She Only Speaks to Butterflies

by Appleyard, Sandy

  Alan rose, clearing his throat.

  “Err…first order of business is the development of the parcel of land next to Baker’s Farm, on Grogan St.” He paused. “Town residents would like this to be the location for the new hospital.”

  Alan passed a document to Bob, who quickly reviewed it and handed it to Robert Decker, who seemed to take forever to read through it. Guests shuffled, and then he whispered in Bob’s ear, who then passed the message on to William.

  Bob tipped his head in assent to Robert and William, and then Bob cleared his throat and lowered the reading glasses he had perched high on his nose.

  “The State has requested that the hospital be built closer to the highway. Zoning was denied for Grogan St.”

  More shuffling. Someone shouted out. “Where? How close to the highway?”

  Alan cleared his throat, speaking over the chatter. “Sir, if you can please rise and state your name for the records.”

  A tall, middle-aged man rose and lifted his hand. “I’m Tom Johnson.”

  “Ruben’s boy?” Alan asked.

  Ruben Johnson had lived in Cog Hill all his life. His wife left him ten years ago for his drinking. Since then, Ruben had been raising hell in town: bar fights, stealing alcohol and food, and breaking into houses (although some argued that in his drunkenness he simply thought he was home; that the break-ins were not malicious).

  “Yes, sir. Err...I was just wonderin’, how close to the highway are they puttin’ this hospital? My pop’s got a real bad hip and he can’t get around too much anymore. I got a real problem with you puttin’ the hospital up farther away from us, especially if you plan on shuttin’ down the one we’ve got now.”

  Some grunted agreement while others booed. Bob used the microphone in front of him, which let out a loud squeak.

  “Now…w…we’ll come to order.” The shuffling stopped as Bob continued. “We have no plans to shut down the old hospital, Tom, so rest assured. That’s why the city wants to put the new one over by the highway, to cover the rest of the growing population.” Tom was still standing. Bob waited a moment and Tom sat back down, satisfied.

  “Isn’t that land owned by the Bakers?” A voice called from the middle of the room. He rose, stating his name. “Reggie Maxwell.” While tipping his bright red hunter’s cap.

  “It figures,” Martha mumbled.

  Reggie Maxwell was close friends with Ruben Johnson, having much in common, namely booze. Ned lowered his head. Robert took the floor.

  “Now, Reggie, you know we ain’t allowed to tell you who owns it. It don’t matter, anyway.”

  “It matters if the Bakers make more money from this town. They’ve seen enough profit since they managed to get rid of the Morgans.”

  Sasha and Richard Morgan were the previous owners of the Food Mart. Before them, Ned and Kate sold their goods roadside, at the Farmer’s Markets, and to a few local butchers.

  “Reggie, that ain’t no matter anymore, that’s in the past.” Robert whined. “We’re talkin’ about present matters today. Unless you’ve got somethin’ to say about that, please sit down.” Bob watched Reggie return to his seat. “Does anyone else have anything to add about the hospital?” Ned lifted his hand and Bob gestured him to speak. “Go ahead.” Ned stood up.

  “What do you suppose they’ll do with the land on Grogan St.? I mean, if they don’t put the hospital there?”

  Sherry shot him a look, and he pursed his lips apologetically. Martha grasped her hand gently.

  “Take it easy,” she whispered.

  William’s hand rose. “We have no plans for it at the moment. However, it may be put up for sale. The jury’s not out on that one yet. Next quarter.”

  Ned took a seat, pleased. “I’m sure you can buy it with the money you’ll make from the hospital,” an unknown voice called. Everyone turned to see who spoke, but the person said nothing more.

  Bob was growing tired of the cheap shots. “Anything else regardin’ the hospital before we move on?”

  “I wanna know who in the hell’s in charge of finding the punk kid who set fire to my son’s school!” someone yelled.

  “That’s irrelevant to this meetin’!” someone else added.

  “Order!” Bob demanded.

  “Geez. Here we go,” Martha commented. Sherry looked at her and lifted her eyebrows.

  “Nobody set fire to the school, Ed! It was the damn garbage bin! If you weren’t such a drunk, you’d a known that!”

  “Ah, blow it out your ass, Landley!”

  “Order! Order, or this meetin’ is adjourned!” Bob shouted. He pounded his fist on the desk. His face went beet red and a neck vein protruded.

  “Told ya Bob looked upset.” Martha angled her hand toward Sherry.

  Alan rose, walking quickly to the microphone. “We’re still lookin’ into who started the fire, Wendel. I understand your concern.”

  “Yeah? And what the hell are ya gonna do when Zimmerman retires in a month? You’ll be down one man,” Wendel bellowed; one arm flailing in the air.

  “That’s enough, Wendel!” Bob reprimanded.

  “I…I’m already interviewin’ a replacement,” Alan said cautiously. “Zimmerman’s met a few candidates already.”

  More shuffling.

  “Just what we need, more new people comin’ in and messin’ things up,” someone named Jones commented.

  “You got anyone in mind, Jones?” Wendel asked snidely. “Last I looked your kid was still pickin’ his nose.”

  Jones, a large, burly man, got up and stormed towards Wendel; who was at least two heads shorter than Jones; who had a slight build. Ned got up and ran to stand between them.

  “This meetin’ is adjourned!” Bob reported.

  “You go on home, Wendel,” Ned said, keeping his arms up to separate them. “You too, Jones.”

  Ned surveyed the room. “Everyone, go on home and pray to God for forgiveness. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” He glanced at Sherry and Martha, shaking his head. “Especially in the company of ladies. Y’all go on home now and be sure to come to church Sunday, wearin’ yer best.”

  Despite the expected mayhem, people rose and filed out calmly. Jones, Wendel, and a few other guilty people left with their heads hanging. Wendel turned to Alan on his way out and waved apologetically. Alan nodded.

  “See you Sunday, Wendel.”

  “Sorry you had to hear that, ladies,” Ned said. “I guess we’re all just a buncha hot-headed old men.”

  “That they are, Ned,” Martha agreed. “Where’s Kate tonight? I didn’t see her.”

  “One of the cows has gone into calf,” he explained. “Gonna be a long night.” He reached into his back pocket. “Got somethin’ for the little one,” Ned said to Sherry. When he opened his hand, there was a small keychain with a butterfly pendant. He handed it to her. “Saw it the other day in Nellie’s shop. They’ve got all kinds of insect ones there. She’d a loved it.”

  Sherry gave Ned a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks Ned. I’ll bring her by tomorrow so she can thank you.”

  “Love to hear it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, like he really believed that one day she would say it.

  …

  “Carl! Another round!” Martha’s index and middle fingers were in the air, signaling to the bartender.

  “God, I don’t think I need another one,” Sherry whined. “My head’s swimmin’.” Her hand went to her forehead as she swept her curls back. Martha playfully elbowed her and Sherry smiled ruefully.

  “Girl, you ain’t had enough ‘til I say so.” She put her hand on her chest and emphasized the word ‘I’. “Besides, Sarah and Leon are with Denise.” Martha chuckled. “Lord, what kind of conversation must they must be havin’.” She took the last swig of her beer before the bartender removed the empty bottle. “A homo, a pregnant lady, and a mute…no offense.”

  Sherry looked at her through glazed eyes. “I’m too drunk to take offense.”

  Martha laughed hysterically
. “Can you imagine? I sure bet Leon’s glad sometimes the lil’ lass can’t speak.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

  “That’s true,” Sherry slurred.

  “Compliments of the gentlemen at the bar.” The bartender dropped off their next round of drinks. He looked up at the two men sitting on stools, watching a sports show on the overhead television. They both looked at the girls and grinned mischievously.

  “Well if I wasn’t married, I’d be hittin’ on you right about now,” Martha murmured, winking at the blonde.

  “Careful, that’s Bob Greensman’s boy,” Sherry advised. “He’s a little young for you.”

  “Damn, I’d no idea Greensman’s boy grew up that good.”

  The blonde winked at Sherry, too. She lifted her hand. “Hey Blake. Saw your dad at the town meetin’ earlier.”

  Blake’s eyes widened. He lowered his head and turned his back.

  Martha moaned. “What’d ya go and do that for?”

  “I was savin’ yer honor. You have any idea how fast word would get around if you and him started flirtin’? It’s bad enough we accepted the drinks.”

  Martha put her full beer down beside Sherry’s. “Here. You ain’t drunk enough,” she pressed. Martha noticed the entrance door open. “Well, lookie who showed up.” Jenny Martin walked in with an unknown male. “I doubt that’s her babysitter,” Martha sneered.

  “It could be her brother.”

  “Not from what I heard of her.”

  “I met her today. She seems nice enough.”

  Martha ignored the defensive tone. “You talk to Karen lately? According to her, Jenny’s son’s a rebel. Looks like the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Just because she shows up at a bar with a male friend doesn’t make her a rebel,” Sherry disputed.

  Martha paid no heed to the comment. “People often wonder why men leave girls like that. It’s no mystery to me.”

  Sherry took a sip of beer, wondering what else her friend thought of husband-less women.

  Jenny spied Sherry sitting at the table as she and her friend approached the bar.

  “Oh, hey…Sherry, is it?” Jenny asked awkwardly, offering her hand. “How ya doin’?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. This is my friend Martha. Her son goes to my daughter’s school,” Sherry explained, introducing Martha.

  “This is my friend Steven,” Jenny gestured. “Steven, this is Sherry…she works at Peach Tree Clothing.”

  Steven was tall and dressed very well for a bar. He had a phony tan one shade too dark for his naturally fair skin. And his hair was one shade too light, washing him out.

  “Oh my gosh! You’re Sherry?” He became instantly animated; wrists at his waist and head dancing from side to side. “You work with Leon, right?”

  “I do.”

  “Oh Lord! He’s told me so much about you! We went to school together! Oh, he’ll just be tickled that we finally met!”

  Jenny blushed. “Well, we should get a table. This place looks like it’s gettin’ packed.”

  Steven gave Sherry a toothy smile. “Nice meeting you.” His hand was bent in front of his mouth in a feminine gesture.

  “Likewise.”

  When they were out of earshot, Sherry faced Martha, who averted her glance. “I see you had trouble there.”

  “How ya mean?”

  “Gettin’ yer foot outta yer mouth.”

  “Shut up and drink yer beer.”

  …

  Sherry opened the door and poured herself into the house. Martha’s husband dropped her off and took Martha home after she publicly humiliated herself, arguing with the bartender over a ten she gave him for their last round, which she thought was a twenty.

  “Lord, look what the cat dragged in.” Sarah hobbled quickly to help Sherry. She draped Sherry’s arm over her shoulder.

  “Remind me never to do that again.”

  “You mean with Martha, or ever?” Leon asked, taking Sherry’s other arm.

  “Ask me when I’m sober…in a month.”

  “The fact that you can still pronounce ‘month’ gives ya promise,” Sarah stated. “When Mark’s had too much, he loses his consonants.”

  “How’s Denise?” Sherry asked as they sat her on the couch.

  “Sleeping like a little lamb,” Leon answered. “I read her like a hundred stories while Sarah painted her nails.”

  “You guys are the best. Thanks,” Sherry said, placing a hand on Leon’s chest. “Hey, I met your friend Steven there tonight.”

  Leon rose to get a glass of water for Sherry.

  “Oh, yeah? Who was he with?”

  “Jenny Martin.”

  “She’s the new girl workin’ over at the café right?”

  Sherry nodded as Leon handed her the water. “Aspirin, too, please.”

  “You want me to stay?” Sarah asked.

  “Na, that’s okay. I’ll stay.” Leon gave Sherry the tablets. “You’re too big for her small bed anyhow.”

  “I can bunk on the couch,” Sarah offered.

  Steven looked at her gently, like he was about to give her bad news. “I’ve got this, sweetie. Go home.”

  Later, as Sherry lay in bed next to Leon, she watched the shadows on the ceiling, feeling the warmth of another man’s body beside her. Sighing, she said.

  “God, Leon, it’s been so long.”

  She heard Leon’s head turn abruptly towards her. “So long for what?” he said frightfully.

  “Not that.” She pushed him playfully. “Well, that too, but that’s not what I meant.”

  Leon waited.

  “It’s been so long since I had another man next to me in bed.”

  He giggled.

  “What?” She giggled back, pushing him again.

  “You called me a man.”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “I guess. I have the equipment.” He said it like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

  “You don’t like your penis?” she blurted out, covering her mouth as she laughed.

  He jeered. “It’s not something to like. That’s like me askin’ ya if ya like yer ears.” She stopped laughing and sighed. “It’s the way we’re born but ain’t necessarily what’s inside us or how we feel. It’s like a label God gives, and we have to live with it, whether we like it or not. You’re lucky.”

  “Why am I lucky?”

  “Because you like what you are.”

  “That’s not true,” Sherry disagreed. “I mean, I like bein’ a woman, but I don’t like what I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She was silent for a moment. “I’m a widow. I don’t like bein’ a widow.”

  Leon let her comment sink in. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, at least that’s somethin’ you can change pretty easily.”

  “Really? Findin’ another man after you’ve vowed to stay with another one for the rest of yer life? That’s easy?”

  “Relax.” Leon gently grasped her hand. “What I meant was that for you, you can feasibly find another man to spend the rest of yer life with. Emotionally it ain’t easy, but you can do it.” He inhaled deeply. “Me, on the other hand, I have to change my entire physical self to be happy bein’ what I am. You can change being a widow. I can’t change bein’ a man. Well, at least not without half a million dollars and major surgery.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Sherry yawned.

  They lay there holding hands, until Leon thought Sherry was finally asleep.

  Then he heard her whisper. “Leon?”

  “Um hmm.”

  “I love ya just the way ya are.”

  “I love ya, too. Go to sleep.”

  …

  The sound of whimpering awakened Sherry. Darting out of bed she scurried along the cold floor to Denise’s room. Denise lay on her bed, hugging Rainy Day Bear like someone threatened to take him away. Turning on the lamp, Sherry pointed it away to avoid the glare. Kneeling down beside the bed, the young widow was almost nose-to-nose
with her daughter.

  “Did ya have a nightmare?” She stroked Denise’s hair, forgetting that she was mute.

  The little girl squished the bear closer to her chest as tears flowed from her eyes onto the pillow. Sherry had an idea.

  “I’ll be right back.” When she returned, she knelt down in front of Denise, holding her hand out. “I have a present for ya.”

  Denise gave Sherry a blank look. Opening her hands, Sherry showed her the butterfly keychain Ned had given her earlier.

  “It’s from Ned. You can go see him and say thank you in the mornin’.”

  Smiling graciously, Denise took the keychain from her mother’s palm, hugging it with her bear.

  “Do ya want me to sleep with ya?” Sherry asked, walking to the other side of the twin bed. She slowly climbed in. Wrapping her arm around the shaken girl, she laid her head on the remaining half of the pillow, and started humming a lullaby.

  “Yer safe now,” she said once the lullaby was over. “Go to sleep.”

  Sherry lay there, choking back tears. A normal mother would have been able to ask what the dream was about, and learn what demons haunted her child at night. Denise could have told her that she was scared of the ghost in the story that Leon had read earlier, or that a scary-looking man had approached her at school, or even that she saw a scary character on television. Information like this wasn’t privy to Sherry, so her only resort was to climb into bed with her seven year old without knowing the facts. She couldn’t discuss fear with her daughter, so that maybe Denise could understand things better and perhaps rise above them. It was nights like this when Sherry worried that Denise would never have true independence as long as she couldn’t or wouldn’t speak for herself.

  Part of the horror was knowing that if Denise spoke again, she could wake up one night calling for daddy. Had Denise properly grieved for Chris? She couldn’t join support groups or talk about it like other children could, so it was possible that when Denise did finally wake from this haze, that she may have some regression. Sure, Denise communicated in other ways with Sherry and others, and her therapist attested to this, but did that mean she’d learned to deal with things the same way a normal seven year old would have dealt with them? Even if Denise could speak again, would she be able to lead a normal life afterward? Would she remember the time when she didn’t speak?