Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  Shortly before dawn warmed the barren land, Sarah was out of bed and fully dressed. Not wishing to attract her cousin’s attention, she did not switch on the bare, sixty-watt bulb suspended from the cobwebbed ceiling. While Mr. Zig-Zag watched with intense feline interest, she used a small flashlight to pack her black canvas backpack. There was not that much to take. She folded her other dress (the blue one that wasn’t torn), some tattered underclothing, a pair of white socks, a well-worn pink plastic toothbrush, a small bag of wrapped peppermint candies, a zippered diary marked TOP SECRET, and the Grandmother Spider Brings the Sun book Mr. Oates had given her. Switching off the flashlight, she removed a manila envelope from under her mattress. Inside were a half-dozen treasured photographs of her dead parents, and Sarah’s birth certificate.

  Now every girl must have her cherished secrets, and there was a certain Something Sarah had solemnly sworn not to mention to a living soul…cross my heart and hope to die…on my mother’s grave…and if I break my promise a big tree will fall on me and break my back! The oath was in force as long as my flesh is warm—which might be but for the briefest of seasons, and intertwined in this mystery were both rhymes and reasons.

  This treasure would not be packed with her other possessions; day and night, the Utmost Secret would be suspended from her neck, touching her skin…as long as my flesh is warm.

  With admirable stealth, and leaving her cat inside, she slipped out the back door. Minutes later, Sarah had deposited her canvas backpack in a clump of sage near the Little Sandy dry wash. The girl had just returned to her bedroom when she heard the plop-plop of her cousin’s bare feet coming down the dark hallway. Hurrying to get into bed, Sarah stubbed her toe on something in the dark—but she squelched the yelp, and managed to slip under the covers just as the door opened.

  Marilee Attatochee stuck her head in the tiny bedroom. The day’s first cigarette dangled from her lips, the red-hot tip bobbled as she spoke. “Sarah?”

  The fully dressed girl faked a yawn. “What?”

  “Thought I heard something back here.” Marilee gave the aged cat an accusative look. “It was probably Mr. Ziggy rustling around.”

  Sarah responded with exaggerated politeness. “His name is Mr. Zig-Zag.”

  “Oh, right.” Distracted from her original mission, Marilee groaned, stretched her chubby, stubby arms. “I’m gonna make some breakfast for me and Al. You ready for somethin’ to eat?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Sarah knew it might be a long time before she had another meal. “Some eggs, please. And fried baloney. And biscuits.”

  “We’re fresh outta biscuits.” Marilee noticed the edge of a collar showing on Sarah’s neck. She’s dressed herself already. Wonder what she’s up to? “There’s only two eggs left and Al’s got dibs on those. But I can make you some oatmeal.”

  “Okay. Can I have a fried baloney sandwich too?”

  “Sure.”

  “With three pieces of baloney?”

  “You got it, Snookums.” The woman turned her back, padded down the hallway toward the kitchen. “But don’t feed no baloney to Mr. Ziggy—tell him to munch on somma these mice I keep trippin’ over.” As an afterthought, she added: “Money for food don’t fall outta the sky, y’know.”

  When Sarah showed up in the kitchen a minute later, the cat trailing behind, her cousin arched a penciled eyebrow. “My, my—you sure got dressed in a hurry. I guess the thought of some oatmeal must’ve gonged your chime.” Getting no response from the girl, Marilee stirred the watery gruel, shook in another measure of the wholesome Quaker’s product. I guess all kids have their secrets.

  Al Harper slunk into the steamy kitchen with the enthusiasm of a half-drowned man dragging himself ashore. He was wearing corduroy pants, a dirty undershirt, a three-day beard, a bad smell, and a scowl. His right eye was clear and mostly blue, the left orb resembled the white of an egg.

  Marilee gave him an amused glance. “Gracious me, Alphonse. You are lookin’ mighty pretty this morning.”

  “Go suck a sour crab apple, squaw-woman,” he growled, and plopped into his customary chair, propped his arms on the table. “Where’s my breakfast?”

  She put a cup of black coffee between his elbows. “The eggs are still in the shells. You want ’em to show up in your plate, try sweet-talking the cook.”

  “Hah!” He winked the working eye, grinned across the table at the girl. “You’re up early.”

  Marilee plopped a bowl of oatmeal in front of Sarah. “Here you go. I put some brown sugar on it.”

  “Thank you.” Sarah added in a mumble: “Don’t forget the baloney sandwich.”

  The smelly man sneered. “You don’t need no baloney, kid—what you need is a good—”

  “Shut your mouth, Al!” Marilee swatted his face with a pot holder, smiled apologetically at her cousin. “So what’ll you do with yourself all summer, now that school’s out? Aside from working for Ben Silver, I mean.”

  Sarah shrugged.

  Suffering under the comical delusion that he was the Man of the House, Al Harper was determined to dominate the breakfast-table conversation. He sipped at the scalding coffee, gave Sarah some advice. “You oughta find yourself some kinda full-time job. There’s no future in doin’ odd jobs for old Sourpuss Silver.”

  It was Marilee’s turn to “Hah!” and she made the most of it. Her lip curled in a sneer. “That’s a good one, comin’ from you, Mr. Unemployed. When’s the last time Alphonse Harper brought a greenback dollar in the door?”

  Harper put on a piteous look, rubbed at the small of his back. “I’m blind in one eye and can barely see outta the other. And I’ve been severely and permanently disabled ever since I fell offa that loading dock over at the furniture plant—I’m not able to do reg’lar work.” He added, with a hint of mystery: “But I’m onto something. Something that’ll put us in the chips. Just wait, you’ll see.”

  Marilee looked at a cobwebbed corner of the ceiling, which was about three notches more attractive than her pallid-faced boyfriend. “He’s always ‘onto something,’” she said to the clump of dusty filaments. “What a laugh.” But deep inside, she continued to hope.

  While his wisecracking girlfriend cracked eggs into the skillet, Al muttered: “I still say the kid oughta get a full-time job and help pay for her keep.”

  “I’ve tried everywhere,” Sarah explained with exquisite patience. “The supermarket, the Dairy Queen, the Tip-Top Laundromat. They all say I’m not old enough.”

  His expression relaxed into the natural leer. “You’re old enough to—”

  “Shut up, Al. One more crack outta you, I’ll poke this Lucky Strike in your good eye.” Marilee took a long pull on her cigarette, addressed her next remarks to the girl. “Sooner or later, some kinda regular job will turn up for you.” As an afterthought, she added: “You won’t be able to do any housework for Ben Silver this morning. I got to go pick the old man up, take him to the clinic for his doctor appointment.” Now Marilee addressed herself: “That’ll take a big chunk of my day, but he pays me seven dollars and fifty cents an hour, so I ain’t complaining.” The thought of all the chores she had to do today made the woman weary. “After I bring Silver home, I got to go to the welfare office and see about Al’s disability. They still haven’t approved his application.” She glanced at her boyfriend. Maybe if I really did put his good eye out so he was altogether blind, the welfare’d come through.

  “I’d go with you,” Al said. “But I got to go see a man. About some business.”

  She flicked cigarette ash onto his plate. “Just make sure it’s a man, Alphonse. You mess around with me, I’ll get the butcher knife and cut off your—” She glanced at her younger cousin. “You want anything else, Snookums?”

  Sarah nodded. “The baloney sandwich.” She paused. “Three slices, please.”

  Marilee put four slices of Oscar Mayer’s best between slices of white bread.

  Unseen under the table, Mr. Zig-Zag licked lips that had never tasted mo
use-flesh.

  Chapter Eight

  Crossing Over to the Other Side

  There were a number of things Sarah Frank did not like, ranging from certain obnoxious persons and disgusting foodstuffs to a variety of painful sensations and unpleasant circumstances, and she kept a list in her diary which at last count numbered one hundred and four. Among the top ten was being alone in the house with Al Harper. Therefore, before Marilee departed in her Dodge minivan, the girl slipped out the back door. She had a brown paper sack clutched in her hand. Mr. Zig-Zag tagged along with his nose in the air, sniffing hopefully at the grease-stained parcel. She addressed her cat without looking down. “I’m sorry, but you can’t have any baloney right now.” There’s something I have to do first, and then we have a long, long way to go.

  She crossed a backyard littered with windblown trash, stepped over a drooping chicken-wire fence, picking her way among pieces of discarded lumber, clumps of greasewood, and golden rabbit bush. Sarah counted off her steps in the sand. It was fifty-four paces from the fence to the dry wash, 121 more to the big salmon-colored rock that stood like a sentinel at the entrance to Hatchet Gap—her shortcut through Big Lizard Ridge to Ben Silver’s house.

  The moment Marilee drove away (she was leaving early to fill the van with gas and pick up some things at the pharmacy) Al Harper hurried back to Sarah’s cubbyhole-sized bedroom, looked out the rear window, watched the girl’s thin form turn left, gradually disappear into an undergrowth of prickly thorn trees and yellowed willows that thirsted for the next flow of rainwater that would trickle down the Little Sandy. Wonder where the little Indian bitch is goin’? He considered the evidence. She’s not headed toward the Gap and Ben Silver’s place to do some chore for the old goat, which she naturally wouldn’t a-course, ’cause Sarah knows ol’ Ben won’t be there ’cause Marilee’s takin’ him to the doctor. The noxious man scratched at his belly, belched up an odor of breakfast. Maybe she’s headed down to the Dairy Queen. Another, more interesting possibility occurred to him. I bet Sarah’s got herself a feller. Sure, she’s goin’ to meet some hairy-legged pimple-face in the bushes. Another belch. Well, what the hell do I care where she goes or what she does. I got my own business to take care of.

  Rubbing at his blind eye, Harper went into the kitchen, squatted to open the door under the sink. He reached behind a gallon jug of bleach, removed Marilee’s plastic toolbox that still had the Wal-Mart bar-code sticker on it, reflected that the woman could fix most anything, from a leaky faucet to a crapped-out toaster oven. He snickered. Good thing she don’t know that I’m on to her hot little secret. He opened the toolbox lid, found the Do-It-All screwdriver with the dozen interchangeable bits. Al unscrewed the base of the egg-shaped handle. Nine of the bits were inside, along with Marilee’s cache of spare cash. He unrolled the small cylinder of bills, counted up eighteen dollars. There was also a half dollar, a dime, and a nickel. Pocketing the proceeds of his meager theft, he sighed at the pitiful state he had come to, how low he had sunk since he’d walked out on Betty-Lou, who was chief cashier at the supermarket. This is no way for a man to live. I need to find me a woman who’s got a full-time job—somebody with a stash worth stealing.

  Knowing that Al liked to spy on her, Sarah paused among the rustling willows, pushed down a spindly branch, took a long look at her bedroom window. If he was watching me, he must’ve given up and gone. Crouching, she backtracked along the wash, stopped to make sure her backpack was where she had left it, then set her face toward Big Lizard Ridge. Now I can go through the Gap without Al knowing.

  During the passage of a day, sunlight would not penetrate into Hatchet Gap for more than six hours, and there were thousands of dark, lichen-encrusted, spider-infested nooks and crannies that had never felt the warm touch of solar rays.

  Sarah made her way briskly along the familiar deer path that wound around great chucks of gray sandstone, beneath shadowy overhangs, through patches of prickly pear cactus and clusters of pearly flowers she called snowdrops. At one point, alerted by a warning hiss from Mr. Zig-Zag, the thin girl stood still as a post. Barely a yard away, an enormous corn snake slithered across the path, disappeared under the bristly corpse of a tumbleweed.

  When her cat was ready to proceed, she followed.

  Halfway through the Gap, and at the highest point in the arched passage, Sarah paused to gaze in awe at the outlines of several human hands on the smooth sandstone walls. She could not pass this special place without musing about time’s lost mysteries. These ancient markings in the crack in the back of Big Lizard Ridge were the color of blood. But it was not blood. According to the tale a toothless old Paiute man had told her, the people who had lived in this land long, long ago would fill their mouths with a coarse mixture of water and powdered red ochre. The young man who was privileged to perform the ritual would place his hand against the gray wall and spew out the rusty-red mixture onto his hand and the stone. This was the means of leaving the imprints, which—according to her informer—were at least three thousand years old. Sarah could not imagine anything so ancient as that, and wished she could grow up to be clever, like the aged Paiute.

  Sixteen minutes later, Sarah Frank was on the far side of Hatchet Gap. She was within a hundred paces of Ben Silver’s house when her cousin’s van pulled up.

  Having heard the urgent toot-toot, Ben Silver took a firm grip on his cane, headed toward the front door. Why does the consarned woman always have to blow her horn. Don’t she know I can hear her coming a half-mile away?

  “Helloooo,” Marilee yelled. “Mr. Sil-veeerrr.”

  He stomped onto the front porch. And why does she have to yell my name? It’s not like she’d be here for anybody else—not another soul lives on this dead-end road.

  Marilee Attatochee made a wig-wag wave from her minivan, shouted again. “Ben, you oughta get somebody to run a blade over your road. There’s potholes big enough to swallow a cow. And I come close to getting stuck in that muddy spot by the spring.”

  The irascible old man shouted back at her. “You don’t have to screech, woman—I got my hearing aid turned up to a hundred percent.”

  The Papago woman laughed like this was the funniest thing she’d heard all year, and this annoyed him all the more. She got out to open the passenger-side door.

  “I can open the door for myself, thank you very much,” he grumped. “I’m not an invalid yet.” He shot the plump young woman a scornful look. “In fact, I bet I could walk your chubby legs off.”

  “You probably could,” she shouted back.

  Silver winced, turned his hearing aid down. “While we’re headed to the clinic, Marilee What’s-Your-Name, why don’t you tell me everything you’ve been doing since I saw you last week. And don’t leave nothing out.”

  She slipped under the steering wheel. Well now I’ve seen everything. Mean old Ben Silver, who never acted like he cared whether I lived or died, wants me to talk to him about my dreary life. And so she did. All the way down the rutted, potholed lane, all the way down the paved highway to the Tonapah Flats Clinic. Marilee did not leave anything out.

  Silver smiled all the way. It was great fun, watching her lips move, not hearing a word she said.

  Knowing where Mr. Silver kept his spare key, Sarah removed it from under the red paint can on the bottom shelf in the woodshed. After unlocking the back door, she put the key back again. A moment later, she was in the old man’s house and all alone—except for her cat.

  Chapter Nine

  Quite a Sight to See Before Breakfast

  Sheriff Ned Popper stared at the homely, sunburned face.

  It stared back at him.

  When he winked, it winked.

  He dipped the brush in an antique shaving mug, swiped on a generous helping of creamy suds, went right to work with the genuine George Wostenholm ivory-handle straight razor that had belonged to his maternal grandfather. With a delicacy developed by long practice and demanded by the craggy landscape of his face, he scraped off a day’s
growth of whiskers, taking care not to encroach on the handsome handlebar mustache, which was his chief vanity. After completing this solemn morning ritual, the Utah lawman grinned at the image in the mirror, which was obliged to return the favor. “For a man of your years,” he said, “you don’t look all that bad.”

  When the telephone rang, the widower was frying bacon and eggs in a skillet, taking care not to overcook the yolks. Annoyed at having his breakfast disturbed, he frowned at the caller ID. What do the state police want this time? “This is Popper, Tonapah Flats Top Copper.”

  This produced the expected chuckle from Sergeant Jefferson Davis Martinez. “Hey, Ned—we got us some trouble.”

  “What flavor, J-D?”

  “Big pileup. Over on the interstate, close to the Texaco truck stop. We got one man rolling, ETA ten minutes. Next closest officer is an hour away, and she’s on a call to rescue some poor bastard who’s getting beat up by his wife. If you could lend us somebody to help direct traffic—”

  “Say no more, señor. I’ll send my on-duty deputy.”

  “Thanks, Ned.”

  Popper turned to check the black iron skillet. The eggs were brown and crispy around the edges. And them yolks look hard as the knobs on a brass bedstead. The superstitious man hoped this wasn’t a sign that he was in for a bad day. He turned off the propane flame, dialed his office. Waited through six rings. Why don’t Bertha answer the phone? I don’t know why I bother to have a dispatcher anyway. He pressed and released the cradle switch, dialed Deputy Packard’s cell phone.