When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

“I suppose so, child, I suppose. Maybe buys a bag or two of groceries at the Piggly Wiggly once in a blue moon.” She tsks her tongue again and lets out a mighty sigh. “Listen to me talkin’ ’bout your family like this. It’s wrong of me. Sinful. He’s your daddy, and I suppose he’s got some qualities. After all, he’s got two beautiful daughters, right? The prettiest in all of Bayou Bridge and beyond.”

  I allow myself a tiny smile, but all my worries rush right over again like a Gulf wave sucking me out to sea. “Oh, Miz Landry, what if Mamma has to let you go? What will we do without you? I can’t leave with that butler if Mamma is gonna be here all alone!”

  “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, child. You can count on that. Me and my mamma — bless her soul — been watching over this family of girls for three generations now.”

  Miz Landry squares my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “So I don’t want you worrying ’bout anything. You mind me, Miss Tara? You hearin’ what I’m tellin’ you?”

  Slowly, I nod, realization washing over me. “Mamma isn’t paying you, is she? Hasn’t been for a while. Am I right?”

  Miz Landry stares into my eyes, shrugs her big shoulders, then briskly rubs her warm hands up and down my arms. “Gotta check on Miz Becca and get some food down her and then give her a bath and make sure she sleeps tonight.”

  I’m right, but she won’t admit it. Miz Landry been coming here helping my mamma for a long time, and doing it all for free. “You really do love my crazy mamma,” I say softly.

  She laughs and her belly shakes a little under her girdle. “That I do. And I loved your Grammy Claire with all my heart, too. And I love you, Tara. Love all my crazy, wonderful Doucet women.”

  I have to admit that I kind of like being called a Doucet woman.

  “If I have to bar the doors and man the battle front with pistols in both hands to keep this house from being lost to your mamma and you girls, I’ll do it without blinking twice.” Miz Landry takes my cold hands in both of her strong, chapped ones. She leans in real close and whispers, “Can’t help worryin’ ’bout you and Riley going off now. Even if I do trust your Grammy Claire with all my heart and soul. Just remember, Miss Tara, if you need me, I’ll be there in a jiffy. You can count on it.”

  I look into her eyes. “Make Mamma get out of bed and sit on the porch every day. And watch out for blue butterflies.”

  Miz Landry’s eyebrows jump into her hairline.

  I shrug. “Trust me.”

  “I’ll do that, Miss Tara.”

  Butterflies are invisible fairies, creating flowers wherever they dance.

  ~MIRELLA MILYSSA RIVERA LITTLE~

  When I get back to my bedroom my luggage has disappeared. Butler Reginald stands on the landing. Gently, he says, “We’ve loaded your belongings into the truck. Are you ready to go, Miss Tara?”

  I give a tight, jerky nod and he turns around, leaving me to do whatever I need to do to say good-bye.

  I wonder how long I’ll be gone. What’s gonna happen to me at Grammy Claire’s house? My grandmother hasn’t lived there regularly for five years.

  I remember hearing Daddy and Grammy Claire argue about her old, drafty house. Daddy said they should bulldoze the house, build a set of condominiums, and split the profits. Grammy Claire just pursed her lips and gave him the evil eye. Then Daddy started flying off to Hollywood to meet with producers and directors. Pitching ideas. Writing screenplays. On the phone constantly. Wanting to move to California permanently.

  Mamma wailed that she could never leave her Southern life and all her friends and survive in a sterile suburb and have to fight a traffic jam just to pick up a chicken for supper. Mamma was Becca Doucet, sixth-generation princess of Bayou Bridge when she married Daddy. She was born to that. And she was gonna die as that. “What could be more grand than throwing garden parties, living in the biggest house, and running all the clubs in town?”

  Then Daddy met Crystal over there in Hollywood, and nothing was ever the same again.

  I take a sudden gulp and it hurts my throat. After smoothing the bedspread, I straighten the pictures on my dresser and make sure the closet doors are lined up. “Good-bye, bedroom.”

  What if I never see all my books and clothes again because the Doucet Mansion gets foreclosed while we’re gone? What if Miz Landry can’t stop it? What if they take Mamma to a mental hospital and I can’t find her again?

  I think I may need a lawyer.

  Guilt throws darts at my conscience. I yelled horrible words to my mother. I picture her sitting in a wheelchair wearing a straitjacket when I see her again. My whole life is crumbling around me. And Grammy Claire wants me to leave. Why? Doesn’t make sense.

  I’m stumbling around on a sinking boat. Do I trust my Grammy Claire? Guess I have to go on trusting her, even if she’s gone.

  Locking the window, I peek out over the roofline once more, hoping to see the purple or the transparent butterfly. They’re nowhere in sight. “Good-bye, window,” I whisper.

  The brass key in my pocket bumps against my thigh as I shut the door to my bedroom and walk downstairs. The house is so quiet, it’s almost like nobody lives here.

  Outside, Butler Reginald is standing in front of a bronze, sparkly Lincoln Town Car. He’s got the rear door open, waiting for me. I catch sight of Riley climbing into a yellow taxicab, her derriere hanging out the backseat for a split second before the door slams shut.

  “Riley!” I scream. The taxi rolls forward and I bang on the tinted glass, hollering.

  She rolls down the window. “Darn!” she says. “You caught me.”

  “What the heck are you doing?” I’m sweating. I’m panicked. She’s leaving me. And I am not a girl who sweats or panics. Or entertains the notion. “We’re going to Grammy Claire’s house! With Butler Reginald!”

  “No, you are going to Grammy Claire’s house. Daddy wired me a ticket for the six o’clock flight to Los Angeles. I’m gonna go soak up some California sunshine and beaches and surfer dudes.”

  “But you can’t go without me! And what about your boyfriend, Brad?”

  She smiles prettily behind a pair of sunglasses, which don’t really work with spiky blue hair. “I’m not going to touch, just look. Listen, Tara, you got those letters from Grammy Claire, not me. And you’re gonna have a great time getting out of suffocating Bayou Bridge. Let Mamma get her crying jags out of the way and pull herself together. I’ll call you every day — deal? You got your cell phone? Charger?”

  “Um, yeah. I think so.” I place my hands on the edge of the window, as if I can keep her here, even though the metal trim is boiling hot and I have to yank my hands back before it burns my skin. “I don’t want to be alone!”

  “Believe me, I’ll just complain and get bored. We’ll both have more fun where we’re going. Right?”

  I try to read her eyes. Why does everybody wear dark glasses so I can’t see what they’re not telling me?

  “You got Butler Dude at your command. Make him take you shopping, to the movies. Eat gourmet food, watch TV all day, sleep in. Go crazy — it’s summer vacation.”

  “We could do all those things together. Please?”

  “Come here,” Riley says suddenly.

  “What?” I ask, suspicious.

  She rolls her eyes. “Just come closer and lean in the window.”

  I obey, moving stiffly. The taxi smells like cigarettes and burnt coffee. My eyes dart to the taxi driver, then back to Riley’s face, stormy and stubborn.

  She kisses my cheek, then begins to roll up the window. “Feel better?”

  No, I do not feel better. I’m all-over numb. I think I’m gonna puke.

  “See you in a few weeks!” she calls through the window crack.

  The taxi guns it down the oak-lined street and disappears around the bend. The neighborhood is silent. Not even the trees shake their leaves. No squirrels or birds or traffic. I feel completely, utterly alone. I want to run to the cemetery to visit Grammy Claire’s grave. But hanging out in gravey
ards is the sort of thing kids like Shelby Jayne Allemond do.

  My throat lets out an embarrassing sob, but I suck it in fast. After all, I’m a daughter of the Doucet family. Seventh generation of the South and the Old Confederacy. Drilled into me since birth. Too bad it skipped Riley. She doesn’t care at all what people think. What would it be like to be her? I shudder at the thought. But part of me secretly wishes I could be a rebel, too.

  Butler Reginald is standing patiently, waiting to open the rear door. Grammy Claire said she trusted him, and I look into his ocean-blue eyes, feeling a tiny bit free from worry since I don’t have to take care of Mamma or fix my own meals now.

  “Think I could bring my best friend, Alyson, with me?”

  “I’m sorry,” the butler says, sounding genuine. “Inviting a friend isn’t in my instructions.”

  My eyes sting in the bright sunshine. “Where’s the truck guy with all my stuff?”

  “He went on ahead. Your luggage will be at the house when we arrive.”

  “Okay.” I pause. “What about my mamma?”

  “I assure you, Miss Tara, she will be well taken care of. She’s in no condition to travel,” he adds softly. “Your grandmother gave me instructions to help Miz Landry care for her while we’re gone.”

  That makes me feel better, even as I chew my lips and stare down the empty road. Finally, I slide into the backseat. Even with the air-conditioning going full blast the leather is sticky on my sweaty legs.

  Putting my hand into my pocket, I feel the cool brass key Grammy Claire sent me. Ever since the horrible car accident, I feel like I’ve been floating in space, or drifting out at sea without a map, but now I have a little piece of my grandmother with me.

  Butler Reginald drives like he’s my very own chauffeur. I smell the scent of his aftershave as he spins the steering wheel. Classical music pipes softly through the car.

  Twisting around in my seat, I let out a gasp when I spot a black car with government plates pulling around the bend of the street and heading straight for my house, perfect on the outside, crumbling on the inside. What if it’s the bank with foreclosure papers, ready to kick Mamma out?

  I picture us being thrown out of our house, homeless. Mamma wandering the streets. Never seeing Riley again because she’s either a beach bum or an extra in one of Daddy’s movies. Or a backup singer — I mean screecher — for Kittie.

  I pray Miz Landry will bar the doors, shove furniture under the knobs, and not let anybody inside. Not without a search warrant and the police and a SWAT team.

  I’m grateful for tinted window glass. Relief that I’m zooming away fills my chest — followed by a steady drip of guilt for leaving Mamma behind, glued to that dern bed.

  “That black car going to my house?” I ask Butler Reginald with a gulp.

  “No, Miss Tara. Please don’t worry. Everything will be well.”

  I’m still on my knees, staring out the back window, when I spot a large monarch butterfly flying wildly down the white center line of the road. Darting, zooming, batting its wings at the air.

  I can hardly believe my eyes.

  A fourth butterfly is now following us.

  The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

  ~RABINDRANATH TAGORE~

  I twist back around, secretly sucking on the soft strands of my hair and hoping Butler Reginald isn’t peeking at me through the rearview mirror.

  Mamma hates when I chew on my hair, but it can be very comforting. I say a prayer that Miz Landry will turn out all the lights and not answer the door. I curse Riley for deserting me. And when I think about Daddy and Mamma I feel so angry I want to spit, but I can’t even throw a temper tantrum. I have to pretend I’m fine. Because a girl like me never spits or pitches temper tantrums.

  There’s a new girl at school — Shelby Jayne — who calls me Pantene Princess. When she said it the first time, it was all I could do to freeze-smile at her because it actually hurt my feelings. She probably thought I was rich and stuck-up, but believe me, living in the Doucet Mansion is often not worth the trouble.

  Jett Dupuis told me that my hair looks like a waterfall when it hangs over my school desk. Which is the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me. Girls never give you a real compliment.

  Settling back against the seat, I turn the air-conditioning vents toward me and let out a sigh. I want to eat Grammy Claire’s homemade pecan pie with globs of whipped cream and feel stuffed and satisfied, but I only got a hollowed-out feeling. Daddy will spend money on Riley at the fancy-schmancy shopping malls and introduce her to all the Hollywood stars. I hate my sister right now. And Daddy for not rescuing me.

  An hour later when I wake up, the leather seat is stuck to my cheek. After peeling myself off, I roll down the window and let the wind whip my hair as we cruise through winding roads sheltered by giant oaks. I can feel a funny web of creases on my face from sleeping, and I got a crick in my neck.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, I catch sight of Butler Reginald’s eyes and then turn away, not wanting him to know that I was watching him. He steers impassively, nods politely, and puts his own eyes back on the road.

  “We’re almost there, Miss Tara.”

  “Um, okay.” Actually, I barely remember this road that leads to my grandmother’s house. It’s outside of some other small town, and it’s been three years since I visited the place. She always stayed with us when she came home for her vacation.

  Patches of water sparkle through stands of cypresses, sun reflecting off the surface, making me squint. The Lincoln slows, makes a turn onto a dirt road, and my stomach jumps over the potholes along with the tires.

  I see the roof of the house peeking through the trees, along with a series of chimneys. I do remember lots of rooms and hallways and staircases. Smoke curls out of one of the chimneys. Someone is inside. Are they cooking dinner? Building a fire? Last time I checked it was July, not December.

  Shooting around a circular driveway, the Lincoln glides up to the front porch and the butler presses the brakes real smooth and easy like he’s done it a million times.

  I stab the unlock button on the car door and jump out.

  Grammy Claire’s house is an old Victorian. It needs a paint job, the yard is overgrown, but the front door has been polished and the porch swept. There’s even a swing rocking back and forth in the breeze at one end of the front porch.

  I remember that swing. I remember my grandmother rocking me in her arms when we watched fireflies at night in the woods. “She helped me catch ’em in a jar once,” I say, the memory zinging right out my mouth.

  Butler Reginald raises an eyebrow as he lifts a suitcase from the trunk.

  “Fireflies,” I add, and turn away so he can’t see my face turning red from talking to myself.

  An old water pump sits next to the dilapidated barn, red paint peeling up in curls like ribbons on a birthday gift. The biggest oak tree used to have a swing, but now there’s only a frayed rope dangling from one of the limbs.

  “I believe Madame See has already arrived,” the butler tells me, hauling the last suitcase to the front door.

  I blink at him. “Who is that?”

  “Our cook. And housekeeper of sorts, although I do believe we’ll need to help with the washing up and dusting.”

  “Oh. You never mentioned her before.”

  He smiles at me, the skin around his eyes crinkling up like a grandfather’s even though I never knew my grandfathers. “I didn’t think you usually concerned yourself with the help before.”

  “Oh,” I say again, not sure if he’s just making a statement or making fun of me. “I guess so.” Then I remember Grammy Claire’s letter. I’d forgotten that she’d mentioned someone named Madame Erial See would be cooking for us. And that she was a darn good cook. My stomach suddenly growls, empty and hungry. It’s all part of the peculiar plan Grammy Claire arranged for After Her Death.

  “Shall we?” Butler Reginald says, beckoning for me to climb
the porch steps.

  “Well — I — you go on ahead. That letter. Grammy Claire —” I stop, not wanting to explain Secret Key Number One. “Don’t worry, Mister Butler, I know my way around.” I’m sorta lying, but sorta not. I don’t gotta tell him that my memory is fuzzy.

  “You may call me Reginald.”

  “Okay. See you at dinner!” I pause and take a breath. “Butler Reginald.”

  Then I disappear into the shrubbery around the side of the house. Oak trees loom over the yard, sunlight painting the ground in yellow strokes between the dark, shaded spots.

  I pull out the brass key with the dangling tag. When I see it, I know deep in my heart that Grammy Claire is watching out for me, even if she is in heaven.

  She’d sent me the secret key to the secret door.

  Memories flood over me, snatches of conversation I’d forgotten. My grandmother had once told me that if anything ever happened to her, she was going to send me to her old house with her laboratory and books and that I’d inherit it all.

  Five years ago when she moved to that island, those words didn’t mean much. I was only seven. But now it does mean something. Something very much.

  As I tramp through a pile of old crunchy leaves, I glance up at the wooden slats of the house, turrets and angles sharp against the blue sky. I also spot the bay window, lace curtains hanging across shadowed glass.

  Grammy Claire’s house can be my secret hideout. A place to get away from Riley and Mamma and Daddy and all that depression and divorce stuff. I wonder how long I get to keep Butler Reginald and his services. Maybe he’s a gift from Grammy Claire, too.

  I start running until I reach a yellow-painted lattice arch. A mass of tangled green vines weaves through the slats like snakes. It’s cooler back here, mysterious, and chills run down my neck as I stick the key into the lock.

  Grammy Claire and I always called it our secret door — even if it wasn’t really secret. It was our secret entrance because it wasn’t the front door. The door opened into the back of the house so we could come and go as we pleased without anybody else knowing what we were up to. Especially when Mamma and Riley and Daddy were here, too.