The Glass Butterfly

by Louise Marley

  “I spoke to the sheriff’s office,” Chet said.

  Jack turned to face him. “Did you? Why?”

  “Well.” Chet cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t mind, but you’re so young, and all on your own. They thought it was better if it came from someone you know.”

  Jack kept his back braced on the counter. The coffeepot gurgled, and the darkness beyond the windows seemed to intensify. “What is it?”

  “It’s about declaring your mother—deciding she’s really—” Chet pursed his lips, and cleared his throat as if he couldn’t bring himself to speak the word.

  “Dead,” Jack said. He shifted his shoulders. “I understand that’s what it’s about.”

  “Right.” Chet sighed, and folded his hands together on the counter. “It’s just—man, it seems harsh.”

  “It is harsh.” The coffeepot gave a final gurgle, and Jack turned to pick up the pot. He carried it to the counter, and set it on a trivet. As he took cups from the cupboard, he said, “What did the sheriff say?”

  “Well, it’s about this ‘death in absentia’ thing,” Chet said. He took a cup from Jack, and poured coffee for both of them. “I don’t know if this comes from the police or from a judge, but the sheriff said that if the preponderance of evidence—those were his words—if the preponderance of evidence points toward death, then the missing person is declared dead.”

  “I thought it took seven years,” Jack said.

  “Not always, I guess. After 9/11, they told me, there were a lot of declarations made in a hurry. They can make a death declaration whenever they think it’s reasonable, and in Tory’s case, it seems they do.”

  “That’s why we’re not having—what do you call it—probate?”

  “You don’t have to worry about probate,” Chet said. “Your mom’s will was clear, and it was up to date. Her usual efficiency. Everything goes to you, so—”

  “But not if she’s not dead.”

  “They think she is, Jack.” Chet blew on his coffee, then set down the cup without sipping. “I’m sorry to have to say that to you, son, but it’s been more than six weeks. We have to face the facts, tragic though they are.” He gave Jack a sympathetic look, and Jack knew he should feel grateful. Chet was doing the best he could. He added, as if more persuasion were needed, “The sheriff called it ‘the balance of probability.’ The probability being that Tory is no longer alive.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. His voice was rough, and he shook his head, hoping Chet understood. “I got that.”

  “Have some coffee, son. Let’s talk it through. You’re going to have bills, the mortgage, life insurance, all the things we have to deal with when someone dies.”

  Jack filled his cup, and pulled a stool up to the island opposite Chet. “I appreciate that you’re trying to help me. I do. And Kate, too—she’s been great.” He sat down, and fingered the cup. “Mom’s not dead, though. She’ll be back.”

  Chet gave him a sad, paternal look. For a moment Jack was afraid he was going to reach across the island to pat his shoulder, or worse, take his hand as if he were a child. He breathed a heavy sigh, and his plump cheeks drooped. He said, “It’s natural, I’m sure. I don’t know much about these things, but I suppose you haven’t accepted it yet.”

  “It’s not that.” Jack turned to the side, angling his body so he didn’t have to see the pity in Chet’s gaze. “I accepted it at first. When the dean told me. It was a shock, and I was practically—well, I could barely move. But then, on the train, I knew—I just had this feeling—” He stretched out his legs, and stared down at his worn sneakers. “I know she’s not dead, Chet. I can’t explain it.”

  “I’m sure that’s a comfort, but—”

  “No!” Jack shook his head so his shock of hair fell over his eyes, and he had to push it back with his hand. “No, it’s not a comfort! There’s something wrong, some reason she’s not here, and I have to find out what that is!” He made a fist on the countertop beside his coffee cup.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Chet said quietly.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  A silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the hiss of steam from the coffeemaker and the rush from the furnace as the heat came on. Jack said finally, “I shouldn’t have said anything. I knew no one would believe me. I didn’t believe in Mom’s premonitions, either.”

  “Did she have those?”

  “All the time. She stopped telling me, though, after—I used to make fun of her. They were so weird, you know. Embarrassing.”

  “Yes.” Chet gave a hollow chuckle. “There’s nothing a parent can do that’s worse than embarrassing his kid.” Jack wished he could laugh about it, acknowledge that it was normal, something all families experienced.

  Chet drained his coffee cup, and set it down. “Look, Jack,” he said. “I sure don’t want to be the bad guy here.”

  “You’re not.” Jack turned to face him, resting his elbows on the counter. “You’re a good friend who’s trying to help out a dumb kid.”

  “Not dumb. You’re a smart young guy. But this is a hell of a situation.”

  “Yeah. It is.”

  “I think you should do your best to face the truth, though, son. The sheriff believes your mother died, and he’s ready to declare that to the court. It will free up Tory’s estate so you can manage things.”

  Jack chewed his lower lip, and twirled his coffee cup on the counter. He didn’t want to argue with Chet. Not only wouldn’t it do any good, but the poor guy had obviously been waiting for the chance to say this. He finally said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, nothing now. The sheriff will report to the court, and when there’s a declaration of death, there will be forms to take to the bank, to the insurance companies, that sort of thing.”

  Jack felt a rush of irritation. This wasn’t what they should be talking about. They should be trying to think where Tory had gone, how they could find her, what had made her flee, not how to take over her finances. He gritted his teeth against making some stupid remark that would just upset Chet.

  “You okay, Jack?” Chet asked, in his grandfatherly way.

  “Yeah. Yeah, Chet, I’m just thinking.”

  “Well. No need to worry about it just now. It will all take a bit of time.” He climbed off the stool, and carried his coffee cup to the sink. “No reason you shouldn’t go back to school,” he said, feigning casualness. “Kate and I will keep an eye on the place for you.”

  Jack was on more certain ground here. “I took a leave of absence.”

  Chet paused, the cup in his hand over the sink. “I suppose I can’t talk you out of that.”

  “Well, it’s sort of a done deal. I called the dean—I’ve missed most of the quarter anyway. They call it bereavement leave, so I’m okay.”

  “Kate’s not going to be too happy with me,” Chet said, shaking his head. “That was my real assignment tonight, to talk you into going back to college.” He turned to face Jack, leaning his back against the edge of the sink. His paunch strained at his shirt, and absently, he fidgeted with the waistband of his slacks. “I would think, Jack, you’d want to be with your friends.”

  “They e-mail me.”

  “No girlfriend?”

  Jack shook his head. “No.”

  Chet put his head to one side, and smiled. He looked younger when he smiled, less weary. “Come on, Jack, a good-looking young guy like you? There must be girls. Or even—” He colored, and waved an embarrassed hand. “Well, I’m old-fashioned, but if you’re not . . . I mean . . .”

  Jack gave a brief chuckle. “I’m straight, Chet, if that’s what you mean. And yeah, there are girls, but . . .”

  “Nobody special, huh?”

  Jack didn’t know how to say it. He would have liked to confide in someone, someone with real-life experience. He’d even thought of it, once or twice. He’d considered going to the counselor at school, b
ut it seemed such a lame thing to do, and he didn’t know how he would find the words. He could hardly tell Chet, especially not right now, about his problems with girls. He liked them fine. There had been two or three he liked a lot, but the feeling didn’t last. It never lasted. He figured there was something wrong with him, something that made him irritable and restive in his relationships. It was the same thing, he feared, that made him draw back from his mother. And hurt her.

  All he said now was, “No. No one special.”

  “Just the same, Jack. You’re too young to hole up here, spinning your wheels.”

  “I know. I’m going to go back. I’ll go back when—” He stopped. He had been going to say, “When Mom comes back,” but clearly, that wasn’t a good idea. He was the only person in the whole damn world who thought she would return one day. Who believed she was alive.

  He wished, suddenly, that he had just one person to talk to, to turn to, one person he could trust not to dismiss this powerful conviction. Ironically, that person would have been Tory.

  “Well,” Chet said, though he seemed doubtful. “You can go back in the spring.”

  “Right.”

  Chet gathered up his jacket and keys, and stood irresolute in the middle of the kitchen. “Sure you wouldn’t rather come stay with us, Jack? Kate would love to have you.”

  “I’m sure. You guys have been great, though.”

  Chet looked around at Tory’s pretty things. “Not that I know much about kitchens, but this one is really nice.”

  “I know. Mom loves—loved this house.”

  “And you have everything, I know—when Kate needed something, she always called Tory. Whether it was a zester—whatever that is—or a wrench, your mom always had it.”

  “Everything but an iron. Mom hates those.”

  “Didn’t like to iron, huh?”

  “Nope. Nothing but permanent press in this house.”

  “I guess everyone has their little weakness.”

  Jack stood, and walked with Chet to the front door. “Tell Kate thanks again,” he said. “The dinner was great.”

  “I will.” Chet shrugged into his jacket. The lock on his car chirped, but still he hesitated on the doorstep. “Call us, son. Don’t be lonely.”

  “Okay.” Jack put out his hand, and Chet shook it with both of his. Finally, with obvious reluctance, Chet went down the steps, walked to his car, and climbed in. Jack waved farewell, then stepped back and closed the front door, grinning cheerfully as he did so.

  When the door was safely closed, he let the smile fade. He stood listening to Chet’s engine start, then the crunch of tires on gravel as he backed and turned and disappeared down the long driveway. It was a relief to have him gone, but only because of the questions Jack didn’t want to answer. The protest he wasn’t allowed to make.

  Carefully, Jack locked the door, turning the dead bolt before he switched off the porch light. Behind him the house felt like a cavern, full of empty rooms and dark corners. He felt jazzed up by the coffee, and he was sure he couldn’t sleep.

  He scooped up the mess of mail from the hall table, and carried it into the kitchen. Might as well do something useful if he was going to be awake.

  There were two psychology magazines, and he set those aside. He had thought about canceling the subscriptions, which he was sure Kate would have advised. Instead, he had started saving the issues in a grocery bag. It was beginning to fill up, the glossy covers declaring their topics—Blood Sugar Levels in Depressed Patients, Treating ADHD without Drugs, Counseling Bereaved Children—from the pantry floor where he stored the bag. Some nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he imagined himself presenting Tory with the bag when she came home—not if, but when—as evidence he had known she would return. It comforted him.

  There were two long, official-looking bank envelopes, and one from some sort of financial institution. He set those in a separate stack, to go through in the morning. There were Christmas cards in colored envelopes, and those he opened to arrange on the mantelpiece in the living room as Tory always did. He saved the envelopes, in case she wanted to write back to the senders. He sifted through a little pile of concert invitations on four-color postcards. She was probably on the mailing list of every musical organization in the state. Idly, nostalgically, he read several. He could guess what her response to each of them would have been. Mozart Christmas pieces, she would love. A recital of Puccini arias for New Year’s Eve, a definite yes. A January evening of Mahler, maybe—she liked “The Songs of a Wayfarer.” Wagner, absolutely not. He said aloud, “Sorry, Mom,” and chucked the whole stack into the recycling bin. As he did so, a hand-addressed envelope that had slipped into the folds of one of the advertisements slid to the floor.

  Jack bent to pick it up. He didn’t recognize the handwriting. It looked like it might be another Christmas card, though it was a business-sized envelope. A Christmas letter, maybe, one of those photocopied things. He turned over the envelope to slit it open, and paused. A sudden chill stirred the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.

  The envelope had been opened. It hadn’t been steamed, which Jack was pretty sure would curl the paper and leave traces of water damage. Someone, he thought, had pried up the flap and then pressed it back down, but whoever it was had left wrinkles in the gummed edge. It was skewed, slightly but obviously crooked. Carefully, he slid his forefinger under the flap to lift it. He pulled out the contents—a Christmas letter, as he had thought—and it, too, showed evidence of having been opened, clumsily refolded, shoved back into the envelope.

  Disturbed, he hastened to the pantry for the saved Christmas card envelopes. He looked at each, wondering if he had missed something. He tried to think what it was like to mail Christmas cards. Scrawl a signature, an address, give the envelope a quick lick or a dab with a sponge. They often weren’t very well sealed, and he had opened these without paying much attention. He examined them now under the bright kitchen light. It was hard to tell for sure—in fact, he couldn’t be sure about any of this—but one or two seemed to have been re-sealed like the letter.

  He put them back, moving slowly now, thinking hard. There wasn’t much he could do. The letters and cards might look to him as if they had been opened before, but then he had opened them himself, and no one would be convinced by his hunch. He didn’t want to tell Kate and Chet, because they were already practically insisting he come and stay with them. If they thought there was something strange going on, maybe something dangerous, they would never let him be.

  He picked up the long envelope once again, the pages of the Christmas letter forgotten on the granite countertop. He stood for a long moment, the re-sealed envelope in his hand. He knew what it meant. He had been hoping for someone to believe him, but not like this. This wasn’t the support he had hoped for. This didn’t feel good at all.

  He was pretty damn sure, now, that there was at least one other person in the world who didn’t believe his mother was dead.

  14

  Diedi gioielli della Madonna al manto, e diedi

  il canto agli astri, al ciel, che ne ridean più belli.

  I gave jewels for the Madonna’s mantle, and I gave

  my song to the stars, to heaven, which smiled with more beauty.

  —Tosca, Tosca, Act Two

  Tory startled when her cell phone rang. It had never rung before. It was a cheap thing, something she’d bought at Costco just because people expected everyone to have a phone. But there was no one to give her number to.

  She answered in a hesitant voice, and heard, “Hello? Paulette, is that you?”

  Of course. Iris. She had written the cell phone number on her rental agreement. “Yes,” she said, and had to clear her throat. She hadn’t spoken aloud at all today. She wasn’t sure she had spoken at all the day before, either, or to anyone except a grocery clerk since Thanksgiving. Silence surrounded her, the silence of solitude, filled only by the music from her radio and the rush of waves on the beach. She said again, “Yes, it�
�s me. Hi, Iris.”

  “There’s a job,” Iris said. “You mentioned once you might want one.”

  “Oh. A job?” Tory walked to the window to look out at the rain-lashed ocean. Low clouds obscured the horizon, and the great rock looked as if it were hunched against the storm. “Yes, Iris, I—I might want a job.”

  “It’s just seasonal. Doesn’t pay much.”

  “That’s okay.” Tory knew she sounded noncommittal. The idea of a job—getting out of the cottage and meeting people—both thrilled and frightened her. The long hours alone made her anxiety rise and intensify until she felt she might jump out of her skin, but—when anyone looked closely at her, or asked her a question, the fear that had become her only companion shuddered in her belly.

  She leaned against the cold window, and reminded herself that she’d done fine so far. Her made-up Social Security number and the hastily acquired cell phone hadn’t made Iris so much as blink. They could hardly lead anyone to her. And she needed the money. Her little cache of bills was shrinking at an alarming rate. “Where is it, Iris?”

  “Flower shop. They get really busy over the holidays, and Betty told me her daughter needs help handling the counter. Don’t know if you’ve been in there, but they sell a lot of decor items, bric-a-brac, souvenirs, that sort of thing.”

  “I haven’t been in,” Tory said. “But I’m sure I could handle it.”

  Iris chuckled. “I’m sure, too. If you’re interested, I’ll call Betty.”

  “Yes. Thanks, Iris. It’s nice of you to think of me.”

  “Nonsense. What friends are for.”

  As Tory pocketed her phone, she puzzled over Iris’s remark. It was the second time Iris had implied they were friends, but were they, really? She supposed they could be. It wasn’t like it was with Kate, but she and Kate had known each other for more than fifteen years. She knew almost nothing about Iris, while she knew everything about Kate Bingham. They talked about everything—well, almost everything. They were in and out of each other’s houses, borrowing, lending, sharing in the way of true friends. Old friends, who understood feelings without having to explain them.