Butterfly's Child

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  He rode hard until noon, when his borrowed horse was streaked with sweat. He turned back, letting the horse walk, tears streaming down his face. There was a searing pain in his chest. What now? He’d walk to Ottumwa before he’d ride Digby’s nag.

  A horse came rushing toward him; the rider had a rifle under his arm. Then he saw it was Mrs. Weber, in a heavy coat and man’s hat. She pulled her horse up beside him and raised the rifle. “You’re going to jail.”

  “No,” he said, “Wait. I’m looking for Moffett—he stole my horse. I was bringing yours back.” He took Digby’s note from his pocket and handed it to her. “He left during the night on Kuro. Now I’m done for.”

  She stared at the note, turned it over, read it again. “You better be telling the truth. Why didn’t you ask before taking my horse?”

  “I was in a hurry to catch him.”

  “How long you known Digby Moffett?”

  “I just met him on the road a few weeks ago.”

  “That was a misfortunate piece of luck.” She tucked the rifle back under her arm and studied him. “Where are you from?”

  “My father and stepmother live in Illinois. I’m on my way to Japan, where I was born—Digby was telling the truth about that. And Kuro—my …” He clenched his jaw.

  “You know how to read?”

  His face went hot. “Just because I’m Japanese doesn’t mean I can’t read. I’ve been to school—I’m in the top grade.”

  “Christian?”

  “I have three gold stars for Sunday-school attendance.”

  “All right,” she said. “You can stay with us for a while, until we find your horse and the worm that’s on his back.”

  Kate was ill with mother’s sickness, vomiting every morning into the chamber pot beside the bed. As soon as this phase passed, she would leave; she had to leave this place, the gossip, the humiliation, Aimee and her tribe relishing the exposure of the elaborate lies she had told about Benji’s origins. She could see them in Aimee’s parlor, gathered for the women’s circle meeting, their tea growing cold, their eyes glittering as they leaned forward, devouring morsels of fact and rumor. Mrs. Cassidy would declare she had never been so shocked. I always suspected it, Aimee would say, setting off a clamor of excited agreement: Her Christian duty, indeed!

  They would whisper at church, and Reverend Singleton and his wife would discuss the scandal at their dinner table. If only she had confided in Reverend Singleton, he might be able to help her now, but it was too late. There was no help.

  She kept to her room, sleeping much of the day with the aid of the tonics Frank had brought her.

  One day she dreamed about Benji, that she had given birth to him herself. He was bleeding from his mouth, and she was covered with his blood. She jerked awake, pulled down the covers, and looked—nothing—then fell back onto the bed. She could hear Mrs. Pinkerton downstairs, cleaning, scraping chairs about. Kate got out of bed, put on her robe, and went to stand by the window, putting her forehead against the cold pane. There was a freezing drizzle, the ice beginning to coat the trees, the limbs shining in the cold light of late afternoon. The garden had buckled, the coneflowers, the black-eyed Susans, the lettuces shriveled. She thought of Benji huddled against the door of a shop in some strange town. He might die of exposure in this weather; he might already be dead. She felt a wave of vertigo; it was too much to think about. She went back to her tonic and to sleep.

  Sometimes Mary Virginia tiptoed into the room and wriggled into bed with her. “All right,” Kate said, “if you be quiet and go to sleep.” Mary Virginia would lie still, her hot sweet little breath on Kate’s face, and stare at her. “Is Mama sick?” she said one day.

  “No. Mama is just waiting for the stork.”

  “Why?”

  Kate closed her eyes, saw the air thick with orange butterflies. “Why, Mama?”

  “The stork is going to bring us a baby.”

  “I’m the baby.” Mary Virginia thrashed and kicked. “I’m the baby.”

  “Go on, now.” Kate gave her a nudge. “Go help your grandmother. Mama needs to sleep.”

  One evening she woke to see Franklin at the door. He was on his way to bed, holding a candle. His shirttail was out and his trousers were too short. He’d grown without her noticing.

  “When is Benji coming back?” he said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will he come back?”

  “No,” she said, in a sharper voice than she’d intended, and Franklin slid away. “I don’t know. How could I possibly know?” she called after him. “Franklin?” When he didn’t return, she took out the tonic and drank herself back to unconsciousness.

  At night she was wakeful, after her long spells of sleep during the day, but lay turned away from Frank, feigning sleep. When he whispered “Kate?” and touched her shoulder, she deepened her breathing. He disgusted her, the stale smell of his nightshirt, the alcohol on his breath. Often he rose and went to his office or down the stairs. He was miserable too, but she could not help him.

  One afternoon Mrs. Pinkerton woke her to say she was worried about Franklin. “He never came back from the milking,” she said. “I’ve looked for him everywhere.”

  Mrs. Pinkerton’s eyes and head seemed too large, as if Kate were looking at her through water. She forced herself up; the room was spinning. “He’s at school,” she said.

  “He doesn’t go to school anymore,” Mrs. Pinkerton said. “We can’t get him to go. His pony is gone—Frank thinks he’s trying to find Benji.”

  Kate thought of him at her door in his outgrown clothes, his eyes wide and anxious. It was her fault, her darling boy. “I can’t lose him,” she whispered.

  “Frank will find him.”

  Kate followed Mrs. Pinkerton down the stairs, holding tight to the railing.

  They looked out the windows of the dining room and parlor. It was a perfectly still day, the branches of the trees not stirring, as if the world were holding its breath. The house was silent.

  “Mary Virginia,” Kate cried, looking around.

  “Playing with her dolls,” Mrs. Pinkerton said.

  They sat in the parlor, Mrs. Pinkerton knitting a white baby blanket that fell over her knees. It was long enough to be a small shroud.

  “I’ve killed him,” Kate whispered. “I told him Benji wouldn’t be back.”

  “Hush. It’s bad luck to talk that way. And it’s none of your fault.” She flicked her gaze up from the needles.

  Mary Virginia ran into the room and shoved something at Kate. “Baby,” she said. It was the ugly rag doll that Mrs. Pinkerton had made from a sock.

  “They’ll be hungry when they get back,” Mrs. Pinkerton said, rising.

  “Hungry,” Mary Virginia said. “Me and the baby are hungry.”

  Kate put Mary Virginia in her high chair and laid the table, her hands trembling. Mrs. Pinkerton brought corn bread and a pitcher of milk, poured milk for the three of them, then sat with Kate at the table.

  Mary Virginia held her cup to the doll’s mouth. Milk splashed onto the doll and the high chair.

  “Stop that,” Kate said, snatching away the doll. “Eat. Be a big girl.”

  Mary Virginia drummed her feet against the chair. “Baby!” she cried, then “Frankie!”

  “Shh,” Kate said. “Franklin and Papa have gone to a meeting.”

  Mrs. Pinkerton gave her a look. The wrong thing to say. But what could she say?

  Her mother-in-law lifted Mary Virginia from the high chair. “Bedtime for the big girl,” she said, and carried her upstairs.

  Kate took a swallow of milk. It tasted off. She went to the parlor and picked up her needlework, but her fingers would not move; she was sick with fear.

  Finally Frank was at the door. She flew to greet him.

  He shook his head.

  “Someone must have seen him,” Kate yelled. “Go back. Keep looking.”

  “A group of us will go out tomorrow at first light,” Frank said.


  Kate let out a sob. Frank reached for her but she pushed him away, ran, stumbling, up the stairs. Maybe she would trip and this would all be over.

  The next morning Kate went downstairs when she heard men’s voices: Bud Case and his son Eli, Red Olsen, Keast. The men kept their eyes averted from her; she shouldn’t have come down in her nightgown, and she with child. What was she thinking?

  “We’ll find him, Kate,” Keast said, but his face lacked conviction. There were pouches under his eyes; he’d been awake all night too.

  Mrs. Pinkerton gave them sacks of food, and they left in a racket of boots and door slammings and horses. Then, silence again.

  Kate dressed and walked down the road, then crossed the meadow and followed the edge of the little river. She was light-headed, her first time out in weeks. The water was moving swiftly, foaming around the rocks. Franklin had loved playing here. She thought of the time he’d come into the house shouting and waving a fish Benji had helped him catch.

  She’d been fine then, a normal mother. She remembered frying the fish, the oil sputtering in the pan. She held to a plum branch and hung over her reflection in a still pool of water at the edge of the river. Kate. Kate Lewis Pinkerton.

  She went back to the house, to her room, and fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke in the afternoon and descended the stairs, there were cakes and pies on the dining room and kitchen tables.

  “Is he dead?” she cried.

  “No, dear, there’s no word yet.”

  “Then they shouldn’t bring food.” Now they’d be talking about her again; what kind of mother lost two boys? “Has Aimee Moore been here?”

  “She brought that pie.” Mrs. Pinkerton nodded toward it. “Raisin.”

  Kate crushed the lattice crust with the heel of her hand and threw the pie in the slop bucket.

  “Dear, you need to go upstairs. You’re going to harm the baby, being so upset.”

  Kate laughed. “Good,” she said. “I hope so.”

  “Hush, Mary Virginia will hear. Why don’t you have some more of your syrup?”

  Kate went up to Franklin’s room, remade the bed with fresh sheets, dusted his table and desk. Lined up on the desk were small carvings Benji had made for him: an owl, a skunk, a horse, a cat. She should have known Franklin would go after him. She picked up the cat and gouged the sharp tip of an ear against her arm until the spot burned with pain.

  It was three days before the men returned. They’d gone all the way to the Mississippi, inquiring at each town along the way, and crossed into Iowa. One woman in Galena thought she had seen him, while she was sweeping her porch, but couldn’t be sure.

  Kate fainted that night after supper and Dr. McBride was called, against her wishes. She turned her face away from him as he examined her and did not answer his questions. He ordered her to remain in bed for the remainder of the pregnancy.

  Hour after hour she lay listening for the sounds of a horse on the road, the silence pulsing in her ears. She could remember Franklin’s voice exactly, the way he said Mama? with a lilt at the end. Hours and days inched by. She tried to pray.

  It was almost Thanksgiving, in the afternoon, when there was a commotion downstairs. Mrs. Pinkerton ran up to tell her. “Praise God, he’s been found.”

  Kate fell, rushing down the stairs, and slid partway, thumping hard against the edge of the steps.

  “Darling.” Frank was bending over her. “The baby …” He touched her belly.

  She reached for Franklin, kissed his cheeks, his forehead, his head. His hair was filthy. She smoothed it back with both hands.

  “I couldn’t find him, Mama.” He began to cry.

  “But you tried. I was so frightened—don’t you ever, ever …” Before she realized it, she was shaking him.

  “Kate.” Frank helped her stand. “Here are the kind people we have to thank—Mr. and Mrs. Schultz. They’ve brought him all the way from East Dubuque. He was sleeping in their shed.”

  Mr. Schultz gave a slight bow. “We saw the notice in the paper.” His face was broad and grave. His wife, a slight woman buried in a fur coat, stepped forward and took Kate’s hands. Kate felt how cold her hands were in the woman’s grasp.

  “I know you’ve been in anguish,” the woman said. “I couldn’t bear it if my children ran away.”

  Kate’s face went hot. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “I see you’re expecting another,” the woman whispered, then said in a louder voice, “Such a brave little boy you have. It’s too bad about his brother.” She pressed her thumbs into Kate’s hands. “I pray you’ll find him too.”

  December the 14th, 1905

  Dear Benjamin,

  I have made many a go at this letter and seem to get bollixed up each time, so I have decided to take the steer by the horns and write to you straight out, just as if we were talking.

  First off, I know you are grieved by the loathsome theft of Kuro, but you must not mortify yourself on this account. This villainy was in no way your fault. A horse thief is not going to advertise himself as such. Though I believe most human beings to be sound at the core, there are some putrefied ones, and more than a few of these have a slick outer surface through which it may be impossible to penetrate. I will do everything in my power to apprehend this swine and recover Kuro. You have made an excellent start yourself, in alerting the sheriffs in Ottumwa and Dubuque and, as you say, it is likely that someone in Iowa will have seen the varmint. If this odious Mr. Moffett imagines that he will be able to hide himself and a handsome quarter horse under a bush, he is as much a fool as he is a devil. If you could provide even a rough drawing of the wretch, I will see that it is posted across the plains and into the southern regions, where you think he might have returned.

  In the meantime, remember that Kuro is a spunky, smart fellow. I think of him as a quadruped version of you, and I believe that he will endure come what may.

  I was heartened and indeed overjoyed to know that you are well and that you have found a sinecure for the winter months. The German woman sounds sensible and fair-minded, and I am surmising that it is a great comfort to her that you are reading aloud to her sightless husband.

  As for your family, I can report that they are doing well enough. In accord with your request, I have not informed them of your whereabouts, but all were relieved to hear of your safety and general good health.

  Your stepmother will give birth in the spring and has been much confined to the house. Franklin is becoming a little man, and your sister is sprouting up like a sunflower and is the charm of Plum River. Your grandmother is as hardy as ever, though she misses you sorely, as we all do, but you must not let thoughts of that stand in the way of your journey.

  Now for some glad tidings:

  Lena and I were married on December 1st in Plum River Church, and a giddier production you have never seen, but all the frills and furbelows were well worth the happiness that I now enjoy. I never expected such again in my lifetime. The only shadow over the day of ritual was your absence. Lena and I both have remarked several times that if you’d been here I’d have had you standing by me to keep me from quaking in my boots, for—this may come as a surprise to you, young friend—I have ever found you a steadying influence, even when you were a sad little chap who had just lost his mama.

  All in all, I stoutly believe that you will make a success of your life, of which this journey comprises a significant segment. You are traveling alone through perilous chasms and dark thickets, but it is such experience that can make a great man.

  Enclosed is a monetary contribution to your progress. Lena and I hope this will help see you on your way. By my calculation, it should be enough to carry you by train to California and to establish yourself there awhile as you are making ready for your passage to Japan.

  Yours truly,

  Horatio C. Keast

  Dressed in a new suit, bowler hat, and fine black shoes—parting gifts from Mrs. Weber—Benji leaned against a train window, watching Io
wa recede. The sounds of the locomotive’s whistle and the wheels clattering on the rails were urgent and thrilling. He was on his way at last.

  It had been a long winter of snow and gray skies, but now in mid-April the ground was thawed and the farmers were at their plowing. Through the open window he could smell spring—the odors of the rich, turned earth, the thickets of wild plum along the streams, already in blossom. The fragrance of plums would always remind him of Flora, their walks along Plum River in the spring.

  He had tried several times at the Webers’ house to write to her but had sat paralyzed at the kitchen table before the sheet of paper, images of Digby, Kuro, the bridge in the rain, Frank’s whip, tumbling through his mind. There was too much to say. Maybe, like Keast, he should begin as if speaking to her in person, as if she, and not that old man snoring in the seat across from him, were here.

  What would she think of him in the bowler hat and suit? And what of his black hair, colored with shoe polish at Mrs. Weber’s suggestion, so he would fit in with the other Japanese in San Francisco? Flora might laugh. Looking at his reflection in the dim mirror of the Webers’ hallway, he had been startled to see a young man, but he hadn’t decided if it was a distinguished or ridiculous-looking one. Mrs. Weber said he looked very handsome, but Otto laughed and said he was a dressed-up monkey.

  There was stationery on the little table between the seats. Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy Railroad, All Aboard, it said across the top; beneath was a picture of a long train with smoke streaming from the engine. Flora would like this paper, and if he wrote to her on it, it would be the closest thing to having her here.

  He searched in his shiny new valise for a pencil. Dear Flora, he wrote, I have thought of you every day, in circumstances that would surprise and even shock you. I spent the winter at the house of a dying man. It was terrible to watch him suffer. When I read to him, I thought of how you and I used to read Longfellow and Shelley to each other beside the river. He stared out the window. He’d also thought of Flora when he rubbed the old man’s forehead and arms with the pine oil that seemed to soothe him, imagining that if Flora could see him she would know he’d make a good, kind husband. I made the coffin, he continued, nothing as fine as your father’s work, of course, and I dug the hole myself, to spare his children. His wife said after we laid him in the ground that he had always been such a considerate man; she thought he waited to die until the ground was no longer frozen.