Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  The creature focused ambivalent amber eyes on the human being.

  “And when she comes looking for you—what do you think I’ll do?” Daisy knew. She would see to it that the cat departed. And where the cat went, Sarah would be sure to follow. Like in “Mary Had a Little Cat,” or something like that. But where should they go—and how could Daisy manage the delicate transfer? That was the problem.

  While she waited for the unfortunate girl’s appearance, Daisy did not intend to spend the evening in idleness. What I need is some work to do. That’ll help me think. After an examination of the cat’s split ear, the medicine woman gathered some of the instruments of her trade, which were a mix of the ordinary and arcane variety. She used a cotton swab soaked with wood alcohol to clean splotches of blackened blood off the animal’s shoulder and head, then added a few precious dabs of Navajo Hisiiyháaníí oil to his wounds. “Looks like you met up with Mr. Teeth,” she muttered, “and he put the bite on you.”

  In a boastful “You should have seen the other guy” gesture, the battered cat presented her with a claws-extended paw.

  “Oh, sure.” She chuckled. “I guess you got in a lick or two of your own.”

  When the first aid was completed, she turned her attention to about two dozen cockleburs that were firmly enmeshed into the black-and-white fur. Removing them was a tedious process. While holding a tuft of hair between finger and thumb, she used a mustache comb to remove the offending seedpod. This act of mercy occupied much of her evening.

  When she had removed several dozen burrs, the cat began to whine. Gave her the big-eyed look.

  “Now what is it?” And then it dawned on her. It’s started already. “You want me to get you something to eat.” She shook a finger at the beast. “Okay, but don’t think I’m gonna make a habit of waiting on you.” Having made her point, she got up, headed for the kitchen. Halfway there, remembered that there was no tuna left in the pantry. I wonder if cats like Velveeta cheese?

  As it turned out, this one did.

  While Daisy watched Mr. Zig-Zag consume his supper, the devious old woman began to think. Almost as soon as she would consider a plot, a flaw would appear, and she would drop it to pursue another crooked line of thought. During this process, Daisy stared at empty space, nervously patted a hand on her knee, occasionally nodded to agree with herself on some critical point. After several hundred ticks and tocks of the clock, the experienced tactician concluded that she had come up with just the right plan. The solution went something like this: When you have something you don’t want, give it to someone else. And she knew just who someone else was. A deserving party. The problem was solved—if only a few circumstances and a couple of knuckle-headed people would cooperate. She set her jaw. If they didn’t, she would just grab them by the neck and shake them until they did!

  The time for action had come.

  She picked up the telephone, punched in the familiar number for Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch. After four rings, she heard the pleasant voice of Dolly Bushman, who—in Daisy’s opinion—had the severe misfortune of being bonded in holy matrimony to the foreman. Pete Bushman was (in Daisy’s opinion) a blight and a plague. “It’s me,” Daisy said.

  “Oh, Mrs. Perika—how are you?”

  “I’m all right.” The hostile Indian tried to sound civil. “Is my nephew at home?”

  “Oh, no. Charlie’s off somewhere with that sheriff from Utah. We don’t expect him back ’til Saturday, at least.”

  Good. “Well isn’t that just like him—taking off for days at a time without saying a word to his closest relative.”

  “You could call him on his cell phone.”

  “He generally keeps it turned off. And I don’t like to leave messages on that silly machine.”

  “Daisy, dear—Charlie told me that if you had any kind of problem, we was to take care of it. If something needs fixing at your place, I’ll just send Pete down there and—”

  “No, thank you—there’s nothing here that needs fixing.” Well, that’s not exactly true. But even if this was something he could help me with, I wouldn’t want that hairy-faced old white man in my house. He smells like a fresh cow pie and he’s always spitting tobacco juice. “Is Father Raes holed up in his little cabin, reading the Bible and praying six times every day?”

  “He’s gone off someplace or other.” Though she was a Baptist, Dolly Bushman’s tone let it be known that she did not appreciate the Indian woman’s rude way of speaking about the Catholic priest who was—in her view—as holy a man as had ever set foot in Colorado. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  Daisy smiled. “Well, I’ve got some things I need to bring to the ranch.” This was the literal truth. “Soon’s I can get somebody to drive me, I’ll show up.”

  “Daisy, I’d be glad to send Pete down to get you. Or one of the cowboys—”

  “No, don’t bother.” The Ute woman breathed her patented martyr’s sigh. “I wouldn’t want to put you people to any trouble on my account.”

  “But it wouldn’t be no—” Dolly heard a click in her ear.

  Having disconnected Dolly Bushman from her thoughts, Daisy Perika was already dialing another number.

  Her male cousin answered promptly. “H’lo. Who’s this?”

  “You’re Gorman Sweetwater,” she said with exaggerated patience. “And whenever you forget, just check your driver’s license—if you still have one. Your name’s printed on it.” She cackled out a passable imitation of the Witch of the West, which was pretty close to what some of the more superstitious folk on the reservation had her pegged for. “And so’s your picture, in case you don’t remember what you look like, which might be a blessing now that I think of it, so maybe you’d best leave the thing in your wallet.”

  “Daisy?”

  “No, this is Marilyn Monroe, struttin’ around the swimmin’ pool in a pink bathing suit.”

  The seductive picture posed before him, Gorman sighed with the regret of an old man who remembered the carnal pleasures of the mid-twentieth century only too well. “No you ain’t. You’re Daisy.”

  “So how are you doing, you old wart-head?”

  “Oh, pretty good. Did I tell you I bought me a new pickup?”

  Only about ten times. “Is that a fact—what make is it?” She mouthed the expected words: It’s a GMC—the onliest pickup a man should—

  “It’s a GMC—the onliest pickup a man should spend his hard-earned money on.”

  “Now that you mention it, I think maybe I heard something about it. Is it a red truck?”

  “Well, yeah—only GM calls it something like Carmine Sunset, or Strawberry Dream.” He thought about it. “No, Strawberry Dream is the color of that red ice cream.”

  “Well, whatever they call it, it must be real pretty. And didn’t I hear it had a fine white camper shell on the back?”

  “Genuine fiberglass,” Gorman said with more than a smidgen of pride. “And it’s got four-wheel drive and an air bag on the driver’s side and the biggest V-8 of any truck in its class—”

  “Sounds like something special. Why don’t you bring it out here for me to see?”

  “Well…I dunno.” There was a clicking sound as he applied a toothpick to an incisor. “It’s a longish drive to your place, and gas is awful pricey these days.”

  “Tell you what—you drive that shiny new red truck out here tomorrow morning and take me for a ride, and I’ll fix you a breakfast like you ain’t had since old dogs was fussy puppies. And I’m talking three brown-shell eggs.”

  “With some crispy bacon?”

  “Six slices. And a big slab of ham and sliced potatoes—all fried in lard.” Sensing his hesitation to commit, the wily old gamester rolled loaded dice. “And I’ll buy you a tank of gas.”

  Gorman Sweetwater’s tone reflected his doubts about such a grand promise from a woman who pinched pennies hard enough to make Honest Abe grimace. “A full tank?”

  “Right up to the brim.”

&nbs
p; “High octane?”

  “Sure. But you show up by nine.” Daisy Perika scowled at her unseen cousin. “And I don’t mean Indian Time.”

  After the discussion of a few additional details, the deal was done.

  Daisy said good-bye and hung up. The wheels were turning. Now she could relax, and she did.

  As the clock chimed eleven, she was drifting off toward that gray land where old women become young again, where trees sing and stones speak and shamans fly high over mountain peaks. Not halfway there, she met a thin little girl, who was standing in the shade of a mulberry tree.

  Sarah Frank was wearing a pink satin dress. Her hands, dripping blood, were holding a wooden club. The lonely little soul seemed not to notice the tribal elder. Sarah was calling out, over and over: “Mr. Zig-Zag—where aaaarrrre you…”

  Daisy reached out to touch the child, and was awakened by a screechy yowling.

  It was, of course, the self-centered cat. Mr. Zig-Zag was pawing at her leg.

  She made a face at the pesky creature. “You’ve been fed. What is it now—you want to watch your favorite show on the TV?” Garfield Eats the Parakeet, I expect.

  Not so. His gaze was fixed on the door.

  “Oh, right. You want to go outside.” At least he’s trained not to mess up the floor. Grateful for this small blessing, Daisy got up, headed for the exit. About to turn the knob, she hesitated. Maybe that’s not why he wants out. She switched off the lights, crept over to the window, opened it barely an inch. As was her lifelong habit, she listened intently to the sounds of night.

  In a sagebrush thicket, an invisible cricket. Clickety-clickit.

  A pie-eyed owl on a juniper snag. Hut-hut-hooooooo…

  And wafted in from somewhere on the chilly breeze—“Mr. Zig-Zag…where aaaarrrre you…”

  The cat heard it, too; he responded with a melancholy yowling.

  Daisy waited a hundred heartbeats, heard the unspeakably mournful call again. But much closer now. I knew it—she’s come looking for her pet. It won’t be long ’til she’ll be pecking at my door. And She’ll want to sit up and talk ’til the crack of dawn.

  But if the cunning old schemer had her way—and she generally did—this particular night visitor would not tarry for long. No, before the yellow-balloon moon floated over the mountain again, the homeless waif would be far away—in what Daisy Perika assured herself, would be a more suitable habitation. With her cat, of course.

  And so she waited for the expected arrival.

  While she waited, the shaman thought she saw a flickering shadow on the wall, then it was gone. No, there it is again. This tiny mystery was solved when she noticed the small, brown insect fluttering around the ceiling light fixture. She frowned. I hate moths.

  It would never have occurred to Daisy Perika that this moth might be a butterfly. Nor was there any reason that she should have entertained such a thought. Butterflies flutter by when the sun is high; at night, they fold their wings and sigh and sleep and dream dreams that cannot be imagined, much less described. Everyone knows this.

  So it was most likely a moth.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Simple Matter of Expertly Applied Manipulation

  When Gorman Sweetwater drove up in his beloved new pickup, Daisy Perika was outside waiting for her cousin. I hope he hasn’t been drinking this early in the day. After Gorman had soaked up a six-pack, he would gaze at her with the droopy-jaw, hollow-eyed look of a certified moron. A glance at the suspect relative convinced Daisy that he was about as sober and sensible as he ever got. Which ain’t saying all that much.

  Gorman lowered the window. “When did you get yourself a cat?”

  Daisy glanced at Mr. Zig-Zag, who was sniffing at a tiny purple flower. “This ugly fuzz-ball don’t belong to me—he’s just a stray that wandered in the other day.” That was close enough to the truth.

  “Looks like he tangled with a coyote.” The perpetually hungry man eyed a covered basket Daisy had slung over her shoulder. “What’s in that?”

  She shrugged under the weight. “Oh, just some things.”

  The expectant diner licked his lips. “I bet it’s a picnic lunch.”

  Daisy offered an enigmatic smile. “You might be right.” She inspected the camper shell. “Is the back of your truck unlocked?”

  “Sure.” He got out, slammed the door, relieved his cousin of her burden, sniffed at the aromatic hints. Fried chicken. Baked beans. And some kinda fresh-baked pie. Another sniff. Peach cobbler. He started to open the lid—

  “Leave it shut!” Daisy slapped his hand. “That’s for Father Raes.”

  He exhaled a melancholy sigh, said good-bye to the pie. “Don’t he live up at Charlie Moon’s ranch since he retired?”

  “Sure. And that’s where you’re taking me.”

  “Oh.” Well, it’ll be nice to see the priest again. He stowed the basket in the back of his pickup, and was about to shut the camper shell door when Daisy shouted orders to the contrary.

  “Leave it open.”

  “You want me to load some more stuff?”

  “Not right now. You can have your breakfast first.”

  His spirits somewhat restored, Gorman followed Daisy and the cat into her home, all the while assuring himself that this would be a profitable day. In addition to the free meal, but he’d make sure Daisy didn’t “forget” her promise to fill his gas tank. Almost an hour later, having enjoyed the excellent breakfast, the appreciative man thumped his chest and presented his host with a complimentary burp.

  Because her cousin was an obnoxiously odorous man, as likely to expel gas from one orifice as another, Daisy was grateful for the limited nature of this expression of culinary approval.

  “We’d better get goin’,” Gorman said. “I got to be home before dark.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Realizing that he still had some room under his belt, Gorman buttered a made-from-scratch biscuit. Never one to avoid a tasteful pleasure, he added two heaping tablespoons of strawberry jam. “It’s because of my eyes.”

  She stored a heavy skillet in the oven. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  Gorman took a bite of the biscuity confection, attempted to recall the technical term. Cattle-racks? No, that’s something you put on a truck. But it’s got something to do with driving. Oh, now I remember. “My eyes has the Cadillacs.”

  She slammed the oven door. “The what?”

  He explained in that tolerant, though mildly condescending manner which the well-informed reserve for relatively ignorant relatives: “It’s a eye-problem that makes it hard for me to drive at night. That’s why I got to be home before dark.”

  Daisy blamed herself for asking. After all these years of him spouting nonsense, I shouldn’t expect the old knot-head to make any sense. She grabbed a damp dish towel, gave the table a series of vicious swipes. I hope whatever’s wrong with his brain don’t run in the family.

  He spooned sugar into the coffee cup. “But my optimist says he can fix it.”

  She stopped in mid-swipe, her mouth gaped guppy-fashion. “Your what?”

  Though tolerant with those less blessed than himself, Gorman was beginning to run short on patience. “Why d’you keep saying ‘what-what-what’?” He set his jaw. “Ain’t you never heard of how some old people get Cadillacs in their eyes? And don’t you know that a optimist is a eye doctor?”

  “No, I didn’t know those things.” Daisy sighed. “I guess I’m just not as smart as you are.”

  Disarmed by this candid confession from a woman who never, ever admitted to having the least shortcoming, Gorman softened his tone. “It’s not your fault, Daisy. Why anybody else who lived out here all by theirself for years on end, with no way to keep up with what’s goin’ on in the world—they’d be even dumber than you.”

  Barely resisting the temptation to swat him with the dish cloth, she thought: It’s a good thing I didn’t have that cast-iron frying pan in my hand. “Thank you so much for understand
ing.”

  Out of sympathy for the deprived woman, Gorman changed the subject. “Anyway, like I said, my doctor’s sure he can fix what’s wrong with me.”

  “Then he is for sure.”

  About to take a sip of Daisy’s famously strong coffee—which was rumored to have melted stainless steel spoons and caused strong men’s eyeballs (Cadillacs and all) to eject from their sockets with a loud popping sound and hang limp on their cheeks—Gorman paused, stared at his cousin over the brim of the cup. “He is for sure what?”

  She smiled. “Your doctor is a sure-enough optimist.” If he thinks he can fix what’s wrong with you.

  Well, at least we finally got that straight. The family scholar downed a swallow of the shaman’s potent brew.

  Daisy pattered her cousin on the head. “You know what I think?” This being a rhetorical question, she did not wait for a response. “I think you oughta trade in that shiny new pickup truck.” This being an ambush, the crafty old bushwhacker waited for him to ask for what.

  “Trade it in for what?”

  “Why one of them long, red Cataract convertibles!” Her body shook with laughter.

  Gorman stared at the peculiar woman, made an instant diagnosis. Al’s Hammers—that’s what it is.