Butterfly's Child

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  She heard Mrs. Pinkerton moving about upstairs and looked at the clock. Almost time for the midday meal; she’d be down soon. Using a heavy cloth, Kate lifted the jars from their bath, poured a bucket of water over them, then set them, as Mrs. Pinkerton had instructed, on the dining room table to cool. The blood-red beets shone in the light like large, dark jewels.

  The next day, the jars were ready to go down to the cellar, but Kate was in no hurry to remove evidence of her housewifery, for which Frank and Mrs. Pinkerton had both praised her. Her back was strained, she told her mother-in-law; she would move the beets in the morning.

  That night, as Kate lay beside Frank, drifting toward sleep, she heard an odd pinging noise downstairs, then a loud pop, and another, and a shattering sound. There were more pops, faster, like fireworks.

  She sat up. “Frank?” and shook his arm.

  Mrs. Pinkerton lumbered past their door and down the stairs. There was a scream.

  “Frank,” Kate said, pulling at him. “Get up.” She leapt out of bed and lit a candle.

  In the hall she heard another explosion, then the sound of glass raining onto the floor. She flew downstairs.

  Mrs. Pinkerton stood at the bottom of the steps, holding a hurricane lamp. Tears were streaming down her face. “Elmer’s beets,” she said. “The last of his fruit.”

  In the dim light, Kate could see chunks of beets, shards and splinters of glass on the floor, dark liquid spreading beneath them.

  “Oh God,” she said, and shouted for Frank.

  Another jar detonated, glass pinging against the chandelier, pelting onto the wooden floor. Beets caromed everywhere.

  Frank pounded down the steps. “What in hell … ?”

  “The beets fermented,” his mother said, her voice quavering. “Your father’s beets are ruined, thanks to her.”

  “That’s not fair,” Kate said. “You were giving instructions.”

  “You said you knew how to can. Everyone knows the jar has to be sealed at the proper temperature.”

  “Those beets were old—a dead man’s beets.” She began to sob; Frank put his arms around her.

  “Shh,” he said. “It’s all right. No one was hurt.”

  “Look at the ceiling,” his mother said. “There’s no removing the stain of a beet.”

  “I want to go home,” Kate wailed. She thought of her room, the canopy bed, the way the light was in early afternoon.

  “You are home,” Frank said, holding her tighter. “Go to bed, Mother. I’ll clean up in the morning.”

  Frank helped Kate up the stairs and into bed, then lay with his arms around her.

  “This place is a madhouse!” Kate cried. “I can’t live with her.”

  “It would be much harder work for you alone.”

  “Hire a servant.”

  “As soon as I can.”

  She thought of her father, how grieved he would be to see her in this miserable place. She remembered him sitting by her bed when she had the measles, stroking her head, saying a prayer in his soothing baritone.

  “I want to go to church in Stockton,” Kate said. “And I want you to go with me.”

  “Yes, darling,” he said, kissing her neck. “Whatever you say.”

  Beginning the next Sunday, Kate and Frank and Benji attended the First Presbyterian Church on Oak Street in Stockton, and Mrs. Pinkerton, for the time being, went with the Case family to the Plum River services.

  The veterinarian Horatio Keast was at the Pinkerton farm seeing to one of the Percherons when the Case family came to visit. After he finished his work, he washed his hands at the pump and walked to the house. Pinkerton had invited him to stay for dinner.

  The adults were on the front porch, talking about the weather and drinking lemonade. The Case girl was there too, wearing a frilly dress, pouting. Beyond the road, the boys were playing baseball in the pasture. Benji was the smallest of the lot—the runt of the litter, Keast thought—but he was fast, running circles around the other boys.

  Keast sat down and exchanged pleasantries. The others returned to complaints about the unseasonably hot autumn and the tornado that had ripped through the town of Elizabeth last week. Two cows had been killed, and a little filly.

  The Cases were a good solid family who bore a strong resemblance to one another, redheads every one. Case Senior was a carrottop; his wife was fortunate to have auburn hair, though in Keast’s opinion she’d look better without those tight braids around her head. Sometimes Isobel had worn a braid, but it was a loose one down her back, to keep her hair from tangling at night. The Case daughter—she was rocking like a house afire, glaring out at the boys playing without her—had the bad luck to inherit the carrottop and freckles. So had all the children, except for one of the sons.

  Suddenly Keast saw Benji come streaking across the road. He ran up the steps and threw himself into Pinkerton’s arms. “Papa-san,” he said, then let loose a torrent of what must be Japanese.

  “Papa,” Mrs. Case said. “That’s sweet.”

  “Papa-san is a term of respect boys use for older males in Japan,” Kate said. “Normally he calls him Father Pinkerton and myself Mother Pinkerton, to help him feel at home.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Pinkerton said a few words to Benji in Japanese.

  “In English, dear,” Kate said. The edge in her voice could cut rawhide, Keast thought.

  “The boy has lost his ball,” Pinkerton said. “The one his mother gave him.”

  George, Eli, and Sam clambered onto the porch, huffing. “It’s George’s fault,” Eli said. “Benji didn’t want to play with it, George made him.”

  George pushed at Eli. “Did not.”

  Pinkerton took Benji’s hand, led him down the steps and into the pasture. The other children—even the girl—followed. Benji pointed to the river.

  Keast and the others watched in silence as Pinkerton and the children walked along the edge of the water, kicking through the tall grass. Keast thought they’d walk down to the road that crossed the river, but they turned back.

  They came across the pasture, Benji howling; he sat down in the grass. Pinkerton scooped him up, none too gently, and carried him over his shoulder.

  When they got to the porch, Keast said, “Maybe it’s on the other side.”

  “Eli saw it go in the water,” Frank said. “It’s gone.” He carried Benji, still crying, into the house.

  “We’re so sorry,” Mrs. Case said. “We’ll bring a new ball.” She stood, nodding to her husband to do the same. “We’d better be going. Thank you for the refreshments. And the boys are so sorry, aren’t you, boys?”

  When she glowered at her sons, they said in unison, “We’re sorry.”

  “Look at that dress,” Mrs. Case said to her daughter, yanking at the skirt. “Guess who’s going to wash it.”

  As the Cases took their leave, Keast heard George say to his mother, “It was just a nasty old string thing.”

  “You hush,” his mother said. “The Japanese are different than we are.”

  Kate and Mrs. Pinkerton put supper on the dining room table—roast pork, vegetables from the garden, yeast rolls Kate had made that morning. There was coffee for the adults, milk for Benji.

  After a long day, Kate was looking forward to bed. It was inconsiderate of Frank to have invited Keast, given that she’d lost a baby just a week ago. Dr. McBride and her mother-in-law insisted it was a common occurrence, nothing to be mournful about, so she tried to hold back her grief until nighttime, when she could let her tears seep into her pillow in the dark. Now they’d have to linger in the parlor as Keast went on and on about cows and hogs of his acquaintance.

  Benji was still sniffling, staring at his food without touching it. Keast tried to divert him by making a nickel disappear and reappear behind Benji’s ear; the boy was having none of it.

  Keast pocketed the nickel. “The lad’s a long way from home,” he said.

  “He won’t get over being homesick until he learns
our language,” Kate said. “Frank continues to speak to him in Japanese.” What must the Cases have thought of that “Papa-san”? she wondered.

  She had thought she’d be able to tell the Cases soon about a child of her own.

  “I’ve just done a little translating,” Frank said. “He needs some help.”

  “It doesn’t seem to be working,” she said.

  “I’m sure he’ll learn quickly, either way,” Keast said. “He seems to be a smart young lad.”

  Kate passed the rolls. Everyone was eating but Benji. “Drink your milk,” she said, nodding at him.

  “Be patient,” Frank said. “Oriental children don’t drink milk.”

  “I know that. I lived in the Orient too, as you may recall.” I’m the woman you married, she wanted to scream. “But he needs to drink milk, to be tall and strong.”

  “Drink. Milk,” she said in a firm voice, pointing at the glass.

  “Papa-san,” Benji said, and crawled into Frank’s lap.

  “No!” Kate jumped up, went to the other side of the table, and detached him from Frank. She held him by the shoulders, facing the table. “Father Pinkerton,” she said, pointing at Frank. “And I am Mother Pinkerton.” She laid a hand on her breast. “Grandmother Pinkerton,” she added, gesturing toward Frank’s mother.

  “That’s too hard for him just now,” Frank said.

  “He’s got to learn. No Papa-san,” she said to Benji. She tried to return him to his seat, but he reached for Frank.

  “Papa-san,” he wailed.

  She scooped him up. He kicked and arched his back as she carried him to the kitchen.

  “What are you doing, Kate?” Frank called.

  She sat him down hard on a stool, held him pinned against the sink, and picked up the bar of lye soap. “No Papa-san,” she said. “Why can’t you understand?”

  He glared at her with fierce black eyes. She pried open his mouth and scrubbed his tongue. “No Papa-san.”

  He spat at her, clawed his way down, and ran to his room, squalling. Frank went after him.

  Keast and Mrs. Pinkerton were silent when Kate returned to the table. She was shaky and perspiring. They began to eat again, listening to the boy sob. Keast avoided her eyes. He left before dessert; there was a mare he had to visit on the way home, he said.

  Frank was still in Benji’s room. The crying had abated. She stared at the succotash on her plate. She was a terrible mother. Perhaps the miscarriage had been a judgment upon her.

  It had been a boy, she was sure of it, even though Dr. McBride said it was too soon to tell.

  “I think you are right to discourage the use of Japanese,” Mrs. Pinkerton said. “Particularly Papa-san.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said, startled.

  “It creates a misimpression,” Mrs. Pinkerton said.

  Kate studied her mother-in-law’s profile: the large ears, the nose prominent like Frank’s, the firm set of her mouth as she sawed at her meat. She felt a wave of nausea. Mrs. Pinkerton knew. And why wouldn’t she? Benji was her grandson, after all.

  On Sunday, as was his habit each week, Keast went to visit Isobel’s grave, located on a slight rise amid cedars in the cemetery of Plum River All Souls Church. His wife and baby had died in childbirth eight years earlier; his grief was keen and his sense of guilt was not diminished. With his training and experience in birthing all manner of God’s creatures, he should have been able to save his beloved Isobel, or at least the child. Horatio Junior, he would have been.

  No expense had been spared in the design of her monument. A huge block of green-veined white marble, imported from Italy, had been carved into a Grecian-style temple with Doric columns. The base was etched with leaves of the woodbine plant, which Isobel had loved. Set just below the roofline was the feature of the memorial that drew curious sightseers from other towns: a marbleized photogravure of Isobel. The photograph had been taken in Galena, a year before Isobel and Keast had met; it captured perfectly, he thought, the delicacy of features and fineness of spirit that had in them the quality of the immortal. Isobel’s eyes, black as a crow’s, looked directly at the viewer. Her face was a perfect oval framed by a cascade of lively dark curls, but nevertheless there was in her face an expression of premonitory melancholy, as if she had divined that one day her eyes would be gazing into those of her mourning husband.

  Keast said his prayers kneeling before Isobel’s tombstone. Then he stood and in his customary manner began to talk to her, but instead of a recital of the events of his week, he described the part-Japanese boy now living in Plum River, a young lad three years younger than their Horatio would have been. He was bright, with an abundant curiosity and a natural dignity that would serve him well. The boy had a large heart, and loved the animals. Isobel’s face seemed to come to life as she listened to him: the dainty pink lobes of her ears, the flush of her skin, the lips slightly parted, as if about to speak.

  Isobel would have held nothing against the boy because of his race. She herself was part Sioux. They had attended a performance of The Mikado in Chicago and afterward had together looked up Japan in the Book of Knowledge, reading bits of it aloud to each other.

  The boy Benji was an orphan, living with a married couple who were well meaning but sometimes insensitive. “Dear Isobel, you would have been heartbroken to see the boy in grief after losing his Japanese plaything and receiving a harsh punishment from his guardian mother. The guardian father, who is fond of the boy, nonetheless later confided to me that he has been a trouble to them. When I asked in what regard, he replied that he often wanders away from the house, causing them much consternation and interruption of work on the farm. I believe the boy means no harm but is searching for whatever comfort he can find in this alien world.”

  Isobel responded with her whole being, her heart and spirit. Yes, he answered, for little Horatio’s sake he would befriend the lad.

  Benji and the cat had a language. He named her Kaki, for persimmon, even though she wasn’t orange all over, and she followed him like a dog might do, though not in a straight line. She wasn’t a kappa, she was a real cat, like Rice Ball.

  He showed Kaki the picture of Mama and the writing he had found on the back. He couldn’t read it, because he hadn’t begun to learn his characters yet, but when he cupped his hands over the writing and Kaki was purring beside him, he could hear Mama saying the message, that he should be as strong as a samurai and that she was proud of him. He carried her message with him every day as he wandered about the farm.

  One day the animal doctor was in the barn. His eyebrows were funny, with hairs sticking out. He gave Benji a striped candy stick and showed him what he did to the horses’ feet and a sick place on a cow’s belly.

  Kaki wanted to see, so Benji picked her up.

  The man rubbed her head with two fingers until Kaki purred and closed her eyes.

  “Kaki,” Benji told him.

  “Cat,” the man said, talking slow. “Kaki, cat,” and led him around the barn, telling him the names of the animals in his language. Then they sat on the ground and Benji watched while the man took a piece of wood from his pocket and made Kaki’s head come out of it with his knife.

  At night Benji whispered to Kaki in cat talk—little words he made up—and she purred back. Sometimes he just thought to her and she understood. When she lay humming on his chest, he liked to close his eyes and think of Rice Ball. He was white all over except the tip of his tail, black like it was dipped in ink. Mama said maybe Rice Ball wrote or made pictures at night when they weren’t looking. Rice Ball had gray eyes like a gaijin, a cold pink nose, and stiff white whiskers he didn’t like touched. Rice Ball was Papa-san’s cat, Mama said, and Benji was a good boy to look after him so well until Papa came back.

  One night when Benji had a bad dream about Mama and the blood, he took her picture from its hiding place in the kimono and held it against his chest. He wished Mama had put it there for him but it had been Suzuki because Mama was dead. The dream came back t
o him. It was too hard to think about.

  He pulled Kaki under the covers with him, like he did with Rice Ball in his futon, and thought about Rice Ball helping him fish in the pond, leaning over so far Benji was afraid he’d fall in but he never did, only put a paw in the water and shook it off fast. He remembered his feet in the cool pond, and the orange fish brushing past, and in the fall, leaves that looked like red stars on the water. To go back to sleep, he put himself in the pond, floating with the sun on his face and Rice Ball watching over him.

  It fell to Kate to teach the boy English. Frank’s efforts, when he made them, continued to involve pidgin Japanese.

  She devoted herself to Benji, to win back his trust. She cooked his favorite food—he preferred noodles, with bits of chicken and vegetables—and at bedtime sang nursery rhymes to him, just as she longed to do for her own children. Benji watched her warily, holding the cat. She prayed that God give her renewed patience.

  The veterinarian, Keast, had recommended that she consult Miss Lena Ladu, the new schoolteacher who’d just relocated to Morseville, the small town between Plum River and Stockton. Both Keast and Miss Ladu roomed at Mrs. Bosley’s boardinghouse, where he had on several occasions conversed with her; she was steady and intelligent, he said, with a good measure of common sense.

  Miss Ladu agreed that the boy should be weaned from his native tongue. Since he seemed to be such a bright child, he would in all likelihood pick up English in a natural way, by hearing it spoken in the home. She commended Kate for the approach she was taking. He would probably master nouns first, Miss Ladu predicted; that was the way of American children.