Butterfly's Child

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  In Morseville, Frank paused at the store. That Norwegian whose name he never could remember was going in, gave him a sly grin over his shoulder. Son of a bitch.

  He’d go pay a visit to Keast first, give him a piece of his mind. Maybe two pieces. He’d be in now, Saturday morning, snoring like a hog.

  He hitched Admiral in front of the boardinghouse and went around back, out of sight of Nellie Bosley. She’d already be spreading tales from here to kingdom come. Nothing like a spurned woman to trade on your bad fortune. On the stairs he uncapped the flask and took a long draught, then another when he reached the upstairs balcony.

  He pounded on Keast’s door. There was a clatter, something rolling across the floor. Then silence. He rapped again. “Keast?”

  “Pinkerton?” Keast said from the other side of the door. “Any word of Benji?”

  “Come out and I’ll tell you.”

  Keast cracked open the door. He was still in his nightshirt.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about that goddamn picture?”

  “The boy took me into his confidence. I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  “Harm?” Frank could hear his voice, high and sissy. “Tell my wife that,” he said in a lower voice. “I hold you responsible, Keast.”

  “I didn’t sire the boy.”

  Frank shoved him, knocking him into the room, and gave him a jab in the gut.

  A woman screamed. Over Keast’s head, he could see a form wriggling deeper into the bedclothes, a rabbit gone to ground.

  “I’ll be damned,” Frank said, grinning.

  Keast yanked his arm, pulled him outside, shut the door behind him. His hair was sticking up all over and he smelled of sex. Frank took a swing. Keast shoved him, grunting, and Frank fell against the porch railing. There was a cracking sound. He looked behind him—a long way down.

  “Go sleep it off, Frank.” The door slammed.

  He took another drink, finishing off the bottle, and started down the stairs. Holier-than-thou horse doctor. He wasn’t one for whores. Must be the teacher. He laughed and spat into Nellie Bosley’s holly bushes.

  In the yard, a colored boy had a bonfire going, bits of smoldering leaves rising in the air. As Frank stood watching, Butterfly seized him—her warm skin in the morning, the satin blanket of her hair. His legs trembled. Gripping the rail, he made his way to the bottom of the porch stairs and at the well splashed a dipperful of water on his face. Sharpless would say he’d had it coming. He nestled the empty bottle behind a bush.

  The store was humming with Saturday-morning customers. He held back at the door. He ought to come when the crowd had thinned out, but his mother would blow blue thunder if he didn’t hurry back with her things. And Katie needed her medicine.

  When he stepped inside, a few heads turned in his direction. A woman smoothing out fabric stared. He tipped his cap to her—Mrs. Burdett, the banker’s lard-assed wife. Bud Case was nowhere in sight. Bud was usually here on a Saturday. Hello, Frank, he’d have said, and slapped him on the back.

  Silence fell as he walked to the counter. Red Olsen was toting up purchases for that librarian woman—Moss her name was—who Kate used to be so cozy with. A stringy girl he’d never seen before was putting things in sacks.

  Miss Moss gave him a sharp glance as she left. Mean little eyes and buck teeth; no wonder she slept alone.

  “Frank,” Red said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Think we’re in for more weather?”

  “Not betting against it.” Frank gave Red his list and stood looking through a seed catalogue. The place was quieter than a funeral. Just a tourist picture, he wanted to yell at them, none of your goddamn business.

  “Flour, lard, vanilla.” Red set the items on the counter. “Bacon.” The tonic he slipped into a small sack without comment.

  Frank pocketed his change, glanced around the store at people pretending not to look. He turned back to Red. “Don’t expect Keast in here this morning,” he said. “Bedded down with a woman.” Red stared. The girl beside him snickered. “Don’t ask me who. I’ve got … I’ve got …” He couldn’t think what he was going to say. He picked up his packages.

  There was murmuring as he made his way to the door. Someone—a woman—laughed.

  He pulled himself onto Admiral and started down the street. He hadn’t seen the photograph, that he could recall, but he vaguely remembered it being made: a little man shrouded behind a black cloth, his feet in tight-looking shoes. It had probably been her idea, her keepsake while he was gone. Of course she’d give it to her boy, his keepsake of her.

  Tears came to his eyes, making a blur of the houses and trees and a man crossing the street in the distance. He felt suddenly homesick for his father.

  When he was outside of town, it began to snow. There was a wind behind it, blowing sparks of cold against his face. He closed his eyes. Admiral would carry him to the farm.

  By mid-November it was freezing even in the daytime, and nights were miserable. Digby invited Benji to bed down with him in the hayloft, when they were lucky enough to be put up in a barn, but Benji preferred to sleep beside Kuro in the stall, the horse’s warm breath on his neck.

  Food was scarce. They must look like tramps by now, Benji thought; housewives had become more reluctant to feed them. Some days they lived on nothing but apples and hickory nuts. The emptiness in Benji’s stomach became a gnawing fear. He had a bit more money now, even after buying a jacket lined with sheep’s wool—Digby had raised his rates for digging in nearly frozen ground—but no place for the winter. Digby said he was determined to find him a sinecure; that’s why he kept traveling west instead of turning back like a more sensible man would have done. He claimed to have numerous connections, but after each of his private consultations on Benji’s behalf, he came back shaking his head. There was one sure place, though, not far ahead, and he would see him settled in it. He owed him that much for hauling him out of the ditch and being such a loyal partner. “I’ve gotten right partial to you,” he said, “and that’s the Lord’s truth. You’ve got a fearsome journey, but you’re a determined little cuss. I believe you’ll make it.”

  “What is this sure place?”

  “A surprise.” Digby lit a cigar and cackled. “I de-dog guarantee you’ll like it.”

  For the next few days, as they rode through the flat gray Iowa landscape, not a tree in sight, Benji tried to ignore his doubts and concentrate on his final destination. He let the word Nagasaki roll through his mind, summoning up the photograph he’d seen in a book of the bay there—a deep inlet of water, with mountains all around, a glimpse of upturned tiled roofs.

  In the evenings, while it was still light, he found a private spot and took his mother’s picture from the tin box. Covering Frank’s figure with his thumb, he rested his eyes on his mother’s serene face. And in the dark, before sleep, he brought his mother’s image to his mind. He didn’t believe in heaven, but maybe somehow she would be able to sense his returning home to his own people, to Japanese soil.

  One morning when Benji woke, there was snow on the ground, and the sky was low and white. He slid lower in his bedroll and closed his eyes. Kuro was stamping at the ground, neighing. He needed to shake the snow from Kuro’s blanket, give him some oats. By golly, he imagined Keast saying, it’s time to get going.

  He kicked out of the blankets, fed Kuro, and tried to comb the snow and ice from his mane with his fingers. There was no wood for a fire. He pushed at Digby, who was snoring in the bed of the wagon, wrapped in quilts he’d stolen from a wash line. “All right, dammit,” Benji said. “Where is this so-called sure thing? You’ve been wasting my time.”

  Digby reared up, rubbing his eyes. “Let’s not get scrambled up here. I ain’t about to leave you at the mercy of the snows.” He reached into his bedding, pulled out a cigar stub, and lit it. “I can tell you about the widow woman now that we’re about to hit into her place. Those last trees”—he jerked his head toward a dry pair of conifers—“are for her.”

&
nbsp; “They were for that farmer who turned them down yesterday.”

  “They’re for the widow woman now, a condolence gift.”

  “She’d better help me,” Benji muttered, “or the condolences will be for you.”

  They set out down the road, he and Digby gnawing at icy knobs of bread from yesterday’s handout.

  The widow woman lived just ahead, Digby said, outside Ottumwa, and ran a dairy farm on her own. Her husband had died last spring, and when Digby asked about her plans she said she had no plan but to stay there; no bank or lawyer was going to run her off. “She needs the help bad,” he said. “She’s got three head of chaps, but they’re either too young or too no-count to carry any weight. You’d be doing her a favor, with all you know about animals, and you’ll be getting yourself a soft deal. Cows pretty much take care of themselves.”

  “She would have help by now.”

  “I’m reckoning not. She wouldn’t be a real popular boss lady. But you’d get on with her okay—you get along with everybody, I’ve noticed that about you.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s got a temper hotter than a potbellied stove at Christmas. Though to tell the truth, I don’t mind a little fire in my women.” He gave Benji a sidewise grin. “She’s part Injun. She can’t help her temper, and she don’t really mean it. And since she’s racial, she won’t hold your race against you, like some might. This is by God a sure thing, and I know you won’t be sorry.”

  Benji looked up at the sky and sighed. “How far?”

  “We should make our arrival this afternoon.”

  By noon it had begun to snow again, a large-flaked, steady snow that meant business. Kuro frisked along, but Digby’s horse plodded more slowly than ever. “See what a pickle I got myself into?” Digby said.

  “Your pickle? What about mine?”

  “You’re going to be set up, but I’ve got all the way back to Missouri to consider.”

  They stopped in Ottumwa to buy some tooth powder, to freshen up for the widow, and a bottle of brandy as a gift. “She likes her whiskey, I don’t mind telling you,” Digby said. Benji noticed a cigar factory and a large dry-goods store; if things didn’t work out at the widow’s, he’d come back here and beg for a job.

  It was nearly dusk when they turned down her road. Ahead, through the swirling snow, Benji saw a farmhouse in need of paint, a large barn, several smaller outbuildings.

  At the front steps, Digby climbed from his wagon, brushed snow off his coat, and said, “You wait here. I’ll handle the preliminaries.”

  He was gone a long while. Benji trotted Kuro up and down the road on his lead, trying to keep warm; his feet and nose were numb.

  Finally Digby burst out the door and down the steps. His face was red and his hat was at a cockeyed angle. “He ain’t dead yet,” he said. “Last year he was as good as dead.” He looked indignant, as though the man hadn’t kept a promise.

  “I knew it.” Benji kicked at the snow.

  “Hold on now, hold on. The negotiations are proceeding. He’s still sick in the bed—I know she needs help. She’s invited us for supper.”

  Benji took the horses to the barn and rubbed them down. There were four milk cows, a quarter horse, a Percheron, and three empty stalls. Not much of a dairy operation; the others must have been sold off. He put their horses into two of the stalls, fed and watered them. There was plenty of hay in the loft; someone had been looking after her. Farmers always looked after others in need, especially a woman. Either she already had a hired hand or didn’t need one. He’d been crazy to stick with Digby. A fool and his money are soon parted, he could hear Frank saying. He imagined grabbing the whip out of Frank’s hand, lashing him across the face. This was Frank’s doing. If Benji hadn’t had to leave so fast, he could have planned this trip in some reasonable way.

  At the house, he knocked at the door; no one appeared, so he let himself in.

  A white iron bed stood in the parlor, a bald man lying in it, his eyes closed. His face was gray; he did look almost dead. A small white dog sat on the bed near the man’s feet, watching like a sentinel. Benji walked quietly toward the voices in the kitchen.

  Digby was at the table, sopping corn bread in buttermilk. A woman was leaning against the stove, her arms crossed over her chest. She was tall, with a spadelike face and black eyes. She flicked her eyes toward Benji; she had said no.

  “He’s a trained veterinarian,” Digby was saying. “I’ve seen evidence of it. When my nag got a stone bruise, he knew just what to do. And he knows how to get wind out of a colicky horse.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  Digby turned and put a hand on Benji’s shoulder. “He’s on his way home to find his mother’s people, all the way to the Orient. You got to help him, just on a temporary basis.”

  She sighed. “I can’t afford another mouth.”

  “He eats like a lovesick sparrow,” Digby said, “and he don’t take up much space. You’d be mighty glad to have him.”

  She looked at Benji, not unkindly. “Sit down, boy,” she said, “and help yourself to some food. You can stay the night, Digby, both of you, but that’s all I can manage.”

  “Now what?” Benji said, when she’d left.

  “We’ll think of something,” Digby said.

  The children came in for supper: Otto, a husky boy of fourteen; Hans, younger but strong-looking; and a little girl, not much more than a baby, with black eyes like her mother’s. The woman followed; her name was Mrs. Weber.

  She ladled out a thin soup and sat down with them.

  “You need you some more help,” Digby said. “You wouldn’t have to pay him.”

  She looked at him; Benji sat up straighter and tried to look helpful. He wished Digby hadn’t said that about the pay.

  “In the winter he could stay in the barn—he don’t mind that at all. He loves the animals. Days your boys couldn’t get out for the snow you’d be glad for that.”

  She shook her head.

  Down the hall her husband cried out, a feeble yelp of pain; she jumped up and hurried to him.

  Digby leaned close to Benji and whispered, “Canker on the brain. Blinded, can’t speak. You can see she needs the help.”

  They went to the barn for the night, Digby carrying a lantern the woman had loaned them. He lay down on a cot in the corner, his ankles crossed, his hands behind his head. “This must be where the hired man stayed,” he said. “Once upon a time, you’d have been appreciated.”

  Benji swore under his breath and walked toward Kuro’s stall.

  “Come here, got something for you.” Digby sat up and rummaged in his bag. He held up the bottle of brandy. “She don’t deserve it, and you got a man’s problems now.”

  Benji walked back toward Digby. “You were wrong about another thing too,” he said. “That woman’s not an Indian—she just has dark hair.” He took a long pull from the bottle Digby handed him. “Tomorrow I’m going to town,” he said, “and I want my bonus. I’ll be needing it.”

  Digby’s head bobbed up and down. “You’ll get it,” he said. “I’ve got to do some figuring, though. I’ve had extra expenses, coming this far.”

  “It was your idea about this so-called widow.”

  “I done the best I could. I always done the best I could, can’t no man say otherwise.” He stood up. “You can have the cot for the night and keep the brandy. I’ll bed down in the hayloft, and tomorrow I’ll see what more I can do about the situation.”

  “Ha,” Benji said. He sat on the cot and drank as Digby teetered up the ladder to the hayloft. Fat idiot. Maybe he’d fall and break his neck.

  He took another drink. At this rate, he’d never get to Japan. A month of traveling and only in Iowa, stuck here for the winter, nowhere to go. He and Kuro couldn’t keep on in the snow. They had to take him at the cigar factory or a store, though they’d be suspicious of him, a vagabond, a mongrel Jap.

  It had gotten dark, but his hands were too cold to light
the lantern. He kept drinking to blot out his thoughts and finally went to sleep.

  He woke at first light. The cows were lowing; maybe he should start the milking. She might pay him a little for that. He sat up, dizzy and sick, his head pounding. Just like Frank, he thought.

  On the floor beside the cot was an envelope. He ripped it open: Digby’s watch fell out. There was a note: Contrary to your assertion, it read, I came this distance to help you out. You may keep this watch, which belonged to my father, who fought valiantly at the battle of Bull Run, or you can sell it for a handsome bonus. Good luck on your journey. Yours truly, Digby Moffett, Esq. There was a postscript: I had no choice than to do what I done, since I came this far so late in the year and have to get back quick before the blizzards, but I had your benefit in mind as well. I think you will find I have improved your situation considerably.

  Benji stared at the note, reread the postscript. No choice … get back quick. He jumped up and ran to Kuro’s stall. It was empty, just trampled straw and an overturned water bucket. “No,” he yelled. “No, no!”

  Digby’s nag was in her stall. He kicked her door hard and ran outside. The wagon was outside the barn, poles resting on the ground, the box of trinkets on the front seat.

  Kuro. He opened and closed his hands. Kuro. He walked in a circle, held to a fence post, pounded it to keep from crying. His loyal buddy. He thought of the day Keast had brought Kuro to the farm; they’d understood each other from the start.

  He ran back inside and saddled the other quarter horse—he’d explain later—and galloped down the driveway to the road. The cold air numbed his face. Without Kuro, he had nothing. Alone, his journey over. He couldn’t even get to town.

  He pressed the horse faster, galloping east, retracing the route they’d followed. He looked for Kuro’s tracks in the snow, but it was impossible; the road was blurred with hoof prints. He met several people, farmers, a man in a buggy; none of them had seen a fat man on a black quarter horse, but Digby had set out before light. Benji kept riding straight east, though Digby could have taken a crossroad and hidden God knew where. “Horse thief,” he shouted, his voice ringing across the fields. He’d kill him, string him up in one of his trees. He’d better not have harmed Kuro.