The Butterflies of Grand Canyon

by Margaret Erhart

  To his surprise she starts off in the wrong direction. “It’s the other way,” he says, as lightly as he can. She nods, but continues on, and he realizes she has her route picked out. She has given some thought to her journey out of town, and her thought is to avoid the village altogether. This chastens young Ranger Wigglesworth. He sits awkwardly, his hands pressed together between his knees, leaning slightly forward as if straining to see the future, if only the future of this day. And there at the other end of the world sits Jane, sharing nothing with him but the wide front seat.

  “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

  Jane keeps her gaze straight ahead. Over her left shoulder the canyon falls away. “Whatever for?”

  “For me it’s just a picnic. I mean it’s not just a picnic, but it’s not much more than a picnic, if you see what I mean.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Silly isn’t a word I would ever use to describe myself.”

  “Well, I’m using it. You’re being silly. Ridiculous, in fact.”

  “Ridiculous! Now where do you get that? I don’t think you know me very well, Jane Merkle. I don’t think you know me at all. I’ve been many things in my life, but not ridiculous.”

  “Add that to the list.”

  They drive in silence past Grandview Point, then Lipan, past Desert View Watchtower. All the places, the overlooks where Euell imagined he would stop this day with Jane and point out features of the canyon, folds of rock that always, embarrassingly—and thrillingly—reminded him of a woman’s body. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth, like a skinned pack rat. He can summon neither words nor thoughts, though his intent, some miles back, was to apologize for not understanding what she risked this day and to thank her for risking it, though risk was a more serious word than he wanted. He couldn’t find the right word, and now he can’t find any words. Oh, miserable, miserable day. He turns to the window but sees only a wall of trees. He wants a spacious view, a view of the canyon, but to see it he’ll have to turn his head toward her. And not wanting to turn toward her is ridiculous, so he does—and sees she’s crying.

  He moves close to her, across the seat, which feels like a journey of many miles. He puts his arm around her shoulder, expecting she may frown and shrug him off, which he is prepared for. But instead, to his surprise, she cries harder, making soft, wet hiccuping noises. Her nose runs; tears drip from her chin. Everything about her is transformed from glacial chilliness to summer rain in the desert. “Jane,” he says. “Jane, Jane.”

  “No one’s ever called me that,” she sobs. “No one, until you.”

  “But it’s your name.”

  “Not when you’re somebody’s wife,” she sputters. “All those other things—my dear, my beloved, my darling—they im personalize love. They’re factory words. Anyone can say my love. They can say it to anyone else without even knowing their name. I’m tired of endearments, Euell. I’m Jane. My name is Jane.”

  He strokes the back of her neck and she shivers. He starts to pull his hand away, but she shakes her head, “I like it.” He’s afraid her eyes are closing. But suddenly it seems worth any price to have her relax at his touch.

  Down off the rim they drive, leaving the pines behind. Ahead of them the long view of Cedar Mountain and the deep canyon of the Little Colorado River. To Euell, in a sort of trance, it’s a landscape made of flesh and skin, miles and miles of warm soft skin—Jane’s. His hand rests on her bare shoulder, beneath her blouse. He can’t imagine ever speaking again, ever moving again. Ambition and worldly accomplishments are the farthest thing from his mind. He turns to her and says, “My father called my mother Mousie. Sometimes he called her Miss Mouse.”

  At Cameron, Jane asks him to drive. All the way up to Lee’s Ferry she sleeps with her head in his lap. He strokes her hair. It’s short and shiny brown. He imagines it long, running his hands through it, great, smooth fistfuls of hair. But it’s short now, and he can look inside her ear. He’s never looked inside a woman’s ear. It’s dark and tunnelish, and he can imagine the old endearments, like a line of rusty cars, pushing their way in, filling the tight, closed space with noise and smoke. He looks up from her ear as a passing car honks its horn, warning him he’s drifting across the road.

  He parks beside the river, and the quieting of the engine wakes Jane. “Good afternoon,” he says.

  She sits up slowly, stretching her arms behind her head. The hem of her blouse trembles, exposing a narrow band of pale skin. She looks around. “Where are we? Oh, Euell, this must be . . . !”

  He nods. “El Rio Colorado.”

  “It’s so red!”

  “That’s where it gets its name. Colorado. ‘Red’ in Spanish.”

  “It’s the color of the canyon.”

  “It is the canyon. A river of liquid rock, too thick to drink, too thin to plow. That’s what they say about her.”

  “Her? Why is it a she?”

  “Rivers are.”

  She shakes her head. “This one’s a he.”

  He feels a maddening shyness creep back into his body. “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “I know a place upstream. A flat rock and a place to swim.”

  “In here, you mean? You swim in the river?”

  “There’s an eddy.”

  “Wouldn’t you be swept away?”

  “It’s a place along the shore where the current goes upstream.”

  “We’d be swept away just the same, only upstream, not down.”

  “You’re right,” he says, irritated by her logic. “But it doesn’t go upstream forever. It’s circular. An eddy circles up and back, so all you have to do is relax and trust it, and it’ll bring you home again.”

  “Right to your door?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh,” she says brightly, then bites her top lip. “But I didn’t bring a suit.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, and gets out of the car. “We’ll try to have a good time anyway.”

  She climbs out behind him. “Euell. Don’t be angry with me.” She catches his arm and looks up at him. Her eyelids are puffy from her nap. Her hair is mashed on one side. He’d like to take hold of her and slip off her clothes and bury his face in her flesh. He takes a deep breath and says, “I like you too much, Jane.”

  “No,” she looks directly at him, her eyes bright and green. “No, you don’t. You like me just the right amount, Ranger Wigglesworth. And I like you, too. Now let’s go find that rock of yours before I faint from hunger. Give me something to carry. I’m used to carrying things. Oh, look! A cloudless sulphur, I’m sure of it. Oh, how stupid of me! I should have brought a net.”

  “Looks like you did,” says Euell, retrieving a net from the back of the car.

  “Oliver,” laughs Jane. “It’s his doing. He knew my mind was on other things, and yours was too. Do you know, he once said to me . . .” she trails off. “He calls this our adventure.”

  She runs away after Phoebis sennae, and Ranger Wigglesworth shoulders the pack. He likes to watch her with a net. She’s quick and athletic and doesn’t give up. She has a habit of rushing her swing, but that will come. She misses the sulphur but brings in a many-tailed swallowtail and a pygmy blue, beautiful specimens both. It’s past midday and hot as hinges, but the afternoon clouds are forming. They sit on a rock by the river, eating chicken sandwiches with sliced tomatoes and drinking cold water from a canteen.

  “Last time I was here I saw Anax junius,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “A green darner.”

  “Oh.” She wrinkles her brow. “An aeshnid, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. Caught it in my hands.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Luck,” he admits.

  “Pure luck.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve been catching for a good long while.”

  “Not with your hands. That has to be luck.”

  “Your lu
ck now,” he says, grinning, “to be with a lucky fellow. Come here.” He pats the rock beside him.

  “I’m too hot,” says Jane. “I want to swim, then climb out on this rock and lie down.”

  “While I read you a story.”

  “A story! You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Oliver thought of the net.”

  “Oh, pish. You don’t need a net anyway. You catch things with your bare hands.”

  He would like to swim with her but she wants to swim alone. He shows her the eddy and tells her to stay close to the shore, and that’s enough. She isn’t afraid. She trusts him, she says. She takes off her clothes and slips quickly into the water. A flash of her naked body is all he sees. She circles up and back a few times. It seems to please her, the way the water takes her on a swirling journey, then delivers her to her rock each time. She climbs out and dresses, and then he swims. He doesn’t hide his nakedness the way she did, and when he comes out of the river, he leaves his clothes off because he feels comfortable with her, and the feel of the hot air on his skin is delicious, and he wants her to be comfortable with him in this way. He lies flat on his back on the rock and wonders if she’ll look at him. He feels her gaze and cracks one eye open and watches her. She takes in his body for a long time.

  Finally he sits up. “Is this all right?” She nods, and he says, “This is how I am when I’m alone. But I can cover myself.”

  “No. I’m . . . ” She smiles. “No.”

  “What I like about this rock is that the shade hits it.”

  “Just when you think you can’t stand another minute of sun.”

  “I want it to rain today.”

  “Not on our picnic.”

  “After our picnic.”

  “After our picnic,” she agrees.

  “Would you like to hear a story now?”

  “Yes. I’ve been waiting for the story.”

  “You haven’t been waiting idly, I hope.”

  “Idly? Heavens no! I’ve had a great deal to do since you emerged from the river. I’ve been very busy, Ranger Wigglesworth, don’t you worry.” She looks at him with an odd smile.

  He pulls the Pilsbry from the pack and leans back on his elbows. “This is a love story, Jane.”

  “A love story? What is that great heavy book?”

  “Land Mollusca of North America. You haven’t read it, I hope.” She shakes her head. “Good. This is a story about the mating habits of Limax maximus, one of the most impressive Romeos you’ll ever find.”

  “And who is he?”

  “A giant slug.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “Settle in here next to me,” says Euell, reaching out to her. “I want you close.” He lies back, his head propped on the pack. She lies down beside him and puts her hand on his chest. It feels warm and cool at the same time. “First I’ll describe our hero. Yellowish-gray with black spots, about a hundred millimeters long.”

  “How long is that?”

  “The length of a breakfast sausage.”

  “Goodness. He’s a behemoth.”

  “He’s a behemoth all right, but he’s not exactly a he. He’s more of a we.” He feels her hand slide to his belly. “That’s part of his irresistible charm.”

  “Why don’t you read it,” she says.

  “If you’re ready.” He opens the book and begins: “ ‘When the pursuer overtakes the pursued, each touches with its tentacles the tentacles of the other after the manner of ants. Then begins a circular procession, each with its mouth at the other’s tail, and this procession lasts from half an hour to two hours and a half. Careful observation leads me to suppose that during this performance each is eating the external mucus from the other, for a purpose which will presently appear. The circle now grows more contracted, the slugs overlapping and showing evident excitement, the mantles flapping before and behind. Then suddenly the slugs intertwine fiercely and launch themselves into space, heads downwards, but suspended by a thick strand of mucus, for the distance of 15-18 inches. The fall is generally as rapid as if there were no support, but it is gently checked at the finish. On one occasion, however, the fall was very gradual, and during the descent the couple were busily eating more mucus from each other’s bodies. The thread appears to come from their mouths, and runs along the center of the footsole of each, joining into a single thread where their tails intertwine. I have seen a couple suspended from a projecting beam in an outhouse, and also from the leaves of a currant bush, and also from the branch of a yew tree, and once from a glass pane of a greenhouse; but a perpendicular wall or tree trunk is the usual situation.’ ”

  “Oh,” says Jane. She laughs and turns her face into the side of his body. He feels her lips and hair against his rib cage. Her hand is on his belly. He moves his arm around her back and shoulder, tucking his hand under her blouse. “Shall we take this off?”

  “I don’t want you to move.”

  “Does it unbutton?”

  She nods, and he reaches his free hand across and starts to unbutton her blouse.

  “Who invented buttons?” she says.

  “The Chinese.”

  “It can’t be the Chinese.”

  “Why not? They had all those concubines.”

  “How do you know so much about Chinese concubines?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  The last button falls away. He peels off the blouse like an offending layer of skin and sees she left off her underwear after swimming. She lies beside him, not helping, not hindering. She’s given up in a way, and he reminds himself to be good to her, and slow. He’d like to take her breasts in his hands. They’re small and plump. He’s never seen them by daylight. But she nestles close against him and he lies back again, his arm supporting her head. He remembers he brought a pillow. Would she like a pillow? It’s harder and harder to think. She runs her hand in slow circles around his belly, dipping lower and lower until his groin aches and his penis starts to rise. He reaches for something to cover it with. She gives him her blouse.

  “I can’t use your shirt, Jane.”

  “Of course you can. But why do you want to hide it?”

  “I’m . . . I don’t want to embarrass you.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” she laughs. “If I were embarrassed, I’d keep my hand to myself. Read me more about Limax maximus . That’s what I’d like. The story’s not over, is it?”

  “Far from over.”

  “You’ve left us hanging.”

  He smiles, and she feels him relax, and his own L. maximus rises in response to her slow, intentional touch. “ ‘ Directly the descent is accomplished, an organ is protruded from the genital orifice of each. This organ, cylindrical at first, quickly assumes a club shape of from 1½-1¾ inches in length, but presently a frilled edge appears along one side as if unrolled, and in a second or two the unrolling is complete.’ ”

  She takes hold of him and he gasps, but reads on. “ ‘ The unrolled organs now commence to intertwine, finally closing round each other so as to form a knot of which it is easy to count the whorls. The two upper whorls of the knot thus formed now spread out in the form of a mushroom or umbrella. During 5-10 minutes the slugs hang motionless with the tentacles contracted and flabby, while the two upper outspread whorls keep revolving upon one another; and in this extraordinary manner the mutual act is consummated.’ ”

  “‘Consummated,’” whispers Jane. “The author has a gentleman’s sensibility.”

  “He does,” Euell manages to say.

  “Do you like this?”

  “What you’re doing there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never liked anything so much in my life.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  He turns to her. His face is flushed. “I want to make you feel nice, too.”

  “In a little while.”

  “I don’t know if I can wait.”

  He’s a young man, she remembers. Morris was an old man. Is. She doesn’t want to think
about Morris now, and she puts him out of her mind. Her hand moves on its own, hers and not hers, and very soon there comes the magnificent spasm and a soft throaty cry. Then a prolonged, almost deathly human stillness, which prompts her to raise her head and look out at the only moving thing—the river, pushing its great load of red silt seaward.

  Afterword

  ST. LOUIS, 1952

  “In Xanadu,’” says Morris Merkle to the young springer spaniel at his feet, “‘did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure ‘Idome decree, where Alph the sacred river ran, through caverns measureless to man, down to the . . . ,’ down to the what? It has to rhyme with decree. Sea! That’s it.” He reaches out and strokes the dog’s ear. “It’s the predictability, Martine, the order in rhythm and rhyme. That’s what we like. Well, like? I don’t know. But it’s the reason it sits on our brains and pops out at unexpected moments when we’re not concerned with Kubla Khan or poetry or anything out of the ordinary. We were thinking about steak, weren’t we? And another splash of libation.” He gets up and refreshes his glass, then goes to the Frigidaire and removes two identical packages. One for him and one for his pup. He’ll grill them outside. It’s June and good grilling weather.

  There’s no art to crumpling newspaper. A tight twist is all it takes. But in Morris’s experience, while many are in possession of this information, just as many lack the conviction to follow through. They roll loosely and toss a flaccid ball of dampish newsprint into the barbecue and expect a decent fire to come of it, a conflagration worthy of Joan of Arc. Pah! When a mess of smoke and floating ash is all they get, they blame it on the news itself, not even the paper it’s printed on. And certainly terrible things are happening in the world, but the war in Korea hardly has the power to prevent a man from grilling his dinner—if the man is willing to twist his paper well. It’s a bit like cleaning a gun, thinks Morris, though he has no firsthand experience in such matters, having missed both world wars and never having seen the point of hunting, except to exercise a dog. A clean gun and a well-laid fire can go to work for a man, especially if he’s hungry and surrounded by enemies.