The Glass Butterfly

by Louise Marley

  It was such a small thing. A tiny thing. It was tiny the way the stab of an ice pick is tiny, the wound deep and penetrating. Hard to heal.

  The moment her hand fell on her son’s shoulder, he shifted away, slid out from beneath it as if her touch repelled him.

  She drew her hand back suddenly. She thought she might even have gasped. He had never done that before, shrugged her off in that dismissive way.

  She turned from him without speaking, and hurried out of his room, fleeing down the stairs and out of the house. She went back to the lean-to and started on the roof, blasting nails into the asphalt shingles as if she could undo the morning’s events by the sheer force of her will. She broke one of the shingles in two, and with a curse, spun it into the woods with all her strength. The effort made her slide on the wet leaves, and her feet flew out from under her. She landed hard on her rear end, dropping the hammer and scattering the stack of shingles. She looked up and around, fearful Jack had seen her fall, dreading the disdainful look on his face.

  She was spared that humiliation. He wasn’t there, either outside or at the window.

  It was nothing. It was a silly disagreement, a misunderstanding. But she was wet and tired and alone, and she had buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Yes, she thought now, as she fitted the end of the broken slat back onto the crosspiece of the shutter, it had been a small thing. It should have passed, an unhappy day that faded as time went on, a moment of friction like those that came to every family, soon forgiven, eventually forgotten. Instead, fueled by silence and strain, it grew. There was no one to mediate between her and her son, no grandparents, no father, no siblings. Sometimes she wanted to rage at him for being impossible, for being inconsiderate or ungrateful, but she remembered her father’s rages, and she held back. She didn’t want to be like her mother, either—withdrawn, remote, shrinking away from her family more every year until she finally shrank herself right into an institution, leaving Tory with a father who was furious with the world, with his wife, with Tory, and—she understood, though it didn’t help—with himself.

  Sometimes it was all right between Jack and Tory. There were moments they seemed to communicate, their lives to intersect in the old way. Mostly they were separate, and distant. Jack spent every possible moment at the Garvey house. Tory, clinging to the idea that it would all blow over one day, carried on in silence. Therapist or no, she didn’t know what else she could do.

  She finished the shutter with no difficulty. She had grown adept, these past years, at using a hammer, a screwdriver, a wrench, even a hatchet. She did it alone. She made Jack’s meals, drove him to school, took him shopping for clothes, and all the while, though he was right there in the house, she missed him with a physical ache that sometimes drove her nearly mad.

  Kate wanted her to meet someone, to go out to dinner, to have her own life. Tory had no energy for that, no inclination, though she was grateful for Kate’s concern. She didn’t know how, without Kate Bingham, she would have survived that period of her life. Only Kate knew the truth about Jack’s father, and only Kate understood how she felt about her son.

  It crossed her mind, as she put away the tools in the shed behind the cottage, that Kate might be suffering her loss more than Jack did. She and Kate had often chatted on the phone, met for coffee, even hurried to get supplies together when a big winter storm was coming. Chet brought his tractor over to plow the snow from her driveway, and kept an eye on things on the rare occasions she was away from home. She drove by their house when they were away visiting their kids. She knew they cared about her, and she knew they must be terribly hurt by what had happened. She also knew they would watch out for Jack. It would be okay—at least as okay as it was possible to be.

  Oh, Jack. Son. Be safe.

  She went inside the cottage to change out of her jeans. She glanced down at the bottom drawer of the bureau, where the file rested, and a sudden urge to get rid of it seized her. Burn it. Destroy it. Make all it represented disappear, just as she had made herself disappear.

  She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden vision of a man being shot, of blood flying everywhere, of smashed bone and the thud of flesh striking pavement.

  She forgot about changing her clothes. She found herself, moments later, back in the toolshed, seizing the hammer and a Phillips screwdriver, filling her pockets with nails and screws, grabbing an ancient pair of leather gloves. She stalked out of the cottage and down the beach until she came to the collapsed bench on its little apron of cement.

  She knelt beside it, and began pulling the bent screws out of the iron frame. The rising wind whipped at her hair and tugged at her jacket as she shoved and kicked the frame back into place. She straightened boards, hammered new nails, inserted new screws. She worked until it was too dark to see, but when she finally rose and stood back, the bench was intact again, facing Haystack Rock and the shadowed vista of waves and clouds and sand.

  The promised storm roiled the water, and the first rain began as Tory gathered up her tools, brushed away the prints of her knees and her sneakers, and walked back up the beach. She didn’t look back at the repaired bench, but she thought that tonight, at least, she could sleep undisturbed.

  9

  Io non son che una povera fanciulla oscura e buona a nulla.

  I am nothing but a poor girl of humble birth,

  and good for nothing.

  —Minnie, La Fanciulla del West, Act One

  Doria sang fragments of melodies to herself as she bent over the sink in Villa Puccini, peeling fat cloves of purple garlic for aglio e olio. Old Zita bustled about in the dining room, laying the table in readiness. Despite the oppressive heat, the oven blazed, roasting the ducks Puccini and his guests had bagged the day before, and which Zita and Doria had spent the morning scalding and then plucking. A fresh basket of ironing waited near the back door, but there was too much cooking to be done for Doria to get to it now. In any case, in this heat, it would be far better to do the ironing after dark.

  Tonight, there would be no reason not to wait. Elvira had gone off to Milan to visit her daughter, Fosca, and would be gone most of the week. Puccini and Ferruccio Pagni had driven to Viareggio to see a litter of hound puppies. Doria had hurried to clean the studio the moment they departed, though the next morning it would be cluttered and ash-strewn all over again. Puccini was hard at work on La Fanciulla del West, but it wasn’t going well. The evening before, she had heard him cursing the librettist, complaining that the play wasn’t working.

  She smiled now, thinking of it, as she dropped the garlic cloves into a shallow pan of olive oil and sprinkled salt over them. The opera would be wonderful, of course. The maestro always doubted himself. He agonized over every bar, every chord, every phrase, but the magic always happened in the end. She wasn’t at all worried. She had listened to the fragments trickling from the studio late at night, and she knew. It would be magnificent.

  Zita came back into the kitchen, extra napkins draped over her arm, and nodded approval at the garlic soaking in olive oil. “I just wish I had some fennel for the ducks,” she said. “I used the last of ours in the ragù yesterday.”

  “Mamma had some in her garden, the last time I was there.” Doria wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. “Would you like me to fetch some?”

  Zita gave her a whiskery grin, and patted her arm. “You’re a good girl, Doria. Yes, some fennel would be buonissimo for the sauce!”

  “I’ll go now.” Doria untied her apron, and laid it over a kitchen chair.

  “Take that extra bird hanging on the porch,” Zita said. “That will make your mamma happy, I think, with so many people to feed.”

  “Grazie!” Doria, in her bare feet, padded out to the porch and took down the duck hanging in the shade. She slipped it into a canvas bag, and pulled her straw hat from its hook. It felt good to be able to move about as she wished, without having to explain every step she took to the signora. She felt no compunction at all over her erran
d. She would take the gift of a duck to her mother and return with the fennel in no time. She would wash her feet, change her wilting frock, put on a freshly starched apron, and be ready to help Zita serve.

  Her mother, stirring a pot of soup, scowled suspiciously when she came in through the kitchen door. “There’s no need to look at me like that!” Doria said. “I’m not staying.” She pulled the duck from her bag and held it up by its feet before she laid it on the table. “Zita needs fennel for the maestro’s dinner. I told her there was some in your garden—I didn’t think you’d mind—and she sent you this.”

  Her mother’s face softened. She put down her long spoon, and crossed to the table. “Well, now,” she said. She poked the fat, promising shape of the bird beneath its glossy feathers. “Well. We haven’t had a duck in a while.” She looked up at her daughter as if she didn’t know what to say next.

  “Fennel, Mamma,” Doria said again. “We need fennel, and I saw some in your garden.”

  “Sì, sì, sì! Fennel.” Her mother waved her free hand in the direction of the garden. “I have lots of fennel. Help yourself.” She laid the duck on a wooden board and turned her back on her daughter as she reached for a big pot to scald it in. “It’s nice to have duck.” She began to pump water into the pot, the muscles of her arm flexing as she worked the handle. “Although,” she added, as if to herself, “you could have plucked it for me.”

  Doria pressed her lips together as she took her bag out into the garden. She would not, she told herself, let this nice day be spoiled by her mother’s crossness. She crouched down beside the bed of fennel. The heat had browned their feathery tops, and when she pulled them, the bulbs slid easily out of the dry dirt, perfuming the air with their faint licorice scent. She took six, shook the soil from them, and dropped them into her bag. She straightened, brushing dirt from her dress, pulling her hat brim down over her eyes against the brilliant sun.

  “Doria—” She looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway.

  “Yes, Mamma?”

  “Tell Old Zita—tell her, grazie.”

  “I will.”

  “And, Doria—”

  Doria couldn’t help another sigh, anticipating some new criticism. “Yes, Mamma?”

  “Take care of yourself, mia figlia.”

  “Cosa?” Doria felt a brief quiver of unease that had nothing to do with her mother’s temper. Her mother could be cross, but when she sounded like this, it was best to listen.

  “I had a dream. Two nights ago.”

  “What was it?”

  “My house was full of people, all in black, everyone crying. Someone was dead, but I don’t know who.”

  Doria nodded, accepting this. Everyone in their family knew that if Emilia had a dream, it might mean something, or it might not, but it was never good to ignore it. Their father had made a fatal error by dismissing one of Emilia’s dreams. They could be hard to interpret sometimes, and sometimes they were just the result of too much salt in the pasta, but all the Manfredis took note of Emilia’s dreams.

  Doria, lifting her hand in farewell, saw the lines of worry and fatigue etched in her mother’s dark face, the streaks of gray in her black hair. It occurred to her, with a little shiver, that her mother was not all that much older than Elvira Puccini. She looked elderly by comparison. Un’ anziana.

  She said, with a twinge of regret at the lack of affection between them, “I will take care, Mamma. Don’t worry.”

  As she stepped down into the street, her mother called after her. “It’s nice to have the duck. Even if I have to pluck it myself.”

  Doria laughed to herself as she set out on the trudge back to Villa Puccini, her long bare toes scuffing puffs of yellow dust from the road. Her mother was as predictable as sunrise and sunset. She scolded and complained, but she had managed to feed six children and hold her modest house together with no one to help her. Signora Puccini would have crumbled under such pressure!

  The hot sun baked the top of Doria’s head, even through the crown of her straw hat, and sweat trickled down her ribs and back. Still, it was lovely to be walking through the village, swinging her bag with its fragrant harvest, calling greetings to her neighbors. She was looking forward to a festive evening, serving the maestro and his friends. She and Zita could relax over the leftovers after the sun had gone down and the worst of the heat had dissipated. Best of all, there would be music pouring from Puccini’s studio.

  She looked down at her dusty chicken feet. Before any of that, she must wash!

  She was just passing the little stone church when she was seized by a sudden urge to go in, to spend a moment in the cool silence, perhaps light a candle to the Virgin and ask for—for what? She had everything she wanted at this moment. Perhaps she would just kneel in the alcove and offer her gratitude. She stopped at the door, and did her best to clean her bare feet before going in.

  After the brilliance of the sunny afternoon, the dimness of the church blinded her for a moment. She paused beside the font, just inside the door, and waited for her eyes to adjust. Candles flickered near the altar, and the inviting fragrance of incense filled the space. Doria drew an appreciative breath through her nose, and turned toward the alcove where a painted statue of the Virgin kept watch.

  She was bending to light a candle when she heard a light step behind her. She turned to see Father Michelucci coming up the central aisle. He smiled when he saw her, and came to stand beside her.

  “Doria,” he said. “Are you well?”

  “I am, Father,” she said. She bobbed a shallow curtsy. “And you?”

  “Very well indeed. I’m to join you tonight at Villa Puccini.”

  She smiled and held up her bag. “I have some fennel here for the duck sauce. The dinner should be very good! Zita is already hard at work.”

  “Signor Puccini speaks well of you, Doria.” The priest’s eyes twinkled at her. “You make me proud.”

  Doria ducked her head, blushing with pleasure. “I do my best for the maestro, Father.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He patted her shoulder, and she lifted her head again. He was her favorite person in Torre del Lago. Well, perhaps her second favorite, after Puccini. Father Michelucci was barely taller than she was, slight and wiry in his black robes, gentle in his speech. The best memories of her childhood had been in his company, in the peace of his little classroom. It was Father Michelucci who encouraged her to read books, to listen to music, to allow her to imagine something better for herself than laboring all her life to feed a flock of children. He had been the one to recommend her to the Puccinis after the maestro’s automobile accident. She had been eager to apply for the job, and delighted when they accepted her. That was, of course, before she knew how many servants Elvira Puccini had driven away with her temper, but even so, she would not have passed up the chance to work in Villa Puccini, to have electricity and the telephone and a room of her own, and best of all, to hear the maestro create his wonderful music.

  Father Michelucci had aged, but the lines in his face and the gray in his hair seemed as gentle to Doria as his manner of speaking. He asked, “And how do you get on with the signora?”

  Doria had to duck her head again to hide the hot stain that spread over her cheeks. “I do my best, Father,” she said, staring down at her long, bare toes.

  “I’m sure of that, Doria. I know you always do your best.”

  At these encouraging words, she lifted her head and looked into his face. “She hates me,” she whispered.

  Father Michelucci drew a breath, and his lips parted, but for a long moment he didn’t speak. When he did, Doria could see he chose his words with care. “Doria,” he said softly, though there was no one else in the church. “I don’t think she hates you.”

  “Oh, she does, Father! She shouts at me, and criticizes everything I do!”

  “She has a bad temper.”

  Doria rolled her eyes. “My mother has a bad temper. The signora ’s is evil!”

  The priest
’s eyebrows drew together, and the lines around his eyes deepened. “You must be careful around her.”

  “Sì, sì,” she said. “I try to do everything just the way—”

  He shook his head. “I don’t mean the housework,” he said. His voice dropped further, and there was a tinge of urgency in it. “You know the stories, I think. I have to say, Doria, a woman so unhappy is capable of many things.”

  “She should not be unhappy. She has a beautiful house, a talented husband—”

  “She knows he does not love her.”

  Doria gazed at the priest in wonder. “She knows . . . ?”

  He nodded, and his gaze swept away from her, up toward the Virgin with her blue painted robe and her hands pressed together in prayer. “He married her because he felt he had to,” he said sadly. “But the wedding was held here, very late at night, and in secret. Puccini had the church windows covered, so no one would see and talk about it. This is a shameful thing for a woman.”

  “But everyone knows they are married!”

  “Yes, they know now. But for so long, she was still married to her first husband, and there was someone else Giacomo loved.”

  “Corinna,” Doria breathed.

  “Yes. The very night of that secret wedding, Elvira made Giacomo promise never to see Corinna again. He made the promise. He had to, really. There was pressure from all sides, and there were the children to think of. But I saw tears in his eyes when he agreed to it.”

  “Che peccato! He really loved her,” Doria sighed, imagining the maestro, so boyish and funny and charming, pining for love of a girl he could no longer have, and tied to Elvira through duty. “That’s so sad, Father!”

  Father Michelucci put a firm hand on her arm. “Just know that your mistress has good reason to be unhappy.”