Butterfly's Shadow

by Lee Langley

  He lit a cigarette and watched the tip glow in the darkness; glow and then, resting between his fingers, dim into something grey as the heat died. When he inhaled, the brightness returned, casting a glow on his hand. That was the trick of it: keep up the heat; keep the brightness.

  In the kitchen he filled a glass from the faucet and drank slowly, feeling the liquid slide down his throat. Then he made his way back through the house. Outside Joey’s door he paused, turned the handle and stepped into the room. The boy was asleep, bedclothes thrown off, a battered wooden spinning top beside him on the pillow. Hunched into an untidy ball, legs drawn up under him, he looked almost as though crouching, a pale frog ready to leap up and go.

  Back in his own room, Pinkerton lowered himself carefully on to the bed and stretched out on the now cool sheet.

  Turned away, eyes closed, her cheek deep in the pillow, Nancy listened as his breathing gradually deepened and he drifted into sleep.

  13

  ‘My grandpa’s family lived in Nantucket and he worked on a whaling ship when he was young, and this is a whale’s tooth, a sperm whale’s tooth and it’s carved with a picture of trees and houses.’

  The large, decorated whale-ivory tooth was passed around the class, the children less interested than the teacher, who looked pleased. ‘Janet’s grandfather was one of many sailors who made beautiful carvings like this. The work is called scrimshaw.’ She wrote the word on the blackboard in large letters, the chalk squeaking. ‘Scrimshaw. Try and remember the word. And what have we next?’

  A red-haired girl had brought along a small bottle of oil. She said the oil was made from little fishes the Cree Indians called ooligan.

  ‘It was a medicine and valuable. My dad says the name Oregon originally came from that word. So that’s how our State got its name.’

  ‘That’s very interesting, Sandra. Of course there are many different stories about the naming of the State. Travellers told strange stories about us. On old maps Oregon is sometimes called Terra Incognita – unknown land . . .’

  The Show and Tell continued. When it came to his turn, Joey had a photograph for the class to see: ‘This is a snapshot of my dad when he was in the navy. He can navigate by the stars. Before he was in the navy he won prizes for swimming.’

  The teacher’s attention sharpened. ‘He was a swimmer? Joey, would your father be Benjamin Pinkerton?’ A nod from the boy. ‘But he was a champion! A hero!’ She addressed the class: ‘Ben Pinkerton won the fifty-yard freestyle in the AAU championship his first year as a contender. He won races in Europe; we thought he’d be going for the Olympics!’ She looked down at Joey. ‘What happened?’ She realised the question might sound accusatory. ‘I mean what happened to change his mind about a career as a swimmer, Joey?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘He’s never talked about it, I guess.’

  ‘Well. Tell him he has a fan at your school. Next parents’ evening I’ll be proud to shake his hand. Okay, who do we have next?’

  ‘She wants to shake your hand. She said you were a champion.’

  ‘That’s all in the past.’

  Joey watched his father carve the pot-roast. His movements were careful; he was a man who never hurried. The man in the snapshot had bright hair, his shoulders were broader than his hips and his smile revealed teeth as brilliant as his white uniform. Joey remembered seeing him wear that uniform a long time ago, the white sharp in the shadows of his mind.

  His father had grown more bulky than he was in the picture, and his hair had darkened into a sort of mustard, a dull colour. His eyes too were dulled. Like the teacher, he wanted to say: Dad, what happened? Because he knew what she was really asking: how come Benjamin Pinkerton stopped being a champ? But Nancy noticed Joey staring at his father and reminded him sharply that he should wash his hands.

  The snapshot lay nearby on a side table and glancing over, she recalled the day it was taken. There was another photograph from the same day, of the two of them: Ben in his uniform, and Nancy in a mint-green dress with a heart-shaped neckline and a swirly skirt, laughing up at her fiancé. He was about to embark on another voyage and she was enjoying a secret joke: how amazed he would be when her liner docked in Nagasaki. On the shiny paper of the snapshot, the two of them, laughing, bathed in sunlight, looked young, carefree. And then came the sea journey, and all that followed. It was, she realised, the last time she had been completely happy.

  Hands washed, Joey was back at the table.

  ‘Dad . . .’

  Pinkerton knew what was coming and forestalled the questions.

  ‘I was good. Very good. Winning races came easy. There was a guy I met called Weissmuller at one of the events, he won everything he went in for, swimmer of the year, a world champ. He’s famous now; went to Hollywood. I hear he’s making a movie, but I knew him way back, and he told me how day after day he worked till he dropped; he had to swim for hours, the coach was God and took no arguments. I reckoned life was too short for all that. And if I wasn’t going to swim through the water, I’d sail over it!’

  Pinkerton knew he was talking too much, saying more than necessary, and also less, with no mention of parents who had regarded swimming as fine for a hobby, but no way for a grown man to earn a living. A bank job had been suggested. Ben’s choosing the navy had been their first real disagreement. He pulled back now from awkward places in the past, wrong turnings or turnings not taken. Moreover he had found that life was not too short, life was not short at all, it went on and on and had a way of handing out disappointment.

  So Weissmuller had swum his way to Olympic golds, world records. He had done other things. But Ben thought back to how it felt, relived the shining moment, arching upward through the air, slicing into water like a blade, surfacing in a spray of glory. Until one day he had come out of the water and found himself beached, dry.

  He studied his heaped plate of meat and potatoes, slick with gravy.

  On a low lacquer table delicate fish and vegetables, shaped and razored and layered, one colour set against another, green and dark crimson; amber, pink and white; in porcelain bowls, gleaming like jewels . . .

  He picked up his fork and stabbed a potato.

  ‘Why does everything have to be brown?’

  Nancy looked up, startled. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing important. Just – nothing important.’

  He looked again at his plate: ‘This is fine.’

  For Thanksgiving, they went to Louis and Mary as usual, and Ben watched his mother-in-law carry in the shiny bronze turkey. But she was an accomplished cook and he found himself enjoying the tender bird.

  Afterwards there was chocolate meringue and pecan tart and apple pie.

  ‘Like Mom makes,’ Joey said, repeating words he had heard from other kids.

  ‘There’s too much food here for just five of us,’ Louis said comfortably. ‘Still, I guess one of these days we’ll be sitting down six for Thanksgiving, when Joey gets a little brother.’

  ‘Or sister,’ Mary put in mildly.

  Ben felt the tightness in his chest, that sense of wanting to hit out at some unspecified target.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath.’ It came out louder than he intended.

  Louis and Mary exchanged a quick glance, and Nancy kept her eyes on her plate, her spoon chasing a crumb of chocolate meringue.

  ‘Well of course, we’re all in God’s hands in these matters,’ Mary said. ‘Now: who’s for more pie?’

  14

  The kitchen was filled with a sense of electrical activity: the new coffee percolator bubbling, bread browning in the new toast-maker that scorched both sides at once, eggs frying on a ring, the new refrigerator giving off its high-pitched whine in the corner.

  Nancy called up to Joey to tell him breakfast was ready, waiting for the familiar noise as he jumped down the stairs, satchel bumping behind him.

  He looked around the appliance-filled room,

  ‘So I’m having an electric breakfast.’

 
‘Be grateful,’ Ben remarked. ‘Not everyone can afford the latest equipment.’

  ‘Does it make the food taste better?’

  Nancy dropped a square of golden toast on his plate.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then why do we have it?’

  ‘To make life easier.’

  ‘And because,’ Ben said, not looking up from his newspaper, ‘it’s the future. Electricity is the future.’

  ‘Dad, you said the automobile was the future.’

  ‘Well. Maybe both.’

  ‘You should invent an electric automobile.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  She told herself they were lucky to have this bright, enquiring boy. Had she remained a teacher, she would have prized such a pupil. She touched his hair, lightly, as she passed his chair. She caught her husband’s eye and rewarded him with a smile, nose briefly wrinkling.

  When Joey had left for school, running off to join their neighbour, the two boys hopping and skipping, Ben lingered over a second cup of coffee. Nancy reached for the newspaper.

  ‘I’m talking to Daniels at the bank this afternoon. About the loan.’

  ‘You’ve decided then? You didn’t say.’

  ‘I thought about it. Now I’m sure. I need bigger premises, a proper workshop.’

  Nancy said, ‘Ben? Are we speculating?’

  ‘We’re investing. Why do you ask?’

  She tapped the paper and read aloud: ‘“Hoover warns of the dangers of rampant speculation.” I just thought: does the President know something we don’t know?’

  ‘Well now, “rampant”. D’you call a garage expansion rampant? Me neither. The bank’s looked at the books; it’s a safe bet, pay for itself in five years. Honey, now is the right time to expand.’

  Later, recalling that decision, he would bleakly remind Nancy of her father’s old joke: ‘How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.’

  At first, the problem seemed a faraway affair: something that affected the big boys. The stock market might be rocky for a week or two, but everyday life must go on and small businesses were part of that. The newspapers ran encouraging stories and the local press was quick to offer reassurance to readers. Pinkerton took to reading aloud the optimistic headlines for Nancy’s benefit.

  ‘Listen to this, Irving Fisher in the New York Times: “There may be a recession in stock prices, but not anything in the nature of a crash”.’

  ‘The guy’s a leading economist, I guess he should know. Here’s another.’

  But suddenly Wall Street ceased to be some distant place located in the financial pages of the newspaper; it criss-crossed the country on railroad tracks and telegraph wires. Wall Street was right here in the neighbourhood, it was next door, it was tapping on the window at night as Pinkerton drew the blanket close around him, and recalled a time when he had no trouble sleeping.

  ‘Dad? Where’s the crash?’ Joey asked. ‘One of the kids at school’s dad says there’s been a crash.’

  ‘That’s just wild talk. There’s no crash.’

  And he read out from the newspaper what Arthur Reynolds, Chairman of the Continental Illinois Bank of Chicago was quoted as saying.

  ‘He says it won’t have much effect on business.’

  That was 24 October. Five days later the Dow Jones Industrial Average lost 11.73 per cent of its value.

  ‘Ben?’ Nancy said that evening, ‘Is this going to affect us?’

  ‘Stocks and shares? I don’t see why. We’re not playing the market.’

  People who knew the family said there had always been something of the golden boy about Ben Pinkerton. At high school and college the star swimmer, glittering like the water that won him prizes. In the navy he shone in white and brass buttons. When he opened the automobile garage – one of the first in town – he glowed with the sheen of steel and spray-paint. Like the business, he expanded. But now he dimmed, the gold dull, like neglected brass.

  When the bank called him there seemed little sense of urgency. Could Mr Pinkerton drop by at his convenience? Mr Daniels would like to have a chat.

  The chat was more formal than he expected. Not at first; Gerry Daniels, who had always been so friendly and helpful was still friendly:

  ‘How’s Nancy? And the boy? Good, fine little feller . . .’ But when he moved on, discussing the economic situation, the problems the government was facing, words like contract cancellations, falling values and crisis floated across his desk. He pulled a rueful face.

  ‘Some finance houses have actually collapsed, Ben. Unwise use of investors’ funds.’

  ‘Come on, you’re not telling me banks are going bust! Am I supposed to feel sorry for the rich guys?’ Ben laughed. Daniels did not.

  ‘It’s not just the big boys; we’re all in the same boat. Difficult times, money tight all round.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Daniels shifted his inkwell, blotter and a framed photograph of his wife from one place on his desk to another an inch to left or right. He looked up and smiled, still friendly, but suddenly less helpful.

  ‘The loan, Ben. It’s payback time.’

  ‘Hey, we’ve had ups and downs before this. I can come through, the automobile is the future.’

  ‘Ben, if I had a dollar for every time someone has said the automobile is the future I’d be a rich man today.’

  ‘Actually Gerry, I don’t think you would. How many people in this town can have said that to you? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? But it’s the truth. The garage was doing fine; it’ll recover. Just give me a little time.’

  Daniels gave one of his helpless shrugs. ‘Well now, that’s the problem. Time. I’m sorry, Ben. If it was up to me personally . . .’

  He, personally, would be only too happy, and so forth . . . but the bank required repayment of the loan. Without delay. Ben said he understood, and they shook hands, and Daniels saw him to the door, hand on his shoulder, a reassuring squeeze; give his best to Nancy.

  But when, to Ben’s dismay, he found himself unable to hand back the money to the bank because his customers were, in turn, unable to come up with the cash they owed him; and when the house payments were overdue and the lenders sent in a repossession notice, he discovered that the Dow Jones and stocks and shares did indeed affect them.

  ‘I’ll get a job,’ Nancy said. ‘With Joey at school now I can manage it.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  But quite soon it did become necessary and Nancy took a job. Not one she would have chosen, but choice was no longer an option. The garage had gone, and now it was the turn of the house and the electric kitchen.

  Nancy kept the focus tight: she concentrated on what to take, not what must be left behind; hold on to the small things – objects of sentimental value, she had heard them called at sales. She was keeping a Mexican plate that had been a wedding present, and a pair of silver-plated grape scissors, to remind her of a way of life that was about to vanish. Ben pocketed Charlie’s medal.

  She picked out and folded the clothes she habitually wore; in truth, the rest just hung there in the closet for most of the time. Joey trailed behind her, watching. He had never been heavy on toys and she told him he could keep his favourite books.

  They packed cardboard boxes and carried them down to the porch. As Nancy reached the entrance two Model T Fords drove slowly past; the cars still looked shiny new but they were loaded with household goods. The remains of their own were neatly laid out in front of the house, marked ‘For Sale. No reasonable offer refused.’

  What was a reasonable offer? How many dollars could reconcile her to the loss as she watched the pieces she had picked out so lovingly, the maple side table, the standard lamp, the desk with the secret drawer, being loaded on to someone else’s pickup?

  *

  Nancy said, ‘Where’s Joey?’ but Ben was busy filling boxes, and she went back inside the house, calling his name. By the time she reached the top of the stairs she sounded exasperated: her l
egs ached and her throat was dry from the dust.

  ‘Joey?’ she called again.

  Ben heard her calling, repeatedly, her voice growing frantic as she went from room to empty room. Then she was down the stairs and hurrying out on to the porch, running her hand through her hair, looking beyond him to the street.

  She said, ‘He’s gone.’

  15

  She was out on the sidewalk, looking left and right, calling his name, knowing there would be no response but calling anyway.

  ‘Joey? Joey!’

  ‘I’ve been here the whole time,’ Ben said. ‘He can’t be gone.’

  He stood, trying to think himself inside the child’s head.

  ‘Did you look in the loft?’

  She came running past him, into the house and up the stairs. At the top she paused: only now did she notice the ladder to the loft, the open hatch.

  Joey was crouching on the loft floor, in the corner below the tiny roof window, the brown paper bag full of his books clutched to his chest.

  Nancy said, her voice calm, ‘Joey: we need to start loading—’

  He said, ‘I’m not going.’

  He curled up, hugging the floor, making himself heavy, cumbersome, to discourage any attempt to lift him.

  She went back down the stairs and found Ben, but when she tried to explain the situation he became impatient: kid stuff was Nancy’s province.

  ‘Just fetch him down. If necessary, give him a whack.’

  ‘A whack?’

  A slow wave of anger built in Nancy, composed of weariness, resentment and a sense of being on her own.

  ‘He’s your son,’ she said. ‘You fetch him down.’

  Her legs seemed to give way under her and she collapsed in the porch; slumped, uncaring of dirt and dust on the steps.

  ‘You give him a whack. If you think that’s what you want to do. I’m not about to start hitting him.’

  Ben went up the stairs and climbed the ladder to the loft.

  ‘Hey, kid.’

  He peered across at the boy, very small, huddled on the floor, seeming to be hugging the wall. In the corner of the shadowy room he looked less blond, and something about the angle of his head, the way he raised a shoulder as he looked up at Ben, was for a shocking moment a reminder of the past: Ben saw that he was Cho-Cho’s child.