The Butterflies of Grand Canyon

by Margaret Erhart

  “We did, and have sailed together since.”

  “With a period of time when your interests went in different directions. Your interests and your affections. Is that right?”

  “I think of it,” says Oliver thoughtfully, “as a whaling expedition. The mother ship launches the whaleboats—the size of lifeboats, you see, but with a very different mission—and these small craft chase about quite independent of the mother ship—”

  “Let’s call it the relation ship!” cries Jane.

  “You’re a clever girl. Yes. The relation ship. The little boats go on about their business, and in the end the whale is brought in. The mother ship takes it on board, stows the meat and oil, and this is how the project is accomplished. The larger, sturdier vessel carries the small and swift ones. They work together. The whaleboats have no existence without the whaling ship that carries them out to hunt, and no purpose without the great ship’s hold to store the whale and carry it home to market. The one cannot succeed without the other. And in the end the ship goes home full, and the men receive their pay, which we might say is the point of a marriage as well.”

  “Do you mean,” asks Jane, “that two people should embark on their own adventures in order to live soundly together?”

  “Adventures? Certainly!”

  “Including those of the . . . well . . . I don’t know how to—”

  “Flesh,” says Oliver, simply.

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  “Should or shouldn’t, it makes no difference, because it happens just the same. Our love affairs move away from the containing vessel, because that’s the nature of things, but give them enough time and they’ll return. They must. They’re not meant for the open sea but for short bursts of excited activity. And what they bring back from their wild romp is a boon to the expedition, not to mention fresh food for the crew.”

  “But, Oliver! This isn’t a whaling expedition. It only resembles one. The . . . protocol surrounding a marriage is different. Don’t I know it!” cries Jane, pacing back and forth. “I feel it every day, the restraint imposed from without. At least on a woman. Such harsh restrictions! Some days I know I must leave Morris. It’s inevitable. We’re hardly suited to one another. We’ve never been. I pushed for it. I longed to be married. He held back.” She stops and looks at Oliver. “He was right to hold back. He had been in love before and knew what it meant. He was engaged to be married. Perhaps with me he hoped . . . He thought . . . We do share a fondness for each other and an earnest desire for the other’s happiness, a happiness we cannot provide. I think about you and Dotty and how you’ve managed to cling to each other over all these years and—”

  “Cling is a rather terrible word for it.”

  “Yes, I know. Cleave.”

  “Too biblical.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, use whatever word you want.”

  “We’ve had a romp or two and survived them.”

  “Yes, that’s my point. And I, who have had no romps, am impatient to leave him. It doesn’t seem right. To leave him, I mean. It seems,” she looks at the floor, “ugly. And something I’d regret.”

  When finally she raises her head, he sees the old Jane. “I know,” he says at last. “I know.”

  “I’m not much of a wife.”

  “It’s not much of a job. Taking care of poor benighted dinosaurs like me and Morris. It’s thankless work. Being a mother, now that’s different. I don’t know why women put up with husbands. Someday they’ll find a way around us.”

  “But until then, what are we to do?”

  He sighs. “Spend enough time outdoors.”

  “Oh, Oliver, that’s ridiculous advice.”

  “Did you ever meet anyone who spent too much time outdoors?”

  “No,” she laughs.

  “Well, there you are.”

  She brings her cup of coffee to the table and sits down. “I must tell you. I don’t see anyone, Euell or anyone else, as the solution to my marriage or my happiness.”

  “You’re wiser about the smaller boats than I was.”

  “They’re not just love affairs, these small boats.”

  “No no. They’re anything we love.”

  Jane is quiet, thinking. “I haven’t yet found that love brings me freedom.”

  “You’re still young.”

  “Young,” she laughs. “I feel very old.” She holds her hands in front of her for a moment, then rests them on the table. “Do you think Dotty, as a woman, sees things the same way you do?”

  “How could she? As you say, she’s a woman. But I won’t speak for Dotty. I can’t. And I doubt she’ll speak for herself. She never has to me.”

  “You’ve never discussed the . . . the hunt for the whale?”

  “Not in so many words, no.”

  “So the romps you speak of may in fact be trials to her, Oliver.”

  He laughs sharply and shakes his head. “No. No, they aren’t, I’m afraid.” He draws a breath. “You see, the truth is I’ve been forced to adopt a philosophical position about these things because Dotty seems to feel so differently about them. The whaling analogy is, as you point out, only that. It falls short of reality, or at least my reality, and apparently yours, but it’s very close to Dotty’s. I am,” he pauses, as if to give himself a last chance to stay silent, “in a difficult and somewhat compromised position with her as my wife. I married my beloved, but she married . . . She married me, Jane. Just me. Someone, something, but not quite enough. And so I wait for her, and I try not to interfere, and I have my pleasures. Bugs.” He smiles. “Of course in these situations it helps to have obsessions, things we can be proud of in order to shore ourselves up for the personal humiliations.”

  “The romps have been a trial to you!” cries Jane. “Her romps.”

  “Yet I can see the point of them. I’ve been persuaded they do us good. Without them she would have left long ago. I’m sure of it. And they’ve made me honest,” he adds.

  “But how can you be honest, Oliver, if you and Dotty never speak about it?”

  “Not in words, my dear, but we practice that old-fashioned form of frankness known as reading between the lines. And action too, one’s actions. Never underestimate them. They’re as revealing as the words of children. Oh, there are all kinds of ways. You know, if you’ve lived beside someone for thirty years, you have a sense of their mind before the thoughts turn to language on their tongue. It’s what marriage has to recommend it.”

  He hasn’t meant to overwhelm the girl, but it’s better she know the truth. Seeing her pretty face with its wide green eyes (until this moment he could swear they were blue) and the new wrinkle of confusion riding between her brows, he feels a tenderness for her that translates into confession.

  “How much do you know?” he asks.

  “Know?”

  “About her lover.”

  The word distresses the girl. She shakes her head.

  “It’s all right, Jane,” he says kindly. “If you know, there’s no need to tell you.”

  She looks about her, then finally rests her eyes on the table. “I know she had a letter from someone called Deo. The spelling was poor and I couldn’t imagine Dotty having . . . You know. But they met. In . . . in the mule barn.”

  He nods. “Ah, of course. Her informant.”

  “Yes, there was something about getting information. Mr. Kolb. I think his name was mentioned.”

  “You needn’t worry,” says Oliver with a smile. “I won’t ask how you happened to overhear this little exchange.” She starts to protest but he holds up his hand. “I understand perfectly. Secrets breed secrecy. I’ve done some things I never imagined myself capable of. And worse, I felt justified in doing them. I’ve lied to my wife, Jane.”

  “Oh, Oliver, surely she’s lied to you.”

  “That excuses nothing. It makes it all the more intolerable.” He stands up suddenly and walks to the sink. “My plan was to lure you out of the house today with a net in your hands.
I quite miss our collecting together.”

  “I do too.”

  “The purple hairstreaks are flying.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You have? Ah, of course you have.” He waits for the unpleasant feeling of jealousy to pass. “I hope, if you continue with Mr. Wigglesworth, you’ll make that part of your adventure with him.”

  “I’d like it to be my adventure with you too, Oliver.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes. Don’t you know that?”

  “I’m old and dull, Jane.”

  “You’re nothing of the sort. You’re a legend, in fact. Anyone who’s seen you with a net, as I have, leaping through the air—”

  “Legends are by definition very old.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but you have no idea how age impresses the young.”

  “You,” he laughs, “you impress the young. A woman of twenty-five is quite an impressive creature to a young man of twenty-one.”

  “He’s older than that,” she says coolly.

  “If you would care to join me for a quick run down to the first rest house, I’d be honored, Mrs. Merkle.”

  “Won’t it be in the shade?”

  “Ah, by the time we get there, maybe so. Shoshone Point, then. Easier on the knees.”

  “I’d like that,” she says. “May I ask you something, Oliver? Will Dotty be coming home?”

  He suddenly feels weary. “She’ll come home. When she’s had enough of the open sea, she’ll come home. She likes to drown every now and then. Home is not a place for that.”

  “How do you . . . ? How do you manage it?”

  “If you’re asking how Morris will manage, I can’t tell you. He seemed wrapped up in the dog. Maybe a new dog would be the answer. Of course there is no answer; there’s just a kind of maneuvering around the central fact.”

  “It’s you I’m interested in, not Morris.”

  “I hide in my work,” he says bluntly. “That’s what I do. And I inform myself of the events in progress without drawing Dotty’s attention. She has no idea that I know. I know everything. I know a good deal more than she does, in fact. That’s been rewarding, though it’s an unpleasant reward, like chewing on an old chicken drumstick, all gristle and stringy dark meat.”

  “It sounds dreadful.”

  “Dreadful for me would be to do nothing.”

  “Have you ever considered interfering?”

  “Interfering? You mean preventing her from feeling drawn to the fellow?”

  “From seeing him.”

  “Ah, what good would that do but fan the flames? It’s all very Bovaryesque. You’ve recently read that bodice ripper, Jane.”

  “Bodice ripper!” she laughs.

  “There’s nothing like guilt and interfering husbands to make one all the more fond of one’s paramour. And besides,” he says soberly, “I’m not in favor of eradicating love. Who says it can’t occur outside the nuptial bed and bonds? It’s bound to, you know. And the strength of a marriage, the shape of a marriage, especially a childless one, is determined by how these affairs of the heart are managed.”

  “But you’re each managing alone, without the benefit of the other.”

  He returns to the table and sits down but finds he cannot stay still. “I’m waiting for her to come to me.”

  “And she’s waiting for you to come to her! And meanwhile things are alluded to, yet not spoken of.”

  “Now look here, young lady. It’s not as simple as all that. I don’t see you running off to Morris and confessing you’ve fallen in love with a handsome young ranger. Or have I missed it? Is that why he’s retreated to the hotel? Or is it just a feeling he has? A feeling of not being altogether welcome in your heart at the moment? If I were you, and I lived as you do in a glass house, I would put down my stone, Jane Merkle.” He springs to his feet.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to get the nets ready.”

  Jane faces him with a look of excitement. “He isn’t the only one, that man in the mule barn.”

  “What man in the mule barn?”

  “Deo. She has another lover, doesn’t she? In California.” Oliver frowns. “Amadeo has a wife in Italy to whom he is faithful, as far as I know. Dotty’s business with him has never been romantic. He’s her eyes and ears, her informant. He keeps her apprised of the situation as it unfolds.”

  “Situation? What situation?”

  “The comings and goings, lies and evasions of the man who tried and failed to kill Lowell Dunhill, her lover.”

  “Who?” cries Jane. “Who is it, Oliver?”

  He answers soberly, “Emery Kolb.”

  Carnal Business

  Elzada Clover’s Italian is rusty. A year ago she traveled in Tuscany, studying truffles, which left her with a good command of Italian fungal names and not much else. And before that, at the University of Michigan, she completed a Beginning Italian course designed for the traveler who desires to know where the bathroom is and whether the gnocchi are fresh, the wine local, and what time the bus leaves. This has given her just enough courage to approach Amadeo in his native tongue, which she feels is imperative.

  She learned many things in her travels: how to drink strong coffee standing up, how to insult an Italian man by insulting his mother, and how to grease the palm with a few soldi. (She has a five-dollar bill in her pocket for just this purpose.) But most important, she learned that in la bella lingua secrets seem juicier, exaggerations ooze effortlessly from the mouth, and confidences are comfortably betrayed. Unlike English, which is spoken from the head by a well-groomed jury and judge, Italian roams here and there across the countryside, drinking and carousing. It’s a carnal language, and her business is more or less carnal. The subject of her investigation died an unwanted death, and she has her suspicions as to the reason for that death. That murder, she reminds herself as she approaches the cowboy dorm.

  The building itself has seen better days. It slumps on its stone foundation like a greenhorn in a saddle. The door is open but she hesitates, then enters the cool darkness within. Several narrow bunks line the walls, and to her surprise, as her eyes adjust, she sees that each bed is neatly made. Shirts, trousers, and jackets are hung up on pegs. Boots and shoes are lined up against the wall. There’s a washstand in the corner. A dull mirror above it reflects the meager light of two small windows. This is quite unlike her picture of a tribe of men living together. She had expected an untidy cave.

  “You do not knock?” asks a voice behind her.

  She gives a yelp of surprise and whirls around, and there in the doorway is the man she has come to see. He’s short and muscular in a stringy, catlike way. He wears a bandana around his neck. A greasy hat shades his face from the late-afternoon sun.

  “I wait for you to come sooner,” he says. He laughs sharply, and suddenly she’s nervous. She thinks of the ease with which he tosses hay bales or carries two saddles at once or picks up a mule, for all she knows, and she wonders if it was a good idea to come alone. She searches for the Italian word for “afternoon” and scolds herself for not preparing her introduction ahead of time. Buona sera, she says to herself. “Good evening.” That will have to do. But before she can speak, he pushes past her, his arm roughly brushing hers. He drops his hat on the nearest bunk and sits down heavily, though he is not a heavy man. Grunting, he removes one boot, then the other, then his socks, which are frightfully smelly. To her surprise he lies back on the bed and closes his eyes.

  Her courage comes to her and she says, “Mi ricordi, signor?”

  He opens one eye. “It’s a long time we do not speak, but I don’t forget you. You got some Italian now. Is nice.”

  Perhaps he really does intend to sleep. “Amadeo,” she says urgently, “I need to talk to you before the others—”

  “Calmati, signora.” He waves his hand. “The others they no come. Two kids. Indians. They both name Butch. Good packers. And the other one. Junior. And now we got this Hugh. He got
a woman somewhere. Lots of woman. He only come here to shave his face and shine his boots, that’s it. I’m the papa, the nonno. I get ’em up in the morning and clean up the place when they go. They nice boys. But young. I gotta rest now. Now I lie on my bed and we talk. You like some whiskey?”

  He rolls to his side and pulls a bottle from under his bunk. The effort seems to exhaust him, and she realizes he’s an old man. He was old when she met him thirteen years ago. The light from the doorway illuminates his face, brown and weathered. He’s tired and would like his whiskey, and drink is the great lubricator. It greases the wheels of impropriety and releases swarms of secrets. Soon enough he’ll lapse into Italian like a horse given his head. His tongue will loosen and he’ll run, as wild as any youth, and he won’t stop until it’s over. This is the race she came for, the sprint to the finish she hoped to inspire. All she has to do is keep up with him.

  He waves the bottle in her direction, and she considers the custom of drinking with one’s enemy. Is he her enemy? She thinks not, but one can never be sure. Stay alert, Elzada! she warns herself. A touch of whiskey, but only a touch. And only if he produces a glass.

  A Serviceable Quilt

  Oliver Hedquist answers the door, looking pale and older than Elzada remembers him to be. “Come in, come in,” he says hurriedly. She crosses the threshold and he offers his hand, as if to pull her into a boat from a swim in a dangerous river. A handshake, she realizes too late, for by then he’s turned and started his long walk to the kitchen.

  “I’ll make you some tea,” he says, though he makes no move toward the kettle.

  “Tea would be lovely, Mr. Hedquist.” He stares at her blankly and she adds, “Why don’t I make us some?”