I stare at the window, wishing the butterfly would come back. What if a cat claws it out of the air? Or it gets smooshed by a car or drowned in the bayou? The thought makes me sick and I can feel myself shaking.
Then I realize that someone is pounding on the front door.
“Turn off your music!” I yell to Riley, taking the stairs two at a time.
The music lowers exactly one notch. Downstairs is silent as a tomb. Empty as a cavern. Friendless as enemy territory. The wallpaper is dingy and fading, the parquet flooring old as the hills. The shine Miz Landry put on it for Grammy Claire’s visit is long gone, too.
I hear the buzz of a lawn mower through the open windows, and secretly hate how our old plantation house looks. Mamma always makes sure the lawns and gardens are pristine. Decorated in sparkly white lights for the December holidays. But the citizens of Bayou Bridge are not allowed to know that the interior of the main house is crumbling into shambles.
Mamma never lets anybody inside anymore. Teas and book clubs and garden parties are a thing of the past.
The doorbell rings again, twice real fast.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter. When I jerk the door open, there’s a short, skinny man with a cap on his head, ears sticking out, and wearing a starched uniform.
“Special delivery, miss,” he says, touching the brim of his hat and thrusting a brown envelope at me.
I blink. “Who’s it for?”
Without glancing at the address, he says, “Miss Tara Doucet. You’re her, right?”
“You mean Becca Doucet?”
“Nope.”
“Riley Doucet?”
He shakes his head.
I look at him sideways. “Grammy — I mean — Grammy Claire — well, guess her last name isn’t really Doucet …”
“If you’re Tara Doucet, then this letter is definitely for you.” He smiles, and I can’t help smiling back. First time I’ve smiled in days. The skin around my mouth feels weird and tight. “Sign right here, miss,” he adds, handing over a clipboard.
I take the attached pen, and write Tara Doucet on the line marked with an X.
He tips his ball cap again. “Have a nice day.”
I watch him jog down the brick walkway and jump into his truck. Just a regular old post-office truck.
I shut the door, staring hard at the envelope, my ears buzzing like crazy.
Then I rip it open.
Nerves and butterflies are a physical sign that you’re mentally ready and eager. You have to get the butterflies to fly in formation, that’s the trick.
~STEVE BULL~
Dearest Tara,
If you’re reading this, that means I’m gone.
Oh, phooey! I hate even writing this, let alone thinking about it. What does gone mean, after all? Am I six feet under? Floating in the air or dancing on a cloud? Maybe I’m having tea with God and making Him answer the long list of questions I’ve been hungering after for decades.
I suppose I could be wandering Timbuktu with amnesia, but I made arrangements for that long ago — with Reginald Godwin, my butler, who doesn’t leave my side for a moment. Even sleeps outside my bedroom door so there’s no trouble with theft or ransacking.
Whatever the reason we can’t be together and I’m writing this contingency letter, always know in the deepest regions of your soul that your Grammy loves you from the depths of her own crazy, old heart.
I miss you dreadfully already,
Grammy Claire
P.S. Now. On to business. Whatever happens, go with the flow. I’m watching out for you. Believe that completely. And I have a plan. Don’t I always?
Your first job is to start packing, my girlie, because in just a few hours Reginald Godwin will be there to move you and Riley to my old house. Don’t despair, even though the house is a bit untidy after a year of lying empty (I know that will drive you especially mad, Tara darling), Madame Erial See is a darn good cook. You’re gonna eat good.
And then I have a few other tasks for you … so keep your thinking cap on and your wits about you.
Final Advice: Don’t trust anybody who tells you to do the opposite of my instructions.
Remember what Deborah Chaskin said:
“Just like the butterfly, I too will awaken in my own time.”
Even if that means I’ll wake up in heaven next time I see you. You can bet I’ll be the first one in line to hug you and smother you with kisses.
All my love forever,
G.C.
A letter from my Grammy Claire!
A letter from the dead — beyond the grave! Shivers race up my arms and legs like spiders are crawling along my skin.
How strange that it arrived the day after her funeral. Almost like Grammy Claire planned it. Well, I guess she did plan it. She’d written me this letter before she died so I would have something to comfort me when she actually did die. It’s spooky and wonderful all at the same time.
The sound of her voice comes through the words on the thick, creamy stationery so strong, so real, tears prick my eyelids like sharp needles.
“You weren’t supposed to die!” I whisper fiercely to the empty foyer. Polished parquet and meticulously straight rug fringes aren’t particularly comforting at the moment. Holding the letter to my chest, I want to breathe in her words and the smell of the paper that she touched with her own hands.
My grandmother had always been a planner. The kind of person with a list of fascinating things to do every day, who didn’t let nobody stop her from doing them. A grandmother who would think about me before she died so that after she actually did die, things would be okay. Just like folks write a will to make sure nobody fights over their stuff.
I read through the letter again, feeling a flush of warmth in my chest, as I think about her sitting down at her desk to write to me so that I wouldn’t be so sad that awful day in the future after her funeral.
I read the letter again in the hall, lifting my right foot to rub my toes against the side of my left leg. Standing on one leg like a stork. It’s something I do when I am thinking or puzzling something out. Definitely a trait with the girls in my family. We all do it: Mamma, Riley, me, and Grammy Claire. Guess we originally picked up the habit from her.
The doorbell rings a second time, but I keep staring at my letter, annoyed at the interruption. My eyes flip through the P.S. that’s filled with all sorts of mysterious hidden messages.
The doorbell rings again, and now the person on the other side of the door holds it for several seconds so it rings and rings like a siren.
Hurriedly, I fold up Grammy Claire’s letter, stick it in the envelope — then cram it down the front of my dress like I’m a spy.
When I open the front door, a tall, manicured, tanned man stands there. He’s wearing a strange sort of suit. Not a tuxedo. Not a suit businessmen wear to their high-rise offices on television. It’s tailored all wrong, Mamma would say. And I’m pretty sure he’s blistering hot because a trickle of sweat drips down his nose and plops on the front step as he performs a deep bow.
He lifts his head, mops his brow, and says in a cultured voice with a trace of a British accent, “At your service, Miss Tara Doucet.”
Grammy Claire’s letter crackles inside my dress. I wonder if I should slam the door shut. He knows my name, but I don’t know him from nobody! Where is Mamma when I need her?
The man takes out his handkerchief again and erases the sheen of sweat once more. “It’s warmer here than I expected,” he tells me.
That’s when I realize he’s wearing a butler kind of suit. With black tails and a pair of white gloves tucked in his pocket. He produces a letter from the inner coat pocket and hands it to me. “Reginald Godwin at your service.”
I start to close the door, wondering if Riley will be able to hear me yelling over that dumb Kittie band — wondering if I need to start yelling.
“Go ahead,” Reginald Godwin adds pleasantly. “Read the letter.”
The note is short and to the p
oint and my heart begins to pound.
Tara, the man standing before you is Reginald Godwin, my butler (chauffeur, handyman, and all-around employee). He will accompany you and Riley to my house. I’ve known him for decades and he’s as trustworthy as anybody you’ll ever meet. The question is: Have you packed yet? If not, then go. Go! There is no time to waste!
All my love forever,
G. C.
Grammy Claire’s handwriting on this note matches the handwriting on the previous note. Handwriting I’ve seen all my life. And the man calling himself Reginald Godwin is in possession of it.
He stands perfectly upright on my porch. Behind him, the red and yellow roses of our garden waver in the heat. Hot, sticky July wafts into the air-conditioned house.
“Okaaay,” I start to say, not sure what I’m supposed to do. Grammy Claire says I can trust him. He’s actually fairly handsome for an old guy. Smudges of gray paint his temples, but other than the lines around his eyes, I can’t tell how old he is.
When he gives me an assuring smile, I see a hint of a dimple. And he’s got very, very blue eyes. As if his eyes absorbed the ocean’s deep blue color.
This is the man who slept outside Grammy Claire’s bedroom all these years to make sure she was safe from poisonous snakes and woman-eating tigers on that island in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. So I know I’m going to like him.
Butler Reginald stifles a yawn behind the handkerchief he keeps taking in and out of his pocket. When I stare at him, he says, “Jet-lagged, I’m afraid. And I was raised in northern England. Not used to this southern humidity.”
“Didn’t you spend the last few years on a tropical island?”
“Most assuredly, but your grandmother and I, we usually wore shorts and shirts for our work there. When she sent me back to the States I assumed, wrongly, that I should wear more formal attire suitable to my position of employment.”
“Oh. Well, I guess you can come in, then,” I drawl real slow, thinking about how Mamma is gonna kill me for letting a stranger into her shabby, threadbare house.
“May I meet your mother and sister, Riley?” he asks with perfect politeness.
“Mamma’s upstairs sleeping right now,” I lie, cursing her again for disappearing.
Overhead, Riley’s music makes a thrashing noise like someone is dying. Which, for the first time in my life, I’m actually happy about. At least Butler Reginald knows I’m not home alone. Not that I think he’s dangerous. I’m just having a hard time taking everything in. Even an infuriating big sister is better than being home alone.
Butler Reginald seems to notice my hesitation. “Thank you, Miss Tara, but I can always wait outside for the —”
Just then a big yellow truck pulls in front of the house, its brakes screeching. The truck parks at the edge of the lawn where the oak tree branches lay like gnarled arms across the grass.
“Ah, it’s here. Right on time. Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“The adventure of a lifetime.”
I squint at him, flipping my silky hair over my shoulder. “Did you know that you sound like a game-show host on television?”
He gives me another smile, and I think about how rude I must sound for a seventh-generation female of the Doucet family. “Before I forget, please take this and keep it safe.”
A padded manila envelope comes out of his pocket, and when he hands it to me I feel something hard with an unusual shape sliding around inside. It’s not a very big envelope, though. Just a few inches around.
He waves to the driver of the truck. “This is the correct address, my good man!”
We look at each other and I press the new note and the envelope with its odd contents to my thigh.
“Well,” I say. “I guess I’d better start packing.”
“Perfect,” Butler Reginald replies. “I have a small list of items your grandmother would like us to take along. May I?”
“Um, sure. Come on in. I’ll go get Riley.”
As I walk back up the ragged carpeted stairs, my head is buzzing, my heart is thumping, and my hands are sweaty. Pulling the first letter from the top of my dress, I grip both of Grammy Claire’s notes when I step into my bedroom — just as the second butterfly arrives.
Someday, I will be a beautiful butterfly, and then everything will be better.
~A BUG’S LIFE (MOVIE)~
I stand still, hardly breathing.
This second butterfly isn’t as shy as the first. It circles the room, its wings fluttering furiously as it begins to circle me. My eyeballs strain to see where it’s going next — because this butterfly is practically invisible!
A set of gorgeous, nearly translucent, dainty wings beat at the air. The only reason I can see where it’s going is because the wings are outlined in magenta red with a splash of white like the wisp of a feather.
The butterfly creates a magical breeze against my face, and I can see my alarm clock sitting on the night table right through it! Like the wings are pieces of shimmery cut glass.
“Can I hold you?” I say in my softest voice. It circles again, inspecting me, studying me. “I’ll protect you,” I whisper, holding out my hands. The transparent butterfly floats downward, and then actually sits inside my palms. I think we just had a conversation! “What are you?” I ask. “Who are you?”
Stupid questions. Of course it’s a butterfly, but it’s not like any butterfly I’ve seen flitting around our azalea bushes. But why did I ask who it was — crazy — and yet it’s wonderful to think about. I feel myself relax as I hold the beautiful creature in my hands. My thoughts seem to change, too, and I don’t feel so sad anymore.
“How can I help you?” My skin prickles as I realize that I’m talking to an insect! Every kid at school would laugh if they saw me. I know the boys would try to catch it and pin its wings to a board. My best friend, Alyson, would probably swat it away if the butterfly tried to touch her. She hates bugs and smashes cockroaches whenever she has a chance.
But a transparent butterfly isn’t any old ugly cockroach. Not by a long shot.
I don’t move a muscle as the butterfly’s wings slowly open and close. Almost like the butterfly is absorbing my warmth, or my soul.
Do butterflies actually fly, or do they move on the wind, floating from flower to flower? I blink my eyes, wondering if I’m dreaming. “Do you know where you are?” I can’t help asking. “Do you know who I am?” Peculiar tingles run down my neck. “I’ve never had a butterfly come flying into my room before. And today I’ve had two. Two in an hour. What does it mean? Where did you come from?”
The butterfly moves its head, looking up at me, as though it wants to answer my questions. The idea makes my heart pound so hard I’m afraid it’s going to leap out of my chest.
Out in the hallway, Riley tosses a suitcase onto the landing with a wallop that makes the walls shake. The butterfly cocks its head like it can hear my sister, then lifts off, hovering above my fingers. The creature is so delicate, so exquisite, tears sting my eyes.
“Yeah, my sister sometimes scares me, too,” I murmur. “Oh!” I cry as the butterfly quickly circles and floats out the window. “Don’t go!” It turns once, closes its wings just like a wink, and disappears into the sunshine.
I race to the window again, but there’s no sign of it, like it vanished into thin air. Well, I guess it is a transparent butterfly, after all. Much harder to see once it takes flight. Two butterflies in an hour. What is going on? I fall onto my bed, rumpling the sheets — and I’m a girl that never lies on my bed in the middle of the day. Wrinkles and lumps in the bedspread make me cringe.
I want to call Alyson, but I know deep in my heart she won’t understand what just happened. Her daddy — the town sheriff — would call a doctor to come examine my head. Her mamma would bring me sweet tea and pat my hand and tell me I’m only imagining things because I’m grieving.
And they’d give me secret looks of pity because Mamma’s gone missing again.<
br />
I wish I could show those butterflies to Grammy Claire. She wouldn’t laugh at a conversation with a butterfly. Pulling out the letters, I read them one more time, memorizing the words, relishing the way she loved me. I’ve bawled my eyes out for days, and yet when they fill up with tears all over again, it actually hurts as though my heart is cracking into little pieces.
The next moment, I jump up from my bed and stand at the open door. I can’t hear anything from downstairs, but soft rustling noises are coming from the other wing of the house. The wing beyond the staircase, just opposite Riley’s and my rooms. The sneaky, furtive sounds send a chill right up my neck. Before I can investigate, Riley storms into my room without knocking.
“There’s some kind of butler dude downstairs with a British accent examining the ratty Doucet antiques. And a noisy truck out front.”
“I know.”
My sister takes a step backward, surprised at my answer. She points to the letters I’m still clutching. “What do you have there?”
“Um, these are — they’re from Grammy Claire.”
“No, they’re not. She’s dead.”
“Do you gotta say it like that?”
Her eyes are sorta cold, sorta vacant, sorta crazed. “It’s just the truth.”
Rage swells up inside my throat. “I think I hate you.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I hate playing word games. I hate —” She stops, then gives my bed frame a good kick.
“Go ahead and say it. You hate me, too.” But even as I give her permission to despise me, I regret saying I hate her and hope she wasn’t going to tell me the same thing in return.
“Actually, I wasn’t gonna say that at all. I hate Grammy Claire dying. We didn’t even get to see her. I also hate funerals. And funeral potatoes. And Daddy not even coming out here because of his stupid new wife. And —” She breaks off and if she’s fighting tears, that would be a first for my combat-boot-wearing sister.
When the Butterflies Came Page 2
