When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  But I can’t stop the sob that bursts out of my mouth. Tears burn like liquid fire, and I cover up my face with my hands. The sun is hot and sticky, but I’m lying in the mud and grass like a wild, crazy person.

  I know for certain now that I have to protect the nipwisipwis. That’s why Grammy Claire wrote the letters to me. And I will need Riley’s help, even if she kicks and screams the entire way across the Pacific.

  “We have to leave now,” I mutter. I need to talk to Riley. And Butler Reginald. And pack. And catch a plane.

  And yet, I’m still wondering, what is the secret of the butterflies? Why hasn’t my grandmother told me already? Blowing out a deep breath, I try to grab at my crazy thoughts when the sound of crunching leaves makes me jerk my chin up.

  From the house, Riley walks toward me, determined, her eyes looking down at the ground like she’s watching out for snakes.

  I break out into another uninvited sweat.

  When she reaches me, Riley clears her throat. “Miz Landry sent a letter yesterday, and it just arrived certified delivery.”

  I shake my head. I don’t want to hear more bad news. “Mamma —”

  “Just read it.” Riley thrusts the envelope and paper at me.

  Darlin’ Riley and Tara,

  I’m sorry to write and spoil your holiday, but I must tell you that your mamma ended up getting those nasty bank papers yesterday and they’re gonna take the house right out from under us and we both been so upset and crying and I’m so sorry to give you such terrible news on your vacation, ’specially with your grammy so recently passed (God bless her generous soul!), but your mamma ain’t doing too good so the doctors been here and recommending she might need a few days in a hospital to get her to feeling better so you don’t worry about a thing, she’s in good hands and I won’t never let anything bad happen to her, you can count on that for sure, so you both just Take Care of yourselves, call me if you need to, and I will see you in a few weeks.

  Lots of hugs and sugar,

  Miz Emmaline Landry

  Riley kicks her boot into the mud and sprays bits of grass.

  “It’s really true we’re gonna lose the house?” I ask her. “Think we should sell Grammy Claire’s house to keep the Doucet Mansion?”

  Riley chews on her lips, not looking at me. Suddenly, she screams and throws a rock against the bark of the tupelo, splitting off a few pieces, which go flying into the muddy water.

  I think she’s more upset about everything than she lets on.

  “Who’s gonna buy this dump out in the middle of nowhere? The Doucet Mansion is just a dumb old house, but it’s ours. And why do people keep dying or going away or getting checked into hospitals? I hate them all!”

  She’s talking about Grammy Claire and Daddy and Mamma.

  “I’m outta here so bad,” Riley mutters, stomping off.

  “Wait!” I screech. Chasing after her, I jerk at her arm and she whirls around. “You can’t leave!”

  “Who’s gonna stop me?”

  “Me, that’s who! Grammy Claire got it all arranged before she died. You have to come with me.” I thrust the manila envelope at her. She pulls out the airline tickets and reads the fine print, her lips moving.

  “Are you out of your freaking mind? I’m not flying clear across the ocean to some pathetic, dinky island with a boring laboratory and another bunch of dead butterflies!”

  “But you have to! Grammy Claire told you to! With me! And Mamma.”

  Riley lets out a couple of curse words, stomps in the grass, and yells again. “I hate my life.”

  “Listen to this,” I say, reading her part of Grammy Claire’s letter.

  The most important reason you and your mamma and sister are going to the island is for the reading of my will.

  Riley frowns. “Her will, huh? Only way we can save our house is if Grammy Claire’s got a million bucks stashed under a sand castle. And it probably already got washed away!”

  “Ha, ha. That is not funny.”

  “About as funny as a million bucks that doesn’t exist.”

  I resort to whining. “You have to come. It’s the rules.”

  “I don’t follow rules.”

  Before she can leave again, I show her the rest of the letter. Then I whisper, “Don’t you see? Grammy Claire was killed for her butterflies. We have to go. It’s a matter of life and death!”

  “I don’t want to hear it, Tara! Don’t you get it? I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. It.”

  And then my big sister actually breaks down. Before I know it, she’s sobbing her guts out, and within ten seconds, she’s running away from me and out of sight.

  I pick up the airline tickets she dropped in the prickly grass. I know that I have to go. Not only for Grammy Claire and to save our home, but for Mamma. And me. And Riley, too.

  Because my family is breaking into a million pieces.

  * * *

  That night, tucked between the cool sheets of Grammy Claire’s bed, I write a letter of my own.

  To Shelby Jayne Allemond,

  I need you to pass the letter inside to your mamma, Miz Mirage, as soon as possible. I know she’s a traiteur, a healer, and that sometimes I’ve called her a swamp witch with the other kids at school, but since we’re going to be in Bayou Bridge Middle School next year, I figure it’s time to let bygones be bygones —

  I stop writing as the buzz of cicadas outside roars louder. The words aren’t coming out right like I want them to.

  The Giant Pink floats through the open window and circles my head, tickling my ear, lighting on the long strands of my hair where I’ve chewed the ends off all day long.

  I start the letter over again. Wish I could text or e-mail, but there’s no cell service out here and no computer. Grammy Claire has a computer in her laboratory, but the Internet was switched off long ago.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll be nicer to Shelby Jayne in my letter,” I mutter to the Giant Pink.

  When the butterfly flits her wings, she’s so beautiful I feel like crying. A tear slips down my face when I think about how this butterfly was one of Grammy Claire’s special ones.

  Wait a minute.

  I blink.

  I’m seeing things.

  There is NO Giant Pink any longer. I saw her with my own eyes, dead on the fourth floor.

  Rubbing my hand across my nose, I swipe away tears, disgusted with myself.

  The memory of the Giant Pink is so powerful. Almost like the creature’s spirit is still here in this house. Something about that butterfly is making me want to be a better person.

  I swallow my pride and my past and begin again.

  Dear Shelby Jayne,

  Could you please pass along the letter inside to your mamma, Miz Mirage? I know she’s a traiteur, one of those folks who heal people with herbs and prayers. And I know that I used to call her a swamp witch with the other kids at school — and, well, I really am sorry about that. It wasn’t nice and I know it’s not true. At least, I know it now.

  Turns out my grandmother knew your grandmother. Isn’t that strange? Turns out your grandmother and your mamma have helped my family before, and since we’re going to be in Bayou Bridge Middle School next year, I figure that maybe we could start all over again. So I hope you can forgive me for everything that happened last year when I tried to make you jump off the bridge. I want to start over. I really do.

  Truth is, I’m desperate. My mamma is real sick and I’m not sure the sickness she has can be helped by any doctor or hospital. I also need my mamma to get the airline ticket I’ve stuck inside with this letter. The ticket is a matter of life and death and she needs to get it before someone takes her away and locks her up. It may be too late already!

  My mamma needs a healing real bad. Some medicine, some herbs, some prayers, whatever a traiteur does to help folks.

  Please help me! Please.

  Your friend, I hope!

  Tara Doucet

  After I finish the letter to Shelby Jayne, I write a
second letter to her mamma, Miz Mirage, explaining Mamma’s depressed condition. Then I tuck the two letters and the airline ticket inside a manila envelope and address it. If I get Butler Reginald to drive me to the post office first thing in the morning, Shelby Jayne and her mamma should get the letters day after tomorrow. It’ll take that much time to get packed, close up the house here, and get seats on a flight. That’ll give Miz Landry time to get Mamma to the airport in New Orleans so we can all get to the island together.

  When I finally snap off the lamp, the room plunges into darkness. The house settles around me. Creaky. Whispering. Wind moaning around the eaves.

  I can’t shut my mind off. I’ll bet Grammy Claire’s killer wants my keys, and whatever is on the island. They’ve already been here in this house, looking — and someone smashed the Giant Pink last night.

  Springing out of bed, I race to the door and triple-check the lock. Then I grab the straight-backed chair sitting in the corner and jam it under the doorknob. Then I stack it high with all sorts of books and junk from my suitcase. If someone does try to get in, I’ll hear them right away.

  Wish I had a hammer or some kind of big stick. Or one of Daddy’s twenty-twos locked up in the gun case back home. I wonder if Riley’s asleep. I wonder if I should jump into bed with her, but she’d probably just kick me out.

  Crawling back under the covers, I lie there stiff as a board. Organ music floats overhead. The wind rises and the oak leaves rattle. Soon the sound of raindrops plinks against the window. That’s the last thing I remember, but my right hand is tightly closed around Key Number Eight and Key Number Nine. Key Number Ten digs into my left hand.

  The last three keys will open the locks I need to find on Chuuk. I wonder what they are … a second laboratory? A secret journal with scientific calculations that will save the world?

  With every hour I’m getting closer to the reason Grammy Claire died — and the reason the butterflies are so priceless.

  We are closer to the ants than to the butterflies.

  ~GERALD BRENAN~

  The next day I stick my letter to Shelby Jayne and Miz Mirage through the slot at the post office.

  Two days later we’re packed, snacks purchased from the Piggly Wiggly, and our airline departure confirmed. Beef jerky, chips, and a large bag of M&M’s for Riley. We also have lunch at the Yellow Bowl in Jeanerette.

  Butler Reginald eats cleanly and precisely, his napkin tucked into his shirt collar, his knife scooping food onto his upside down fork.

  The Yellow Bowl is crowded and my fried catfish is divine, even though tears bite at the corners of my eyes. Grammy Claire used to bring me here when I’d visit. She always said that the Yellow Bowl had been sitting in the same spot since she was a teenager.

  “Life has certainly turned upside down these last few weeks.” Butler Reginald’s voice trails off and he dabs at his eyes with a napkin. “Truly extraordinary, you finding those airline tickets!” I like to listen to the genteel sound of his accent. Makes me think of books set in a charming English countryside — or high tea, scones, and clotted cream. Then Butler Reginald adds, “Your grandmother thought of you with her last breath.”

  I really don’t want to see a grown man cry, so I go use the restroom while he gets control of his emotions. In reality, I let out a few of my own tears and then wash my face with cold water.

  * * *

  The next day I’m saying good-bye to Grammy Claire’s house. My stomach feels like a swarm of butterflies is having a party.

  The staircases from top to bottom are littered with Riley’s clothes, combat boots, makeup bags, and backpacks. The air reeks like a chemical factory. My sister must have used ten bottles of hair dye just that morning. Her hair is now a very deep shade of magenta.

  My throat gags and my eyes burn. Swirling my own hair over my shoulder, I’m grateful that Grammy Claire passed on her long and silky hair genes to me.

  I refold all my clothes again, excited to leave, but wanting to give Mamma enough time for a visit from Miz Mirage to work her healing magic so Mamma will be at the airport waiting for us. I even telephoned Miz Landry the day before to pack Mamma a suitcase.

  Anticipation thumps against my ribs, but there’s a good dose of fear and dread, too. What if the Doucet Mansion is locked up with chains when we return from the island? Does Daddy know we might be on the streets after summer is over? What about the killer on the island — and how am I supposed to save the nipwisipwis?

  Stuffing the plane tickets under my stash of sandals and flip-flops, I rush out the door.

  Riley is standing by the hall window overlooking the bayou. She doesn’t move when I skid to a stop. Never seen her so still and quiet. It’s unnerving.

  She presses her forehead against the glass, staring at something while she rubs her right foot against her left leg in the Doucet fashion. I wonder what she’s thinking about.

  When the floorboards creak, she whirls around. “What are you doing sneaking up on me?”

  “I’m not sneaking up on you!”

  “You better be packed and not make us late to the airport — or I won’t go at all.”

  “Don’t threaten me!” I shoot back. “Besides,” I add, softening my voice like Miz Landry, “I’m not the one with junk all over the house.” Then I run upstairs to make sure Grammy Claire’s laboratory is securely locked.

  First, I sit at her desk and wander the room until dinner. I keep waiting for the purple butterfly to return, but it never does. I fear that it’s dead now, too. Maybe I’ll never know the secrets about Grammy Claire’s butterflies. I keep thinking the secret is here and I can’t see it. Or somebody already stole it, and I’m too late.

  On day four after writing my letters, a hot breakfast appears on the dining room table. Waffles, maple syrup, grits, and bacon, but I can’t hardly eat, even though it’s delicious.

  “Did you know that there isn’t a ticket for Madame See?” I tell Butler Reginald, wondering what he’ll say. Does he suspect our cook, too? I can’t ask. My lips must remain sealed.

  “She’s decided to go to San Francisco where her family lives,” he informs me with a small smile. “Eventually, I will need to employ another cook, although I suppose I’ll wait until our return to the States. Meanwhile, we will have to fend for ourselves.”

  I try to return the smile, but I’m afraid it comes out crooked due to a bad case of nerves. It’s all I can do not to start straightening rug fringe and alphabetizing the spices!

  After saying good-bye to Grammy Claire’s bedroom, I fasten the windows, stare at the Bayou Teche’s rippling muddy waters, then double-check my packing.

  Clothes, sandals, bathing suits, sunscreen: Check

  Matches for burning important notes: Check

  The carved box of ten keys: Check

  Grammy Claire’s personal notes to me: Check

  Airline tickets and map of the island: Check

  $2,000 from Grammy Claire:

  My heart drops with a thud. I forgot to get all that cash still sitting underneath the stairs!

  I run to the opposite window overlooking the drive. Butler Reginald is helping Riley pack the car with all her junk. A taxi has arrived to collect Madame See. She’s standing off to one side in a long dress and those old-lady black shoes that housekeepers usually wear for comfort. She’s got a hat and sunglasses on her head, two small cases at her feet.

  The coast is clear! As soon as Riley pulls out her cell phone and Butler Reginald helps the taxi driver with Madame See’s belongings, I race downstairs.

  The clocks begin chiming, the pipe organ breathes a few wispy notes, and I’m ducking under the stairs, stumbling over to the little case in the corner. Fast as I can I open the lid, lift up the secret bottom flap, and reach in.

  My fingertips brush against — nothing.

  Swiftly, I sweep my hands over the faded old material again and again, but there are only little pockets of dust and crumbs in the corners.

  The money is gone.


  I start hyperventilating.

  Daylight comes through the small staircase door and I hurriedly bring the makeup case into the light. I pull out the false cardboard bottom again, staring until my eyes burn, but the case is truly empty.

  Prickles of terror run down my neck, zap my knees, and then my toes.

  Someone came in here and stole the money. My money. Grammy Claire’s money!

  That’s when it finally dawns on me that I didn’t use Key Number Six to open the latch on the makeup case. Somebody picked the lock during the last few days — and it’s still unlocked.

  The thief has to be Madame See! She’s the only one with a bedroom downstairs. She’s small and sneaky and always kept herself hidden away in the kitchen. It was Madame See I saw on the stairs after midnight. Madame See must have seen me that night! Seen me watching her behind the crack in the door. She’d glided right by me back to her bedroom, cool as you please. She’s a regular burglar! Grammy Claire must have been suspicious of her. That’s why Madame See isn’t returning to the island with us. She’s probably the one that killed the Giant Pink, too!

  And now she’s escaping in the taxi!

  Clutching the little case under my arm, I duck out from under the stairs, fly through the front door, and race down the porch steps.

  “Butler Reginald!” I scream.

  He turns toward me, then runs to my side. “Miss Tara, what is it?”

  “Madame See! Madame See! Where is she?”

  Butler Reginald points to the road where dust creates a tail of brown behind the yellow taxi. “She just left. Why? Whatever is the matter? You look quite flushed.”

  “It’s too late,” I moan. Madame See took the money I need for Chuuk. I’m trembling so hard, I sink to the ground. And I’m a girl that never sits in the dirt on purpose.

  The sun burns my head. Tears blur my vision so bad I can’t see straight.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Butler Reginald says. “Here, let me help you.” He sets me on my feet and pats my shoulder with a large, comforting hand. “What can I do to help, Miss Tara?”