Juan Pablo and the Butterflies

by JJ Flowers

  Within the next hour, the padre had tightly packed the groceries in the tiny cabinets: granola, cheese, peanut butter, tortillas, and almond milk for them and apples and orange juice for the old man. He showed them how to prepare for launch, and for nearly an hour, the two busied themselves with this work.

  Finally, the small boat headed beneath the midday sun on a cloudless day into the big blue. The darker blue sea mirrored the lighter bowl of blue sky. Gulls followed their path out to sea, squawking with their same excitement and sometimes flying so close they could touch them. He and Rocio sat in the stern, watching Mazatlán push away until even the lighthouse disappeared into the blue horizon, taking their fears with it. It felt like an auspicious beginning.

  Smiles grew into laughter; he and Rocio soon discovered they loved sailing.

  By afternoon the Catori had passed thirteen fishing boats and been passed by eight other sailboats and two ferries. The wind slapped the sails and the sea lapped at the sides of their small vessel. Their wake rolled back into the sea, disappearing behind them into the glassy surface.

  Rocio stood at the stern, binoculars in hand, searching the horizon for whales. Juan Pablo sat starboard, arms folded over his knees and transfixed, he contented himself with staring out. His abuela, too, always wanted to see a whale, which was one of three sacred species, joining elephants and, of course, the butterflies.

  These are special souls from the spiritual realm.

  How do you know this? He always asked this question, because his abuela’s answers were so interesting.

  You can tell because almost all people have a wealth of heart energy for them; people everywhere want to see them, touch them, draw close to their presence. Their spiritual purpose is to use this heart energy to connect people to the plight of all living things on earth.

  The sunlight sparkled over the surface of the vast blue space.

  As he stared out, he began to notice that when he thought of his abuela, the sparkling sun on the water began to dance merrily across the ocean surface. The more he thought of her, the faster the sparkles seemed to dance. As if saying out loud, I am still here, Juan Pablo, just different. If he thought of anything else, like his violin or Rocio, the sparkling light quieted.

  Was his abuela making the sunlight dance for him so he would know she was still with him? Or was it just his imagination?

  “Rocio, I want you to see something. Sit here for a moment.”

  Smiling, Rocio sat next to him expectantly.

  “See the sunlight sparkling on the water?”

  She nodded. “It is beautiful. Like a thousand diamonds set upon the water.”

  “Now think of your abuelo. Think of how much he loves you.”

  “That is easy to do.”

  “Does the light change when you think of his love?”

  For a long moment she stared out over the water, her face changing with the awareness. “JP, the sparkles. They start moving fast and faster still. Like they are . . .”

  “Dancing.” Juan Pablo laughed. “It is a trick of our imagination.”

  “Or maybe a miracle.”

  After showing them how to help sail the boat, the padre spoke little. When he wasn’t attending to the boat, he read from a worn book titled Vida y doctrinas de Jesús by Thomas Jefferson, the third American president. He fell asleep in the afternoon—or Juan Pablo thought he was sleeping, until he heard an unexpected request.

  “Son, are you any good on that instrument?”

  Juan Pablo shrugged, pretending modesty as his abuela had taught him to do.

  “Play an old man a piece, will you?”

  Rocio smiled at him encouragingly. He would love nothing more. To keep his violin safe and dry, the old man had placed his precious case atop old snorkeling masks and fins, a rope, a couple of life jackets, and assorted fishing gear in a storage bin. Juan Pablo retrieved it and thinking of his abuela, he began with her favorite piece, Esta Tarde Vi Llover.

  Within minutes, he was lost to everything but the music.

  Juan Pablo did not see the old man’s surprise as he measured the manifestation of talent and laid it alongside the young man’s age. He had the padre’s full attention. The old man moved closer to the sound, drawn like most people to the impossibly haunting sounds rising from Juan Pablo’s instrument.

  The old man listened with his head down, not wanting to share the pleasure with his other senses. He removed his hat to wipe at something in his eye.

  When he finished with that piece, Rocio said, “JP, play the one you played for the rich American at her daughter’s wedding.”

  Juan Pablo played the familiar piece and ended with “Here Comes the Bride,” which made Rocio laugh.

  “My god,” the old man said softly. “If you were full grown, you’d be a talented musician. That you are so young . . .” He shook his head. “Music is God’s gift to man, to make life bearable. It is the only art of heaven given to earth, the only art of earth that we take to heaven.”

  This familiar quote delighted Juan Pablo. “My abuela always said that!”

  The old man’s eyes suddenly went soft. “Your abuela died recently.”

  Juan Pablo nodded. “And Rocio’s abuelo on the same day.”

  Rocio fingered a small hole in the deck suddenly.

  “What happened?”

  Rocio looked up at Juan Pablo.

  The story came out in bits and pieces. He would start and Rocio would finish or vice versa. The scary parts were dispensed in a breathless hurry: the gruesome deaths, the phones going off in close succession, his abuela leaving the world, followed by Rocio’s abuelo’s heart attack, the man following them with the red boots, and the disappearance of Rocio’s uncle.

  Just the retelling caused their hearts to race.

  By the end, Rocio and Juan Pablo were holding each other’s hands.

  The padre swore under his breath. “Goddamn drugs—the devil’s tool. Making beasts of all of us.” He removed his cap, rubbed his forehead, and replaced it, a gesture somehow nervous, as if bracing for pain. “So, how will we escape this red-booted monster?”

  Juan Pablo opened the case to return his violin. He told him of his abuela’s strange last words.

  “Who will be waiting for you?”

  Juan Pablo shook his head. He still did not altogether believe in miracles, but so far, the butterflies had not led them wrong. He trusted no one more than his abuela and because of this, he knew that if no one was waiting for him in Pacific Grove, it wouldn’t matter. He still had to make the journey.

  “Somehow we must get to America.”

  “Your abuela will see you to California,” the old man told Juan Pablo, as if it were not just a hope. “The hard part is getting the girl to Arizona. But . . . I might be able to help.”

  Rocio studied the old man before asking softly, “But how can you help? Will the Catori take us up Baja’s coast?”

  “If only she could. She could never weather the open Pacific. Ah,” he sighed, “she is too old now.”

  “Then . . . how?”

  “Let us see what happens when we reach Cabo,” he said noncommittally.

  Rocio’s gaze shot to Juan Pablo. He shrugged. Maybe the old man could help. After all, a butterfly led them to the padre.

  “Are you really a padre?” Juan Pablo asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Because of . . . the trouble?”

  “The trouble. My troubles, your troubles. The same trouble that plagues us all.” The old man turned his sad, weathered face to the sea. “It’s rising up from the depth of hell . . .”

  Rocio and JP exchanged confused looks, but the padre said no more.

  Sometime later the boat suddenly stopped. They looked over and saw the old man staring through binoculars at something in the distance. Their gazes followed. A bright red and blue sheet of something floated in the water.

  “What is it?” Juan Pablo asked.

  The wind and the water drowned out the old man�
��s voice, but they thought he said “trash.” He expertly maneuvered the sails. It took a quarter of an hour, but at last they pulled alongside. Juan Pablo and Rocio stared at a clump of floating rubbish piled up on a large piece of red and blue canvas, the colors all but faded in the elements.

  The old man began hauling the mess onboard with Rocio and Juan Pablo’s help. A lot of Styrofoam, a buoy, tangled fishing nets, three giant plastic water bottles, countless smaller bottles of water, two children’s toys, all floating together in a mini island of trash.

  “Oh, a diaper,” Rocio gave a start, dropping it back. The old man fished it out again. The ocean had eroded it all to the bare essence. Once everything was onboard, he shoved it into a corner and returned to right the sails.

  The Catori aimed straight for the setting sun.

  The air grew chilly and they donned sweatshirts and ate tortillas and peanut butter while Padre poured another cup of orange juice. The old man gave them two worn, cracked deck cushions and two blankets and they set up camp on the deck.

  Stars came up one by one until they littered the night sky.

  Juan Pablo sat staring out to sea. The wind and water were quieter in the darkness and more mysterious because of the unseen depths.

  Juan Pablo gathered his courage. “Padre, was your trouble like ours?”

  He grimaced, nodding. “It is the trouble swallowing up our whole beautiful country . . .”

  The story came out slowly in a voice weighted by sadness and set against the backdrop of the steady breeze and the boat plowing through the sea. He and Rocio lay side by side, staring up into the velvet night sky as they listened.

  The cartel moved into the padre’s parish in Monterrey. At first few people noticed. “The Americans have a saying, like frogs in a frying pan. It is a good saying, because change comes so gradually at first and you don’t realize how much trouble you are in until it is too late . . .” Extortion fees rose; businesses began closing. At first a few people went “missing,” but where did they go? Did they move out? No one seemed to know for sure. Then there were rumors of dark deeds. The one that got the most attention were the missing dogs. Within two years, the police became useless; those that weren’t on the take were killed or forced out.

  The padre kept going to his superiors for help, but, “Each time I saw my own fear staring back at me.” He was told to pray, but “Prayer became little more than a succor of the helpless. Every day another story, another tragedy. I had to do something, I had to . . .”

  The padre finally stumbled on a means to combat the growing scourge. He started drug rehabilitation centers. At least he could help some of the people separate themselves from this evil and return them to life. His success emboldened him; he felt he was being guided by heaven. First one, then three more. He began organizing his parishioners to demand the government begin cleaning up the police departments.

  The old man shook his head and fell silent for a long minute, remembering. “More and more people came for help every day. The church started to pay attention. People began volunteering and raising some good money. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people were finally getting the help they needed.”

  The padre’s voice drifted off again, as if it was the end of the story, but that would have been a happy story and Juan Pablo and Rocio knew from his tone that this was not that.

  “What happened then?” Juan Pablo asked.

  “Just as goodness multiplies, so too the opposite. Which is the stronger force? I always thought I knew the answer. The cartels blew up two of the clinics. They killed five people in the first one and two in the second. Within a day, the third one was empty. I was first devastated, but then angry. I wanted to rebuild, but there was no money. Worse, fear began spreading again. Once again we became victims.

  “Humans,” he said in an altered voice. “Our rapacious greed. It consumes everything—a monster unleashed on the world.”

  The sounds of the sea returned in their shared silence.

  Rocio felt for Juan Pablo’s hand again.

  “We will be safe in America,” Rocio whispered.

  “Sí,” Juan Pablo said.

  “America,” the padre muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “The money comes from that golden place, you know. Billions upon billions of dollars. Besides, the cartels do not respect the border; their tentacles are reaching ever further el norte.”

  Juan Pablo didn’t believe this; he couldn’t believe this. America was still safe. The police were honest; the laws were respected in most parts of the United States. People went about their lives, normal, good lives, untouched by this violence. It was still the shining place where dreams came true . . .

  “JP, look.”

  A full moon rose over the sea.

  The rising moon became a lantern over their shared dreams, whispered between themselves. Juan Pablo spun a happy tale for Rocio, presenting her with their best-case scenario: Rocio would go to school in America; everyone would be impressed by how well she spoke and read both English and Spanish, by how advanced she was in math. She would shine like one of the very stars above them.

  “Which star?” Rocio asked.

  “That one,” he pointed. “The brightest one.”

  “And you, JP. You will finally go to a music school, the best one and finally, finally, you will discover the sad truth.”

  “What truth is that?” Juan Pablo asked.

  “That you are not the very best, most accomplished musician in the world.”

  Juan Pablo asked through his laughter, “But how can that happen?”

  Rocio hit him playfully on his arm.

  For a moment they fell silent, bathed in the magic spell cast by a full moon. A shimmering trail of it went from their boat back up to the moon. “It looks like a path to heaven,” Rocio whispered. “This is what the whales see every night. The light reaching back up to the stars.”

  “They must wonder about the moon and the stars just like us,” Juan Pablo said. “Remember when I found the recording of the whale song and I played it and Tajo sat up and listened with his head cocked? It was as if he understood something we could not.”

  Rocio squeezed his hand but said nothing. The loss of Tajo was still a raw wound. She had so loved the little guy. Someday he would surprise her with a puppy.

  Until that happy moment, he thought to distract her. “Remember we watched the Discovery Channel video of the migrating whales?”

  “Sí,” Rocio said. “From Alaska in America all the way down to Mexico. Their babies are born here in the warm waters of the Sea of Cortez.”

  “Remember how they kept close to the shore to avoid the orcas? How the orcas sometimes eat the baby gray whales?”

  “Sí. It was so sad.”

  The documentary emphasized that this was still not the whales’ greatest threat, that what truly threatened them was that the oceans were changing, that humans were changing it. Maybe it was true, that human’s rapacious greed was consuming everything—indeed, as the padre said, this greed was a monster unleashed on the world.

  Rocio’s sadness reached into him. He thought of all they had lost at the hands of this monster: his abuela, their home, and maybe even the whales and the butterflies. “Everywhere we turn there is sadness.”

  “And still it is so beautiful,” Rocio whispered, answering him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Dawn spread over the darkness. Juan Pablo stirred in his sleep. He first heard a distant sound, a sad cry of distress and hopelessness. It struck his heart and he knew fear. He tried to find the source but saw only deep darkness. His abuela appeared and his heart leapt to greet this happy sight, but she was not happy.

  Wake up now, Juan Pablo.

  He came full awake. The sails flapped gently in a mild breeze. Padre snored loudly. The sun rose in the east and the sea looked dark and deep, and as smooth as a mirror. He sat up to take stock of the new day. Then he saw it.

  “Wake up, Rocio. Look!”

  Land in the
distance. Baja California. They would be docking this very afternoon.

  “This is our big chance,” Rocio said, jumping up. “I need the binoculars.”

  Juan Pablo stood up and stared out at the distant roll of brown hills.

  Several minutes passed before Rocio directed him to a ripple in the water. “What is that?”

  They studied the wake for several more minutes before their joined gasps sounded in the still air. About a hundred meters away, the whale sliced through the water. “JP,” Rocio whispered urgently, as if a loud voice might scare it away. It was too huge to be seen all at once. First the massive arch of a barnacled back emerged followed by its dorsal fin, and finally a fifteen-foot tail shot out of the water. The tail seemed to hover for a few seconds, as if waving goodbye before slipping below.

  Juan Pablo gave a huge shout.

  Rocio’s breath caught in her throat, and her eyes grew wide as if to encompass an enormity that surpassed her wildest expectations.

  Juan Pablo was jumping up and down like a kid. “I saw a whale. I saw a whale.”

  “Wait.” Rocio grabbed his arm, noticing something in the water about fifty meters from the boat. A lump of dark gray poked from the water. “What’s that out there? A rock?” She looked in its direction.

  “I don’t know,” Juan Pablo said.

  A spout emerged from the rock. Juan Pablo gasped.

  “Rocio . . .”

  With her long hair lifted into a bun, held by a plastic fork, and tendrils circling around her like a halo, Rocio stood at the bow, binoculars to eyes as she studied the spot.

  “It is not moving. Is it . . . is it dead?”

  “A spout!”

  Nearby, a second spout shot straight in the air. The giant tail slipped smoothly into the calm water.

  The children jumped with excitement, sending a loud and long cheer into the air.

  But the closer one barely moved.

  Roused by the noise, Padre came to stand beside them. He took the binoculars from Rocio and aimed them at the whales for a long moment. “It’s a baby, but something is wrong.”