Blue Twilight

by Jessica Speart

“Go ahead. I’ll bring your coffee in when it’s ready. And don’t worry. I promise to knock first,” she said with a wink.

  Oy veh. Who ever said there’s somebody for everyone? I was tempted to ask where Pa Aikens was, but was afraid she might actually produce him.

  I tiptoed around an obstacle course of junk on the floor, while following Mitch down the hallway.

  He opened a door and we entered what appeared to be the room of no return. Had I not known better, I’d have sworn a bomb had gone off in the place. Clothes were strewn across almost every square inch of space. I stepped over boxes containing old watch crystals that, I imagined, Mitch was trying to sell on eBay.

  My nose twitched at the whiff of a strange odor. It wasn’t Lysol, food, or perspiration, but the stench of mildew tinged with cat urine. I traced the moldy scent to a decrepit computer chair, while the Brillo pad of a cat did his business in a this-has-never-been-emptied litter box. Had I really planned to work for Aikens, I’d have immediately upped my price.

  “Don’t pay any attention to the mess. You’ll be working in an adjoining room.”

  Aikens pretended to cut a path through the morass with a machete as we made our way across the floor.

  “Stay the hell out of here, Snowball!” he yelled at the feline, who tried to slip into the next room with us.

  The cat hissed as Aikens slammed the door in its face.

  I was relieved to find myself standing in a space relatively clean in comparison to the rest of the house. Lights were mounted in a row on one wall. They shone down on dozens of different receptacles, among them Tupperware containers, ice-cream cartons, and disposable paint buckets. Each had a swathe of chiffon netting draped over the top, as if it were a blushing bride hiding beneath a wedding veil.

  “Let me give you a quick blow-by-blow of what’s going on here,” Aikens suggested. “I stick all butterfly eggs in the fridge for about three months at a temperature below forty degrees. That gets them to hatch into tiny larvae the size of pinheads. After that, I put roughly eighty of ’em in a yogurt container, where they begin to feed. Once they start to grow, I divvy them up into groups of twenty each. The main thing to remember is not to overcrowd the larvae. Otherwise they’ll turn into nasty little cannibals. As for these overhead lights, they’re all on timers so you don’t have to worry about ’em. I’ve been doing this gig long enough to have gotten the process down to a science. The caterpillars do best with about sixteen hours of light and eight hours of darkness each day. I also maintain the room temperature and humidity to help them grow faster.”

  Aikens wasn’t fooling around when it came to rearing butterflies. He had his own mini-factory for producing “hatch ’em, feed ’em and freeze ’em” winged specimens. I peeked into one of the paint buckets and found that a hole had been cut in its bottom to accommodate a large potted plant. The resident caterpillars were voraciously gnawing away at the leaves.

  “Once the eggs hatch, you’ve gotta be with them on a regular basis for months at a time. They need constant attention, care, and feeding to keep them from getting disease. That’ll also be part of your job,” Aikens added.

  We moved on to a fourteen-by-ten-inch plastic container in which a group of mature larvae were hungrily munching away on a pile of clippings. A symphony of tiny jaws could be heard chomping up and down if I stopped and held my breath. The crunch of vegetation followed the beat, beat, beat of larvae masticating in syncopation.

  Aikens noticed that I was listening and softly chuckled. “Amazing, isn’t it? Just wait until they all begin hatching and feeding. Sometimes I can actually hear them chewing up a storm as I walk into the house. I always thought it would make a great horror flick. Caterpillars growing into giant mutants that eat people, pickups, buildings. You know, everything in sight.”

  He picked up a small paintbrush and walked over to an aquarium where a bunch of pudgy caterpillars squirmed around.

  “You’re gonna have to do this too. So, watch closely, ’cause you don’t want to hurt the little fellas.”

  Aikens meticulously cleaned inside the tank while carefully moving caterpillars out of the way. No wonder the guy needed help. This was a twenty-four-hour, around-the-clock job.

  “Okay, now look at this,” he said, pointing to one of the larger occupants. “This caterpillar’s nearly ready to go into chrysalis. That’s kinda like hibernation, or a cocoon stage. You’ll see what I mean as we proceed with what I like to call my PBS nature tour.”

  But rather than continue on, Mitch suddenly leaned forward.

  “Whoa, hold the phone. What the…Aw shit, I don’t goddamn well believe this!” He spat and angrily stomped his feet.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, unable to spot anything wrong.

  “It’s these damn parasitic wasps! Get a load of this, will ya?” Aikens instructed, jabbing a finger at the caterpillar.

  Bending down, I placed my face close to the glass. I saw nothing unusual at first. Then my eyes opened wide in astonishment. A small wasp had somehow developed inside the caterpillar and was now gnawing its way out.

  “How did that happen?” I asked, both repulsed and mesmerized by the sight.

  “Outside, of course. Where else? I picked up this batch of larvae on San Bruno Mountain after they’d already hatched,” Aikens explained in disgust. “A lousy parasitic wasp must have landed on the back of this caterpillar and laid a bunch of eggs under its skin. The offspring have it made in the shade after that. They grow up eating their host from the inside out, kinda like noshing on a Hungry Man meal. Pretty gross, huh?”

  I didn’t respond, but continued to watch as the insect ripped through the caterpillar’s skin and slowly emerged out the side of its body. However, that wasn’t the end. The already grotesque now took on even further nightmarish proportions. The wasp was closely followed by a band of its brothers, in the insect equivalent of the movie Alien. The stunned caterpillar gradually collapsed in a lifeless heap, having been turned into nothing more than a shell.

  A rush of chills swept over me—and the debauchery still wasn’t done. Having eaten their host alive, the little murderers now turned and stared at me with large buggy eyes, as though I might very well be their next victim. I stood up and backed away in revulsion.

  “Yeah, I hate when that happens too. Kinda makes you wonder about God’s sense of humor, doesn’t it?” Aikens asked and slammed his fist down hard on each wasp. “Die you miserable little bastards,” he intoned, grinding away until they were nothing but a smudge of dust. “I don’t like to kill any of God’s creatures, but nobody screws with my babies.”

  Then he wiped his hands clean on his pants.

  “All aboard for the next stop,” he said and motioned for me to follow.

  We journeyed over to a large aquarium that held adult butterflies flaunting their wings in full glory.

  “So, then you do keep some of them alive,” I murmured, feeling slightly relieved.

  “Yeah, just a choice few—until they mate and lay their eggs. Then it’s off to the freezer with them. What the hell. They only live for a few weeks, anyway.”

  I kept my tongue in check, knowing that Aikens’s head would soon enough be rolling.

  “Here’s something you’ll find interesting. These in here are all males,” he pointed out.

  “How can you tell the difference?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask. It’s because females are wider on the bottom, of course.” Aikens guffawed and slapped his thigh. “Nah, I’m just joshing with you. The easiest way to tell is by color difference. Males are usually brighter. Has anyone ever told you how they actually mate?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, males search for a female just emerging from chrysalis, so that she’s still limp. Her wings will be wet and are folded around her body. That’s when he grabs his opportunity and quickly moves in. He flutters his wings and blows pheromones her way, hoping to seduce the little beauty. Then he presses up against her, belly-to-belly. Now she�
��s his prey. A set of claspers pops out from his sides, which allows him to latch onto the female’s body and open her wide. Then he has his way.”

  I found myself looking at male butterflies in a whole different light. “That sounds rather like date rape to me.”

  “Exactly,” Aikens cheerfully agreed. “There’s none of this take-me-to-dinner-and-a-movie-first crap. They just cut to the chase, the way it should be.”

  Aikens was turning out to be quite the charmer. No wonder the cheesy tattoo on his arm was his main gal pal.

  “There’s just a few more things for you to see.”

  He opened the door to a walk-in closet and turned on the light. Large cardboard boxes, all filled with transparent glassine envelopes, sat stacked on the floor. Each envelope contained its own perfectly preserved butterfly.

  “I call this my stock room.” Aikens smirked.

  There had to be well over a thousand flawless little cadavers, all with wings stretched wide, as though waiting to take flight. Some were as exquisitely fragile as captive rays of light, while others resembled gaudy silver spangles on a woman’s fancy gown. Then there were those black as night but for a brilliant burst of fireworks on the tips of their wings. Each competed for my attention while waiting to be added to someone’s collection. It was a true testament to the fact that butterflies don’t have an easy life. Rather it struck me as violent, hauntingly brief, and beset by a cycle of constant change.

  “And here are my up-and-comers.”

  Aikens gestured toward a half dozen disposable paint buckets. All were lined with paper toweling and contained a number of twigs. However, it was the egg-shaped objects attached to them that captured my interest. Each was a perfect chrysalis. Some grew like miniscule fungi, while others were reminiscent of elongated teardrops.

  But the most remarkable thing were the variety of colors in which they appeared. One chrysalis was yellow as ripe golden corn, while another resembled a crystal bead laden with orange and black spots. Also vying for my attention were shells bathed in an elegant shade of sea-foam green. A series of gold dots comprised a band on each of their ends, transforming the cocoons into precious pieces of jade jewelry. Every chrysalis was an exquisite gem. All but for one. The ugly duckling of the set had an exterior as brown and dry as a dead leaf.

  “You wouldn’t believe what goes on inside these little shells. The caterpillars melt down into this strange primordial goo. But the cool thing is that it’s kinda like magic. You know, hocus-pocus, and a coupla weeks later, you’ve got yourself a hot-looking butterfly. There are more than a few ugly broads I know that should be so lucky. To tell you the truth, these things remind me of a bunch of Egyptian mummies cruising on a round-trip ticket to the afterworld. You’d swear they’re dead, only to have ’em come back to life looking better than ever.”

  To my eye, it appeared as though they were snugly nestled inside little sleeping bags and floating along in the midst of a deep slumber. I couldn’t help but wonder what butterflies dream about, and if we ever journey along the same celestial path.

  How wonderful to take a long nap, shed your skin, and wake up to discover that you’ve become something altogether unique. How tempting it would be to leave one’s old self behind. I envied the thought of being able to chuck my mistakes and begin anew. Of course, the downside was the risk of becoming one more bug stuck in a glassine envelope inside Aikens’s closet.

  My gaze wandered back to the drab, sad-sack chrysalis. Even in the insect world, life obviously wasn’t fair. I made a wish that its occupant would emerge as the Cinderella of all butterflies.

  “Go ahead. Touch it and see how it feels,” Aikens urged, guiding my finger toward the desiccated shell.

  There could be no denying that I was curious. I gave into temptation and ran my finger ever so lightly along its rough, hard edge.

  Creeeaaaakkkk!

  My heart jumped at the sound of a coffin lid slowly being pushed open; only the noise had come from within the cocoon itself.

  Aikens broke into a riff of amused laughter. “Didn’t expect that, did you? There’s a fully formed San Bruno elfin in there that’s just about ready to pop. You disturbed its sleep, you bad girl, you. That sound was made by rubbing its legs together—which is about all the exercise that sucker’s ever gonna get. Once its wings open, our little friend’s off to the freezer for a good l-l-o-o-n-ng rest.”

  That did it. I’d had it with Aikens’s crap, particularly in view of the fact that the San Bruno elfin was on the endangered list. Then there was the bug in Aikens’s cooler. That was probably a Mission blue butterfly.

  I turned to the redheaded leprechaun and skewered him with a cold stare. “Thanks for the tour, but I won’t be accepting your job offer.”

  Aikens was momentarily taken back. Then his lips curled down in scorn. “Why not? Don’t tell me you’re gonna let a few little wasps scare you away. Or maybe that scratching sound gave you the heebie jeebies and you’re not quite the nature girl that you thought. Of course, it could also be that you’re really Miss Uptight Prissy and I somehow offended you. No, wait a minute. I know what it is—you’re probably jealous because the butterflies are getting more nookie than you are. No problemo, doll. It just so happens I can help you out with that.”

  It was time to squash this troll doll like the repellant vermin that he was.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s none of the above.” I pulled out my badge and flashed it in his face. “I’m Rachel Porter, a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and I’ve just caught you in my net.”

  Aikens’s jaw dropped in shock. “Sonofabitch! What is it with you people, anyway? Don’t you have anything better to do than harass small businessmen who are only trying to make an honest living? I have a good mind to call my local congressman and raise hell about how my tax dollars are being spent!”

  “Feel free. They already know how to contact me,” I dryly informed him. “Except I wouldn’t call dealing in endangered species making an honest day’s wage.”

  “What are you talking about?” Aikens sputtered. “Everything in this place is perfectly legit. No way would I ever do something illegal. Not when a pain in the ass like you could be lurking behind every bush.”

  “Ahh. Now you’re just trying to flatter me and make nice. Let me give you a piece of advice. Playing the innocent victim isn’t going to work. Not when you’ve got an endangered San Bruno elfin stashed in the closet and a Mission blue cooling its wings in your ice chest,” I bluffed, hoping my guess was correct. “You’re in deep trouble, Aikens. This is going to cost you big-time.”

  “I don’t damn well believe this,” he muttered, pile driving his fingers through his bushy mound of hair. Then he defiantly threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “Aw, come on. Who are we kidding with this? Let’s get real here. We’re talking a few lousy butterflies. Big fucking deal. It’s not like I’m hacking ivory tusks off elephants or mowing down rhinos for their horns. For chrissakes, get a grip. What do you think my pissy little crime is gonna amount to anyway? Maybe a couple hours of community service, or a minor fine at most. Worse comes to worst, I’ll plead entrapment. I can see it in the papers now: ‘Hardworking businessman set up by self-styled Fish and Wildlife Mata Hari.’ That oughta sell a few rags and bump up my business in the process.”

  I didn’t know whether he was trying to convince himself, or me—but my only hope was to outfox him.

  “Good thinking, Mitch,” I said and pulled a tape recorder from my bag. “You might have a point, if you were just a small-time collector. There’s only one problem. I have our entire conversation on tape—including your offer to pay me more money to catch protected butterflies and collect their eggs. That’s illegal, whether you agree with it or not.”

  I was hoping that Aikens wasn’t terribly savvy when it came to the law and my legal limitations. Not to mention that there wasn’t any tape in the machine. I quickly dumped the recorder back in my bag before he had
a chance to check.

  Aikens took a moment to size up the situation, as his shoulders slowly began to slump.

  “All right, all right. So let’s make a deal.” He finally caved, flapping his arms in the air like a pair of wings.

  Whadda ya know? The ruse had actually worked.

  “Listen, I’m nothing but chump change in the big scheme of things. My stuff is mostly legit. You can look inside those boxes and see that for yourself.”

  Instead, I gave him the evil eye—an unspoken warning not to jerk me around.

  “Aw, come on, Porter. There are a lot larger fish for you to fry. Guys that deal in endangered butterflies big time, not just for a few lousy bucks. We’re talking mucho dinero. I’m telling ya, they’re selling rare bugs to the Krauts, the Japs, the Canucks, the Aussies, and a whole bunch of others. Go ahead. Name any nationality you like.”

  I should have known I could count on Aikens to be politically correct.

  “That’s not the way the game is played, Mitch. You’re supposed to give me names. Remember? So, who are these guys?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re jumping the gun here. That’s information I don’t have yet.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad. I can’t tell you how unhappy that makes me.” I dug into my bag and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Getting kinky on me, huh? Okay, now you’re turning me on.” Aikens laughed nervously “So, who gets to wear them first? Me or you?”

  What betrayed him was the twitching of his eye.

  “Very funny, Aikens. I’m sure the bubba who ends up sharing your jail cell will get a real kick out of that one.” I made a move to cuff him.

  “Okay, okay! I get the point. Just give me some time and I swear I’ll get you the names.”

  There was no question but that Aikens would receive little more than a slap on the wrist from any court should I ticket him. He’d prove far more valuable to me as an informant. The trick was to make him believe otherwise.

  I let loose a sigh and skeptically shook my head. “I don’t know. I’d really be putting myself on the line for you. It’s not public information yet, but Fish and Wildlife has a new policy about coming down hard on butterfly poachers. It’s been a number of years since the last good case and they’re anxious to set an example.”