Since 1913 had been a bang-up year for sales, Frank was not surprised to receive a letter of commendation from the president of Wilkes Brothers’ Farm Equipment. Mr. Wilkes invited him to Chicago so that they might discuss an expansion of his responsibilities. Would three o’clock on the afternoon of January 11 be convenient?
Frank took the express train to the city in a first-class seat—he could afford it now, he thought—and sat smoking a Cuban cigar as he watched the blur of snow-covered fields. They were putting him up at the Palmer House, so it must be something big. He’d probably be able to buy a house of his own and reunite the children at last. His mother was getting on, too old to look after the younger ones, so he would hire a servant, a mature woman, gray in her hair so the neighbors wouldn’t talk. Though God knew he deserved a wife. He felt a flash of resentment at Kate. He was tired of prostitutes, and the children deserved a real mother.
George Wilkes came to greet him in the small antechamber of his office, and they went to sit in what he called the sanctum, an untidy room with papers heaped on the desk and stacks of advertising posters on the floor; on the walls were drawings of farm equipment. A horse-faced man with a thin veneer of cordiality, Wilkes was a former farm boy from the northern part of the state; he understood from personal experience, he said, why customers responded to a man like Tom Pinkerton, who knew what the farmer was up against.
The company was growing, Wilkes said, pushing westward. “We’re moving into Nebraska—already have an office set up in Omaha. What would you say to managing that whole operation?” He leaned back in his chair, smiling expectantly.
“You mean all of Nebraska?” Frank said. “Move there?”
“Why, yes. You’d oversee the sales force—a small number at first, but that will change, especially with your being in the field some days yourself. Your home base would be Omaha—fine little city.”
Frank had never been to Nebraska. His father had mentioned sod houses, miles of lonesome prairie. “I’d receive a raise, of course,” Frank said.
“We’ll do the best we can on that score,” Wilkes said. “And we can up the percentage on your commission. You’ll be comfortable.”
Frank thought of Kate, how poorly she’d looked the last time he saw her. “I have a family,” he said.
“Good, good.” Wilkes patted his desk. “We like to have a strong family man at the helm.”
“Do you need a man in Wisconsin?” Frank asked.
Wilkes shook his head. “A man of your potential should jump at the chance of Nebraska. Someday we’ll push all the way out to California. You might be our top man in the west. So, Tom,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, leaning forward, “how does it sound?”
“Fine, just fine,” Frank said, trying to pump enthusiasm into his voice. “Mind if I consider it overnight?” It was a long way from Kate, and he knew his home territory well, customers he could rely on.
“Good idea,” Wilkes said, though his smile had faded. “Enjoy your stay at the Palmer—I recommend the prime rib. Maybe after dinner,” he added with a wink, “you can find yourself a little entertainment. Let’s talk in the morning, then. We need to make a decision soon.”
The hotel room would have struck Kate’s fancy—a flowered carpet, canopy bed with curtains, fully equipped bath. He’d promised to bring her here, never had. He drew a hot bath, lowered himself into the water. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. Maybe there was an asylum in Omaha.
Or maybe he’d be so far away that he could take a new wife without anyone being the wiser. Of course he couldn’t. There were the children to think of. He rubbed his face and arms with a loofah until his skin burned.
While he was dressing, he had a drink, just a small one. He had to be clearheaded to think over Wilkes’s proposition.
In the elevator were an elegantly dressed couple, the woman in an evening gown. Every inch of her looked pampered. The man gave him a haughty look. Frank glanced at himself in the mirror, buttoned the jacket of his suit. A string was hanging from one sleeve. When had he turned into a hayseed? He’d always looked sharp in his Navy days. In an office job he could be a more stylish dresser. He wasn’t a bad-looking man.
On the way to the restaurant, Frank picked up a newspaper to read at dinner. He was settled into a corner table by an obsequious waiter, ordered the prime rib and a glass of red wine. No harm in a single glass of wine.
He glanced at the headlines—President Wilson in Mexico, a parade on State Street by those damn fool suffragists—thumbed through the paper to look at commodities prices. Wheat was down. He buttered a roll, and turned the page.
A drawing of a Japanese woman sprang out at him. “Madama Butterfly,” the advertisement read, the opera that has captivated the nation. His stomach lurched as if he were still in the elevator. He’d thought that opera business had died down by now. Performed in English. 8 o’clock, Auditorium Theatre.
He folded the paper to hide the advertisement, then glanced around at the other diners. No one was watching.
The waiter brought his food, the beef bloody on the plate. The sight of it made him sick. He sipped at the wine, sour. He thought of the Last Supper, the picture of it in his childhood Sunday-school book. There was a sore beneath his tongue.
He left money on the table and went out. On the street, he asked the doorman for directions to the Auditorium Theatre. “Only three blocks,” the man said, pointing. “The tallest building in Chicago.”
He started down the sidewalk. It had begun to snow, big wet flakes on wind that blustered from the lake. His feet felt too large to move properly. Maybe the opera was sold out. Cars blared and hooted, the street full of them, shiny black carapaces; on his last visit to Chicago, there had been almost no cars. A new world.
The theater building was ablaze with light; inside, the floors and walls were long sweeps of marble. The only available seats were in the upper balcony, the ticket salesman told him, but the acoustics were excellent even there.
There was an elevator to the balconies, but he took the stairs. His legs felt weak, as if he were ill. An usher led him to his seat. The place was dizzying. In front of the stage were marble arches glittering with lights; box seats seemed to float in space. Thousands of people were talking and laughing. They wouldn’t be here except for me, he thought with a little shock. He glanced at the woman beside him: a low-cut white dress, a mole on her breast. On his other side sat a young jackanapes, trying to impress the girl with him. If only they knew. He brushed at his suit and opened the program. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had misremembered or dreamed it.
But there it was: Nagasaki, Butterfly. Pinkerton. Sharpless. Suzuki. He straightened, tried to steady himself. The place was too loud. Shut up, he wanted to yell. He yearned for a drink, should have had one more at the hotel. He closed his eyes and waited.
Finally the lights dimmed and there was silence, then a thunder of applause. Music began and the curtain rose on a Japanese house, a man in a naval uniform, another man. The man in the uniform—he looked at the program—was him, Pinkerton. But he was fat and his feet were too small. He began to sing, gesturing like a fool. In English, supposedly, but Frank couldn’t understand a word. He turned again to the libretto: Pinkerton and the other man were carrying on about the house, how the doors moved, space shifted however one wanted. The bridal chamber could be anywhere.
There was talk of a wedding. There had no been no wedding. They had it all wrong. It didn’t count. He laughed. People in the row ahead turned to look at him.
The American consul Sharpless strode onto stage, to a flourish of the national anthem. Sharpless, too, was portly, nothing like the real man. Amazing they had his name, though. Maybe that Cross woman had corresponded with Kate at some point. Frank followed the duet in his libretto. “Life’s not worth living if at every port you can’t have a fair maid,” Pinkerton sang. “An easygoing gospel,” Sharpless replied, “but fatal in the end.” The music darkened.
There was another woman onstage now. Butterfly. He’d missed her entrance. She was a handsome woman, but not Japanese. He was relieved to feel nothing, no stirrings. He tried to remember Cio-Cio’s face, but it eluded him. He could see her hair, her back, the foot with the little toe curled under.
He scanned the libretto to find his place. Butterfly was telling Pinkerton that she’d become a Christian for his sake. Ridiculous. He glanced at the woman beside him; she was smiling, pleased by this fictitious development.
A love duet. The music was tender for their wedding night. He tried to remember his first night with Butterfly. Of course there hadn’t been a wedding. It was at the house, but all their lovemaking had been at the house. He thought of her breasts, her warm legs, her taking his member into her mouth, but that happened many times.
Butterfly turned slightly toward the audience. “They say that in your country …” He could hear her plainly, without consulting the libretto. “A man may pierce a butterfly with a pin.”
“There is some truth in that,” Pinkerton replied. “So you can’t escape. See, I hold you as you flutter. Be mine.”
Frank thought of the day the butterflies had come to the farmhouse, on the grass and in the trees, in his office. His body went hot. He wiped his face, struggled to remove his jacket.
The curtain swooped shut with a great flourish, and people began to stir. He felt unable to move, as though he were swollen in his seat. Finally he had to rise; the young fellow and his sweetheart wanted to pass. The woman with the mole had already gone. Most of the audience was pouring out into the hall, down the stairs. He let himself be swept along.
In the lobby, people were drinking aperitifs, brandy, whiskey, but he couldn’t find the bar. He didn’t want to ask; people might think he was desperate. There was a glass of champagne on a ledge. He took it, walked away quickly, and downed it.
He didn’t feel well, too light-headed for one drink. He should go. But when the bell rang, he returned with the crowd to the auditorium and took his seat.
He looked at the libretto: Act II. Inside Butterfly’s little house.
Butterfly and Suzuki were arguing about whether or not Pinkerton would return. Butterfly was certain. She began to sing alone, her voice soaring.
One fine day we’ll notice
A thread of smoke, arising on the sea
In the far horizon
And then the ship appearing.
The trim white vessel
Glides into the harbor, thunders forth her cannon.
See you; he is coming.
Her voice rose, swelled with emotion; her face was beautiful with passion.
A man is coming,
A little speck in the distance, climbing the hillock.
Can you guess who it is?
Can you guess what he’ll say?
He will call “Butterfly” from the distance.
Frank’s eyes filled with tears. All that time, she had been waiting. She had loved him so.
Sharpless and another man reappeared. He closed his eyes and listened to the music, like waves, the way the melody flowed up and down. He thought of the sea, the smell of it, remembered sailing into Nagasaki Bay that first time. It had been a warm June morning. He’d climbed up and down the hills, flowers everywhere, beautiful women, though Cio-Cio-san was the loveliest. A uguisu geisha, Sharpless told him when he introduced her, because like the uguisu bird she had a rapturous voice. She had sung in the house, cooking, cleaning the kitchen; he’d been lulled by the contented sound of her voice. Sometimes she had given him a private concert, plucking on her shamisen.
Onstage, the music and voices grew more intense. Sharpless had a letter from Pinkerton, announcing his imminent return. That much was true; he’d written to ask for Sharpless’s help with his business dealings in Nagasaki. It must have been Sharpless who alerted Butterfly. He felt a stab of anger. Sharpless should have been the one to pay.
A blond child was brought onstage. Benji. Butterfly kissed his head. His son. At first he hadn’t believed it, but Sharpless had convinced him it was so. Sharpless had called him irresponsible, but how could he have known she’d had a child and that she was waiting?
He fumbled with the program, couldn’t find his place, looked back at the stage as people moved about, singing; the voices pounded at him. It wasn’t fair. He wasn’t the only man—far from it—to have had an arrangement with a geisha.
Butterfly and Suzuki were running about, scattering flowers. Butterfly believed he was coming; she would wait until he came, she and Suzuki and the child.
The three of them knelt. The music changed; there was humming offstage. The light dimmed. It was night, Suzuki and Benji slept, but Butterfly stood, waiting. The humming went on and on.
He thought of his parting from Butterfly when he’d left Nagasaki that first time. Suddenly he could see her clearly, her mournful black eyes, her bent head. She’d looked so forlorn that he told her he would return someday. He’d hoped it was true. He shifted miserably in his seat. He’d wished it so. But—he stared at her on the stage, waiting for him—he had known he planned to leave the Navy. He had made it easier for himself by lying.
The curtain dropped. He was a coward.
He hadn’t always been a coward. When he was a child, he’d stood out in the fields to watch tornadoes, the black funnel materializing from the clouds, the long leg of it drifting above the rows of corn. Once a tornado had swept over him, ripping off his hat, then dove down at the barn, dug it up. His spotted pony had been found ten miles away, lying on a road, its eyes white.
He stared numbly at the stage. The curtain had risen. Butterfly was sleeping, Pinkerton and Sharpless looking down at her. “What did I tell you?” Sharpless’s refrain. Pinkerton could not bear to see her; he must flee. Farewell. A coward.
There was Kate, looking exactly like Kate, in a blue dress, quiet, kind, modest about her beauty. She took Butterfly’s hands, promised to take care of the boy. Of course it hadn’t exactly happened like that, but it was true: Kate had taken care of Butterfly’s child. His child. The yoke of it had fallen on her. He thought of her in the asylum, glassy-eyed, gone from him, plucking at the bow on the box.
The climax. He held his breath. The child was blindfolded. Butterfly was behind a curtain. A scream—it seemed to come from him—and she rushed forward, falling, reached for the child. Went still.
“Butterfly.” His voice offstage. “Butterfly. Butterfly.” A voice of grief and recognition.
He had killed her.
A hubbub of bravos and bows and people standing, talking.
The crowd pushed out of the auditorium. He didn’t move. His skin burned as if he’d been flayed. He thought of the sycamore tree, stripped of its bark by lightning.
That storm off Brazil, where they’d almost gone down. If he’d died, none of this would have happened. Butterfly would be alive; Kate would have married a gentleman from Galena, lived in the comfort she deserved. Benji wouldn’t have suffered.
What had happened to Benji? There was a hard knot in his throat.
He rubbed his hands against the arms of the chair until they chafed. He imagined his hands on fire.
It was all his fault. The lie about coming back.
The foolish return with Kate. He’d always told himself that Kate had talked him into it, but he’d had a few hundred yen to recover from the Mitsubishi shipyard. And he was proud of Kate, wanted to show her off.
Then the note from Butterfly, delivered to his hotel; he and Kate warm in bed.
The horror of her death. He forced away the memory.
He had to take Benji, he’d thought, the sad little fellow, all alone then, his child, his responsibility. Being the big man. But he hadn’t calculated the effect on Kate. Those had been scalding years for her, tending to Butterfly’s child.
And now sh
e was in that awful place. He shouldn’t have allowed it; he hadn’t been man enough. He should have sold the farm years ago—he hadn’t the gift for farming anyway, he should have admitted that early on—and taken her and the children to live in town. He could have continued with his import/export business. He could have saved her.
The lights went out in the auditorium. He was alone, sitting in the dark. Below, a heavy door slammed shut; the sound reverberated through his body.
He could still save her. He sat upright. If he took the job in Nebraska, he could take her with him. In the home office, with no long weeks on the road, he could care for her, with the help of a good farm woman. At home, in comfort, in peace, her books and music—a piano, she must have a piano—she would return to herself. Darling Kate.
The children would be there: Elmer and Rose at last, and Mary Virginia and Franklin. They could see Mary Virginia into young womanhood, marriage. The little ones would go to city schools, a good education.
He had failed Benji, but he could be a good father to the others. And in Nebraska, neither they nor Kate would hear of this goddamn opera.
It was possible. He could do it. Something like joy rushed through him as he stood and felt his way to the door. He’d celebrate with a drink, and in the morning he’d tell Wilkes and then go for Kate. On his way, he’d buy her some perfume and a new dress.
Suzuki and Butterfly:
Let us sow April here.
Lilies? Violets? …
Scatter lilies, roses.
Sharpless was to arrive in an hour, and the house was in turmoil. Benji’s mother and Rinn were at odds over particulars of the dinner; Shoichi, to have been bathed and dressed by now, was nowhere to be seen; and baby Yasunari—Matsumoto’s namesake—was wailing in Suzuki’s arms in the room next to Benji’s study.
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