The Butterfly Plague

by Timothy Findley

  Hands battered at the windows all around her, but Ruth could not move, for now she knew that she was burning. She began to scream, but was immobilized. At last, one of the firemen broke his way into the car with an ax and lifted her out onto the road and into a blanket—safe and unharmed.

  “Are you all right, lady? Are you all right?” he yelled. Everywhere the noise was ear-splitting.

  Ruth tried to nod.

  “There’s someone,” she gasped, “up there. A man.”

  “We’ll find him, don’t you worry,” said the fireman. “You rest here and then we’ll try and get you home. You’re all right now. Only your clothes were on fire. You’re all right.”

  He dashed away then, with some others, to haul an ineffectual hose toward the burning hillside. All around them the grass smoke blasted the air with its message of fire and ruin, but Ruth just sat in the middle of the road, covered with dust and ash and told herself over and over again that fire and smoke could never frighten her again. The smell of them was the smell of imperfection burning—of imperfection being burned away forever.

  She rested.

  There was life inside her. She had put it there.

  Or claimed it. She did not know which. Or care.

  It was done.

  Saturday, November 12th, 1938

  Fire broke out in the Hollywood Hills late last evening. Several homes were endangered, including the house of screen star Corinne Castle and her husband, gambler Stoney Blake. Miss Castle and Mr. Blake fled their mansion in night attire (see picture, page 9) but were able to return later when Los Angeles, Hollywood, and Beverly Hills fire brigades brought the blaze under control.

  It is thought that the fire was started by a cigarette thrown or dropped from a motorcar. Hollywood’s Fire Chief, Herman Anders, issued a statement in which he warned of the consequences of such carelessness. “Smokers who do not use their ashtrays cause an awful lot of trouble,” he said, and went on to praise the good job of fire fighting done by his men. Miss Castle later entertained the firemen at an impromptu dancing party, which was held until the early hours of the morning, on the lawn of her home. Dressed in a handsome hostess gown, she informed reporters that she hadn’t “had so much fun since playing the role of Lulu Lightbright” in her latest film, Lulu Lightbright. Mr. Blake concurred, admitting with a sly grin that Hollywood firemen were excellent poker players and honorable gentlemen when it came to paying up their losses. Music was supplied by Tarn Morgason and his Alhambrans. A good time was had by all.

  The Chronicle

  of Naomi Nola

  Sunday, November 13th, 1938:

  Topanga Beach

  6:30 a.m.

  Though the ocean was attempting silence, Naomi heard it. She awoke now, automatically, half an hour prior to every shot.

  Morphine.

  Miss Bonkers.

  7:00 a.m.

  It was only 6:30. Naomi wondered how she felt. If she lay still enough, she remained numb, but if she moved so much as a finger, body-consciousness was restored. She had developed a theory that pain had to do with the flow of blood. If you lay quiet, nothing happened, but if you even thought profoundly the blood flowed and caused pain.

  There was some light now, beyond the curtains. Not true light, but the beginning of it. She was practiced at watching the sun set at sea. But she had never seen it rise. To see that, she would have to move three thousand miles to the other coast. Too late for that.

  This thought made her laugh.

  Pain.

  Damn. I’m alive.

  6:35.

  Wouldn’t Miss Bonkers get up soon?

  Didn’t she make coffee around now? And sterilize the needles? And get out the phials? Little packages of sleep in white paper. Rolled in gauze, slipped into envelopes, locked in cabinets.

  Naomi never asked about the keys. Suicide had not occurred to her. It wouldn’t.

  A dreadful hunger persisted, but she was unable to eat. Nothing would stay down. Even tea and coffee, even milk, twisted back up to her mouth as though they were afraid to venture farther than her throat.

  They had offered her a room at the hospital, but she was adamant. She was going to die here. In this place.

  Miss Bonkers was rattling in the kitchen.

  “Miss Bonkers,” Naomi called. “I need my needle.”

  “Coming soon,” Miss Bonkers answered sleepily (but pleasantly). Naomi could hear the slap of her book as she placed it on the counter and opened it to read. Every waking moment, it seemed, that woman was reading. She’d gone through every book in the house and was buying more every week. This pleased Naomi. Somehow, silently as the words themselves, restive but quiet on their pages, the thoughts and ideas in Miss Bonkers’s head were altering and changing page by page, volume by volume, as she read. The grim-eyed caretaker who had come on duty all those months ago was slowly but surely turning into a gray-eyed Nanny with alerted sympathies and more considerate fingers.

  Nanny.

  Yes. It was quite true, Naomi thought. She herself had become childishly dependent and felt at all times as though this room she lay in was, indeed, more nursery than boudoir. And Miss Bonkers did things, more and more, as though they were being done for a child—a child who became progressively younger until, at last (and Naomi knew this) she would be little more than a babe-in-arms, lifted, petted, soothed, and changed. Sleep was everything, the great safety, the purger of fear, the keeper of the gates to death, the slayer of pain. Miss Bonkers was its guardian, purveying sleep like pills and potions. Naomi welcomed it, resented it, feared its permanence and then, slowly, came out the other side, begging her nurse for more. They formed a strange triumvirate: Miss Bonkers, Naomi, and Sleep.

  At last she came.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Damarosch. What can I offer you?”

  “A shot,” said Naomi.

  “Almost time,” said Bonkers. “Don’t you want the pot?”

  “I’m afraid to move,” said Naomi. “Maybe I’d better wait until I’ve had morphine.”

  Miss Bonkers slipper-slappered over to the curtains and drew them open.

  She wore a mauve-colored robe over a voluminous nightdress, the collar of which was so high it made her hold her head out like a turtle. She smoothed the drapery with her square little hands, the color and texture of inferior mother-of-pearl. Her fingers seemed to have been chopped off, they were so short, and it was always a shock to Naomi to perceive that there were nails there, beautifully formed and manicured.

  “Going to be another scorcher,” Miss Bonkers said, looking out at the sky. “And here it is November.”

  They looked at the day, the one from the bed, the other from beside the curtains. Miss Bonkers’s round pudge face was decorated with glasses. She began to be awake and to look like herself.

  “Anyone out on the sand yet?” Naomi asked, each word pinched by her teeth.

  Miss Bonkers looked along the beach. “No one but that dog, Mrs. D. My, what a pretty dog that is.”

  “The yellow one?”

  “Yes. Miss Ruth’s friend.”

  Is she awake yet?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Miss Bonkers came over and rearranged the things at Naomi’s bedside.

  “What do you make of her behavior yesterday?”

  “Oh. Normal. Normal. I mean, for someone who got caught in a fire—normal. Sort of stunned is what I’d call it. But she’s all right.”

  “Yes. That’s what I thought. But I thought something else, too. And I wondered if you’d noticed it.”

  Miss Bonkers considered for a moment and then spoke reflectively. “You mean happier? She’s happier and more relaxed.”

  Naomi sighed. It hadn’t been her imagination. Miss Bonkers had thought so, too.

  “Yes. That’s it exactly. Happier. Relaxed…and…”

  “And what?”

  “And something else. I don’t know what.”

  Miss Bonkers smiled. “You’re sure it doesn’t begin with an �
�M,’” she said.

  “An ’M.”’

  “A man,” Miss Bonkers said.

  Naomi thought about this. She hadn’t previously. It hadn’t even crossed her mind. Ruth was having an affair.

  “She was married, you know,” said Miss Bonkers, pottering farther into the room. “And she’s young, yet.”

  “All this driving around in the motorcar,” said Naomi, imagining things. “Oh, dear! I hope not.”

  Miss Bonkers sighed and nodded and sighed again, not noticing that Naomi was beginning to knead the bedclothes with her hands.

  “We live in different times, Mrs. Damarosch. Different times, indeed. You don’t know what to think in times like these. Except,” she reflected, beginning to make her way out of the room, “except it seems a shame that all those young men died in that Great War of theirs, for a world that doesn’t exist any more, and a bunch of moral behavior people just laugh at now. It’s like I always say, though. Nothing beats a lost cause. I mean, there isn’t anything the whole world over that’ll beat your lost cause for frustration.”

  “Isn’t it seven o’clock yet?” said Naomi suddenly.

  “Yes. Just. Are you ready?”

  “Of course I’m ready. Get it quickly.”

  The pain made a leap high up into Naomi’s womb. It seemed to be clawing at her with hot knives.

  “Oh, hurry, Miss Bonkers. Hurry!!”

  Miss Bonkers called out, “Yes. Yes. Coming. Coming.”

  “At once. At once. Oh, please, at once!”

  Ruth heard this last cry and came sharply awake.

  “Now! Now! Now!” Naomi began to chant, battering the headboard behind her with her fists.

  Ruth came running from her room. “What? What?” she said.

  “It’s worse,” said Miss Bonkers. “Every time now, it’s worse. And always so suddenly.”

  “Help me,” Naomi cried.

  “Stand aside, Miss Ruth. Keep out of my way. I wouldn’t want to drop this now.”

  Ruth stood away and then followed Miss Bonkers to the door of her mother’s room.

  Both Miss Bonkers and Naomi had to struggle to loosen Naomi’s grip from the headboard, and finally Ruth had to go to their assistance.

  “There. There now. There,” said Miss Bonkers, withdrawing the needle from its place. “Let’s all count together,” she said. “Everybody count.”

  “One,” said Ruth.

  “Two,” said Miss Bonkers.

  “Three,” struggled Naomi.

  “Four,” said Ruth.

  “Five,” said Miss Bonkers.

  “Oh,” said Naomi.

  “Seven,” said Ruth.

  “Eight.”

  “Niii…ne.”

  “Ten.” They all spoke together.

  “There. There. There,” said Ruth.

  “There,” said Naomi. “Much, much better.”

  They all smiled and patted each other’s hands with pleasure and relief.

  “So. So. So. So. So.”

  In the kitchen, four minutes later, Miss Bonkers handed Ruth a cup of coffee, turned her back on her, and said distinctly, indistinctly, “Four or five more days, Miss Ruth. Only four or five more days.”

  Then, not knowing why she did it, not anywhere, at any time prior to the moment it happened knowing or sensing it was going to happen, Miss Bonkers put her face into her hands and wept.

  Monday, November 14th, 1938:

  2:30 p.m.

  “What is your friend’s name?” Ruth asked.

  And Charity said, “Eugene.”

  “That’s a very grownup name for a friend, isn’t it?” Ruth asked.

  “He is a grownup,” said Charity.

  “Oh.”

  They were sitting on the sand in front of the Trelfords’ house—Charity, the dog, and Ruth.

  Charity’s bathing trunks kept falling down, so Ruth had been elected to fix them. The older children were still at school and B.J. was inside squeezing oranges in anticipation of their return.

  “What does he do?” said Ruth, sewing busily away. Charity, naked but for sand, sat beside her petting the yellow dog.

  “He’s an orchestra conductor,” she said.

  “Fascinating,” said Ruth, knotting the thread and biting it off. “Where?”

  “Up at Salinas.”

  “Oh, really?” Ruth shook the bathing suit out. “I didn’t know they had an orchestra up there.”

  “The Salinas Mickey-Minnie Orchestra,” said Charity.

  She stood up and stuck one chubby, bronzed leg out at Ruth. Ruth helped her into her trunks and drew the newly mended string into a bow at her waist.

  “There.”

  Ruth gave the child a pat and then put away the thread and needle into a round wicker basket at her side.

  “A Mickey-Minnie orchestra, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many instruments are there?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Heavens. That’s a big band.”

  “They don’t march, though. They sit down.”

  “I see.”

  “They sit in a giant circle and Eugene stands in the middle and plays.”

  “Don’t they play, too? Doesn’t Eugene conduct?”

  “No. They watch and he shows how to do everything.”

  “I see.”

  “They play in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes.”

  “At nine o’clock.”

  “My goodness! That’s certainly late enough.”

  “I can hear them, though, anyhow. I listen out the window.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “It’s too dark to see. But I can hear them.”

  Ruth stood up and dusted the sand from her legs. Charity walked around in a circle, holding onto the dog’s tail.

  “Do you like music, Charity?”

  Charity thought about it and then said, “No.”

  “How come you like Eugene, then, if you don’t like music?”

  This required no thought at all. “He’s hairy.”

  She gave the dog’s tail a yank, but the dog did not respond.

  “Hairy!” said Ruth. She wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or worry. “How exactly do you mean that?” she asked affecting a degree of nonchalance.

  “You can’t see his face,” said Charity, finally and mercifully letting go of the dog’s tail. “Fact, you can’t see any of him but his hair.”

  “And you like that.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s long and pretty like Rapa…unzz…”

  “Rapunzel.”

  “And you can play hide-and-go-seek inside him.”

  “I see. Well. That must be fun. Where did you meet him, Charity?”

  “Under there,” said the child, pointing under the house.

  “You should be careful, going under there. There might be scorpions…”

  “Not with Eugene there. He’s a murderer.”

  “I thought you said he was an orchestra leader.”

  “He is. But he kills people, too.”

  “And scorpions.”

  “Everything. Fish. Crabs. Gully birds. Insecks. Children. And then he eats them and wipes his mouth up with his hair.”

  “Dear!”

  “But we ‘re friends.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

  “He has a green dress he wears sometimes, too.”

  “Unh-hunh.” Ruth peered into the darkness beneath the house. “Is he there now?” she asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Charity. “He’s upstairs with Mommy.”

  “Oh.”

  “They lie in bed all afternoon sometimes and Eugene hangs some of his hair on the wall where I can see it.”

  “Goodness.”

  “And the rest of it he keeps on.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “And then he makes Mama sit in a circle and he conducts her with music.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “And then Mama conducts him.”


  “I see.”

  Charity caught her breath and went on. “One night I woke up and there was light from the moonlight and Eugene was walking on the beach in his dress.”

  “Are you sure it was Eugene?”

  “Yes.”

  “How were you sure?”

  Charity thought this over and then said, “‘Cause he took his hair off.”

  “Oh.”

  “After that he sat on the sand and cried.”

  “How sad.”

  “I wanted to go down but Mommy caught me and said we should leave Eugene alone.”

  “Quite right,” said Ruth. “If he was sad, then he’d want to be alone.”

  “That isn’t what Mama said.”

  “Oh? What did she say?”

  “She said Eugene was waiting for somebody and we mustn’t…interrup’ him. She said someone was coming for him and he didn’t know when and he didn’t know who but he was waiting.”

  “Goodness.”

  “An’ Mama said Eugene was a good person and only wore his dress when he was sad.”

  “Poor Eugene.”

  “But I think Eugene must always be sad.”

  “Why is that?”

  “‘Cause every night, now, I see him, every night. In his dress.”

  “Really!”

  “Yes. An’ I see you, too, some nights, Auntie Ruth.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Ruth. “If you see me then you’re up very late…much too late for little girls.”

  It was true. Ruth did, on some nights, walk the beach.

  “Are you sad, too, Auntie Ruth?”

  “No, dear.”

  “Are you waiting for someone, then?”

  “No, dear.” (Not anymore.)

  “Then why do you walk on the beach and cry?”

  “Well, maybe I cried because—a while ago I was sad.”

  “An’ you’re not sad any more?”

  “No.”

  Suddenly Charity said, “Where did your hair go, Auntie Ruth? Where did all your hair go?”

  Ruth thought for a moment and then smiled and turned to Charity and said, “Why, I gave it to Eugene, of course. It’s my hair that he’s wearing.”

  This didn’t faze Charity at all.

  “I thought so,” she said. “‘Cause that’s ezzactly what Eugene says himself. An’ I believe him—every word he says.”