All the Butterflies in the World

by Rodney Jones

  Some makeshift tables had been set up in the lot where Zach Heming had planned on building his home. Looking from one end of the village to the other, I saw folks with shovels and hoes sifting through ashes. Women were busy around kettles and pots that they’d rigged over open fires. Loss and sorrow permeated the smoky air lingering over the village.

  I searched for my aunt and uncle. Most of the people weren’t residents of Greendale and had most likely come up from Weston to lend a hand. Picking out my old neighbors from the mix was easy, though. They were the ones smeared with soot, stumbling about looking dazed and exhausted.

  “There he is! He’s the one who started it,” someone called.

  The voice was one I was all too familiar with, one I’d heard barking at parishioners nearly every Sunday since I’d come to live with my aunt and uncle. Hugh Stewart’s father stepped through the crowd, his arm extended, a finger shaking in my direction, as I’d seen him shake it accusingly at his guilty congregation. “I saw him and that red-haired gal leave the mill just moments before it went up in flames. They and their fornications have brought God’s just wrath on this Gomorrah of a village.” His unruly white eyebrows quaked with damnation.

  “I saw ’em, too!” Mrs. Tabor shouted above the hubbub of murmurs and whispers. “A few days back, it was. Uh huh, sneaking off into the woods.”

  “We weren’t sneaking anywhere,” I said.

  The sheriff had stopped our little group in the road before the Hemings’ barn. A curious audience gathered, boxing us in. I still didn’t see my aunt or uncle.

  “Where is she?” someone shouted.

  “She’s dead,” McNeil replied.

  “What happened?” another voice called.

  “Where were you when our homes were burning?” a third yelled.

  “Running from justice,” Preacher Stewart said. “But there ain’t a soul on this earth can escape justice.”

  “The girl is dead. God rest her soul,” the sheriff said. “We caught this fellow red-handed, burying her.”

  The crowd gasped.

  “Hokum!” My uncle pushed through a mix of people at my left, his arm encased in a dirty, blood-stained sling.

  My aunt trailed him, her graying hair escaping the bun at the back of her head, strands of it sticking to her forehead and neck. Her face was a mask of smeared soot, tears, and sweat.

  “It’s the truth, Mr. Paulson,” Hugh said. “We found him right there at her grave.”

  “He’d already confessed to killing her,” the sheriff said.

  I twisted around in my saddle. “I never confessed to anything except burying her.”

  “I say we hang him!” someone shouted. “He’s an arsonist.”

  “A murderer,” another added.

  “He is neither!” Aunt Lil shouted.

  My uncle pushed up to the front of the crowd and stood beside the sheriff’s horse. “I know for a fact John had nothing to do with that fire or that poor gal’s death.”

  Uncle Ed appeared downright intimidating, his thick brow overhanging sunken eyes. His face was stern with a narrow beak and a jutting jaw. His upper lip, usually tucked beneath his lower, hid a craggy, gap-toothed mouth with about a third of his front teeth remaining. The sand-colored trousers he’d worn the night of the fire—I had to remind myself that was actually the night before to the townsfolk—were stained a filthy gray and spotted with pebble-sized burn marks.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna hang no one,” the sheriff said. “Not until he’s been tried proper. But y’all can rest assured—he’ll hang. He’ll pay, same as that young gal he led astray then killed so as to hide the truth.”

  “You son of a bitch.” Uncle Ed leapt up, grabbed hold of the waistband of the sheriff’s trousers, and pulled the man off his horse.

  Ed fell on top of him, cursing and swinging with his one good arm. I jumped down off the brown and dove for the sheriff. Will Snyder, one of our neighbors, tackled me from behind. I clawed at the dirt, kicking and squirming, trying to dig my way to McNeil, intent on getting my hands around his neck. I was driving the nails deeper into my own coffin, but I didn’t care. My uncle was dragged off by two men who’d been standing nearby.

  McNeil scrambled to his feet, grabbed his hat, and beat the dust off his trousers with it. “Now, folks, that right there is the most uncivil behavior in my estimation. And it’s my duty as your elected sheriff to see that such lawlessness is eradicated.”

  “Take your hands off of my husband,” Aunt Lil snapped. “Let him loose.” She gave one of the men a shove, sending him stumbling back, then turned to the sheriff. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Ma’am, I believe I’ve been more than fair to you and your man here. This is the second time in these past unfortunate hours that I’ve been accosted by this man. He has a hole in his shoulder to attest for the first. I had no choice but to learn him a lesson.”

  Uncle Ed put a hand to his injured shoulder and cringed. “That’s a heap of dung, plain and simple, you sorry excuse. And I don’t believe I’m alone in seeing it.”

  Taking hold of my arms, Will and Hank Snow, a fellow from Weston, lifted me to my feet. I tried to pull away but couldn’t.

  “Git a hold of yourself,” Will muttered. “No sense in gettin’ yourself killed if you don’t need to.”

  Old Mr. Heming stepped forward and brushed a spot of dirt from the sheriff’s sleeve. “Come now, Henry. It don’t seem to me that you’re a-sufferin’ much from that healthy little scuffle. On the other hand, a-lookin’ at Mr. Paulson here, I think most would agree he’s suffered more than his fair share. Look at what he’s lost here.” He swung an arm out toward the two smoldering cavities where our home and livelihood had once stood. “And now you’re a-wantin’ to take his nephew—who, I might add, has always struck me as a fine lad. I’ve never known any trouble from him.” He looked out over the crowd. “Have you, Zach?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You ever had trouble with John, Mr. Cabot?”

  “Not that I recollect.”

  “What about you, Martha? He ever bother you any?”

  She straightened. Her eyes flicked from her father, to the sheriff, to me. “John is the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

  I’d always made an effort to show Mr. Heming’s youngest daughter the kindness she was denied by others. The kids used to tease her over her being bull-nosed and cockeyed.

  McNeil looked down at Martha. “You should thank the Lord, the first chance you get, that it ain’t you a-buried up there.” He turned to her father, pointing up toward the mountain. “How do you think that poor gal would answer your question, Mr. Heming?”

  My uncle took a step forward. “The same.”

  The two fellows who’d come to the sheriff’s rescue earlier stepped up behind him. McNeil lowered a hand to his gun.

  “He wasn’t askin’ you,” Mr. Stewart said.

  “I know for fact she would’ve,” Aunt Lil said. “And I know for fact she would’ve had a few unrepeatable words for you, Sheriff.”

  “Now that right there surprises me, ma’am, after all the kindnesses I’d extended to her.”

  Aunt Lil stood straighter. “And what might those have been? Terrorizing her every chance you got? Accusing her of being someone she so clearly wasn’t?”

  “Mrs. Paulson, my heart goes out to you for your misfortunes. I am truly sorry, but we can’t have the kind of lawlessness that y’all have witnessed here today undermining our peace. If I let a man who assaults the very law that provides such peace go unpunished, then we’re no better than a pack of heathen Indians.”

  “Well spoken, Sheriff,” Mr. Stewart said. “You should be commended for your clear judgment and resolve.”

  “Much obliged, sir.” The sheriff peered out over the heads of the gathering, which included nearly everyone, the village res
idents and all the folks who’d come to help. “Might I have a volunteer, someone with a wagon and team they can spare for a day or so?”

  A few folks turned and glanced at their neighbors, but no one stepped forward.

  “For the transport of two prisoners,” he added. When he still received no response, he huffed. “Come now. I’ll see to it that it’s promptly returned and that you’re fairly reimbursed.”

  Still no offers came.

  The sheriff turned to me. “Get your wagon hitched, son.”

  “I don’t have a wagon.”

  “Get your uncle’s wagon hitched. And if you give me any more disrespect, I’ll make your sorry life even more sorry. You savvy?”

  “You’re not taking our wagon,” Uncle Ed said.

  “Randall, give him a hand with that. And, Hugh, put a gunsight on Mr. Paulson.” He looked at my uncle then spat on the ground. “I’m going to have a quick peek over yonder and see what’s smelling so good.”

  “You’re not gonna take our wagon.” Aunt Lil looked as all-fired as I’d ever seen her. “We’ll need that here.”

  “Take one of mine,” Mr. Heming said. “I’ve got one more than I need at the moment.”

  “Don’t make no difference to me,” the sheriff said, “long as it has four wheels.” He turned to Randall. “Give ’em a hand with that, will ya, son? You’ve got my permission to shoot the prisoner should he try and run off.”

  As Randall and I headed for the wagon, Mr. Heming went off for his two draft horses. He’d moved them to the corral behind my uncle’s barn, which was hardly more than a shed with a lean-to attached to the side. It seemed that everything that could be moved had been rushed to the east end of the village, upwind of the fire. Randall and I had gone only a short distance when my aunt called my name. I looked back and saw her limping along, struggling to catch up to us.

  “Hold up a second,” I said.

  “My Lord, John, it’s a nightmare.” She huffed as she drew near. “That poor, poor gal.”

  “I didn’t kill her. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know that.”

  “She ran off the moment this bunch here showed up.” I glanced toward Randall, following a few steps behind us. “I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight, but you know how crazy everything was.” I was sure Randall heard every word I said, though whatever he may have thought, he kept it to himself.

  “But what happened up there?” Aunt Lil waved a hand toward the mountain.

  I gave her a quick account of what took place once Tess and I had left the house that night, ending with my encounter with the sheriff. Shaking my head, I added, “I should’ve shot him when I had the chance, but I didn’t know. I let him go. I didn’t know until sometime later.”

  “He killed her, didn’t he?”

  “She was dead when I found her… shot in the chest.”

  Aunt Lil brought a hand to her cheek. “Oh my.”

  “I know he did it, but I can’t prove it. I still had his gun on me when they caught me burying her.”

  “Dear Lord. It’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “I love her, you know?”

  “Oh, hon.” She patted me on the back.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” I whispered.

  We arrived at the wagon. I could see Mr. Heming up by the barn, taking his time closing and latching the gate behind his two horses. Randall had gone on ahead of us to prep the tongue and yokes.

  “Randall,” my aunt said, “can you see fit to give me a private moment with my nephew? I don’t know as I’ll get a chance to see him for a while.”

  Randall stared off toward the distant gathering, as though checking on the sheriff’s whereabouts. “Uh… ma’am, I probably shouldn’t—”

  “I’m only asking for a minute.”

  He glanced at my aunt and again toward the crowd. “Please, make it quick, ma’am.”

  My aunt and I stepped back behind the wagon. Keeping my voice low, I got right to the point. “She’s not really dead.”

  Aunt Lil frowned. “Tess is alive?”

  I nodded. “I was trying to take her home. Her body, I mean, but I couldn’t. I went on, though, to tell her ma what happened.”

  She peered up at me with a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were filled with confusion.

  “Ma’am, I had breakfast with her this morning, at her house.”

  She let out a huff. “John, you are in some serious trouble here. You realize that? You’re being blamed for all this.” She waved her arm to encompass the scene of wreckage.

  I gazed out over the charred remains of Greendale, its dazed residents searching through the ashes for anything of value. Many of them, I suspected, were already leaning toward my guilt, believing I’d murdered Tess. That alone was enough to see me hanged, but whatever concern my neighbors had for that strange gal, who no one could even name, was overshadowed by their suspicions that I was responsible for the destruction of their homes.

  “John, get over here quick,” Randall said. “The sheriff’s comin’.”

  I looked toward the village. Uncle Ed was headed our way, appearing none too happy. Hugh was on his left and McNeil on his right. The sheriff wore a smug expression, as if a hanging was inevitable.

  chapter fifteen

  Tess

  Liz showed up at my house just before noon on Saturday. We hung out in my room, exploring the limited venues for entertainment. It didn’t matter to me what we did, as long as we did something—anything.

  “We could go to a movie,” Liz said.

  Well, almost anything. “No.” I figured she’d want to see The Dark Knight, and I wasn’t sure I could make it through that movie without laughing or crying inappropriately. “I don’t want to spend the day sitting in a dark cave. How ’bout the mall?”

  “Boring.” Liz’s eyes wandered across my bedroom ceiling as if she might find inspiration there.

  An idea came to me. “You know what I really want to do?”

  “Swim naked in a vat of chocolate-fudge topping?”

  “Maybe. But not today. The museum in Weston… John tried to show me a photo hanging on the wall, a picture of someone he knew. I’ve been thinking about that. I didn’t get a good look at it because of the letter.”

  Liz shrugged. “Okay. Then could we go to the Country Store for some chocolate?”

  The girl seated inside the entrance to the museum looked up from the book she was reading and smiled. “Welcome to the Farrar-Mansur House. Is this your first time here?”

  I was relieved she wasn’t the same lady who had been there when John and I visited. She was in her late teens and had a round face. She played the part with no makeup, her light-brown hair up in a milkmaid braid, and a petticoat-stuffed-dress fanning out around her chair.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “We just want to see the exhibit upstairs.”

  She nodded. “My name’s Kelly. If you have any questions, feel free to ask. I’ll be right here.”

  I led Liz up to the ballroom. Everything was exactly as I remembered. I stepped up to the third display case, the one containing the newspaper clipping and the letter.

  While she read those, I went over to study the photograph that John had shown such interest in—a family portrait of a man with a pale-complexioned woman and six awkward-looking kids, all resembling their dad. The man reminded me of an overweight, beady-eyed used-car salesman. His wife seemed out of place. Even with the hopeless expression on her face, she was too pretty for him.

  I remembered something John had said. “Now there’s a fellow I wouldn’t mind going back and paying a visit to.” I could still hear the loathing in his voice when he’d made the comment.

  I read the caption below the frame. “Mr. and Mrs. Hugh G. Stewart and family–Weston, Vermont–1888.” John had told me Hugh ha
d tried to take advantage of me and then started the rumor that I’d attempted to seduce him.

  Hugh appeared quite a bit older than John. But then, he would since the photo had been taken in 1888. His children ranged from age three—a kid whose sex I couldn’t be sure of—to the tallest, a sourpuss boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen.

  “Oh, my God. This is so weird,” Liz said. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” She was bent over the letter. “I thought you said the uncle was accused of the girl’s murder.”

  “Yeah, that’s what it says.”

  She tapped the glass above the newspaper clipping. “It says John Bartley was hanged.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It says he disappeared. He was never found. His uncle was hanged.”

  “Well, Tess, it’s right here in black and white.” She jabbed a finger at the glass.

  I walked over and started reading.

  John Samuel Bartley, a young man from the fire-stricken village of Greendale, was hanged today at three thirty outside the Windsor County jail in Woodstock.

  Mr. Edwin G. Paulson, the miller from Greendale, who together with his wife, Lilly M., raised the young, war-orphaned J. Bartley, died late on the day of Mr. Bartley’s trial while serving time in the same jail.

  Everything appeared exactly as I remembered—the same yellowed, mildew-stained pages, same folds, same creases, same handwriting—but it was all different.

  “It’s been changed.” I stared at the display. “They’ve changed it?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. They’re supposed to be historical documents. They can’t change them.” I read the letter. It too was different.

  I spun and rushed back down to the first floor, Liz on my heels. The attendant was still in the same place.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “The ballroom exhibit has been changed.”