The Black Butterfly

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  “This’ll give you a nice light,” he said, jostling the logs with a poker. As the flames caught, they threw a warm color onto his cheeks, like apricots or maybe mangoes. “There’s nothing like a fire, is there? Here, let me teach you how to stoke it, in case it needs some help later.”

  “Okay, show me the trick,” I said, joining him by the hearth.

  “No trick. You just need to give the flames some air. Want to give it a try?”

  I took the poker and wiggled it against the bottom log. Several orange and blue flames plumed around it with a gleeful pop, like school kids being let out for recess. I must have nudged too hard though, because one of the logs tumbled off the pile, hitting the stone hearth and rolling toward us.

  “Blue!” I gasped, reaching instinctively for his shoulder.

  But instead of gripping his shoulder, my hand went

  right

  through

  him.

  Right through him, as if he weren’t even there. I was supposed to be feeling muscle, skin and bone pressing through his flannel shirt. My hand was supposed to be confirming what my eyes told me was true. People were supposed to be solid things that pushed back against your touch. Why wasn’t Blue cooperating with the simple rules of the universe?

  He grabbed the poker from me and took care of the log while I stood catatonic at his side. All I could do was gape at him, my hand, and back at him, trying to convince myself that nothing had just happened, that I’d simply aimed my hand wrong and missed his shoulder. But no, I knew I wasn’t that much of a spaz. I felt winded. Nauseous. Wobbly.

  “I frightened you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Penny. I, I just can’t believe you can see me.”

  With my heart thrashing my chest, I asked, “Are you saying most people can’t?”

  “You’re the first.”

  “My God.” I felt like I was going to pass out, like all the blood was leaving my head and running for its life. My knees started to buckle.

  “We better get you off your feet.”

  I dropped onto the loveseat and put my head between my knees. My fight or flight instinct couldn’t make up its mind. I just sat there in a puddle of useless adrenaline. “Who, what are you? Why are you even here?”

  “I died here. A century ago.”

  I sat up slowly, trying to comprehend what he was telling me. “So then, you really are a…?” I couldn’t say the word. “How…?”

  “I was part of a fishing crew,” he said, sitting next to me. “We trolled up and down the Eastern seaboard catching herring. One summer night, we moored at Islemorow on our way to Nova Scotia. I ended up taking my supper right here, at the place that used to stand here. There was a fire, and I didn’t get out in time.”

  But he looked so damned real, so alive, so here and now. Could it be true, what he was saying? Did I really just put my hand through the spirit of a person who died a hundred years ago? It made no sense, and yet…

  “Penny?”

  “Huh? Oh, sorry. I mean, God, I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Yes, he looked twenty-one. So young to die. So pointless. I thought of Arson for Hire, a gruesome novel that described how a body burns in a fire. What that book didn’t describe was how it felt to burn alive. How excruciating was the pain Blue endured? Did he see his eyes melt? Hear his own voice screaming? Feel his brain boil?

  Suddenly, I couldn’t get enough oxygen into my lungs. “Hold on for a second,” I panted, waiting either to faint, throw up, or feel better. When the black spots in front of me disappeared, I said, “I’ll just wait right here until I wake up.”

  “You think you’re dreaming me?”

  I bit my lip.

  “Because there’s more, Penny. I want to tell you the rest, but not if it’s going to make you sick.”

  I didn’t say anything for a long time. I wanted to hear his story, but at the same time, I didn’t. I didn’t want to believe this was happening. I didn’t want to believe my crazy mother was right.

  “Tell me,” I finally said.

  He narrowed his eyes and gazed at me doubtfully.

  “Really, Blue, I want to know.”

  “All right. The thing about the fire, the truth is, I started it. I’m the one who burned down the Legacy Hotel and Resort.”

  Oh, God. I didn’t just have a ghost on my hands, I had the ghost of a pyromaniac. Or maybe worse—maybe he was a psychopath or criminally insane. I looked at the fire roaring in the hearth. I started to stand up but felt woozy all over again and had to stay put. Humor him, Penny. Humor him until you can get up and run the hell out of here. “W-well, you, um, must have had some reason for setting the fire.”

  He looked at me in amazement. “I didn’t set the fire. It was an accident.”

  “Ohhhh,” I said, too relieved to feel very embarrassed. I sank back into the loveseat cushions. “I just…anyway, how did it happen? I mean, how do you know you’re the one?”

  “Easy. The fire started in the dining room, and I was the last person in there. Just sitting there enjoying an after-supper cigarette before heading to the parlor to hear the music. Thing is, I had a bad habit of not snuffing out my butts. On the boat, we just threw them overboard, you know? Stupid, stupid carelessness. Cost me my life.”

  I pulled my hoodie closer. Clutched my elbows. Groaned. “God.”

  “Sorry you asked?” he said.

  “It’s not that. It’s…is this what happens after you die?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear the answer. “You linger?”

  “Not usually. Most people cross over right away. I chose to stay.”

  “You chose to stay in the place where you were incinerated?”

  “Penny, I’m not the only one who died in that fire. A child—a baby—burned too. Because of me. I will not leave this place until I can make up for taking a life. I will not go until I can help someone, really help someone. Do you understand?”

  No, I didn’t. I didn’t understand anything. “So you’ve spent a hundred years just waiting around for someone to save. Jesus, don’t you die of boredom? I mean, sorry, but what do you do with yourself all day?”

  “I take walks. Think. Journey sometimes.”

  “Journey. So you get to travel.” That part didn’t sound so bad. Less monotonous, anyway.

  “Dream journey.” He sat cross-legged and closed his eyes, tapping his knees with splayed fingers. “A different kind of traveling. It takes you farther, deeper. My Finnish grandfather taught me—he fancied himself a bit of a shaman.” He opened his eyes. “You should come with me sometime.”

  “God, this is wild.” I moved closer and reached a tentative hand toward him. “Is this okay?” He nodded, so I continued, trying to rest my fingertips on his knee. My hand fell straight through to the loveseat below. “You try touching me now, see if it’ll work that way.”

  Blue looked pessimistic, but he did as I asked. First, he put his hand on the top of my head, then play-punched my leg, and finally tried to lift my arm. Nothing worked. I didn’t feel a thing.

  “Whoa, wait a minute,” I said. “How did you carry in those logs or light the match or handle the poker, if you’re like this?”

  “I don’t understand it myself. I’m fine with things that aren’t alive. But give me a warm body, and I turn to vapor. I can’t even swat a mosquito.” He laughed, but it was a heartbroken laugh. “Imagine trying to help someone when you can’t pick them up, pull them out, carry them, or even hold their hand. That’s part of the reason I’ve been here so long.”

  I tried one last time to touch him, but it was no use. That athletic, arrow-straight body was all vapor. I moved back to my side of the loveseat. “You should go,” I said.

  His face fell. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.” He uncrossed his legs and started to stand.

  “No,” I said, motioning him to sit back down. “You should go wherever you go when you cross over. You’ve tried long enough to help someone.
You should leave this place.”

  “I won’t.”

  “What a terrible sentence to serve.”

  “Until today, the worst part was not knowing when I’d ever have a real person to talk to again. If ever.” His eyes were blazing.

  I couldn’t stop watching him, his hands, his high cheeks, his collarbones sticking out from his shirt. His body looked so solid, so firm and solid, but it wasn’t. He really was a ghost. I was sitting here chatting with a man who died before my grandparents were even born. I started to shiver.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “I’ll turn up the heat.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just so bizarre. Why is it I can see you, and the others can’t?”

  He cocked his head as if to see me from a different angle. “You have a gift.”

  “I’m not sure I want it,” I blurted. “I mean—I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “It’s okay, I get it. I’m not sure I’d want to know me if the tables were turned.”

  “But…” I wanted to say something, but my words got lost in my spinning head.

  “Listen, why don’t you sleep on it? I should get going.”

  “Sleep, after this?”

  He stood up.

  “You don’t have to go,” I said, but he was already on his way to the door. “I didn’t mean what I said. That was the shock talking.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll come by again—if it’s all right.” He put his hand on the knob, then paused. “No stalking though, I promise.”

  He was gone before I realized I hadn’t even said good night.

  As I suspected, sleep didn’t come easily. When it finally did, I still didn’t get any rest, just crazy dreams. I was on a sailboat way out in the ocean, with no land in sight. George was on the boat too, but he didn’t know me, or maybe he was pretending not to know me. Mom rowed up in a little dinghy, video cameras hanging all over her. When I called out to her, everything changed, and I was sitting on a porch swing, rocking a baby in my arms. A dead baby.

  I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Suddenly, it started to pour. The whole porch filled up with rain, and the water washed me all the way back to the ocean, where the sailboat was waiting for me.

  I don’t remember how the dream ended, but I know I was glad to wake up.

  Chapter 4

  December 21

  The secret of life is to appreciate the pleasure of being terribly, terribly deceived.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Rita was grinding coffee beans when I got to the kitchen late the next morning. Even though I was a little peeved at her for standing me up last night, I was grateful to be in a room with a live, flesh-and-blood person. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Blue. He seemed like a great guy. But Jesus, he was a ghost. He was everything I denied and everything Mom clung to. He was a million questions and not enough answers. He was there and he wasn’t there, and he was sledgehammering my version of reality.

  “Hi,” I said, positioning myself across the island from Rita.

  “Good morning.” She finished grinding the beans, turned off the machine, and dumped the grounds into a gold filter before looking up.

  “What happened to you last night?” I asked, hoping to sound concerned, not accusatory.

  “I am sorry?”

  “Last night in the study. I thought we were supposed to meet there after supper. Did I have it wrong?”

  Rita plunked the filter into the coffee machine. “But I did not say I would come.”

  “Oh,” I said, puzzled. “I must have misunderstood.”

  “I said you should go to the study. I never said I would be there.”

  “But –” Then it dawned on me. “You told George to go to the study too, didn’t you?”

  Rita shook her head. “I did not tell George to go. I know he watches the news in the study every night, that is all. Tell me, was it really so bad?” Her vibe was all guileless and apologetic, making it hard to be annoyed.

  “Well,” I started, but suddenly Vincent was calling Rita from the dining room.

  “I must go,” she said. “Come back this afternoon. You tell me about last night, and I will teach you how to prepare an artichoke.” Sounded like I was getting the short end of that stick. And I didn’t even know the study had a TV.

  Alone again, I went over to watch the coffee perk. Then, just as I was about to pour myself a stiff mug, a voice behind me said, “You ready?”

  I looked up to see George leaning in the doorway, smiling and apparently relaxed. Thank God. I’d already started to wonder (slash worry) where he was this morning—not just where he was in the house, but where he was in his head. Was he going to be Grumpy or Happy today, or would he be switching back and forth? Was he going to like me, maybe even like me “that way,” or was he going to resent my very existence? From the looks of him now, it seemed like Nice George had come out to play. Maybe he really did just have a lousy headache yesterday. And the day before. Maybe there was hope.

  “Ready for what?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Early lunch. Let’s go out.”

  “The Grindle Point Shop?”

  “You’ve been then?” He sounded disappointed.

  “No, I just saw the sign on the way in. I haven’t been out of the house since I got here.”

  “C’mon then, grab your coat. We’ll take the van.”

  Was he asking me out on a date? All I could do was study him and hope the answer was printed on his face. What should I say?

  “Say yes,” he said. I ran upstairs to retrieve my jacket and mittens.

  As I hurried down the hall on my way back to George, the door to the Tiger Lily room opened, and a girl emerged—the same girl I’d seen in the parlor when I first arrived at the inn. She was barefoot this time, her hair in a ponytail, and she was staring, not just looking, at me.

  I diverted my eyes, thinking I’d just walk past her and be on my way. No such luck. She planted herself in the middle of the hallway and raised a hand to stop me.

  Now what? I stopped a few feet away from her. “Hello?” I said uneasily.

  “Listen here,” she said, her voice wispy and low. “I’m going to say this one time: stay away from Blue. Do you hear me? Stay away from him if you know what’s good for you.”

  Hold everything. This chick knew Blue? She could see him? But I thought I was the first one. The only one.

  She took a step closer. “Did you hear me?”

  I blinked. That was all I could muster.

  Tipping her head to one side, she looked me over the way you’d inspect a used car on the sales lot. “Not the prettiest shell on the beach, are you?” she said. “Not much style either.” Her eyes drifted from my sweatshirt to my ratty jeans to my scuffed clogs. Then she raised a slender finger and poked me in the chest, only I didn’t feel a thing. She was vapor.

  “Oh,” I said dumbly. Obviously, Blue left out part of the story when he told me about himself. Was this girl Blue’s family? Girlfriend? Had they known each other in life, or only since death? Why didn’t Blue want me to know about her? And what was she so suspicious about?

  “Did you hear me?” she demanded.

  “What? What do you want from me?”

  “Penny,” came George’s voice from the bottom of the stairs. “You talking to yourself? C’mon, I’m starving.”

  “I told you what I want from you,” she said. “I want you to keep away from Blue.” With that, she turned around and disappeared into the Tiger Lily room.

  “On my way,” I called down, throwing on my jacket and my Normal Face. I’d have to save the falling to pieces for later, alone. Right now, I had George waiting for me. I just hoped my Mask of Composure would fool him.

  He’d make a lovely corpse.

  –Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

  George opened the van door for me to get in—did that make it a date? I didn’t know, but I resolved to just enjoy myself. So what if George baffled me—it was kind of fun this way. An
d double so what if Ghost Girl had freaked me out? At this point, I couldn’t really remember what she’d even said or done. She was like a faded memory that couldn’t find its way to the surface…which was strange, since the encounter had just happened. In the end, I decided not to stress about something I couldn’t recollect.

  “I get to sit in front this time?” I asked coyly as I hopped in.

  “Your status has been elevated.”

  Elevated to what? Pal, potential hookup, possible love interest? Slow down, cowgirl, you’re getting way ahead of yourself. Again. We pulled out of the driveway and bumped along the snowy, barren road.

  “There’s the bakery,” he said, pointing to a lean-to off of someone’s bungalow. “And that,” he nodded toward a small brick building set back from the road, “that was my school, K-12. See the footbridge next to it? According to legend, if a boy and a girl cross paths on that bridge when no one else is around, they have to kiss.”

  “The only legend at my school is its bad food,” I said. Stupid, stupid. George was talking kissing, and I came back with cafeteria. Fortunately, he thought this was funny, and I got to see those dimples pop when he laughed.

  “How big was your graduating class?” I asked.

  He smirked. “That’s what my CIA friends ask when they find out I was salutatorian. They want to know if that put me in the top half or the bottom half.”

  “Well?”

  “There were fourteen of us that year,” he said, turning into the parking lot at our destination. “Practically a record. We had the Bucolla triplets and the Winooski twins to thank for that.”

  What a different world he grew up in. In Boston, I’ve never had a classroom, much less a whole grade, with less than 25 kids, which is probably for the best—it’s easier to hide yourself in a crowd, easier to avoid being noticed or being asked questions about where you live. I’d have died living on Islemorow. Visiting, however, was taking a turn for the better at the moment.