The Butterfly House

CHAPTER 6

I n my earliest memory, I am lying in a bed with bars on the sides, a crib, and watching tiny speckles of light dance on the ceiling. I’m supposed to be sleeping. Instead, I listen to the music that seeps through the wall from the next room. I hear my mother’s voice, and my father’s and another man’s. I don’t know who he is but my mother does. I can tell by her voice, though I don’t understand the words.

The music feels happy. I hear my mother laugh and then the front door closes and her voice is gone. Only the low, rumbly sounds of Daddy and the stranger drift through the wall as I doze off.

Later something wakes me—a dream. A noise, maybe. I’m frightened but not enough to cry. The light has receded into a thin stripe around the door. The music is still playing in the next room but I don’t hear any voices. I throw one leg over the crib railing and hoist myself up—then I’m tumbling to the floor. I land on my big stuffed bear and roll off unhurt. I pick him up and get the door open and go out into the hall.

Daddy and the other man are sitting on the sofa in the living room with their backs toward me. Their heads are shadows in the lamplight.

“Daddy,” I say, and both faces turn toward me, surprised. More than surprised. Frightened?

Then they both smile and my father comes around the sofa, fast, and sweeps me up.

“Well, look at you! How did you get out of bed all by yourself?” He laughs and the other man, whose face I cannot remember except for a frame of reddish curly hair, laughs, too.

Carrying me back to bed, my father kisses the top of my head. “What a big girl you ‘re getting to be,” he says. “Daddy’s smart, big girl.” His voice sounds sad.

I was fifteen when my mother finally told me the truth about my father. She didn’t mean to. She meant to keep it secret forever. If she’d succeeded, it might have saved us all.

On Friday evening after dinner, I finally tell David about Harley Jaines. We argue about whether I should go to Spokane.

“You don’t know who this guy is. He could be some kook,” David insists. “We should have him checked out. I’ll call the prison, find out if Lenora’s had a regular visitor, if there’s really a hearing coming up.”

“David, I know who he is.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Don’t let him scare you into going down there if you’re not ready to see her. I don’t want you—” he pauses, choosing his words”—to make yourself sick again.”

Crazy again.

Pinpoints of light float through my vision and blackness gathers around the edges. I curse my inability to handle a normal household argument, or any stress at all. I take a deep breath and blow it out the way a sprinter does, the way Dr. Bannar showed me. Breathe and blow. Keep the oxygen flowing.

David paces between the kitchen table and the sink, numbering the reasons I should not make the trip, while I sit huddled on my chair staring at the half-eaten food congealing on my plate, hugging my knees. Suddenly I wonder whether it is I who have shut myself in this house like a recluse, or whether he’s keeping me here. Like a specimen in a jar. Homo sapiens insanitus.

I interrupt him. The confidence in my voice surprises us both.

“David. Regardless of Harley Jaines, I need to see Lenora. I want to see her. I don’t think I’ll ever be normal again—” was I ever normal? “—until I’ve done this.”

He looks at me as if I’ve already lost it. Worry and fear show in his eyes.

I spread my hands and state the obvious. “Hiding hasn’t worked.”

He shakes his head, defeated, then he comes to stand behind my chair. Without speaking, he places his hands on my shoulders and lays his cheek on the top of my head. I know he means it as a gesture of love, and it makes me feel like an unresponsive mother.

“I’ll drive you down on Sunday,” he says. “I’ll go in tomorrow and finish setting up the new exhibit so we can stay overnight in Spokane and drive back Monday.”

My muscles stiffen but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“It’ll be all right,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”

I picture the two of us in the car those long hours, tension hovering over us like a back-seat driver.

On Saturday afternoon, when David goes to the museum, I pack my small suitcase and load it into the Honda. I put out extra food for the birds, and leave a note on the kitchen table.

David—I’m sorry, but I need to do this alone. Please don’t worry. I’ll call tonight. Love, Roberta.

When he reads it, he’ll be horrified.

I lock the house and stand for a moment on the shoveled driveway, my breath coming out in white puffs of worry. Breathe and blow.

What will I need that I didn’t pack? I haven’t taken even a weekend trip for so long I feel disoriented about sleeping somewhere else. I worry about toothpaste and contact lens solution. This is simpler than worrying about what will happen when I reach my destination, or the recurring images of my car drawn magnetically toward a snowy precipice like a jumper to the edge of abridge.

I climb in the car and start the engine. Should have warmed it up. I pull on gloves and fasten my seat belt, breathe and blow. At the bottom of the hill beside our mailbox, I turn left toward the main road.

The snow mounds high along the roadsides, but the sky is a bright, blinding blue. I fumble for my sunglasses. Ten hours to Spokane, maybe more, but I’ve made a plan: drive until dusk, get a cheap, safe room somewhere and sleep like a glacier. I’ve brought medication to make sure of it. Then I’ll finish the trip Sunday morning, find a room in Spokane and locate the prison. It’s been so many years since I visited Lenora there, I can’t remember where it is.

I should have called ahead. I think regular visiting hours at the prison are on Sunday afternoon—at least, that’s how it used to be. I may not get there in time for that, and I seem to remember every visitor’s name had to be on an approved list. It’s possible they won’t let me in.

Hope rises at this thought; I wouldn’t have to face her, and it wouldn’t be my fault. But if I don’t see her tomorrow, I’ll have to try again. Because what I told David was true. Though I’d never admitted it before even to myself, I must see Lenora again.

I keep driving, my fists stiff as stone on the wheel.

At the main road, instead of turning east toward Calgary to catch the superhighway south to the U.S. border, I turn right, toward the resort areas of Canmore and Banff, the scenic route. The trip will take a bit longer this way, which I recognize as avoidance behavior. But the route is beautiful, and I know the roads will be cleared of snow, for the ski traffic. Tourists uber alles.

David and I drove this road together when we moved to his inherited house, but I haven’t traveled it since. The scenery is even more spectacular than I remembered. Perhaps that’s because I’m seeing it alone, in captured glimpses like photographs, while I concentrate on the two-lane road. After an hour my hands cramp from gripping the wheel so hard. I slump back in the seat and will myself to relax, shaking out one hand and then the other.

Another two hours slip easily beneath my wheels; I’m beginning to enjoy the drive. Being on my own like this is scary, but heady, too.

David made waffles and eggs for our late Saturday breakfast, but by five o’clock I’m hungry again and desperately need to pee. Up ahead I see a roadside hotel where tables and chairs sit outdoors on a wooden deck with a view of snowy peaks. Today the tables are covered with snow and the deck deserted, but I like the looks of the place and pull into the parking lot.

The small dining room is cozy, with rose-colored tablecloths and a smoke-stained fireplace where yellow flames leap and crackle. I use the rest room first, then choose a table where it’s warm but not too close to the fire, and order a sandwich.

Only a few other diners come and go. I listen to their conversations while pretending to concentrate on my food. An old woman tells her younger companion whose face I cannot see, “You’re still looking for what you can get, honey. It isn’t what you get, it’s what you give.”

The sandwich is plain with store-bought potato chips on the side, but the bread is good and the chicken tastes fresh. I consider staying here for the night, but the food has restored my energy and I want more miles behind me. By five forty-five I’m back on the road, switching on my headlights in the early darkness of mountain shadows.

The route winds south through Kootenay National Park and finally joins a thin, Canadian version of the Columbia River just below its source in the Columbia Reach. I catch glimpses of it in the headlights.

I’m following the river that leads back to my childhood, the same waters where I once tried to drown. That history seems like a hundred years ago. And it seems like yesterday.

By the time I reach the outskirts of Cranbrook, my chest feels heavy and my contacts grate like sand in my eyes. I stop at the first motel that looks well lit. The room is spare and clean, uncomplicated, and suits me perfectly. I take my sleeping medicine first thing, a nice big dose, then a hot shower. I rush through the other bedtime rituals and fall into bed, asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

At daybreak, in the peculiar blue light that filters through the motel curtains, I awake and think of David.

I forgot to call. Damn.

I roll over and switch on the bedside lamp, find my glasses and read the instructions for dialing long distance. David answers on the third ring, his voice husky from sleep though he sounds alert. “Roberta?” is the first thing he says.

“Yes, it’s me. Sorry I forgot to call last night. I was so tired….”

“Where are you?”

I can tell he’s both angry and worried. “Umm.” I try to remember the name on the map. “Cranbrook, I think. Yes, that’s it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I enjoyed the drive, actually. The mountains—”

“Stay right there. I’ll come to you. I can be there before noon.”

“No, sweetheart. Don’t do that. I’m fine, really. I’m going to get some breakfast and get on the road so I’ll be in Spokane early.”

“Roberta—”

“I’ll try to see Lenora today, and get a room in Spokane for the night. I’ll call again this evening. Be sure the answering machine is turned on if you go out.” I pause for courage. “How is the exhibit coming along?”

I hear his sigh and the rustle of bedding and picture him sinking back onto his pillow. “What if you can’t see her today?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ll let me come back on Monday. Meanwhile I’ll find a mall and window shop.”

“You hate shopping.”

“Not through windows.”

“What if you run into that Harley character?”

“What if I do? He’s not going to hurt me, David,” I say, feeling the irrational flutter in my stomach that betrays my confidence. “After all, I’m doing what he asked. So far, at least.”

“You’re scaring me, Roberta.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But right now, it can’t be helped.”

“I love you,” he says.

Why is it easier for him to say this over the phone than when I’m right in front of him? This small weakness endears him to me; my own flaws hang unfurled like tattered flags.

“I love you, too.” And when I say it from this distance, I realize it’s true.

Back on the road, I turn on the radio for company, find only static and switch it off. The snow along the roadsides thins and grays with decreasing latitude as I near the checkpoint at the U.S. border. It reminds me of Christmas morning when I was eleven, the Christmas of the shell necklace.

Shady River, Oregon, 1974

On my almost-new bike, I gasped and teetered up the slope to Rockhaven in the winter morning stillness. Whatever remorse I might have felt for abandoning my mother to her bottle on Christmas Day dried up with my tears in the freezing air. I left the bike in the driveway and rang the bell.

They greeted me at the door as cheerfully as if I’d remembered to call before I came.

“Merry Christmas, Sarsaparilla!” Cincy chirped.

“Merry Christmas,” Lenora said. “Come into this house!” Her smile made me feel like a real person instead of just a kid.

I stood red-nosed on the flat space of concrete that served as their porch, my lips thick and numb with the cold. “Come look at my new bike!”

“You got a bike?” Cincy shrieked. “Outta sight!”

She bounded out of the house, wearing flannel pajamas and rabbit-eared house shoes.

Lenora came, too, carrying her coffee mug and lifting her terry-cloth robe off the ground. Her hair hung loose down her back and glistened like mink in the morning sunshine. I pictured my mom’s short, kinky hair and felt guilty for making the comparison.

Pulling my red Stingray erect, I held it for my friends’ inspection. They circled and exclaimed until my face hurt from grinning.

“Come in and eat breakfast with us,” Cincy said, dancing in the cold. “We can go riding after it warms up out here.”

I laid the bike gently on its side and we all three sprinted for the warmth of the house.

Christmas carols played from a radio somewhere in the living room, and the house smelled like cinnamon and candles. The whole sunporch was their Christmas tree, except the one end Lenora kept sealed off for controlled research. I’d recently learned she was a real scientist, a lepidopterist.

Strings of tiny colored lights looped around the tallest plants and wound across the ivy-covered ceiling. Glass ornaments and silver icicles draped the other greenery, shimmering with every breath of movement. A few nights before, Cincy and I had sat on the porch with all the other lights off, whispering about the mysteries of Christmas and our approaching teenage years. In the dark, the place looked enchanted.

This morning, though, it was sunny and bright. Cincy and Lenora were having breakfast there. Lenora had set up a card table in a narrow space among the plants and covered it with a red cloth. She crowded in another chair for me and insisted on sharing her omelet.

Cincy went to get me a glass of orange juice and returned with two small packages tied in curly bows. She laid them in front of me one at a time.

“This one’s from me, and this one’s from Mom.”

My smile fell. “But I didn’t get you anything.” I searched Cincy’s face, appealing.

She made a brushing motion with one hand. “You weren’t supposed to, Gwendolyn. These are no big deal, believe me.”

She flipped her long hair behind her shoulder with a toss of her head, a motion that had become characteristic lately. “Go on. Open them.”

I tore into hers first, finding a pair of knitted gloves. They were white, with red-and-blue reindeer marching around the backs and palms between borders of holly. “Ooh, they’re pretty,” I said. I pulled them on and flexed my fingers.

“I told you it was no big deal,” Cincy said. “Grandma got me an extra pair and I knew you’d lost yours.”

“Thanks,” I said, adopting her lightheartedness. “My hands were frozen to the handlebars on the way up here.” But I wished desperately that I had presents for them.

As soon as I picked up Lenora’s gift, I could tell it was a book. I tore off the paper. “Wow.”

I ran a gloved hand over the picture of a tiger swallowtail on the cover and read aloud, “The Golden Nature Guide to Butterflies and Moths, 423 illustrations in color.” I glanced up at Lenora, feeling she’d entrusted me with something special. “Thanks. I love it.”

Lenora winked at Cincy. “See, I told you.”

“I know,” Cincy said, faking disgust. “Science. Gross.” She flipped her hair. “Come look at my Christmas loot!”

I tucked the book in my arm but hesitated. “Want us to help with the dishes first?” I asked Lenora.

She smiled. “Thanks, Bobbie, but since it’s Christmas, I’ll let you off the hook.” We streaked to Cincy’s room.

Later in the day the temperature rose into the forties and we rode our bikes across the bridge and into town.

“I ought to stop by and check on Mom,” I told her.

We parked in the driveway and entered through the kitchen. Cincy needed to use the bathroom, so I steered her down the hall and went into the living room alone.

The room smelled sour. Mom was asleep on the sofa, still in her sweat suit, the TV playing. She hadn’t even roused when we came in. Asleep, her face looked much older than thirty-five.

“She’s okay,” I told Cincy when she came out. “Anyway, she’s still breathing.” I had begun to develop a caustic edge about my mother’s drinking when I talked to Cincy. I never mentioned it to anyone else.

On the way back to her house, we traded and rode each other’s bikes.

Late that afternoon Cincy and I were watching It’s a Wonderful Life on TV when I heard the phone in the kitchen ring and Lenora answer.

She called into the living room. “Bobbie, your mom wants you to start home now, before it gets dark.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll sack up some Snickerdoodles for you to take to your mom,” Cincy said.

I went to Cincy’s room and put on my coat and new gloves. Luckily, the butterfly book fit into the oversize pocket of my car coat. My new bike didn’t have a basket yet.

As I came back through the dining room, I heard Cincy’s subdued voice in the kitchen. “Isn’t there something you can do to help her? Maybe she just needs a friend.”

I froze, my throat squeezing shut.

What was she talking about? She was my friend! And I didn’t need any help.

“I don’t think so,” Lenora answered. “Every woman has her own demons to fight. I don’t think Ruth wants to stop drinking yet.”

Heat flashed to my cheeks. They had no right to talk about my mother.

Despite my indignation, a realization spread over me, slow and thick as syrup. Alone in the dusky dining room with my hands clenched into fists at my sides, I understood for the first time that my mother was an alcoholic. Neither Cincy nor Lenora had said the word. It simply burbled up from within me like a belch, embarrassing and unwanted.

My mother is an alcoholic. And I knew beyond a doubt that this was how other people saw her.

If this was how people saw Ruth, how did they see me? The child of the alcoholic, an object of pity? Was that how Lenora and Cincy saw me? Did they include me in their family out of pity instead of love?

The edges of my world crumbled beneath my feet; my head reeled.

I waited two beats until I could control my voice, then yelled toward the kitchen. “I’m going now! Thanks for the presents!” And fled out the front door.

Cincy caught up with me as I climbed on my bike. “Wait! Here’s your cookies.”

“Thanks.” I tucked them in my other pocket, avoiding her eyes, and pushed off down the driveway.

The tires wobbled until I caught my balance, then began to pedal recklessly, gaining speed. I could hear the blood zinging through my veins, alcoholic, alcoholic, while I careened down the hill on the red bike my mother gave me, far too fast for my beginner skills.

The sun hung on the horizon in a lonely strip of sky between the river and a bank of gray clouds. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill where the drive turned left, my nose was running and I was flying.

My tires hit a patch of loose gravel and skidded sideways. The bike waffled and the steep edge of the road loomed close. Beyond, a rocky slope descended into a gulch that led toward the river.

I gritted my teeth, my heart pounding. Part of me wanted to give in, go sailing into the chasm. But some other, stubborn girl rose up on the pedals, gripped the handlebars, and fought for balance.

I would not go down! Damn it, I would not!

In the still, cold air, I controlled the skid inches from the precipice and sailed onward toward the bridge. Cincy’s voice echoed down to me like a benediction.

“Ride ‘em, Sarsaparilla!”

Canadian/U.S. border, 1990

As I wait at the checkpoint before crossing into Idaho, the benediction echoes in my mind. What happened to that determined little girl I used to be? Would the baby I’m carrying resemble her, or the flimsy sister I’ve become in the eons since then?

The thought scares me. It’s the first time I’ve imagined this brief embryo as an actual person.

In the insulated time warp of the warm car, I remember a resilient little girl playing out the mystery of metamorphosis with the moon on her hands. And I allow myself to picture my accidentally fertilized ovum as a real baby, then a child, and eventually a young woman totally separate from me. I imagine curly hair like my own and sturdy legs, poor girl. But when I try to fix an image of her face, the features become the thin, aging visage of Lenora the last time I saw her, in prison.

It’s not what you get, the old woman at the restaurant said, but what you give. I should have asked her, is it what you give that makes you happy, or that kills you?

CHAPTER 7

Shady River, 1978

In our teens, Cincy and I invented a game that began, “If your father were here …” The scenarios started realistically, but quickly progressed into wild fictions full of money and adventure.

“If your father were here,” I told her, “he wouldn’t let you date Stan Stenson even if he asked, because of that motorcycle.”

“Well, if your father were here,” she countered, “he wouldn’t let you stay after school supposedly working on your science project with Petey Small. He’d ride up to the school on his white horse and throw you across the saddle and carry you away….”

Each new layer outdid the last, until finally our fathers metamorphosed into fantasy lovers. “But he isn’t your father at all, see,

he’s this warrior from the next village who’s loved you from afar….”And we were swept away into nonsense and laughter.

It was a surefire method for cheering ourselves up.

Cincy’s favorite fantasy was one about a fellow I’d named Lionel, who was involved in international espionage but returned to her, his one true love, for fixes of wild lovemaking before disappearing again into the mist along the river. Cincy made me tell this one over and over, adding her own creative twists. Whenever we saw a handsome stranger, she’d dig her elbow into my ribs and choke out, “It’s Lionel, come to take me away!”