Shooting Butterflies

by Marika Cobbold

  ‘Hardly the weather for it,’ Grace said.

  The assistant shrugged. ‘That’s the time to buy,’ she said. ‘Come the season, you won’t find something of that quality for even twice the price.’ She went on to explain that there were two of the ponchos: the red one in the window and a white one with white fur at the back. ‘I reckon the white one would be really neat on you with your dark hair and all. You know Abba?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, the dark one has a poncho just like this one. I saw her wear it on TV the other night. It’s, like, really cold in Finland even in the summer.’

  ‘Sweden,’ Grace said. ‘Although she’s actually Norwegian.’

  The girl looked at her blankly for a moment. ‘Whatever. I find them European places real hard to remember. You’re British, aren’t you? I know about Britain.’

  Next she made Grace try on the white one, telling her it looked great. Grace asked to try the red and the assistant told her that too looked great. Grace asked her which of the two looked the greatest. The girl said there was nothing in it. Grace decided on the red, thinking that although it was half price it was still an expensive item of clothing and as she tended to spill quite a bit and sit in things it made sense to be practical and go for the darker colour.

  She had been aware, for minutes now, of people gathering outside the shop, but she had put it down to the sale. As she waited for the girl to wrap the poncho, however, she realised that these were not shoppers. Fists were raised and there was shouting, although she could not hear what exactly.

  ‘Lord.’ The girl returned from the back, handing Grace a glossy pink and white paper carrier with the handles tied with a pink ribbon. ‘Mr Andersen won’t like this.’

  It was a demonstration, by now that much was clear to Grace. ‘But the war is over,’ she said. ‘Anyway, what does it have to do with the shop?’

  ‘Nothing. But this isn’t about no war. It used to be all about that, but this here is about skin. Fur-skin. I don’t mind tellin’ ya that Mr Andersen has had about as much as he can take of that kinda thing. His blood pressure’s shooting up. He’s at the clinic right now, as a matter of fact, and it’s not as if they’re making any sense.’ She nodded towards the crowd outside. ‘I mean, them animals are dead anyway, so I say you might as well turn them into something pretty like a collar or a hat …’

  ‘I suppose the point they’re making is that if there weren’t shops selling fur and people like me willing to buy, then the animals wouldn’t be dead in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t agree with you there. I mean to say, there would be no point to them in the first place if it weren’t for that you could turn them into something nice and useful. Take them minks; I mean, yours is rabbit, but take them minks.’ She gesticulated towards a loose fur collar draped round the shoulders of a shop dummy. ‘No one in their right mind would have them breed if it wasn’t for what you could turn them into. Same with rabbits. You ask my Uncle Kirk what he thinks of rabbits. Darned pests, that’s what they are. As I see it, none of them critters would be allowed to be born if it wasn’t for folks like Mr Andersen. Anyway, you come with me and use the back door and that’ll bring you out right by the pizza parlour with no one being the wiser.’

  Grace told her she disliked the idea of sneaking out the back as if she had something to be ashamed of. The girl shrugged and said, ‘Suit yourself,’ before unlocking the door and closing it the second Grace was out.

  At first no one took any notice of her. They all seemed too busy managing their placards and shouting slogans. ‘He’s your brother not your coat,’ one guy yelled right in Grace’s face, but Grace didn’t think he even saw her. It was just as well, as she had a bag full of bunny brothers in her hand.

  An elderly woman walking her basset hound came down the sidewalk. The woman was fat and slow, but the dog was fatter and slower still as it pattered along behind, its stomach trailing the ground. Its tail was wagging in a lazy fashion. Maybe the hot tarmac felt good against its belly. Seeing the commotion, the woman prepared to cross the street, but by now the dog was getting nervous, circling its owner, entwining her trunk-legs with the lead. Grace had taken her camera from her crochet bag, about to take a picture of the troubled animal in the midst of the demonstration. In photography class at school, one of their visiting lecturers had talked a lot about irony. Grace reckoned that this was just what he had meant. She raised the camera and took her shot just as the basset hound lunged in panic, sending its owner tumbling, her white straw hat down over her face, her mouth open in a wide O. Grace’s shot turned out extra ironic.

  She was trying to help the old woman to her feet when a girl, her hair styled in a hostile bob, blocked her way. She made a grab for the carrier bag and yanked out the poncho with a triumphant shriek. ‘Blood-stained bitch,’ she yelled. Grace was slow to react as she was still trying to reach the old woman who remained sprawled on the pavement, the panicking basset hound pulling the lead ever tighter around her thick ankles. Grace, on her hands and knees now, dirty sneakers and frayed denim legs marching all round her, managed to reach out and grab the dog’s collar, unclipping the lead before getting to her feet and grabbing the old woman by the wrist, pulling and yanking until she had got her upright. The basset hound ran free; its high-pitched barking could be heard going down towards the river. ‘Dog went that way,’ Grace said.

  After that it took her a few minutes to locate the demonstrator who had stolen her poncho, but there she was, still swinging the bag over her head as if it was the enemy standard.

  ‘Give that back,’ Grace said. ‘Give that back immediately.’ She made a grab for the poncho – sale or not, it had cost her forty dollars – but the woman was too quick and with a flick of her shot-putter’s wrist she had sent it flying across the wall into someone’s front yard. ‘Now what good will that do the poor creature?’ Grace wanted to know. ‘It was a dead rabbit in there, not Lazarus.’

  The woman raised her fist in a triumphant gesture. She was shouting and her wide-open mouth was inches from Grace’s face. She was carrying on as if she’d done something brave, something special, rather than chucking away forty dollars’ worth of clothing. For a second Grace hated her and that second was enough for her to punch a fist straight into that inviting mouth. By the time her knuckles made contact with the woman’s teeth she was already regretting hitting her.

  At the police station there didn’t seem much point in trying to explain that she had not, in fact, been part of the demonstration but an innocent shopper caught up in the hubbub. So she sat quietly with the others on the benches lining the walls of the small station, waiting for her turn to be processed. It was all taking such a long time. It had been a year since the last anti-war demo and, apart from a few domestic disputes and a guy caught speeding in his father’s car, not much in the way of crime occurred in Kendall. Grace supposed the police were unused to the sheer volume of suspects. She must have nodded off, and when she woke up the throng had cleared and there were fewer than ten people waiting. Amongst them was the boy she had been looking out for these last few days: Jefferson McGraw. Grace stared at him. She had a habit of staring which always annoyed Mrs Shield. But as Grace said, ‘What is the point of people if you can’t take a good look at them?’

  Jefferson McGraw must have noticed that stare because his cheek, the one turned towards her, turned pink. Seconds later he sat down next to her on the bench. ‘Pigs,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no, I’d never wear them,’ Grace, all of a twitter, assured him. His eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen on any human being.

  He looked puzzled at her reply, but was not at all fazed by the way she could not take her eyes off him; he was probably used to it. He said he did not recall seeing her before; was she from out of town? Grace told him she was from England and that she was staying with her aunt and uncle, the Singletons. Sure, he knew the Singletons, or rather his folks did. Grace said it seemed that everyone knew everyone else in Ke
ndall, which, she added, was fine with her. It was cosy. ‘I used to live here, when I was a kid. Then my mother drove into a tree.’

  Jefferson, it was obvious, was the kind of person who gave you his full attention, taking in every gesture and listening as if each word spoken was new to him. His eyes, as bright as if they’d had a good rinse and polish in the morning, grew concerned. ‘Jesus, that must have been tough.’

  People said that kind of thing to Grace all the time. Usually she paid no more attention than she would to the tears people shed in front of a cinema screen; all second hand with no echo in their hearts. But Jefferson seemed, for that moment, as stricken as if it had happened to him. His shoulders hunched and there was real pain in his eyes, as if he was sharing her loss, not just watching it with interest.

  It was dinnertime and the police, bored by now, let the rest of them go without even taking their details. The girl in the punch-up must have decided against making a complaint and Grace realised she was disappointed; she wanted to stay talking now she had finally found him. ‘They aren’t doing their job properly,’ she complained as they lined up to leave. ‘I even punched someone. I don’t know why it hasn’t been reported. I should be charged.’

  Jefferson hushed her as they got up to go. ‘They’ll keep us here all night.’

  Suits me, Grace thought, but she knew enough to keep that to herself.

  ‘Was it a cop you punched?’ Outside it was hot and humid as if the very streets were sweating.

  ‘Sure,’ Grace said. ‘I wasn’t going to be pushed around.’

  ‘That’s so cool; the way you’re prepared to really do something. Most of the girls I hang out with aren’t into issues. They say they are, sure, but they’re into other stuff, you can tell.’

  She felt bad lying, pretending to have been part of the demonstration when actually she was the enemy. She considered owning up – she had a thing about honesty. In fact Mrs Shield had taken her to see the school nurse because, in her view, you could take honesty too far, as Grace had – way too far – on several occasions.

  Grace had confided to the nurse that she believed bad things would happen to anyone who did not tell the truth. The school nurse had smiled a soothing smile and explained that, although telling the truth was very, very good and very, very important, it was not always appropriate. Grace had stopped listening and was counting the hairs on the mole on the nurse’s left cheek, only tuning back in when the session was drawing to a close. ‘Your mother –’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  ‘– your stepmother told me that you believe that God will punish you if you tell a lie. Of course I’m not saying telling lies is a good thing … as such … just that you should remember that there are times for telling the truth and times when, well, when it’s wise to keep that truth to yourself; to think of it as your little secret.’ By now the nurse herself seemed a little confused. Looking at Grace who sat so still in her chair and with such an attentive expression on her face, the school nurse took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Let’s take an example. If someone had spent a lot of time and effort cooking you a lovely meal but you didn’t like it, what would you say? Would you say, “Yuk, that wasn’t very nice”?’

  Grace was not stupid and time was wearing on. Soon the lunchbreak would be over and she would have missed the chance of a smoke. ‘No, I would probably keep it as my little secret.’

  The nurse looked pleased, giving Grace a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘I hope you’ve found our little chat helpful.’

  The answer to that, Grace decided, was best kept her little secret.

  She went back for a follow-up a couple of weeks later. ‘Your mother –’

  ‘Stepmother.’

  ‘– stepmother tells me that you’ve been much better since our little chat and that you haven’t upset anyone … much. That says to me that you have been using your judgement. That’s good.’ The nurse smiled, pleased. ‘And nothing bad happened, did it?’

  Grace told her, ‘My dog died.’

  Jefferson McGraw thought she was cool. So maybe she would keep the facts about what she was really doing at the demonstration her little secret.

  ‘I’ll walk your way, if that’s OK with you?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Sure.’ She looked away to hide her smile.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Grace? You’ve hardly said a word all evening.’ Aunt Kathleen was peering at her as if she was trying to read a manual.

  ‘Grace shows absolutely no interest in boys,’ Mrs Shield had complained to Grace’s father. ‘It’s not right. Girls her age should be in love.’

  Gabriel had muttered something non-committal before asking his daughter when she was going to bring home a nice young man for them to meet.

  ‘When I find one,’ she had assured him.

  ‘See, she’s avoiding the issue as usual,’ Mrs Shield had complained. But she knew as well as Grace that this suited Gabriel very well. Gabriel had lost his shine of late. His life back in England with a new wife had turned out to be much the same as his old life in America with his first wife. He was still doing what others expected of him, still doing work that bored him, still seeing people for dinner to whom he did not wish to speak, still mowing the lawn on Saturday and washing the car on Sunday, although grass made him sneeze and he cycled to the station. To Grace he said, ‘The moment you know what to do with your life, do it and let nothing get in your way.’

  Grace felt anxious, as if she had heard heavy sighs behind each word. ‘What did you want to do?’

  Gabriel looked at her, head tilted. ‘Now, you mustn’t laugh at your old father, but I wanted to go on the stage.’ As so often, he looked sadder when he smiled than when he was serious and Grace had not felt in the least like laughing. ‘I nearly made it too.’ He shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘I was invited to join a travelling theatre company run by a man who slept every night with his head propped up on a hardback volume of Shakespeare’s tragedies, but it was not to be. I had responsibilities.’

  ‘Why?’ Grace had asked. ‘Why would he want to sleep like that?’

  ‘It was so that he would never forget that great art is forged through suffering.’ At that both began to laugh. Sad eyes met sad eyes. ‘Oh Gracie, we are the same, you and I.’

  Gabriel, who never got away, became a man who wanted a quiet life above all else. This taught Grace to hang on to her dreams. In conversation her father’s words skimmed the surface like daddy-long-legs on a pond. He liked everything to be pleasant, he said. Keeping things pleasant meant no one getting cross or exercised and everyone agreeing. Everyone agreeing meant no one bringing up anything disagreeable. Never bringing up anything disagreeable meant never being contentious. Never being contentious meant always being pleasant. Always being pleasant was very trying. Grace had grown accustomed to silence. Poor Mrs Shield never did. When they were meant to be talking about her stepdaughter’s lack of teenage ways and she met only vagueness in return once again, she got so provoked that she said something about Grace maybe preferring girls. Grace had not minded. You could take pleasant too far, she had been thinking for some time. As her father fled the room, red-faced and upset, she explained kindly to Mrs Shield that, as she had never kissed a girl let alone slept with one, she could not be absolutely sure, but thought that, on balance, it was boys she liked. Mrs Shield had apologised, saying she didn’t know what had come over her. Grace had told her not to worry; having to be so damn pleasant was a strain on everyone.

  At the time of her father’s death Grace had still not brought back a nice boy, or girl either for that matter. She had friends, quite a few, but as for falling in love; well, it seemed not to be for her. Anyway, she had other things to do.

  At just after eight o’clock the following morning Grace was woken by Aunt Kathleen knocking on her bedroom door and telling her ‘that McGraw boy’ was downstairs waiting to see her. Aunt Kathleen did not approve of visitors dropping in before nine in the morning or after nine at night. Before and
after those times she wore her curlers and her housecoat and wished to be private; everyone knew that.

  Face to face again, they became shy. He kept looking at his feet, shuffling like a ten year old. Grace started to sweat although it was still cool inside. ‘I thought you might want to go for a walk or something,’ he said finally. ‘I could show you around the place.’

  Aunt Kathleen had appeared behind them on the stairs. ‘Grace has been here for two weeks already,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she knows her way around by now.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Grace said firmly and without blushing. ‘I have a truly shocking sense of direction.’ When it came to telling lies she was coming on a treat.

  Much later on Aunt Kathleen told her that she had watched the two of them walk down the path and out of the gate that morning and then she had gone into the bathroom where Uncle Leslie was shaving and said, ‘I expect that soon they’ll think they’re in love. They’re young and good-looking and we’re going through a hot spell.’ And she had worried that Jefferson might not yet have got over Cherry Jones, who had upped and left for Europe in the late spring. But she had kept her concerns to herself as she had an idea that a negative thought, once let out, would spread and take hold.

  They lay in the deep grass, gazing at the sky. He was wearing nothing but his old cut-off jeans; his shrunken tie-dye T-shirt was suspended from a low-hanging branch of a maple and his mucky sneakers lay upside down on the ground. Grace, in her khaki shorts and a white cotton shirt, was chewing on a blade of grass. He reached out and took her hand and then he raised himself on one elbow and leant down as if he was about to kiss her. Instead he said, ‘Do that again.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Smile.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because.’ He turned away, but not before she could see the colour rise in his tanned cheeks. ‘Because you could light up a room with the wattage of that smile.’ Then he turned back to her.