The Butterfly Tattoo

by M. D. Thomas

  The clerk—a too thin woman with bad hair and worse makeup—looked him over and frowned, but her voice was sympathetic when she spoke. “You okay, mister?”

  “No,” Jon said as he put the beer on the counter.

  The clerk leaned on the counter and nodded as if that was the answer she’d expected, made no move to scan the box of Miller High Life. “It’s this rain. Talk about depressing. Ain’t gonna let up neither. You hear what they’re sayin’ it’s gonna do?”

  Jon stared and she raised her eye-liner eyebrows in expectation. There would be no transaction without an answer. “Flooding?”

  She brought one spidery hand down on the counter with a smack. “Flooding! Damn straight. You remember the last time it flooded around here?”

  “No.”

  She shrugged. “Neither do I. Thought you might. This all you gettin’ sweetie?”

  Jon grunted and she gunned the box of beer, shook her head when the price rang up. “Champagne it ain’t. Natty light’s cheaper and tastes better. Just my two cents.”

  Jon fished a ten out of his wallet, the cash dry but the outside of the leather dark with water. He took the change absently, dumped the coins into the Take-a-Penny, Leave-a-Penny jar, and shoved the damp wallet in his rear pocket.

  “You take care of yourself, okay,” the clerk said, a sad smile on her face. “Go home and dry off before you get too far into that twelve-pack.”

  “I’ll try,” Jon said and he squelched back outside into the still falling rain.

  He stood outside the door, rain beating against his face as he looked up at the sky, wondered if the day would feel any different if the sun were out, decided it didn’t matter. It was what it was. He tore open one end of the already soggy box of beer and fished out a can, popped the top and took a large gulp and fuck the open container law. The beer tasted terrible and that was fine. He only wanted to forget the woman, or at least cloud his mind so much he didn’t care, so he tipped back the can, gulped until it was empty.

  A car pulled up, wipers slapping fast, and a moment later a lady huddling beneath an umbrella gave him a wide berth as she entered the store. He stared her down and threw the empty into a nearby trash can, got out another beer, the box cradled in the crook of his arm like a baby—he could remember carrying Lee that way, when Lee could finally hold his head up and Jon had gotten brave enough to hold him that way—and started walking back toward the house, drinking as he went.

  Thirty-One

  Jon wandered, swapped out empties for fulls as he walked, did his honest best to think of nothing, and by the time he made it home he was on his sixth can.

  He stood in the rain outside the house swaying, soaked, stared at the front door, and knew he couldn’t go inside. He didn’t want to confront Sarah—she would just disapprove, right? Of course she would—but really he couldn’t go inside because he’d be closer to the woman.

  So he trudged into the foundation plantings, set his nearly collapsed box of beer down on the weed-ridden mulch, unzipped and pissed on the porch foundation, his dick small and shriveled after all the cold rain, the relief so profound that his head rocked backwards, his mouth gaping and filling with rain.

  When his bladder was blissfully empty, he zipped, picked up the disintegrating box of High Life, and walked to the garage, which was closed again. He used the outside keypad to run up the garage door—only getting the code wrong once—and then the door rumbled and squeaked upward on its tracks, loud despite the nylon wheels that had cost so much more but were of course so much better.

  Jon wasn’t one of those guys that liked to hang out in garages. Never had been, never would be. But at that moment sitting in the garage with his beer and watching the rain falling on the front yard seemed like the best decision in the world.

  Jon turned on the radio he and Lee listened to while they washed the cars—it was tuned to the classic country station his father had loved so much—and then started to extract a chair from the mess at the back of the garage. A moment later the door to the kitchen opened and Sarah peered out. Jon straightened and licked his lips, considered making an excuse, then decided he didn’t need one. She’d given him the excuse.

  “What are you doing, Jon?”

  “I needed a drink,” he said, raising a can towards her. He took a large gulp. “So I got one.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I meant, what are you doing in the garage?”

  Jon looked around, wondered if she was trying to trick him into saying something wrong. “I’m going to watch the rain and listen to some music. There’s nothing else to do.”

  Sarah’s eyes were hard. “You’ll attract attention. Don’t you think that’s a bad idea right now?”

  Jon shrugged. “There’s nobody to notice, Sarah. Only an idiot would be out in this weather.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Exactly.”

  Jon saluted her with his beer and took another gulp. She pursed her lips and he thought she would lecture him, but she only receded into the house, her face stony as the kitchen door swung closed.

  He went back to digging and a moment later spotted a lawn chair. He was reaching for it when his eyes fell on the plastic bin that held Lee’s bats, extra gloves, helmets, batting gloves, more balls than Jon could count. He froze, overwhelmed by an avalanche of baseball memories, of catch in the park, of batting practices, of games lost and games won. Drunk or not, god but the memories hurt.

  Jon gritted his teeth and grabbed the chair, stalked around his car and shook it out until he could sit. He dropped into it, the sodden box of beer still cradled in his left arm.

  The driveway, the front yard, the street, the neighborhood were all shrouded by a wall of rain that blurred before his eyes. Sarah’s car sat in front of him, water bouncing off its hood, and Jon stared at the Subaru unseeing and drank, listening to Hank Williams and remembering baseball.

  The bound woman in the spare bedroom was finally absent from his thoughts.

  Jon woke, lids heavy, the steady drum of rain at first confusing and then familiar. He straightened his neck, winced at the pain of sleeping in an awkward position. In the light of the overhead fluorescent, Jon stared at the back of the garage door, tried to decide how long he had been asleep and wondered if it was still daytime or not. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why the door was closed.

  His head swam. He fumbled at the collapsed box of Miller on his lap and found there was still unopened beer left in the bottom. He considered grabbing another, but decided he needed to piss first.

  He stood and the box of beer finally gave way, crushed empties and four or five fulls falling to the floor. Jon ignored the cans rolling around and stumbled past his car to the kitchen door, found it locked. He leaned his head against the door for a long moment, the world spinning, then dug his keys out of his pocket, found the right one, and opened the door.

  The kitchen was empty, all the lights but the pendant over the sink turned off. Back in a room with a window, he saw that it was late in the day. Hard to tell how late because of the weather, so he glanced at the clock on the microwave, squinted until he saw that it was quarter of seven.

  The house was quiet. There was that sense of emptiness that meant Sarah was gone. With Lee no doubt. Where else would she go? He listened longer to be sure, swayed on his feet. Yes, she was gone. Probably closed the garage door on her way out so the neighborhood didn’t have to witness the weekday drunk in the Young house.

  Jon used the toilet in the powder room off the kitchen and then walked to the back of the house where he stopped in front of the door to the spare bedroom, his clothes dripping on the floor. He heard nothing from behind the door.

  Maybe she’s gone… Maybe Sarah decided to let her go and that’s why the house feels empty. They drove back to her apartment…

  He latched onto the fantasy, delighted in imagining the weight lifted from him if it were true. Funny that it’d be nice to go back to the way things had been, horrible as they were. He wondered if it was
just his life that was fucked up or life in general.

  Part of him wanted to walk away from the door, to play out the fantasy as long as possible, but he couldn’t avoid the room any more than he could avoid thinking of Lee a thousand times day. So he grabbed the cool metal of the doorknob and pushed inside.

  Jon stared in disbelief.

  The ropes still held her on the bed, but chains now bound her wrists and ankles together.

  Chains.

  He thought the woman might be asleep but she turned her head and met his gaze, her eyes full of fear above the gag that rested in her mouth.

  He almost left, doing what Sarah would want, but he couldn’t.

  The chains were too much.

  He walked to the bed and collapsed more than sat next to her, her eyes following every movement he made. He hesitated a moment and then pulled out the gag.

  “Untie me,” she said, her voice harsh. Not pleading though. “Untie me now before she comes back and I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never hear from me again, I swear.”

  She said it with such conviction.

  “Where can we find the man who was driving the car?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where he lives or where he works. It was a one night stand. All I know is his first name is Harvey. If I knew more I already would’ve told your crazy-ass wife.” She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip after that last part.

  The comment didn’t upset him. Instead he wondered if she was right. He remembered Lee in the passenger seat and thought maybe he was crazy, too. Nothing had been right since the accident. Nothing. That they might have lost their minds was not a big stretch of the imagination.

  “I know you’re scared,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I promise you won’t get hurt.”

  She surprised him by laughing. “A useless promise. We both know your wife is running the show.”

  Jon shook his head. “She just wants to do the right thing for our son.”

  “You’re drunk, heel-licker,” she said laughing.

  The laughter and change of subject startled him and he responded without thought. “It was the only thing left to do.”

  She stared at him, her eyes intense, weighing. “Look, mister. I know what happened was terrible. But this—” she rattled the chains bound to her wrists, “—is not the answer. Get these ropes and chains off me, we’ll go to the police, and I’ll tell them everything. I’ll tell them what I know about Harvey, about what happened in the car. Everything. And I won’t say a word about this. I promise. Just get me out of here before she comes back. We can go right now. Straight to the station.”

  Jon decided no one in her position could be that good of a liar. Sarah might not agree, but the woman’s offer was everything they needed. Besides, those chains were wrong. He didn’t know how he would explain it to Sarah, but he’d find a way. He nodded.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Hurry.”

  Jon didn’t move. “I don’t know where the keys for the locks are.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “Just untie the ropes. We can stop at a hardware store on the way to the station and you can get some bolt cutters to get the chains off.”

  “Okay,” he said. It felt right to agree. Explaining what he’d done to Sarah wouldn’t be that difficult. He stood and moved to the head of the bed where he could get to the ropes that held her arms above her head and started fumbling at the knot.

  “Hurry,” she said, and for the first time there was pleading in her voice.

  “I’m trying. You must have pulled on the ropes. The knot is really tight.” The bigger problem was that he could barely focus, his vision swimming. He finally got one loop loose, and soon the entire knot came undone. “Move your arms toward the other corner, it’ll make the next knot easier to get undone.”

  She complied as he walked around the bed, and as Jon started on the second knot he felt his head clear a bit. Another indication he was doing the right thing. He began to imagine what he’d say at the police station, how happy Sarah would be when the woman helped them find the man who’d hit them. “What’s your name?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Elle.”

  “I’m sorry, Elle. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let it happen. There.”

  She pulled her arms forward over her head, raised her torso at the same time. She winced in pain as she made it upright and the chain around her wrists clanked as she moved. “My ankles. My fingers are too numb to do it myself.”

  Jon moved to the foot of the bed and had just touched the knot on Elle’s left ankle when the garage door started to rumble again.

  He froze.

  “No. Don’t stop,” Elle said as she leaned forward and started plucking ineffectually at one of the knots. The rumble paused briefly then started again. “Help me. Please.”

  Jon shook his head. “No. No, we’ve got to tie your arms back up. It’ll be better if I just try again later.” He moved around the corner of the bed, the rumble dying.

  “No. You’ve got to do it now. Now,” she said, panic edging into her voice.

  “I’m sorry. It’s too late. She’ll stop us.”

  He took hold of her left arm to lower her on to the bed once again, but she jerked as soon as he gripped her. Surprised and still wobbly on his feet, Jon stumbled and fell to his knees by the edge of the bed. “I promise I’ll get you out,” he said, voice low. “Just not now.”

  Instead of acquiescing, Elle swung her joined fists around and smashed them into the side of Jon’s head, the loops of chain connecting with his temple in an explosion of pain. He wobbled on his knees and she prepared to hit him again, but he started to fall. The last thing he saw were her fingers reaching for the knots that still bound her ankles to the bed. He hit the floor, skull rebounding off the hardwood, and then there was darkness.

  Thirty-Two

  HARVEY

  Harvey sprinted down the sidewalk, tried to ignore the images that popped into his head, the myriad disasters that could befall a demented old man wandering the streets alone in the rain.

  He’ll be fine, Harvey told himself as he grabbed the fallen umbrella on his way past. He’s just walking down the sidewalk, or trying to get into somebody else’s house because he thinks it’s his…

  He stopped at the intersection, closed the umbrella as his eyes darted every direction except for the way he’d come, the kid behind him forgotten. Nonno was nowhere in sight.

  He’s not fast, no matter which way he went. Pick a direction, check it out for a block and then come back to here…

  He chose the way they’d come first, on the off chance that Nonno actually remembered the way back home. He pounded down the sidewalk, breath ragged in his ears, head swiveling as he checked yards and porches on both sides of the street. He made it to the next intersection and saw nothing.

  Retrace.

  He made it back to the intersection just as a stopped car began to pull through, its wipers slapping across the windshield. Harvey ran in front of the car and smacked his free hand down on the hood. The sedan honked and jerked to a stop as Harvey raised his hand and the umbrella in a placating gesture, hoping the driver wouldn’t think he was a carjacker.

  “Have you seen an old man walking?” Harvey yelled as he approached the woman driver. But as soon as he was no longer in front of the car the woman sped away, nearly running over his feet as she fled.

  Harvey ran across the intersection, choosing the opposite direction he’d first gone, reasoning that if the driver had seen an old man in distress she would’ve stopped.

  He was halfway down the block when he spotted Nonno face down on the ground, one leg in the road, one leg on the sidewalk, sprawled and still, a few feet from a parked car. No moving cars were in sight.

  “Nonno!” he shouted as he ran faster, already sick at thought of telling Nonna what had happened.

  Harvey dropped the umbrella and fell to his knees next to his grandfather’s head, which was tur
ned to one side, only half his face visible. Nonno’s eye was closed, his limbs absolutely still. Rain ran down his cheek into his gaping mouth.

  He’s breathing though…

  Harvey leaned over far enough to shield Nonno’s face from the rain and got out his phone. He dialed the emergency number, used his free hand to touch his grandfather’s throat. The pulse there was regular and strong.

  The operator picked up and Harvey said, “I need an ambulance to the five hundred block of Wickenham Ave right away.”

  Thirty-Three

  Once the paramedics were on the way, Harvey examined Nonno more closely. He couldn’t see any injuries but that meant nothing. It was the bones that mattered in the frail. He knew how bad the recovery statistics were for the elderly when they broke a hip.

  Harvey was running his hands gently along his grandfather’s right arm—his left was pinned beneath his body—when Nonno’s one visible eye fluttered open, rolling in its socket. His papery lips parted. “Nonna… ”

  “Shh, Nonno,” Harvey said. “You fell. An ambulance is on the way. Don’t try to move. You’ll see Nonna in just a minute.”

  Nonno’s eye closed again.

  But Nonna didn’t know. A stab of guilt pierced Harvey. I left him to go after the kid… I left him…

  His chest feeling like it was full of lead, Harvey dialed another number and a second later Nonna picked up. “Hello?”

  Harvey swallowed. “Nonna.”

  “What’s wrong, Harvey? Did something happen? Is Nonno okay?” Every question came faster than the previous one as her words gained an edge of dread.

  “Nonno fell. I… I let go of him for a second and he tripped.” Harvey was disgusted with how easily the lie came to his lips.