Читать книгу The Butterfly House - Marcia Preston, Marcia Preston - Страница 6

Shady River, Oregon, 1971

Cynthia Jaines’s mother kept butterflies in the house. Summer afternoons, from grade school to high school, I pedaled my bike up the steep, winding road to Rockhaven, where my best friend and her mother lived in an enchanted world of color and light.

The house clung like determined lichen to a forested slope above the Columbia River. Sweating my way up the incline, my leg muscles stripped and zinging, I would tilt my face toward the glassed-in porch winking above me and picture the kaleidoscopic flutter of wings inside. A Swedish immigrant named Olsen had built the house half a century before, but in the years I frequented its stuccoed rooms, Rockhaven cocooned a female existence—its single resemblance to the bleak frame cottage my mother and I shared in the village below.

Rockhaven loomed large and beautiful to me then, although now I realize it was neither of those things. Tunneled partway into the hillside, it had two windowless bedrooms that stayed cool in summer, warm throughout the winter blows. Dining and living rooms faced off in the center of the house, unremarkable except for their respective views of sunrise and sunset. The cockpit kitchen pooched out on the sunrise side in a bay of miniature windows. But the ordinariness of those rooms escaped notice, overshadowed by two distinctive features: a native-stone fireplace whose chimney rose like a lighthouse above the river, and the stilted, glass sunporch jutting from the hillside into green air. Below its windows, the teal-blue Columbia looked placid and motionless, except when flood season churned it to cappuccino.

After the fire, only the stone chimney of the house remained. Blackened and naked, it towered above the leafy riverbank, a monument to Rockhaven’s history.

Cynthia and I were fatherless. During the long, pajamaed nights of prepubescence, we lay wide-eyed in the darkness inventing romantic histories around the shadowy figures who’d shaped us and then disappeared. But when we first met, at age seven, neither of us had any idea of such commonality. I was the new kid in school, a lost puppy, and Cynthia was the matriarch of second grade.

During my first week at Shady River Elementary, Petey Small and his band of apostles approached me at the lunch table. I was sitting alone, considering whether it was safe to eat the taupe-colored pig in my pig-in-a-blanket without any mustard to sterilize it. Petey plopped onto the seat across the table from me, rattling the plastic “spork” on my tray. The others hovered close, watching. This couldn’t be good, I decided, and chomped a semicircle from my peanut butter cookie to discourage theft.

Petey twirled a black-and-white checkered ball in his hands. “Did you play soccer in Oklahoma?” he demanded.

Undoubtedly a trick question. I wasn’t falling for anything that sounded like “sock-her.” I shook my head vigorously.

That morning Mrs. Hanson had asked me to tell the class about my background, a ploy I recognized even then as an attempt to integrate the new girl into the fixed social structure of hometown kids. They’d all hushed to hear my voice, the first time I’d spoken aloud inside the classroom. I confessed, my face steaming, that I had lived in four different states: Atlanta, Oklahoma, New Mexico and now Shady River. Mrs. Hanson was tactful enough not to correct my geography.

Thus Petey’s interest in me. “We need one more player for the other team,” he said.

Still suspecting a prank, I shook my head again. Was sock-her the Shady River version of dodgeball? I’d played that before, and wanted no part of a rerun.

Petey and the boys didn’t leave, and I realized he expected more of an answer.

“They play football in Oklahoma,” I whispered. Then added, “But not the girls.” Actually, in Oklahoma, I’d played running back during a touch football game organized by one of my first-grade teachers. I was small but evasive, swiveling through a gauntlet of classmates to the goal line, my frizzy braids flying free. The moment illuminated my memory with a freeze-frame of rare joy.

But I wasn’t inclined to share that recollection with Petey Small.

He twirled the ball and watched me with blank eyes, his mouth hanging open. Petey’s mouth always hung open.

At that moment, salvation appeared. A crescent of dark hair swung into the corner of my vision, followed by Cynthia Jaines’s oval face.

“Wanna jump rope with us?” She eyed my plate. “After you eat?”

I hadn’t had so much attention in my entire life. My cheeks burned, and I could feel my freckles standing out like Cheerios in a bowl of milk.

“Yeah!” I popped from my chair, grabbing the cookie and a celery stick. “I’m finished.”

Cynthia turned to Petey Small with a smile that showed two missing front teeth, one dimpled cheek, and mischief sparking in dark-chocolate eyes. Already she knew how to wield her charm like a weapon. I watched her, wide-eyed.

“Petey’s such a mensch, he’ll take your tray,” she said. “Won’t you, Petey?”

Neither Petey, nor I, nor his merry men had any idea whether he’d been flattered or insulted, but the strength of Cynthia’s superior knowledge struck the boys silent.

“Thanks,” I said to Petey, and shrugged.

As I hurried away from the table with Cynthia, aware of the stares that followed us, our eyes met in a moment of feminine collusion. We burst into giggles.

Cynthia’s patronage saved me from a miserable school year. At Shady River Elementary, every child among the eighteen in my class had spent not only first grade but kindergarten together. I hadn’t attended kindergarten. And after switching schools twice during first grade, I struggled to catch up. Because of Cynthia, the other children accepted me with tolerant indifference, in my view the perfect response. Left alone, I navigated safely within my three-cornered universe: the fantasy land of books, the reality of the shabby rented house I shared with my often-absent mother, and the exotic world of Cynthia Jaines.

The first time Cynthia took me home with her after school and we approached the strange rock house on the hill, I thought it looked like something from the Aesop’s Fables our teacher sometimes read aloud. I’d never heard of a real house that had a name.

The door to Rockhaven stood open to an October breeze, and Cynthia bounded in. Before my eyes could adjust from bright sunshine to the interior darkness, something huge and fluttery brushed past my head, chilling me to stone. I strangled a scream, and Cynthia’s laughter bubbled.

“That’s Zoroaster,” she said, holding up a finger as if the wild-winged thing might alight on her hand. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

He was indeed. My mouth stretched open as I watched an iridescent-blue butterfly waft toward the light of the sunporch. Wide as a dinner plate, its wings beat as if in slow motion. “Wow,” I said, while goose bumps tickled my skin.

“It’s actually a blue Morpho from South America,” she said, “but Mom gives pet names to her special ones. We have lots more. Come on, I’ll show you.”

I followed her toward the light.

The green aroma enveloped us even before I stepped onto the tiled floor and gaped at the ceiling of vines, backlit by diffused sunlight. Plants tangled at our feet and sprouted like fountains from massive pots. Along the glass walls, table planters of dark soil nourished a jungle of spiky fronds and lacy ferns. Occasional bright flowers glowed like Christmas lights among the greenery. And weaving through the maze, multicolored butterflies flapped and floated, random and slow as the river beyond the glass.

Cynthia’s mother separated from the forest and spoke to her, startling me.

“Hello, sweetie. Oh, good! You’ve brought a friend.”

Her voice was the forerunner of Cynthia’s, low-pitched and slightly sandy. Lenora Jaines smiled at me, her temples crinkling around sea-green eyes. I’d never seen eyes quite that color before.

“This is Bobbie,” Cynthia said, shortening Roberta into the nickname we’d agreed on after much consideration. I’d never had a nickname before, and to me it represented acceptance in my new world. For her, we’d picked Cincy, Cindy being far too common.

Lenora Jaines’s dark hair was swept back into a low ponytail, and loamy soil clung to her hands. Her skin was moon-colored against the backdrop of leaves. She said, “Hello, Bobbie,” and I knew then that Bobbie was my real name.

“Her mom works at the River Inn and isn’t home yet,” Cincy said. “What can we eat? Can we make rock cookies?”

Lenora appeared to think that over. “I’ll wash up and we’ll see what we can find in the kitchen.” She brushed off her hands and followed Cincy into the main house, but I lingered a moment on the sunporch, unwilling to leave the mysteries of that indoor Eden.

Once alone, I stood stock-still, my head thrown back in wonder, and inhaled the chaos around me. A zebra-striped butterfly flitted from bloom to bloom. In all four states, I’d never seen anyplace so beautiful. I wanted to take it all inside me—to sip nectar and float above the world on psychedelic wings.

“Bobbie? Come on!” Cincy called. “We’re going to bake rocks!”

I hesitated a moment longer, then turned and skipped toward the kitchen.

Lenora Jaines occupied her house with the same airy freedom as the butterflies. Mundane things like grocery shopping rarely occurred to her. In the midst of putting together supper for the three of us, she’d discover with genuine surprise an absence of milk, or cooking oil, or bread. This delighted Cincy and me, because then we’d be sent on a mission to the market.

Rockhaven sat on the Washington side of the Columbia, but the village of Shady River spread along the Oregon bank. Riding double on Cincy’s silver bike, we flew down the winding road at terrifying speeds and crossed the wide river bridge, arriving at the grocery store breathless and giddy. After making our purchase and storing our booty in the bike’s wicker basket, we walked the bike back up the incline, chewing licorice whips or sucking on sour mints—whatever dime treasure we’d chosen as our reward. In winter we rode Cincy’s homemade sled down the hill.

One balmy spring evening, we arrived back at Rockhaven bearing a dozen eggs and found a car in the driveway.

“Company!” Cincy shouted. Her mom seldom had visitors.

My neck prickled. “That’s my mom’s car,” I whispered.

Cincy clutched my arm, the aroma of jawbreaker warm on her breath. Her black eyes were caverns in the twilight. “Are you in trouble?”

“Who knows?”

She stowed the bike and we hurried inside.

Mom and Lenora sat at the scrubbed pine table in the dining room. Lenora cradled a coffee mug in her hands, and her smile looked slightly too cheerful. A wineglass stood before my mother, a remnant of dark red seeking its stem.

Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Lee?

Thanks, but do you have something stronger? Long day at work, you know?

“Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”

Both mothers laughed, in that kids-what-are-you-going-to-do-with-them way parents have when they get together. I glanced at the clock. Mom had gotten off work only twenty minutes ago, but she’d taken time to change out of her pink hotel uniform into a pair of jeans before coming up the hill. She hated that housekeeper’s uniform.

“It was getting dark, so I came to pick you up,” she said. “Besides, I thought it was time I met Cynthia’s mother.”

She was using her kind voice. My muscles relaxed, but only a degree. I looked from her face to Lenora’s, then back again. “I’m spending the night, remember? You said it was okay.”

Cincy stood beside me still holding the eggs in their paper bag, a half smile on her face, her eyes curious as she watched my mother.

Mom shrugged and another mat of cinnamon hair escaped from its plastic clamp. “You must have asked me when I was half asleep.” She turned to Lenora. “Which I often am, after these ten-hour shifts. I’m supposed to get three days off that way, but they’re shorthanded at the hotel and I wind up working five or six days anyway.”

Lenora shook her head. “That’s grueling.”

“Yeah, but anything over forty hours is time and a half.” She straightened in the chair and pressed both hands to the small of her back. “Thank God I’m off tomorrow.”

“Bobbie’s welcome to stay tonight,” Lenora said. “You could sleep late.”

Mom looked at me. “Bobbie?”

I hadn’t told her my nickname and the stamp of her disapproval was clear.

“Please, can she stay?” Cincy said. “Two of our cecropia moths are supposed to hatch tomorrow.”

I knew the verdict before she answered. Begging would only bring trouble later.

“Maybe next weekend,” my mother said. “I haven’t had a Saturday off in a long time. Roberta and I need to do some shopping.”

“Of course.” Lenora’s voice was open and friendly. “But please know that Bobbie’s always welcome. Any weekend you have to work, send her up. I’m always home.”

The slightest stiffening of my mother’s neck sent me into action. “I’ll get my bag.”

I ran to Cincy’s room, snatched my pillowcase satchel from the debris on her bed and flew back to the kitchen, afraid to let something happen in my absence. Cincy stood where I’d left her, still watching my mom with intense interest. I wondered what she saw. They had met once before, at my house, but only for a few minutes when Cincy and I had gone by after school to leave Mom a note and found her home unexpectedly. That day, she’d taken off work with one of her headaches and was glad enough for us to leave her alone.

“I’ll call you tomorrow to see if they hatched,” I said to Cincy.

“Okay. If they have, maybe you can come up and see them after you get back.”

“Get back?”

Cincy looked at me. “From shopping.” Her voice sounded envious.

“Oh. Okay.”

With sudden understanding, I realized Cincy was picturing a mother-daughter day out, perhaps trying on clothes as she loved to do. I wondered if Lenora thought that, too. She gave me a smile but I couldn’t read her eyes.

On the short drive down the hill, my mother and I didn’t talk. A pale amber moon had risen in the southeast, glittering the wide surface of the Columbia as our tires rumbled onto the bridge. This bridge was the last wooden structure on the entire river, my teacher had said. I rolled down the window, but I couldn’t feel the magical pull of the river the way I did when I crossed the bridge alone. Tonight the river was only a deep-slumbering giant, distant from the lives of little girls.

Mom began to sing, her voice silvery and clear as the light off the river. “I see the moon, the moon sees me, down through the leaves of the old oak tree. Please let the light that shines on me, shine on the one I love.”

The tires rumbled off the bridge and onto the blacktop beyond. “So I guess now you’re mad at me,” she said.

I didn’t answer. I stared ahead toward the sparse lights of Shady River.

“I was lonesome for you, honey.” Her voice was soft now, conciliatory. “Seems like we’re never home at the same time. At least, not awake.”

The knot in my chest softened, but I still had nothing to say. I took in a deep breath that smelled of the river.

My mother sighed and changed tactics. “What in the world is a see-crap-ya moth?”

I burst into giggles, knowing I’d been tricked but grateful to give up the painful anger. “Not crap-ya! Cecropia. It’s a huge moth that doesn’t have a mouth. It can’t eat so it doesn’t live very long.”

I linked my thumbs and pressed the fingers of each hand together, like wings. Moonlight animated my hands with shadows. “The caterpillar spins a silk cocoon that’s brown and hairy, like a coconut. But smaller, of course. Lenora counts the days and knows when it’s supposed to hatch.”

Caught up in the mystery of metamorphosis, I watched my hands act out the drama. “When it’s ready, it gives off some kind of juice that makes a hole in the cocoon, and it crawls out. Its wings are all wet and crinkled up on its back. As they dry out they expand, like a bud opening into a flower.”

“Lenora told you all this?”

“Uh-huh. She’s seen it happen.”

“Yuk,” Mom said, and shuddered. “Sounds disgusting.”

She began to sing again. “Through thick and through thin, all out or all in, but we’ll muddle through….”

She paused, waiting for me to join in, but I wasn’t in the mood.

“To-geth-er,” she finished.

It was her traveling song. She’d sung it as we drove the miles from Atlanta to Oklahoma City, from Oklahoma City to Albuquerque, from there to Shady River. Bored on the long drives, I added my unmusical voice to her firm, resonant one, a kazoo accompanying a violin. Somewhere along the miles, listening to my mother’s voice, I came to believe that everyone in the world has at least one gift. I wondered what mine might be. Maybe I’d be a scientist, like Lenora. Once I’d caught up with my classmates, I turned out to be smart at school. Maybe I’d win the no-bell prize for science that my teacher had mentioned, though I couldn’t figure out what bells had to do with it.

Mom parked the old Ford Fairlane in the beat-out track beneath the carport. She’d stopped singing now, her mind on other diversions. I recognized that quietness.

Inside the house, I queried the darkness for Rathbone, the stray cat who’d adopted us part-time. “Kitty, kitty?”

No answer. Somehow Rathbone managed to come and go from the house as he pleased. Mom probably forgot to close one of the windows.

She switched on the small light over the kitchen stove and made bologna sandwiches, pouring milk for me, wine for her. I ate my sandwich and left the milk. She left half her sandwich but drank the wine and refilled her glass.

“Get ready for bed, honey. It’s getting late,” she said.

In my tiny bedroom, hardly larger than Cincy’s walk-in closet, I donned the oversize T-shirt I used for a nightgown, then went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth over the stained sink. When I came back to say good-night, Mom was sitting on one end of the sofa in the darkened living room, her feet curled beneath her. She offered a one-armed, halfhearted hug.

The faint disinfectant scent she always carried from her job mingled with the stronger odor of wine. I knew that, in the darkness, the wine bottle sat on the end table next to her.

“You ought to go to bed now, too,” I said, resting my head against her soft breast. “You’re always tired.”

“I will, honey. Pretty quick. Sleep tight, now.” She kissed my hair, dismissing me.

In my dream I was a cecropia larva, trapped inside my cocoon. I chewed and clawed but I couldn’t rend the tough silk fiber I’d spun around myself. I awoke in a panic, the sheet twisted around my legs. Kicking free, I lay in the darkness with my eyes open, waiting for my thudding heart to return to normal.

A dim light still glowed through the open bedroom door. I gathered up the chenille spread from the foot of my bed and carried it into the living room.

My mother was asleep on the couch, snoring lightly, the empty wine bottle on the floor beneath her outstretched arm. A shaft of moonlight whitened the hourglass-shaped scar on the inside of her arm, a mark she would never explain. Her breathing didn’t change as I covered her legs and pulled the spread up to her chin.

My feet were cold when I crawled back in bed, and the knot behind my breastbone had returned. But this time I was angry at myself. For a moment that evening, driving home with my mother and the moonlight on my hands, I’d actually believed we might go shopping tomorrow.