The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  Roger had a funny look on his face again. I was glad he couldn’t read my mind.

  He said, “This means a lot to you. I can see it in your face and in your eyes.”

  I stared down at the plans. “It does. More than I can say,” I said softly, surprised at the rough edges in my voice. I looked up and added, “Remember, I want to be there in person for site prep or any other work on the property.”

  He frowned. “I’ll tell the crews to be careful, but we’re deconstructing and clearing the whole site. What should they be careful of? What are you worried about?”

  “Back when the fire happened, after the ashes had cooled, I picked through and found personal items. They were charred but not destroyed. Other things, family things, might be buried deeper under the debris. I know it’s unlikely, especially after so long, but I want to be there to make sure nothing is disposed of that shouldn’t be.” I shrugged. “The kind of stuff that looks like junk to most might mean something to me.”

  “The workmen aren’t going to handpick through a pile of charcoal and debris, soaked and settled for twelve years. It’s not reasonable, Hannah.”

  “I understand, and I promise to be sensible. But if I stay away and dismiss it all as trash, I’ll always wonder. Plus, there’s the family cemetery. It doesn’t look like much. The stone wall is tumbledown, and not all the graves have markers. Workmen might not respect it or protect it.”

  “The cemetery is on the far side of the creek and up the slope. It shouldn’t be impacted at all. You can be sure it will be protected.”

  “Excellent, but I want to be there. I insist.”

  Roger groaned softly, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll go out there together. I’ll show you there’s nothing to worry over.”

  I touched his hand. “Thanks, Roger. I appreciate your efforts and all you’ve done. Once things are underway, I’ll relax a little, but for now—”

  His eyes had shifted. He was no longer looking at me. I turned toward the entrance to see what had caught his attention.

  A tall man. Broad-shouldered. Dark, longish curly hair with lighter streaks. Wearing jeans and boots. He was standing at the counter beside a stool talking to Shelby and was mostly turned away from me.

  I picked up my purse and eased out of the booth. “Sorry, Roger, I have to run. I just remembered an appointment.”

  Roger frowned and half rose as I stood, but I slipped discreetly through the diner, keeping my eyes fastened on the front door, and I didn’t stop until I was outside. Then, despite myself, I paused and turned back toward the window.

  There was no way that man could be who I thought. After all these years, I wouldn’t know Liam anyway unless he was wearing a name tag. This was a coincidence. A stranger with a familiar look. Nothing more.

  Roger was watching me through the glass. I’d made myself look foolish for no reason. At least it was with Roger. Roger might be curious, but he wouldn’t press the issue or hold it against me.

  Feeling slightly ridiculous, I forced a smile. I gave Roger a breezy wave and went straight to my car. As I unlocked the door, I stopped. The idea that I shouldn’t take Roger for granted intruded, and I almost turned back.

  I didn’t take him for granted, but I could see how it might look that way. Still, there were things I couldn’t explain to him or to anyone else.

  Other worries aside, I could count on Roger. He’d cover my tab for my coffee and sweet roll, and he’d build my house, and I’d make sure to let him know how much I appreciated his friendship and help.

  I should’ve gone to my pottery shop. I drove right past it on my way home from the diner. At the shop, I could’ve been productive and worked off my lingering anxiety. Instead, I went straight home to Rose Lane, kicked off my shoes in the foyer, dropped my purse on a chair, and threw myself down on the living room sofa. I hugged a pillow and stared at the sunlight playing around the open blinds in the front windows.

  Quiet. Peaceful. Clean. No dust coated the slats of these blinds. Not a single fingerprint marred the window glass. The frames on the wall—paintings, drawings, family photos featuring Ellen and me—were the same. Clean surfaces. Shiny glass. Everything was in its place, and all was well with my world. The glazed pots from Cooper’s Hollow, the ones formed by my grandmother’s and her mother’s hands, were displayed on special shelving Roger had made for me after the earthquake. I’d been lucky during that shake. One couldn’t expect such luck every time. With this shelving, the pots wouldn’t go anywhere unless the house itself fell down.

  The man who’d walked into Dell’s . . . could he have been Liam? How unlikely would that be? Would it matter if it was?

  I put aside the sofa pillow and sat up. Collapsing had never worked to relax me. I took a clean dust rag from the pantry box and began polishing the knickknacks and keepsakes.

  Back when the house in Cooper’s Hollow burned, some of the old hand- and wheel-thrown bowls and pots had been stored in the nearby log cabin. The house itself was small. It didn’t have much display space. Besides, my grandparents were people who viewed a house as practical and utilitarian—much as the women had viewed the pots when they’d crafted them. Attractive was good, but an item must first and foremost be useful. As it turned out, it was fortunate these pots had been stored in the cabin, or I would’ve lost them all in the fire.

  I ran my fingers over the pots. These were my history, and I’d continued the family tradition in a quiet storefront on Main Street in Mineral. The sign in the window read CUB CREEK POTTERY. It didn’t get many shoppers with ready cash, but it was mostly for me anyway. It was a place to work on the clay without messing up the house and a business address for my few clients to send requests or payments. Sometimes I gave lessons. But I never opened the store on Monday, even when I was there working the wheel. That was my time—time when I was guaranteed peace and quiet in which to work.

  Ellen would be home from school in a couple of hours. She’d need a ride to her job at the grocery store. She filled in at the customer service desk and checkout during supper breaks. I found it rather a pain in the butt for the few hours she worked each week, but Ellen was that kind of kid. She needed to be out and doing, and I figured “doing” might as well be productive. She’d be home for a late supper after and to take care of her schoolwork. Finals and graduation were less than two months away. She was already set for college, and some might think the GPA didn’t matter much now, but it did for her.

  She was the best part of my life. My beautiful, intelligent, charming daughter. My Ellen.

  I tossed the dust rag into the bin, fluffed the sofa pillows, and straightened the cushions, then went to the back door. I paused to grab a bottle of water from the fridge and to slip my feet into my yard shoes. The backyard garden was relatively shady this time of day, and nothing relaxed me like working with my hands. I donned my gloves, knelt on the rubber kneepad, and spent a couple of quiet hours searching out the tiny weeds from the dirt. As I turned the soil with the spade, I amended it with fertilizer. I wouldn’t plant anything outside until May due to frost worries. My grandmother had always insisted I wait. I laughed softly at the memory. She would’ve told me yet again about that Easter snow when she was young, of how deep it had been. And then she would go on to recite stories of late frosts that had tricked many an unwary gardener. Small wonder I learned early to start the seedlings in the safety of the house. In a few short weeks, I’d move them out here.

  If the house building went as planned, I’d end up transplanting the herbs, the tomato and cucumber plants, and whatever else I decided to grow, to the Hollow come June. Knowing I’d be putting the plants through a second move, a good start was especially important.

  Using the back of my gloved hand, I brushed my hair away from my face. The sun was warm on my back. The breeze touched my cheeks. It made me smile. I couldn’t collapse properly, but at least I knew how to laugh at myself. Nerves got me going. No wonder I stayed slim.

  I was feeling better now. It was time to
put away my tools and wash up. Ellen would be home soon, and she’d be hungry.

  Her friend Bonnie dropped her off at the house. I heard the car drive up and then drive away, and Ellen came through the front door, calling out, “Mom? Mom?”

  She was always upbeat. I glanced at the clock. Right on time. Her snack was waiting on the island in the kitchen.

  “Here you are,” Ellen said as she dropped her notebook on the granite counter and hopped up onto the island stool. “Guess what?” She took a sip of lemonade. “Remember I told you Bonnie was waitlisted for Tech?”

  I would’ve nodded, but Ellen barely paused, saying, “Bonnie got the letter.” Her face glowed, and her dark eyes flashed with amber sparks.

  “For Tech?”

  “Of course. We’ll be there together! We’ll room together. Or get an apartment together. Oh, Mom, it’s going to be great.”

  “Wow. I don’t even know what to say.” I tried to match her excitement, but many emotions swirled inside me and it was hard to sound genuine.

  Luckily, Ellen didn’t seem to notice my hesitation. “I know, right? How amazing is it?”

  “Amazing. For now, though, you’d better eat. What time do you have to be at work?”

  “At five. I get off at seven.”

  I walked over to stand beside her. “What about your homework?”

  She sighed, tossing her long, dark hair. It fell across her shoulder and cascaded down her back again in perfect lines, like a fan spreading wide. I couldn’t help myself. I pulled the locks back and away from her face while she bit into the sandwich. She allowed me a few minutes of play-braiding her hair while she chewed.

  “Soon, homework—at least for high school—will be a thing of the past,” I said, her hair entwined with my fingers. “What am I going to do when you take off for college?”

  Ellen was suddenly still. She leaned the side of her head against my palm. “I’ll only be three hours away.”

  “More like four,” I responded.

  “Are you going to be OK, Mom?”

  I was appalled at myself. I didn’t want to lose her, but more than that, I didn’t want to hold her back. I released her hair and put my hands on her shoulders.

  “Don’t you worry. I have plans, remember? Be patient with your old mom? I have to do a certain amount of moaning and groaning. How else will you know you’ll be missed?”

  “Old? You’re the youngest mom I know of in the whole senior class. People think you’re my older sister.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You were my age when I was born.”

  “No, ma’am. I was nineteen. You are seventeen.” I watched the braid fall apart, slowly unwinding. “Besides, I have plans. Plans I’ve put off for many years. It’s time now.”

  Ellen smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “So those plans of yours . . . do they include Roger?”

  “Of course. He was showing me the house plans earlier today.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Roger and I are friends. Good friends. That’s it.”

  “Fine.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong, but have it your way. Tell me, then, if not Roger, then someone else? You should have someone special, someone all your own. A boyfriend. I worry about you, Mom.”

  “Well, don’t. If I meet anyone I’m interested in romantically, I’ll be sure to lasso and hog-tie him until you have a chance to pass judgment.” I patted her shoulder. “Now finish your sandwich and I’ll drive you over.” Then I saw it. I touched her wrist. “What’s this?”

  “My butterfly?” She saw my expression and giggled. “It’s temporary, Mom. Not a real tattoo.”

  Earlier in the school year, Ellen had drawn a big, colorful butterfly on the front of her notebook. Now she’d inked one in black on her forearm above her wrist.

  “It’s a felt-tipped pen, Mom. It’ll wear off.” She sounded sad. Then the end of her mouth quirked up, and she put her wrist next to her cheek and asked, “What do you think? How would this look? A butterfly on my cheek?”

  I pulled her arm away from her face. “No tattoos.”

  She was teasing. I was horrified anyway.

  “No tattoos. I mean it.”

  She touched the flesh where she’d drawn the butterfly. “Bonnie and I want to get matching tattoos. Just a small butterfly, Mom, that’s all. On our arms, I think. Monarchs. Those are the orange ones.”

  “Don’t even consider it.”

  She groaned. “Mom, no fair. Everyone has tattoos now. And this one is appropriate. Symbolic. We are starting whole new lives. Leaving Mineral and high school behind. Becoming adults and being on our own at college—”

  “No tattoos.” I frowned and pointed at her. “Promise me.”

  “For now, I promise.”

  “I don’t like surprises. Not that kind, anyway.”

  “I promise I won’t do it without telling you first.”

  “Not without my agreement.”

  “But, Mom, you’ll never agree.”

  “Don’t say never. Nothing is forever or never, and stuff happens all the time whether we want it to or not. But tattoos? When you’re thirty, if you still want one, then I won’t interfere.” I paused. “Probably.”

  Ellen stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. She turned back toward me. “I love you, Mom, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m about to graduate.”

  “And?”

  “And,” she said, “that means you have to trust me to make my own decisions. That means it’s time to trust me. Now. You’ve taught me everything I need to know about handling life.” As she spun away, her words trailed off and I couldn’t mistake the blithe note in her voice as she said, “We may not always agree . . .”

  “No tattoos,” I repeated as I grabbed my purse. “And no piercings, either!”

  The next morning, I dropped Ellen off at school and drove out to the old homeplace.

  In those first years after the fire, Ellen and I had visited Cooper’s Hollow often. We’d worked together in the shade, cleaning up the graves and sharing our memories. As she moved from elementary to middle and then high school, she became less enthusiastic about going. It seemed to me her attitude was normal and healthy for a teenager. Life seeks life, and young people are like magnets for each other. Ellen went less often, but nothing changed for me. It was important to me to keep the memories fresh, along with keeping the graves weeded and neat.

  Going out there with Roger for the preconstruction visit would be different. There would be workmen and strangers with big clumsy equipment and their own agendas. It would be nice when the construction was finished, I didn’t doubt it, but Cooper’s Hollow would be changed forever.

  Nothing stays the same, I reminded myself.

  This might be my last peaceful visit. The house had burned down twelve years earlier, yet each time I saw the blackened pile of debris, the acrid smell rose again—at least in my memory—and reminded me of our fear that night and of our loss. Beyond the dark, charred heap of what had been our home stood the outbuildings. Those rickety old buildings of weathered gray wood had been untouched by the fire. They still stood, but in varying degrees of collapse. The chicken coop was in shambles. Same with the dog pens. When my grandfather died during my senior year of high school, Gran gave the dogs away to his hunting friends. With the dogs gone, the coyotes grew bolder, and we gave up keeping the chickens.

  Grand’s toolshed still stood. I hadn’t opened the door in years. I suspected the junk filling the shed kept it upright as much as its construction did. Beyond the shed was a ramshackle barn. Its stalls had sheltered a few cows and goats through the years. Even a barn cat or two had called it home. We’d had a horse for a short time when I was a child. Upstream, the springhouse was almost lost amid the trees. It straddled a natural spring and caught the water as it bubbled up from the ground and flowed down the hill to Cub Creek. Closest to hand, very near the burned house, was the original log cabin.

  No one
knew how old the cabin was, though Grand had mused about it a time or two. His great-grands had built the “new” house where I’d lived growing up. It was roomier than the cabin with a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and, eventually, indoor plumbing. The log cabin was used for storage, but when I was teenager, it was where I worked my potter’s wheel and where Grand had set up the kiln. He’d ordered the parts by mail, assembled it, and rigged the kiln to work with propane. The wheel was secondhand but a beauty, and Grand was as tickled to give it to me as I was to receive it.

  He ran an electrical line out to the cabin to make it work and for me to be able to plug in a lamp for light. An old treadle wheel my grandmother’s mother had used was stored in a dark, musty corner of the cabin. Grand said the old treadle wheel was too heavy to move because it might fall apart and break Gran’s heart. I was happy with the electric wheel, plus I had a table for wedging and handwork. When I was young, Gran would sit out there in a chair by the hearth to keep me company. She’d share advice while I worked the clay. I had plenty of room, and over time I moved more of Grand’s stuff out of the way. By then we’d stopped calling it the old cabin and referred to it as my pottery cabin.

  Grand died while I was in high school, and his death, more than anything else, marked the biggest change in our lives and in our plans, though we didn’t necessarily understand it at the time. In our grief, we simply mourned. He was laid to rest in our cemetery, the Cooper family cemetery. Its stone walls occupied a spot across the creek and up the hill—the natural stone aged and blending in with the trees and leaves and shade, such that, sometimes one could hardly pick the cemetery out from its surroundings. Grand’s remains rested there with his parents, my parents, and others whose graves weren’t marked.

  In the years since the fire, when I came out here to the homeplace to reminisce and tend the cemetery, I always paused in the driveway in the spot where Ellen and I had huddled together in shock as the flames rose, and the old wood snapped and crackled, and smoke filled the air, and had watched as our home and our worldly goods were consumed by a mindless force.