to getting it back the next time you draw my name.”

  I thought the gift-giving portion of the morning was complete, but then Rita said, “I have a little something for Penny, as well.” She took a bag out from behind her. “Just a very little something.” I took the bag and pulled out A Pictorial History of Chocolate, a colorful, oversized book complete with recipes and maps. I hugged Rita tightly, thinking as I did how much more thoughtful she was than my own mother sometimes.

  Bubbles pressed a small box into my hand. “I have something for you too, dear,” she said. It took me a little while to open the box, which was not only wrapped but also tied with all kinds of yarn and ribbons. Inside was a pin, the kind you’d wear on a blazer or denim jacket, shaped like a chameleon and glimmering different colors depending on how the light hit it. The eyes were glass, the tail was wire, and the body was a hodgepodge of computer circuitry.

  “I love it,” I told her. And I honestly did sort of like it.

  “I suppose it’s my turn now,” Vincent said. He handed me a worn paperback copy of Stephen King’s Misery.

  “Vincent, this is perfect,” I said, although I’d already read the book twice and seen the movie a bunch of times. “Thank you, everyone, so much. This is an awesome Christmas.”

  I caught sight of Starla just as I set my gifts on the coffee table. She was standing at the bottom of the staircase, hands behind her back, watching us. God, I wanted to strangle her. I wanted to grab her by the throat and make her tell me where Blue was, make her promise to leave me alone, make her go the hell away. I couldn’t, of course. I could only stare back at her, which made me even more furious. The girl who wanted to ruin—or end—my life was in the room, and all I could do was keep smiling.

  As I eyed Starla, I realized there was something different about her. Something about her face, something subtle but definitely there. It took me a second to figure it out. Then it hit me. The hostility was still in her eyes, but it was mixed with something else, something like…longing. Like she was a little girl with her nose pressed against a toy store window after closing time. Locked out. I might actually have felt sorry for her if she weren’t such a diabolical bitch.

  Rita was the only one who sensed my distress. She was suddenly at my side, her arm around my waist. “Penny, are you okay?” she asked, which got George up off the couch and headed my way. Bubbles got there before him though, and she took my hand and asked if I felt faint.

  I tore my eyes away from Starla. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry. It’s nothing. I’m just…I just figured out what I’d’ve given you all if I’d been organized.” I glanced up in time to see Starla running up the stairs. Steady, Penny. Stay focused. Think. “Fortune cookies. Homemade fortune cookies with a personalized message inside. A quote.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Bubbles said, walking me over to the couch. “Want to try it now? Not the cookie—just the quote.”

  Like I had a choice. “Okay, I guess I can give it a shot. Give me a minute…Vincent, you first. Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived. That’s from Helen Keller.”

  He blinked vacantly at me, and I thought I was going to have to remind him how he sniffed out my first supper here, but then a smile of recognition crept over his face.

  “Bubbles, let’s see. Forgiveness doesn’t change the past, but it does enlarge the future. I can’t remember who said it, but, well, anyway.”

  She blew me a kiss with her ruby-lipsticked lips and her scarlet-nailed hand, and I think her cheeks went a little red, as well.

  “Rita, this one’s from Toni Morrison. She is a friend of my mind...the pieces I am, she gathers them and gives them back to me in all the right order.”

  Rita was jus
t starting to say something when the lobby phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said.

  “No, I’ll get it,” said George, which was a good thing because I had no idea what quote to give him, especially in front of his mother. He breezed back in a minute later and handed me the phone. “Your mother.”

  So Mom thought of me on Christmas, after all.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “Can I call you back in just a bit? We’re in the middle of –”

  “Sorry, honey, but I won’t be near a phone later,” she said. “It’s important. Maybe you should take the phone somewhere you can be alone.”

  It’s always useful to know where a friend and relation is, whether you want him or whether you don’t.

  –Rabbit, Pooh’s Little Instruction Book

  I plopped onto the cyclone of bedcovers and lit the Tiffany lamp. “Okay, all set, Mom. Shoot.”

  “First of all, Merry Christmas. How is it having Christmas in Maine? Got snow?”

  “Snow, ice, wind—you name it, we’ve got it.”

  “It’s cold here too.”

  “Where are you calling from? It’s a good connection for once.”

  “Yes, finally. It’s so great to hear your voice. I can’t wait to see you and give you your present. I got you something special out here. I hope you’re okay with not having gifts to open today. It’s just that I didn’t—”

  “I did have gifts to open.”

  “Really? From Bubbles? Bubbles got you a Christmas present?”

  “Yes. Bubbles and my other friends here.”

  “You have friends there? That’s terrific, honey. This time, we’re both having an adventure, huh?”

  “You could say that.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, and I was beginning to think our connection was breaking up, but then I detected an unmistakable sound, the sound of a warning breath rocketing straight from the Rocky Mountains to my ears. All my senses sharpened, and I unconsciously pulled my knees up to my chest.