The Butterfly House. Marcia Preston

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ