Butterfly Soup. Nancy Pinard

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СКАЧАТЬ shut, wood on wood. Her mother has been to the grocery. She knows all the sounds and can interpret their meanings. At her flute lesson last week Mr. Moore remarked on how acutely she hears. She relistens to his velvet baritone, shaping itself around those words.

      Valley stretches, and her arching ribs strain against the elastic of her bra. Her phone rings, startling her, and she snatches it up. The bell is turned down as far as it goes without shutting it off.

      “Sooo,” Joanie says without saying hello first. “How was it?”

      “Okay,” Valley whispers back. Joanie doesn’t want the truth.

      “You’re so lucky. He’s such a doll. I can’t believe you’re dating a senior. Where’d you go?”

      “To the movie.” Valley glances down at the clothes she wore on the date. The waistband of her shorts is cutting into her stomach. She pops the snap and wriggles them off as she sits up.

      “And…”

      “Then he brought me home.”

      “No stop at Millie’s? He couldn’t wait, huh?”

      “I wasn’t exactly hungry.”

      “I bet. So what happened? How was it?”

      “Fine.”

      “Come on. Tell me. Or is it sacred and you have to keep it to yourself for a while?”

      Valley fingers the gold chain around her neck, searching for the star-sapphire pendant and centering it in front.

      “If you don’t mind.”

      “I can’t believe you landed a football player. It’s too cool. Does he have any friends he’d like to loan me?”

      “Can I call you later, Joanie? I’ve got a babysitting job. I have to get showered or I’ll be late.”

      “Sure, I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to unload the goods.”

      Valley puts the receiver back on the cradle. Joanie gets so wrapped up in the externals. The football. The guy’s age. What she liked best about Mark Thorburn was the way he said “Hey, la-dy” with a funny Southern accent as she passed by his locker on the way to homeroom. There had been no question of a good-night kiss, let alone the stuff that Joanie hopes happened. Valley hadn’t known the script—didn’t know it was all about him. Mark would never ask her out again.

      Glued, mounted and hanging on the wall beside her bed is a photo puzzle. Valley stares at herself, age three, sitting on her mother’s lap in a ruffled dress, her hair gathered in a duck barrette and sticking straight up like a fountain. The jigsaw had divided her face in two, one eye and her nose on one piece, the other eye on its interlocking mate. Maybe that’s her problem. She’s dumb-looking and schizophrenic.

      “What do you think, Gerald?” she asks her current caterpillar—a spicebush swallowtail who is snacking on a sassafras branch in his stocking-covered jar. “Am I crazy?” The caterpillar continues eating, his mandibles nibbling away on the leaf. He looks bigger today. She sees the split exoskeleton, marking the fourth instar she’s counted. He’ll pupate soon. She’ll get some fresh leaves for him today. Maybe she can find him a buddy, too.

      Valley throws the quilt aside and heads to the bathroom.

      “You’re going where?” her mother asks while Valley rummages around the kitchen for something to eat. From her mother’s tone, Valley might have announced she’s headed somewhere outrageous—like prison. As she pours Cheerios into a ceramic bowl, she listens to the plinking sounds, so different from the tiny thuds they made falling onto plastic.

      “You know the Harpers. Over on Walnut. Mrs. Harper stopped me on my way home from school and asked me to babysit today. It’s only for a few hours. I’ll still have time to practice my flute.” Valley opens the fridge for the milk. She hears her mother crinkle the box’s paper liner, then grovel around in the box for a handful. Her mother’s teeth crunch rhythmically on the mouthful as Valley pours milk into the bowl, scattering the Os to the perimeter of the dish. The no-eating-between-meals rule doesn’t apply to mothers.

      “You really should have asked me first.”

      Valley rolls her eyes. Does every little decision have to go before the governing board? She modulates her voice to sound like her father’s—the voice of reason calming an excitable woman. “Her sister’s getting married. Her mother-in-law caught the flu and can’t babysit. Mrs. Harper is counting on me.”

      Her mother takes a package of chicken breasts from the fridge. “Mrs. Harper has an infant, Valley.”

      “Yeah. So?”

      “So you’ve only watched older children. You don’t know what you’re doing.” She removes the cellophane from the chicken and drops it in the sink. Watery chicken blood pools in the plastic tray beneath the mottled yellow pieces.

      Valley’s lip curls at the sight. “I’m sixteen, Ma. It can’t be worse than the Johnson twins. I get one into bed and the other one’s out running around again.” Her mother is ridiculously cautious. She hadn’t allowed Valley to go to overnight parties, either—until two years after her friends were allowed. Then when she finally went, it was no big deal. So you didn’t sleep that night. You went home and took a nap.

      The chicken has disgusting yellow fat in globs around the edges of the skin. Her mother pulls them off with her fingers. It looks nasty, but Valley can’t tear her eyes away. “Do you have to do that while I’m eating, Mom? It’s sooo gross.” Why is her mother wearing a nice dress to do such a messy task?

      Her mother runs tap water over the breasts. “It’s only chicken. How’ll you change a diaper if you can’t stand chicken?” The blood in the tray dilutes to a pale pink.

      “Lots of my friends babysit infants, Mom. Half those girls aren’t as smart as I am.” Valley puts a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth. Joanie is regularly left to watch the Cranfords’ sprawling farm full of kids and animals.

      “They have little brothers and sisters to learn on.” Her mother strips the thick skin off a breast. The flesh beneath has a vulnerable bluish-purple cast. Valley’s hand involuntarily flattens to her chest.

      “Is it my fault I’m an only child?” It’s a cheap shot, and Valley feels a twinge of guilt—but mostly satisfaction—poking at the soft spot in her mother’s armor. Her mother would have loved a whole houseful of kids.

      “Just don’t expect it to be easy. You can’t throw him in the crib and talk on the phone.”

      “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not like that Diane Locklear. Why are you always lumping me with the crazy kids in the news?”

      “I don’t. I brag about you all the time. About your flute playing. And how well you speak French.” She looks up, her face the picture of motherly pride.

      “We speak English in this country, Mom. And no one in Eden cares that I play the flute.”

      It’s true, what she’s saying, why she will never be popular.

      “What do you think? That everyone’s going to gather at Millie’s on СКАЧАТЬ