The Butterfly House. Marcia Preston

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “The airplane ride was cool. Grandma’s kind of a pain—she’s always nagging at Mom. But she gave me lots of stuff. Some of it’s weird, but there’s this hood with a long muffler attached, and it’s lined with fur. Wait’ll you see it.”

      She paused, as if noticing my silence. “So what’ve you been doing?”

      “Absolutely nothing.”

      “Is your mom home?”

      I had no secrets from Cincy. “Three, six, nine …”

      “Your mom drank wine,” she finished, giggling. “Good! Then she’ll let you come up! Ask her and call me back. I’ll meet you at the bridge.”

      The night was crystalline, with diamond-nugget stars and a crescent moon bright enough to illuminate the snow. Bursting from the oppressive bungalow into the sharp beauty of the night,

      I felt like a prisoner set free in a fantasy land. I couldn’t keep from running.

      I had stuffed my pajamas in one pocket of my blue car coat and my toothbrush and hairbrush in the other. With the hood buttoned under my chin and Mom’s black boots over my ten-nies, I felt snug and insulated from the cold. The air bit my lungs as I whooped and howled huge puffs of steam toward the moon.

      After a block I slowed to a walk, tired out by the extra baggage of boots and padding. On a rise I turned and looked back at the lights of the village. Red and green dotted the edges of scattered roof lines; a church steeple ascended in tiny white sparkles. All was silent. As I stood panting warm air onto tingling fingers, a carillon began its wistful chime: “O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant …”

      Somewhere far off a dog barked, and my vision shimmered as I turned toward the river again, my boots crunching through the snow.

      The steel arches above the bridge framed it in a latticework of white. From my end, I could see Cincy entering the other, a dark red blotch against the snowy rise beyond. On the darkened hillside, Rockhaven’s sunporch glittered with holiday lights like a jewel nestled in black velvet.

      “Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!” Cincy shouted. Her husky voice echoed from one riverbank to the other.

      I laughed aloud, delight welling up until I thought I’d explode in a shower of stars.

      Neither of us ran to the center of the bridge. Instead, we paced off the distance like graduates, or soldiers bearing the casket of a fallen friend. At the center of the bridge Cincy opened her padded arms and mitten-clad hands and we bear-hugged, two snowmen giggling with the secret of life. She was wearing the fur-lined hood her grandmother had given her and she looked like a snow princess.

      We turned and looked out across the slow-moving water. It was too beautiful to talk about, and too cold, so we leaned on the railing in silence.

      Finally, Cincy clapped me on the back with her red wool paw. “Let’s go home before we freeze, Gwendolyn. Your teeth are chattering.”

      She was always making up dramatic names to call me. “Quite so, Alexandra,” I said.

      “Follow me, Rapunzel.”

      “Lead on, Sarsaparilla!”

      Holding our sides, we laughed and stumbled all the way up the hill to Rockhaven.

      When my mother opened the tissue-wrapped box and saw the pale swirls of salmon and ivory nestled on their bed of cotton, her mouth dropped open. After so many crude and childish gifts, this one was a shock. She glanced at me quickly.

      “I made it. Cincy gave me the seashells.”

      Her fingers lifted the necklace slowly, touching each unique link. “It’s beautiful, Roberta! Like something from an expensive jewelry store.”

      I beamed, my ego bursting. This must be what people meant when they said it was better to give than to receive.

      Mom slipped the necklace over her head, lifting her frizzy hair so the shells wreathed her neck and hung down over the sweatshirt she wore for pajamas.

      It was Christmas Eve, our traditional time for exchanging gifts. We had eaten supper, put on our pajamas and made hot chocolate, then come to the tree. We never did play the Santa game. After the rocking horse year, Mom always put my gifts under the tree early. Maybe our ritual let her avoid memories of Christmas mornings with my father. Whatever the reason, I liked opening gifts after dark much better than in the cold light of morning, when the tree lights looked pale and hungover.

      As usual, three gifts waited under the tree for me, only one for Mom. Before we moved to Shady River, she used to get something in the mail from her sister Olivia, the only relative she ever admitted to having. But we hadn’t heard from Aunt Olivia in years.

      The Christmas of the shell necklace was special for another reason, too. After I’d opened my two boxes of clothes and one containing a new mystery book, Mom told me to put on my shoes and coat.

      “What for?”

      She smiled and leaned toward me, her eyes wide. “You have one more present, and it was too big to get in the house.” She seemed excited while we scrambled into our wraps.

      Cold wind sneaked under the tail of my nightgown, molesting my bare legs as my mother led me out through the carport to the backyard. It was a small area, unfenced, that bordered an alley used by garbage trucks. I never went out there in wintertime. In the snow-lit night I saw next to the house a large shape covered with a sheet of plastic and an old quilt. I gasped, hoping beyond hope that it was what I thought it was.

      Mom helped me pull away the covering. There in the moonlight stood a bicycle. Even in the darkness I could tell it was metallic red.

      “I can’t believe it! This is so cool!”

      “It’s not new, but it doesn’t have a scratch on it,” she said. “Look.” She reached over and squeezed the rubber bulb on an old-fashioned horn attached to the handlebars. It made a sound like a lost Canada goose.

      The horn would have to go, but I didn’t say so then. Stamping my feet in the snow, my teeth chattering, I ran my hands over the silver handlebars, the red fenders. I still couldn’t believe it was real.

      I never asked for specific Christmas presents because we were always short on money, but I wasn’t above hinting. For three years I’d dropped hints about a bike and finally given up. This year I’d started on contact lenses, though the eye doctor said there was no sense getting them until I was fifteen. I figured a four-year head start was none too soon. The bike proved my theory.

      “Are you sure we can’t get it in the house?” I said.

      Mom shrugged. “Maybe the two of us can.”

      She brought the quilt while I rolled my new bike through the carport. We hefted it up the two steps and into the kitchen, where it left wet marks on the linoleum. The kickstand was missing, so I leaned the handlebar against the kitchen cabinet and inspected every gleaming inch of my incredible gift. Mom watched me, smiling.

      I didn’t know how she’d managed the money, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know anything that might diminish my joy.

      “Thanks, СКАЧАТЬ