The Butterflies of Grand Canyon

by Margaret Erhart

  A second letter for Dotty has neither stamp nor postmark. It’s addressed to “Mrss Dorathy Hedqist” and the addresser is “AV, Grn Canon, Arzona.” Jane looks around to be sure she’s alone in the post office—except, of course, for the ubiquitous prune of a postmistress who rules the roost. To her astonishment, never having thought of herself as quite this kind of person, she rips open the envelope and retrieves the piece of paper inside, which is folded twice and contains this message:

  meat 12 noon bhind mule barn

  I em yors Deo

  Well, now she’s done it. She tucks paper and envelope into her rucksack along with the rest of the mail and runs out and leaps on her bicycle, neglecting to wish the postal prune a good morning. She pedals next door to the store, the peace of her day swallowed up by the single act of opening a letter. She can’t imagine what came over her. She can’t account for it. Mere curiosity? A desire to catch Dotty in the act of something—which she now has, though the act of what, exactly? What might her sister-in-law be up to, meeting I Em Yors Deo behind the mule barn? Or not meeting him, if it’s a him. Because, as Jane realizes, the note is in her possession and will never get to Dotty. And yet if it doesn’t, there will be no meeting and the mystery will end there—the trail will lose itself in the underbrush. Or at least the communicants will grow leery of their present system and never use the mail again. They’ll resort to a hollow tree or a crack in a rock, squirreling away their love letters where the prying eyes of snoops will never find them. Snoops? Is she a snoop, then? Didn’t she recently claim she wasn’t one to spy? “I don’t spy on people.” Hadn’t those exact words escaped her lying lips just a short time ago? They had. She had spoken them to Euell, Euell-With-a-U, as she has taken to calling him. Not that she ever speaks of him to anyone except herself. She wants to—too much, that’s the problem. The one time Oliver mentioned his name in conversation, a conversation that happened to be about the labial palpi of the snout butterfly, she was horrified to feel a flush along her arms and up her neck and across her forehead and cheeks. When her brother-in-law asked if she had a fever, she lied and said yes. It was easier than saying, “Oliver, dear Oliver, I don’t know what’s become of me!”

  The clerk at the store is a pale, bulbous, middle-aged woman whom Dotty refers to privately as Mrs. Jicama. “Hello there!” she cries. “Hot out, isn’t it!” If one were to write her into a play, thinks Jane, entering the store and standing for a moment in the blinding darkness, one would punctuate her entirely with exclamation points.

  “It is,” says Jane. “Very hot.”

  “June’s hotter!” cries Jicama. “Before the rains!”

  “Thank goodness the rain is here,” says Jane, shifting her mind from weather to lunch meats. “I wonder if you have any bologna today.”

  “No bologna!” Jicama shakes her head. “But the nicest liverwurst you ever saw!”

  “Thank you,” says Jane, and she starts down an aisle, picking up flour and sugar and coffee as she goes.

  She has nothing against liverwurst. Liverwurst with apple makes a very nice sandwich. She can’t remember if the Hedquists harbor some ill feeling toward liverwurst. Many people do. She’s never been offered it in their home, in almost a month of lunches. But Morris likes liverwurst quite a bit, and therefore Dotty might be prone to liking it as well. Perhaps it’s Oliver who shies away from it. Yet he’s admitted a fondness for caviar, and liverwurst and caviar have a certain strong fishy taste in common. Now how, thinks Jane, could something that comes from a cow taste like a fish? Oliver’s love of caviar may go hand in hand with his admiration for Tolstoy. Don’t the Russians eat fish eggs? The old Russians, not this new breed of hotheaded Communists. Suddenly she remembers that her own husband may be a Communist—she hasn’t had the nerve to ask him. Wouldn’t it be awkward on the telephone? “Morris,” she imagines herself saying, “what’s this about you being a Communist? No no, dear, of course I don’t disapprove. Why, your own Aunt Gretchen was a Communist. And a fortune-teller . And a Presbyterian. It’s hardly your fault.” In any case she’ll take a close look at this liverwurst and see if it’s fresh and then decide.

  Ahead of her looms the delicatessen counter with its glass case of assorted raw meats, sliced meats, and roasted chickens arranged to look peaceful in death. Jane approaches, her eye on a perfectly decent-looking roll of liverwurst. She asks the butcher whether the liverwurst is fresh. “¡Ah, sí!” he says, “is fresh, is fresh!” He too is prone to exclamation points. “I’ll take three inches off the roll then,” she says, wondering if roll is the right word or whether log or loaf might be more correct. She can’t remember if she was instructed to buy cheese. There are several different cheeses in front of her, as well as potato salad and egg salad and coleslaw and a scarlet Jell-O salad bedeviled with tiny marshmallows, which reminds her that she must get marshmallows for Oliver, and candy bars, and, oh, what else? She’ll do that while she’s waiting for the handsome man to cut her liverwurst, which seems to be taking forever. But wasn’t she a bit stingy with the liverwurst? Maybe she should tell him four inches, not three. Those who like liverwurst like liverwurst, after all, and those who don’t wouldn’t go near it for all the tea in China. Oh! All this wretched decision making! She turns to pursue an easier task—Mars Bars or Hershey bars, which will it be?—and in a clumsy rush runs smack into the person behind her, whom, in her agitated state of mind, she hasn’t noticed. He cries out as a man would when he’s been walloped in the chest, then to her great surprise says, “Mrs. Merkle?”

  “Mr. Wigglesworth!” she gasps. She’s aware of a sort of fishlike gape overtaking her lower face, but she manages to say, “Or is it Hugh?”

  Euell Wigglesworth smiles. He has a very pleasant smile, Jane notices, not elfin, which she finds difficult to trust, but large and open, showing good teeth. “I’m pleased to report that Hugh and I are no longer the same person.”

  “Well,” she laughs, “that’s a relief.”

  “It is,” says he, and he looks at the wooden floor for what seems like a very long time. Finally Jane looks there as well, seeing nothing but sawdust. Sawdust and the bottom of his uniform trousers and his shiny brown boots.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” he says at last.

  “Yes,” she agrees, but her tongue feels maddeningly reluctant, like an old dog ordered off the bed.

  “Well,” says he.

  “It’s hot out, isn’t it?” says she.

  “Hot? Yes, yes. Hot!”

  “And humid.”

  “The rain is about to—”

  “Perhaps you saw the thunderheads just now—”

  “Yes! The North Rim is—”

  “Isn’t it a sight!”

  Then there is nothing more to say. Jane Merkle cannot imagine what two people talk about, though she herself is usually a capable conversationalist. She’s flummoxed. Everything feels new and strange. Which it is. She’s not prepared to understand it, but this is the first communication between herself and Mr. Wigglesworth that has nothing to do with the topic at hand (and how quickly they exhaust it!) but is instead an intended expression of goodness, of suitability, of interest in the other, after which each feels a certain sadness and guilt, a failing of energy, like the coming of winter. Neither party knows what to do with such a feeling, or what name to call it, and neither imagines its existence in the other but feels alone with it, dumb and inconsolable. Jane Merkle is the more desperate to escape her discomfort. Her skin feels on fire and her heart feels waxy and dead. She’s a little sick to her stomach, as if she’s swallowed a lump of toothpaste. Finally she can tolerate it no longer and says the first thing that presents itself to her disturbed and distracted mind: “Do you by any chance know whether the Hedquists like liverwurst?”

  Euell Wigglesworth considers the question. He feels somehow he owes her this consideration. He furrows his brow, quite a charming furrow, and his lower lip protrudes slightly in a boyish wondering way. His effort seems to produce a flush
in his cheeks, and he loosens his tie ever so slightly without even knowing he’s doing so. His tongue, however, is as locked up as hers is.

  She sighs and says, “So many people don’t. Like it, I mean. I suppose it’s too strong a taste. Too . . . alive. And the silly thing is, I went ahead and ordered three inches but I don’t know if that’s enough. Do you think four might be better?”

  “Four?” he says dully.

  “The cut. The cut off the loaf, or the length, or the roll, whatever it’s called.”

  “Oh,” he laughs, feeling suddenly untangled, free. “Oh, I see. Well, four is four inches too many for those who don’t like liverwurst, and three isn’t enough for those who do, so I’d go with four and hope they’re in the ‘like it’ category. Though you could telephone them and hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Oh, there’s an idea!” cries Jane, clapping her hands. She ought to feel silly and childish in her glee, but she doesn’t. She feels she can breathe again. She looks at Euell fully, for the first time, and realizes she’s never seen him in uniform before. She doesn’t generally like olive green but it lends something to him. He looks manly and in charge of things, well prepared for any adventure or emergency. The hat is unfortunate, but he has the good sense to take it off indoors and hold it by his side. He inspires confidence, and but a moment ago, he was young looking, shy as a girl. Oh, he’s boy and man all mixed up in one, thinks Jane. It’s a thought that pleases and frightens her in equal parts.

  At that moment the butcher flops her liverwurst on the counter, and she thanks him, saying she might be back for more.

  “Or less,” teases Euell Wigglesworth as he steps up to order eight roasted chickens and a pound of sliced cheese.

  “Goodness!” cries Jane. “What an awful lot of chickens!”

  “It’s for the boys,” says Euell.

  “The boys?” Jane is suddenly dizzy, panicky. She manages to say, “I didn’t know you had children, Mr. Wigglesworth.”

  “They act like children.” He smiles. “The boys I work with. I’m over on the North Rim now, heading back there this afternoon. I like to bring them something so they’re happy to see me again, so they don’t forget about me when I’m gone.”

  “Oh, I can’t believe anyone would be unhappy to see you. Or forget about you when you’re away. I . . . I myself am going to the North Rim tomorrow.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Maybe our paths will cross on the far side of the river.”

  “That would be swell!”

  Jane laughs and says, “ Swell is a word I haven’t heard in years. Do you know the time, Mr. Wigglesworth?”

  He consults his watch. “It’s quarter past eleven.”

  “Oh!” she cries. “I must make that telephone call.” For she has a plan now, thanks to Euell Wigglesworth, and there’s no time to waste. In forty-five minutes it will be noon. She holds out her hand and says, boldly, “May we meet again.”

  He takes her hand solemnly but does not shake it. He holds it in much the same way she holds her packet of liverwurst. “I hope so,” he says.

  Suddenly she remembers something. “Oh, I almost forgot to thank you. For my butterfly, Mr. Wigglesworth. It’s the most beautiful thing.”

  “You like it?” he says, his eyes on the floor again, his cheeks suddenly aflame. “It’s royalty in the butterfly world. Its common name is—”

  “Queen. I know. And I took the liberty of pinning it, and I meant to ask you where you captured it so I can write that on the tag.”

  “You know butterflies, Mrs. Merkle?” He is genuinely astonished. “You know how to pin butterflies? Do you collect them?”

  “I do, Mr. Wigglesworth. I’m a fast-moving amateur, as my brother-in-law would say. I believe it refers to swift of foot rather than any prodigious qualities of mind, but I’m happy for the compliment.”

  “I’m . . . I’m speechless.”

  “Well, you needn’t be,” laughs Jane. “Oliver is far too generous with his compliments.”

  “No. No, I doubt it,” says Euell thoughtfully, and just then the butcher arrives with a tray of eight wrapped chickens and slides them onto the counter.

  “What you want for cheese?” he says. “Swiss, Monster, American?”

  “Cheddar,” says Euell.

  “We no have cheddar.”

  “Then I’ll take American.”

  “How much? Five pound?”

  “One pound.”

  “You pay for it?”

  “Charge it to Hugh.”

  “What you gonna do when he’s not your friend no more? The chickens too?”

  “I’ll pay for them,” says Euell.

  “If I was you,” says the butcher, “I pay the cheese and let my friend pay the chickens!”

  Jane says good-bye once more and leaves Euell Wigglesworth to his packages. She has her own little packet of liverwurst, wrapped in brown paper, tied with white butcher string, and the way it fits in her hand, and the small but solid weight of it, and the color of the string against the color of the paper—all of it soothes her as she walks to the front of the store. She gathers the rest of the things on her list and pays for them at the register. She counts out the money into the hamlike hand of Mrs. Jicama and finds herself on the verge of tears. Tears that seem to spring from her throat and chest, tears of release—from what or to what, she cannot tell. From her calm self the tears come, tears in response to some promise, some hope, some new opening onto a world she had no idea she was closed to, or hopeless about, or seeking a promise from, a conversation with. A new territory from which tears arise like rivers in flood passing through drought-stricken fields where life has not moved for years, and where the reapers have not reaped because the sowers have not sown, and where birds, bees, and butterflies are unknown, as foreign as a picture language to those who alphabetize. Mrs. Jicama looks at her with some concern and cries, “Find everything you were looking for?!”

  “Just a telephone,” says Jane.

  “You want a telephone?!”

  “To call my sister-in-law.”

  “Mrs. Hedquist!”

  “That’s right.”

  “You come with me and we’ll find you a telephone! I see you got yourself some of that liverwurst! Don’t you worry about nothing!”

  The Hour of No Shadow

  At 11:25 in the morning, Dotty Hedquist receives a telephone call from her sister-in-law who seems to be in an uncharacteristic flap about what kind of lunch meat to buy. Liverwurst? Anyone can tolerate liverwurst. As far as liking it? Well she, Dotty, won’t go as far as to say they like it, she and Oliver, but certainly, if Jane has in her slender midwestern hand a hunk of already-purchased liverwurst, that will do. Dotty prepares to hang up the receiver. She doesn’t like telephones, she feels she can hear the nickels and dimes being sucked into the wires. But there’s more. Jane says, “Oh, and I got the mail, and Dotty, you have two letters, one from Iowa, a Mrs. Gastrofoil. I think it’s Gastrofoil—”

  “That’s fine, Jane, just bring it home.”

  But the impervious Jane is not to be stopped. “And a second one from an AV right here in the village. I wonder who that would be? Anyway, I have both letters and I’ll be home soon, as quickly as I can, though it won’t be . . . no, certainly not before noon. Would you like me to do anything with the letters, Dotty? One or the other of them might be important.”

  “Yes,” Dotty manages to say, her head spinning, her heart thumping. She’s gone pale, but of course her sister-in-law can’t see that. “Yes. Very good, Jane. Read them to me. Well, no. Just the one from . . . what did you say the initials were?” She’s proud of this little performance.

  “AV, Dotty.”

  “AV, then. Why don’t we look at that one.”

  She hears the rustling of a paper, and Jane reads: “Dear Mrs. Hedquist, I have adjusted your stirrups and would like to make sure they fit. Meet me behind the mule barn today at noon and we’ll take care of that business. Repectfully your
s, AV.”

  “Stirrups?” Dotty wonders aloud.

  “Perhaps you had a plan to go riding,” Jane offers.

  “I’m not much of a rider. You’re sure it says ‘stirrups’?”

  “It seems to,” says Jane. “Though the details are sometimes misleading. I think the message is clear enough: mule barn at noon. That’s the way I see it, at least. Well, I’d better be on my way. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No no. Well, yes, actually, Jane. You might just throw that letter away, not even bring it home. Now that you’ve read it to me, I mean.”

  “Certainly. One less thing to carry.”

  Dorothy Hedquist stands in her own kitchen, as confused as she has ever been. Why on earth would he throw in the business about the stirrups? Unless he was afraid the letter might be intercepted. But by whom? Not Oliver. Certainly not Oliver.

  The clock says almost twenty-five minutes before twelve. She hasn’t much time. However, she likes to look her best on these occasions and takes a few minutes to fuss with her hair (the bun comes out) and change into a clean pair of blue denim trousers and one of her (one of his, Lowell’s) old but practically new Oxford shirts. The pink one. It makes her feel strong and capable and not too feminine, in the weak sense of the word. She dons her hiking boots on the good chance she’ll be walking through mule poo, and with a little good-bye to Oliver, who’s dug in in his den identifying water beetles, she leaves the house on foot, cutting through the woods until she catches the heady odor of digested grass and turns toward the mule barn. It is now, by her dainty gold watch, five minutes to noon.