The Butterfly’s Daughter

by Mary Alice

  You remember how we threw that foul larvae of the fly away, eh? That is what you must do. You must discard that horrible word from your mind and not let it fester.

  Abuela never brought the topic up again and neither had Luz thought of it. Until today. She felt she was peeling an onion and her eyes began to sting and water. The fact that she was illegitimate was no big deal, her mind told her. That word was archaic, watered down by time and tolerance. It didn’t define her. Nor would it define Ofelia’s sweet baby when he or she was born.

  Why, then, did the word have the power to make her curl up in her cocoon of a car, shivering like she did that day thirteen years earlier?

  Ten

  Monarchs begin their epic journey as individual butterflies. They are joined by tens, hundreds, thousands, and tens of thousands of other monarchs, all traveling to the same destination. During the day they feast on nectar from favorite flowers, and at night when the light fades and temperatures drop, they roost close together in trees.

  Waking to her face being licked was a new experience for Luz. Prying open an eye, she saw two large ears fanning out from a fawn-colored head like butterfly wings. She turned her face from the velvety tongue and moved Serena off her.

  “Okay, that’s enough kisses. No more. I’m awake!”

  Yawning, she raised herself up on her elbows, moving slowly as her muscles complained from being too long in the same position. She mopped her face with her hands, then looked out the window. The sun was beginning its descent in the west. Glancing at her watch, she discovered she’d slept hard, two, maybe three hours. Her mouth felt stale and her head groggy, like she could sleep another eight hours. She needed some fresh air. Stepping outside the car, she noted the dropping temperature and reached for her jacket.

  “Come on, Serena. Want to go for a walk?”

  She reattached the slender rope to Serena’s collar and the two took off along the gravel path. Serena trotted by her side like a filly, her slender legs strutting out before her, delighted to be out of the car on the walk. Caterpillars were the closest thing to a pet she’d ever had. Luz had never known how a skinny, bad-breathed, big-eared dog could help fill the void left by her grandmother.

  As she walked through the maze of nurseries, a small burst of orange in the air caught Luz’s attention. She stopped short and, swinging her head, spotted a monarch in a dizzying flight pattern. With a start, she spotted another. And another two flying high in the air. Picking up the pace, she and Serena followed them down the narrow path.

  In a breath, the path opened to a great field of alfalfa that rolled over hills as far as she could see. She stood facing the vista, feeling the country breeze on her cheeks and drinking in the sight. Again she spotted familiar bits of bright orange floating over the field, monarchs sipping the last nectar of the day before the sunset. She raised her hand like a visor over her eyes and, squinting, she spied several butterflies flying toward a single cluster of trees that sat smack in the middle of the field.

  “Come on, Serena,” she said with a gentle tug. Her heart pounding with excitement, she took off after them.

  The great oaks stood in a majestic cluster, their thick yet graceful branches intertwined, like giant goddesses in a prayer circle. Luz felt a sense of awe as she approached them. She’d heard stories of farmers who knew about certain trees that were sacred and that should never be cut. Driving across the midwestern countryside, from time to time Luz spied a small cluster of trees in the middle of a plowed field and wondered.

  Luz slowed her pace as she approached these holy trees. Stepping under the canopy of entwined limbs she sucked in her breath. Abuela had told her about such things, but Luz had never seen it, nor could she have ever imagined it. She felt like she was walking into a cathedral. She walked slowly, on tiptoe, trying not to make a noise to disturb the settling butterflies. Even Serena appeared hushed and watchful, her ears high and alert.

  Nestled in the protective embrace of the mother trees were several hundred monarch butterflies. They clustered close, roosting side by side with their paper-thin wings closed tight, appearing as countless gray-brown leaves on the branches. When a new monarch fluttered in and jockeyed for position on the crowded branch, wings fluttered, revealing bursts of fiery orange color as the others made space.

  “So many . . . ,” she breathed. Who knew where they all came from? Perhaps one came from Abuela’s garden, all the way from Milwaukee. Luz smiled at that possibility.

  “Hey there!”

  Luz’s heart leaped to her throat at the sound of a man’s voice. Serena erupted in a warning bark, her small back coiling in alarm. A rush of wings fluttered around her as a hundred butterflies swooped like bats. Luz swung down to scoop up her growling dog, then turned to see a tall, slender man approach. He was dressed in worn field pants, a brown shirt with pens in the pocket and rolled-up sleeves that exposed long, tanned arms, and a faded, broad-brimmed hat. On his back he carried a knapsack, and in his hands a butterfly net. Seeing the net, she relaxed her guard. It signaled a purpose for his being here. And Luz didn’t imagine she’d be attacked by a man with a butterfly net.

  He approached slowly, his arms swinging in an easy gait, careful not to spook her or the butterflies. As he drew near, he nodded his head in friendly greeting.

  Luz saw he had the long, thoughtful face of a scholar and the weathered tan of a man who spent many hours in the sun. His hair was the color of the prairie grass surrounding them, his eyes of the Kansas sky overhead. His mustache and soul patch moved when he smiled.

  “My name’s Billy McCall,” he began by way of introduction. “I’m a biologist with the University of Kansas. This is a favorite spot for me to tag butterflies. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.”

  He tilted his head in a friendly manner but his eyes were shrewd as he took her measure. He was older than she, but not old. His boyish build and his white-blond hair made it hard to speculate, but she thought he was somewhere in his late thirties. Though he continued to smile, his look pinned her, asking her name and right to be at this place.

  Luz pushed her hair from her face, acutely aware that it was as thick and tangled as the brush beneath the tree. She shifted her weight nervously and shushed Serena, who growled low in her throat. She hoped they weren’t trespassing. “I’m Luz Avila,” she answered. “I’m just visiting folks over at the Hidden Ponds Nursery. I saw the butterflies and followed them in here. I hope that’s okay.”

  The corners of his mouth turned downward, indicating his uncertainty as he focused on Serena. “Sure. As long as your little dog there doesn’t spook them.”

  “She won’t,” Luz replied. “But be careful not to spook her or she might bite you.”

  He gave a short laugh of disbelief, then looked over his shoulder at the setting sun. Shifting his weight, he swung his backpack to his arm. “If you don’t mind,” he said, walking past her, “I’ve got to tag a few more before dark.”

  Luz stepped out of his way, patting Serena to keep her from yapping. Billy approached the lower branches of the tree with the soft-footed stealth of a cat. He was slim but his shoulders were broad like a swimmer’s.

  She saw what he was after. At the base of a low-lying branch was a small cluster of butterflies. She held her breath as he stopped beneath the branch, motionless but alert. The cat was poised to pounce, she thought.

  In a flash, Billy’s arm shot out and the net swept over the limb. Luz squelched her yelp of surprise. Billy flipped his wrist neatly and stepped back, bringing the end of the net bag over the handle, closing off the wide mouth. Several butterflies fluttered off to a spot higher up in the leaves, but in the deep of his net, Luz could see at least five monarchs struggling to escape.

  He used one hand to hold the net handle and with the other he removed a butterfly using his thumb and forefinger. She admired his speed and technique as he worked with a single-minded focus, as though she weren’t even there. Luz’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp when he placed th
e wings between his lips, reached into his left pocket, and pulled out a glassine envelope. Then he removed the butterfly from his mouth and tucked it neatly into the envelope. He repeated this over and over until all the butterflies were neatly placed in envelopes and stored in the canvas pouch he carried at his side. When he was finished with all five, his eyes searched more of the branches.

  “What are you doing with all those monarchs?” she dared to ask.

  “What, this?” he asked, indicating his pouch. “I’m tagging them,” he said in a tone that implied it was obvious. He saw her face cloud with doubt, and a wry smile creased lines into the corners of his eyes. She figured he’d had lots of success with that lazy grin in his lifetime.

  “I don’t have time to tag them all now. That sun is fixing to set any minute. So I’ll bring these guys home. Each one will get measured and weighed. I’ll check out the condition of the wings, determine sex, and tag them. It’ll take me an hour at least so I like to do it while watching a football game. I figure I’ve got over fifty in there. I’ve already tagged another hundred. It’s been a good day.”

  He looked out over the field and pursed his lips in thought. “This is a prime spot for finding butterflies. One of the few left in these parts. Time was, there were fields like this all across the Midwest—wild butterfly meadows, fields of goldenrod—rich with diverse ecosystems that supported a few dozen species of butterflies. Not to mention all the bees. And now? Like the song says, they put up a parking lot.” He paused and she sensed his sadness at the thought. “Every year, I come out to this field and hold my breath, praying it’s still here.”

  “Doesn’t it hurt them to put them in those envelopes?”

  He shook his head. “Wouldn’t do it if it did,” he replied easily. “These envelopes protect them from hurting themselves fluttering their wings. I put them in my cooler and it calms them down, kind of like roosting here overnight. They lie all still in the dark, like they’re asleep. In the morning I’ll release them and they’ll go on their merry way, hopefully all the way to Mexico.”

  “I never understood why you tag them. Their wings seem so fragile to put that sticker on them. Doesn’t it slow them down?”

  “Nope.” He pulled out a sheet of Monarch Watch tags and showed them to her. “See, these tags are ultralight. And the monarchs are amazing creatures. So fragile yet so strong. They don’t have any problem with them. It’s kind of like you wearing a shirt when you run. We tag them to get answers to a lot of questions we have about their migration patterns. How do they navigate? What markers do they use? There’s a whole lot we don’t know about these amazing bugs.”

  The passion for butterflies she heard in his voice appealed to her; that kind of devotion was attractive.

  “So each year we tag them,” Billy continued, “and if anyone finds a butterfly with a tag on it, they call in the number. So if, say, a butterfly from Nebraska or Maine made it to the sanctuary and somebody found the tag, it would help us learn more about them. And the more we learn, the more we can protect them and perpetuate the species. Hopefully we’ll recover a lot of these tags this year.”

  She thought of the thousands of butterflies Abuela had raised and how she would have loved to have helped the likable Billy McCall with his study. “Is it hard to learn?”

  “Not at all. I teach volunteers all the time.” He tilted his head and his smile lifted one corner of his mouth, almost flirtatiously. “Want to tag one? That is, if your dog won’t get in the way.”

  The offer surprised her. “Me? Sure. Wait, let me put her down.” Luz settled Serena on the ground and tied the rope around a nearby shrub. To her relief, for once Serena was calm and obliging. Luz made a note to give her a treat later.

  Billy walked to a low branch where a half dozen butterflies sat with their wings tightly closed, like sitting ducks. Once again he swooped and captured all six.

  This time, Luz helped him bring the butterflies out from the net with her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the familiar feel of the tender wings. Billy showed her where to place the small white dot of paper and as she did so, he recorded the number on his sheet.

  They stood so close that his cotton sleeve grazed hers; she felt a crackling tension and wondered if it was one-sided. She scolded herself for being foolish and told herself to concentrate on the delicate task at hand. She completed all six with a dexterity that surprised Billy. They continued to work side by side, Billy catching and Luz tagging and releasing as the sun lowered in the western sky.

  She recalled Abuela telling her that if you whispered your wish to a butterfly, then released it, the butterfly would carry your wish to the heavens. So with each butterfly release, she sent her love to her grandmother on the monarch’s wings.

  In the next half hour they finished tagging all the butterflies that Billy captured.

  “That makes another thirty-seven tagged, for a grand total of a hundred and forty-two today.” He turned his head and looked at her quizzically. “You’ve done this before,” he said, calling her bluff.

  “No, really I haven’t.” Her lips twitched. “But I’ve handled butterflies before.”

  “Thought so. Where?”

  “My grandmother raised them from the eggs she found on the milkweed in her garden. She taught the children in the neighborhood how to raise them, too, and all about metamorphosis. She believed if you taught a child about nature, you hooked them for life. I was her chief cook and bottle washer, so I’ve been handling caterpillars and butterflies all my life.”

  Billy raised his brows, impressed by this. “I don’t hear that too often. Usually people are just so surprised to find out how interesting this little bug is, they want to learn more. And I’m happy to teach them. Like your grandmother.”

  He bent to gather his backpack while Luz untied Serena’s rope and scooped her up in her arms so that she wouldn’t have a hard time in the thick brush in the dark. As they walked, the sun lowered. Luz sensed that he was as aware of her presence as she was of his. He was a lot like Sully in his easygoing, midwestern manner, but he was completely different, too. Billy was an academic, like her grandfather, and she felt the tug and pull of a man completely secure in his career and intelligence.

  “So, your grandmother raised butterflies,” he said over the loud crunching of their boots on dry ground.

  “Uh-huh. For as long as I’ve known her.”

  “It’s great that your grandmother took the time to teach kids. I teach at the university, but I’m always out with kids at schools or helping them learn to tag. Kids get it. They’re so eager to learn and help. They’re the future.”

  “I think that’s why Abuela did it, too. But it’s also part of her culture. She was raised in Mexico in a village near where the monarchs migrate every year. Her family reveres the monarchs and welcomes their return.”

  He seemed to focus in on this. “Oh yeah? Where about?”

  “It’s a small town, I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Angangueo.”

  He turned his head, a crooked grin on his face, and studied her with a look of bemusement. “No kidding? I’m heading that way later this week.”

  Luz didn’t know whether this was just one of those weird coincidences you looked back on in life and knew it was meant to be, or karma. After all, how many people could be heading toward Angangueo?

  “Talk about synchronicity,” she said with a soft laugh. “So what takes you to Angangueo, of all places?”

  “The monarchs, of course. Part of my job is to scout out the overwintering colonies to observe and catalog them. I love research and teaching, but I’m a field researcher at heart. Being in the mountains tracking the colonies, that’s what I love to do most.”

  She could imagine him in the mountain forests tracking butterflies. A roaming scientist with his backpack and net, more a Dr. Livingston than an adventurer.

  “Are you flying?”

  “No, I’m driving. I have a lot of equipm
ent.”

  She perked up at this, eager for a firsthand account of border crossing. “I heard it was dangerous to cross the borders now.”

  “Could be. But I’ve been doing this every year for the past ten, so I know my route pretty well and don’t veer from it.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there,” she added, throwing it out there like a challenge.

  He cocked his head and skewered her with his eyes. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yep.”

  He chuckled incredulously and tugged at his mustache. “When are you heading out?”

  “I’m on my way now, which was why I was curious about crossing the borders. I don’t want to run into any banditos. This is just a stopover. I dropped off a friend who needed a ride but I have to get back on the road. I need to get there by the Day of the Dead.”

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  “I hope not. My plan is to have my aunt go with me.”

  “That’s good. Never a good idea to take a trip like that alone, you being a pretty girl and all. Just make sure your paperwork is in order, get your car insured, and stick to the main roads. You’ll be fine.”

  Luz felt better getting encouragement from someone who’d actually driven the trip.

  Billy looked off at the tree draped with monarchs. “I’ve been chasing butterflies for ten years and one thing I’ve learned is that what we call coincidence is more expected than unexpected. Many scientists and theologians believe that everything that occurs can be related to a prior cause or association. Look at all those monarchs,” he said, lifting his arm to indicate the hundreds of monarchs hanging in dense masses, showing their dull gray under-wings. “Each one sets out on this journey alone. Yet along the way it hooks up with other butterflies all heading in the same direction, to the same place, at the same time, forming a river of monarchs flowing across the sky. And at night, they cluster together in trees to form roosts like this.”