The Butterfly State

by Carol Coffey

  Michael had accepted that he would have to take the boy on and play family with the slut his wife had turned out to be but he hadn’t counted on more children arriving. He had hoped to settle into a quiet life, Maura happy to hide her illegitimate son in marriage and he happy to have a farm of his own, but now here was another bastard child.

  Michael ordered a pint and settled in for the night. He could see Maura’s brother Jimmy looking at him, still sore over Michael inheriting the farm that should have been his, had he not got TB. Too bad, thought Michael, no going back on the deal now. He put the creamy head of Guinness to his lips.

  At the bar sat Frank Ryan, the local gossip, who was always in the know about what was going on in town and not shy of stirring trouble when an opportunity presented itself.

  “Evening, Michael, I see your child got christened today,” he said as he elbowed his drinking partner.

  “Yes,” Michael replied sourly, aware that Ryan was poking fun at him. Ryan had been to school with Michael. He had sat in the same class with him from age five and knew him well.

  “Oh now, you don’t sound too excited! Lovely little girl that she is and another redhead! Queer that, with you and Maura both being as dark as can be.”

  Michael stared at Ryan and said nothing. A few old timers laughed quietly in dark corners and Michael could feel their eyes on him. He didn’t like being the centre of attention. He was even less happy when he was the butt of jokes. Weighing up the situation, he finished his drink and headed off to another pub. As he slammed the door behind him, he could hear raucous laughter rise up as though the whole bar was laughing at him.

  Inside, the laughter settled and died when Jimmy Kelly came from behind the snug to the counter, customers eyeing his thin, consumption-ravaged body. Everyone fell silent, feeling guilty for mocking Jimmy’s sister when the poor man had lost everything.

  Jimmy, sensing this, raised his glass and laughed loudly. “To my new niece, may her hair never darken!”

  The laughter rose again. Only a slight tinge of guilt rose in Maura’s brother’s heart. His health was gone, his farm taken from him. His only enjoyment was having a few drinks with the people here in this bar, people he had known all his life and he wasn’t going to lose that by standing up for his sister’s honour.

  Michael Byrne found Massey’s pub at the bottom of the town more welcoming and sat quietly at the bar chasing each pint with a short one, trying unsuccessfully to drown out the laughter of the men in Slattery’s. By closing time, he was imagining that they were sitting beside him, taunting him, laughing right into his face.

  “What kind of a man are you that you let her off with other men?”

  “Who is in charge in your house?”

  “Sissy boy, guess who’s afraid of girls?”

  Taunts from his childhood tormented him as his head whirled from too much whiskey. He found himself mouthing responses, sometimes saying them aloud. People stared at him as he waved his arms at imaginary attackers until the publican finally asked him to leave.

  On the road home, the voices became worse than even those he had suffered as a child.

  “Idiot!”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Show her who the boss is!”

  “Yes!” shouted Michael, answering the voices that only he could hear.

  “She’s lucky you took her. Slut!”

  “Damn right, I’ll show the bitch who’s the man in the house!” Michael spat into the darkness.

  When he arrived at the farm, Maura was still awake, sitting on the side of the bed with Kate to her breast. She heard him crash into the pram in the hallway and curse loudly.

  “Christ, bitch, I’ll teach you!”

  Fear gripped her, as she knew his pattern by now.

  Michael opened the door and stared at Maura, his eyes seeming to bulge from their sockets. He opened his belt and moved towards her as she cowered on the edge of the bed. Maura thought he was going to beat her and stood quickly, the baby clutched to her. She watched, terrified and confused as he took his clothes off and stood naked in front of her, a sight she had not ever seen in the time they had been married.

  “I’ll teach you to make a show of me, you whore!”

  Maura’s mouth opened but no words came out, her mind disbelieving what she realised was about to happen.

  “Put that child down,” was all he said.

  When she did, he moved toward her and dragged her by the hair onto the cold stone floor.

  Maura Byrne had not known that a man could do what Michael Byrne had done to her that night. He had not beaten her, there were no bruises to see but he had done something far worse, something she didn’t understand. She had thought he wasn’t interested in her that way, wasn’t interested in any woman. When he finally left the room she sat up. She wet a towel under the kitchen sink and returned to her room, trying painfully to wash away the shame, the humiliation, but it was useless. When morning came she went about her daily routine, fighting back tears while caring for Seán who had become quite demanding since Kate’s birth. She could not tell her mother, who would surely say: “You made your bed, now lie in it.” She could never imagine saying that to her sleeping daughter. Twice, when she was in town shopping, she took Éamonn’s work phone number from her handbag and stood halfway inside the phone box but hung up when the secretary answered. She had hoped he would have contacted her, worked out that she must have had the baby by now. Sometimes she dreamt of him, always dreaming the same dream. He would knock at her door, the sun shining in rays around him as though he were a saint. He wore a white uniform and drove a large car, which was waiting, engine running. She always had make-up on in the dream, hair neatly done, suitcase sitting on the table, packed. But the dream always ended the same. When she looked in the car, expecting to see her children smiling, Michael would be sitting in the back seat, laughing, his head rolling backwards and Éamonn would disappear. On the mornings after the dream she always felt angry, angry that even now she hoped that Éamonn McCracken would come and save her.

  The rape she had endured was the first of many such incidents; each attack more vicious than the last until it eventually became a normal part of her life. She wondered about the change in her husband’s behaviour and why he did what he did to her but she knew deep down that he had figured out a way to hurt her more than bruises hurt. She didn’t cry or wish for someone to save her. She simply drifted off to someplace else and stayed there until he climbed off her and left the room. Then she would repeat the ritual she began on that first night, washing herself as roughly as she could stand it. Maura would then lift her two sleeping children and wrapping her arms about them would simply look at them as she faced another sleepless night.

  Chapter 14

  1971

  Seán Byrne ran his hands through his red mane in exasperation. He had searched everywhere, pulling out drawers and emptying boxes of old papers onto the kitchen floor while a silent Kate stood by, watching. His red face contorted as he tore open envelopes that he was sure would hold his father’s will. He did not want to approach Brown & Son, the solicitors in the next town that his family used. He felt it would seem greedy to want to know what was coming to him so soon after his father’s death, but he needed to know now. There was little money coming in and he needed to sell some of the livestock and the herd was not officially his yet even though he had represented his drunken father on many occasions at the mart over the years. People knew the farm would automatically be his but rules were rules and proof was what they wanted to see. He would have to visit the solicitors now, ask them to draft a letter to his suppliers until the official reading had taken place.

  When every box was upturned Seán sat on the floor and stared at the mess he had made. Even now his father was complicating his life and making him beg for what was rightfully his.

  Dr Cosgrove was trying again. Things were not going well for Tess at the institution. She was now confined to a bedroom on her own which, however,
did not seem to bother the strange girl one bit. She was no longer permitted to eat her meals in the large canteen but ate with a small heavily supervised group of the institution’s most difficult children. Tess still went to the yard each day but was shadowed closely by an orderly and never left alone with other children.

  Cosgrove knew that none of these sanctions bothered Tess and that she was in fact relieved to be left alone. The previous session with her in the garden had not gone well and he was beginning to run out of ideas. Noises seemed to worry her and he spent his time trying and failing to reassure her that they were simply birds flying overhead or leaves blowing about in the wind. He decided that for the time being he would not ask her about her father or any of her family for that matter as this upset her greatly. He hoped to get her to speak today and had spent a lot of time researching her condition. He learnt that any questions he did ask her had to be short with no idioms used.

  “Hello, Tess. Today we are going to walk wherever you want to walk to in the hospital. You can tell me whatever you like about yourself and you can ask me anything you like also. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Cosgrove was shocked but tried not to show it. This was the first time he had heard her speak and he needed to keep her talking.

  “What’s your favourite colour, Tess?”

  “Green.”

  “Why is green your favourite colour?”

  “Because fields are green. I like green fields.”

  “Do you miss your home, Tess?”

  “Yes. Is it my turn to ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do butterflies ever turn back into caterpillars?”

  “No, Tess, they never do.”

  “Can you be sure, one hundred per cent sure, of that fact?” she asked in her flat monotone.

  “Yes,” Cosgrove answered. “It’s not possible.”

  Cosgrove was pleased with himself. To the best of his knowledge, he was the first person Tess had spoken to at the hospital and he felt he was finally getting somewhere. Even if her questions were a little odd, they were communicating. He looked at her face and realised she was not convinced about the butterflies.

  “Do you like butterflies, Tess?”

  “Yes, more than anything else. The Peacock is my favourite but I also like Small Coppers and Purple Hairstreaks. I have a book that tells you all about them. I don’t like caterpillars. They might hurt me.”

  Cosgrove was astonished at her vocabulary and fluency but was careful not to show it.

  “No, Tess, caterpillars cannot hurt you. I promise.”

  “I watch butterflies at Butterfly Lake,” she said without looking at him.

  “I’ve never heard of Butterfly Lake,” he said, hoping for the conversation to flow. “Where is it?”

  “It’s at the back of our farm, Butterfly State, but I’m not allowed to call it that. My daddy doesn’t like that name.”

  Cosgrove found it interesting that Tess referred to her father in the present tense, as if she didn’t accept that he was dead.

  “Kate said the lake is not called Butterfly Lake but I’ve seen butterflies there so I don’t think she is correct.”

  “Well, if you want to call it Butterfly Lake, that’s okay, Tess.”

  She smiled and seemed happy with his response.

  “What does Butterfly State mean, Tess?”

  “It means my country. I made it.”

  “You made it?”

  “Yes, I have my own Proclamation.”

  Cosgrove smiled, amazed at all this. “Tell me about your proclamation – how does it go?”

  Tess opened her eyes wide, surprised that anyone wanted to hear about it, her brother and sister having often told her that they had heard it before and were sick of listening to it.

  “In my Butterfly State, no one is stupid or troublesome. Everyone is pretty, as pretty as Kate is. No one shakes their head at you, even if you are a caterpillar because caterpillars turn into beautiful butterflies some day.”

  Cosgrove looked at this vulnerable child and smiled sadly at her. Did she see herself as a caterpillar?

  “Tess, are you a caterpillar?”

  She turned towards him, frowning, her eyes as usual not looking directly at him but over his shoulder. Her tongue seemed to be moving in her mouth as though mouthing an answer that she decided not to give.

  “How many questions am I allowed to ask?” she said, changing the subject. Cosgrove’s questions had obviously made her feel uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t we take turns?” he suggested.

  Tess nodded. “Why did they bring me here?”

  “Because you need help, Tess.”

  “I can wash and dress myself. I can make tea and look after Ben even when he is crying. I don’t need help.”

  “Not that kind of help, Tess. You need the help a doctor like me can give you by talking to you about the things you’ve done and finding out why you did them. Then we need to make sure you would never do those things again before you can go home.”

  “What things?”

  “Well, Tess, like what you did to your father.”

  Tess thought about this for a while, a confused expression spreading across her pale face.

  “Dr Cosgrove, if my daddy is dead, how can he be dead again?”

  Dr Cosgrove took a deep breath. “Tess, I mean hurting other people when you are discharged from here. Can you tell me if you’ve ever hurt anyone badly?”

  “Yes,” Tess breathed quietly. “I pinched Ben because I wanted him to stop screaming.”

  “Tess. I mean hurt someone more seriously than pinching your brother. Like hurting them so bad that they die. Have you ever hurt anyone like that, Tess?”

  “I did. I made a caterpillar die in the garden. He was eating Kate’s cabbages.”

  Dr Cosgrove sighed one of many sighs to come. He realised that either the child had completely separated herself from her violent behaviour, or she simply didn’t do it. What he also realised that day was that he was probably never going to know which answer was the right one. Tess Byrne did not have the understanding to answer his questions, her cognitive ability being that of a child much younger.

  Cosgrove found himself becoming attached to the child. Her innocence and simplicity saddened him at times; at other times her rigidity frustrated him, but he liked her and deep down he knew he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to believe that this child could kill.

  Seán climbed the steps to the solicitor’s offices in Knockbeg and sat patiently on an old wooden chair in the small reception area. A young man opened the door to what had been Mr Brown’s office and shook hands with Seán, his face beaming enthusiastically.

  “Mr Byrne, I’m Ciaran Brown, Terence Brown’s son. My father retired last year. Hope you don’t mind dealing with me?”

  “No, not at all,” the nervous and slightly embarrassed Seán replied.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Seán looked awkwardly at the polished young solicitor who had obviously had a privileged background and could not help but feel a little resentful of the fresh-faced, university-educated man in front of him.

  “My father, Michael Byrne, died recently and I am enquiring about his will,” Seán said quietly, blushing as he finished the sentence.

  “Yes, I heard about it. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Byrne but your father took his legal business from us. He moved all of the deeds etc to a Dublin firm. He didn’t inform you of this?”

  “What? Why, why would he do that?”

  “I couldn’t say, sorry. I checked the file and he did write a will with us in 1961 but it’s void now as he wrote a new one in Dublin and asked us to send on the file to the new solicitor. It’s on the quays as I remember. I’ll just tell Claire to get the address for you.”

  “When did he do that?” Seán asked, his head spinning.

  “Some months back now,” Brown replied matter-of-factly.

  Seán’s mind went blank
as the solicitor spoke to his secretary though a machine on his desk. Within minutes, the young woman who had met him at the door appeared and handed a slip of paper to the waiting lawyer.

  “There you are, Mr Byrne. Again, I offer my condolences. If there is anything my firm can do for you, please let me know. We would be happy to handle your legal needs in the future.”

  Seán did not listen as the young man chattered about how their families had done business for years, how his father knew his grandfather, the late Tom Kelly. Seán heard Ciaran Brown mention his mother – “Lovely woman, I remember her well” – but did not listen to the rest.

  Instead he stared down at the piece of paper in his hand and read it aloud.

  Roberts and Holford – Attorneys at Law

  Aaran Quay – Dublin 1

  Seán looked up from the piece of paper, a knot rising in his stomach. He did not have to ask these solicitors to find out why his father had moved firms. There could be no other explanation. His father had done him out of the farm.

  When Seán arrived at the Dublin solicitor’s office with no appointment, the snooty secretary looked him up and down and sighed heavily as she murmured something down the phone to one of her bosses. Seán looked down at his shoes to see that he was not exactly dressed for such a meeting. His trousers were splattered with mud from the farm. His hair was untidy and he badly needed a shave. But he didn’t care. He needed to know what was written in Michael Byrne’s will. The offices were well furnished and smelt of strong wood polish. Two large offices stood on either side of the main reception area and were divided by a long narrow corridor. Seán looked down the corridor which seemed to be lined with smaller offices. Phones rang constantly and people buzzed around him.