The Butterfly Box_A SASS Anthology

by Anthology

  Grandma Joan turns and looks at me.

  “Where is he?” I walk past her without giving her so much as a smile.

  She slurps from the mug of tea that she cradles on her lap. “Where do you think he is? Burying his head in the sand in the back garden of course.” Looking me up and down, she gives her head a disapproving shake. “Well turned out as usual, I see, Jessica.”

  I roll my eyes and push past her. “Not now, Joan. And it’s Jess.” I hiss the last letters out from between my teeth, and spinning on my heel, I walk backwards away from her, flipping her the bird and grinning sarcastically.

  Despicable old woman.

  Pumped in the wrong way completely, I shove myself through the back door and into the garden, stopping dead as I see him with his back to me, on the swing. An irritated sigh releases itself from deep within my lungs, and I shove my hands into my jacket pockets before sauntering towards him. My head hangs low, and there are a hundred words on my tongue, none of which I expect to come out right, none of which he will take any notice of.

  Stopping behind him, impulse and familiarity take over though, as my hands creep from my pockets and reach around his face. Of course his own hands rise with the speed of light and grab my wrists before I have a chance to cover his eyes.

  I sigh again and rest my chin on the top of his head. “Hey.”

  “Hmm.”

  I force him to let go and move in front of him so I can look him in the eye. He doesn’t move other than to flop his hands back down to his thighs.

  “Hey, Fucker.” I push my sunglasses back on top of my head and am more forceful this time. “Look at me.”

  He doesn’t flinch.

  “Dutch. Look at me.” I reach out and grab his chin, yanking his head up, and he lets it loll on his shoulders, his eyes to the sky. At least he isn’t resisting. “You ok?”

  He drops his gaze to meet mine and smirks at me, which of course is infuriating. I am so close to just walking back into the house, shedding myself of this ridiculous shirt and leaving him to it. But I can’t. I won’t. He needs me, even if he doesn’t realise it.

  “Of course I’m ok. It’s the best day of my life.” He pulls at the black tie that sits out of place under his collar, and undoes his top button.

  Well, sarcasm is something. It’s better than silence. “Nice, D. Nice.”

  “Well would you rather I clutch at your clothing and weep, telling you how I can’t go on anymore and how I don’t actually want to?”

  “Honestly? Yes. I would. Anything is better than this shutting-me-out thing that you’re doing.”

  “Well, I am so sorry I’m not taking your feelings into account right now, Jessica.” He spits my full name out and I clench my back teeth together to stop from hurling abuse at him. I will let it slip this once, but only this once. Tomorrow, he will have no freebies.

  I move and sit in the swing next to his and take hold of his hand against his will. “You know damn well I loved him too. I just think it would be good to share this hurt.”

  He lets me rub my thumb across his knuckles for a few more seconds and then pulls away slowly. Leaning forward, his elbow resting on his thighs, he strokes the stubble on his chin as he watches the nothingness in the hedge in front of us. I will the words to follow, but it’s wishful thinking. There’s no way he’s going to talk to me about what is in his heart until he’s ready, and even then, it will be on his terms and probably a million years from now.

  Dutch pushes to his feet and drags his hand down his face before stuffing it into the pocket of his starched black trousers. He glances down at me briefly and then sets off back up the garden towards the house.

  “We’re going to be late.”

  I LET THE curtain drop back into place as I turn to face the rest of the room. “The cars are here.”

  “Right. Let’s be having you all then. Time waits for no-one.” Joan grabs her bag from the chair with one hand and links her other through Sandra’s arm. Her taffeta dress rustles as she hobbles towards the front door and I find myself scratching at the skin on my arms.

  I mean she’s been there for both for us in some really shit times, but there’s no love lost. A people person she is not, and I bristle every time she opens her mouth.

  Fiddling nervously with the zip on my jacket as it get’s stuck, I glance up to try to give Dutch an encouraging look, but he is still sitting with his head bowed low on the dining room chair, pulling furiously on a cigarette. My lips draw into a tight thin line and I huff out of my nose. This is going to be unbearable.

  “Young man. Get to your feet and let’s get this over with.”

  There she goes again, full of compassion as always.

  I walk towards him and hold out my hands in front of his face so he knows I’m there. Squashing the butt of his cig into the ashtray on the table, he grabs a hold of my fingers with his own and gets to his feet, squeezing them gently before one side of his face lifts up sadly. Finally, he meets my eyes with his.

  “You got this babes. I promise. You got this.” I try to smile for him but I'm not sure it is helpful.

  He nods once and leads us out of the house, hands back in his pockets and eyes to the floor.

  My heart breaks just a little more each time I watch him shut down again. I fear the worst today and worry that I might never get him back, that he will never be able to climb the horrific mountain of grief to the top again where the sun will shine and life will go on. It’s a scary thought and one that I push to the back of my mind immediately.

  I follow him dutifully, and step out onto the street.

  I KNEW IT would be there, but I do not expect the rush of nausea to sweep over me quite as violently as it does when I take in the sight of the tiny coffin that sits in full view of all of us in the window of the hearse. A single, white heart-shaped wreath leans against it and my hand flies to my mouth. It takes me a few seconds to realise I am still staring, and I pull my gaze away, turning to face Dutch who is standing steely and still, the muscles in his jaw flexing with what I know to be heightened emotion. It’s a mixture of anger and heartache, and I just want to fling my arms around him and sob for him.

  Of course I know better.

  Pulling myself together as much as I can, and clearing my throat lest it give away the fact that I am on the verge of tears, I tug at his sleeve to wrench him from his trance. “Come on.”

  He bites down on his back teeth before dragging a weary breath in through his nose and turning to follow me.

  THE CHURCH IS freezing and I let myself shiver as I walk towards the front where the seats have been reserved for family and friends of the deceased. God it sounds so fucking final. I said I’d wait outside with him, but he’d shaken his head with a certitude that dismissed me sheepishly.

  It will only take two of them to carry it in, and Dutch has chosen Kev to walk beside him—strange choice if you ask me, but who knows what is going on inside his head at the moment.

  I slip into the pew that is third from the front, the opposite side to where Joan has positioned herself. I can’t bear listening to her anymore today. There are bound to be more put downs or looks of disapproval from her and frankly I am not in the mood.

  I’ve known her since I was seven. She’s been fostering kids for a hundred years and Dutch and I first met when we were both in her care. He’d been there a week before I turned up, all cocky and ‘king of the castle’. Of course he’d tried to put me in my place, letting me know very quickly indeed that ‘nothing is going to go down in this ‘ouse unless I say so.’

  It hadn’t taken long for him to realise he had probably met his match in me, though, and that I would give as good as I got in any circumstance. From that moment, we were thick as thieves and pretty much inseparable.

  Still are.

  Well, we were.

  I fiddle again with the top button on my shirt as I sit alone in the cold wooden seat. There are cushions on the floor, but I don’t think they are there to ease the numbing
of your arse. I wish I’d brought my hoodie, although there’s no doubt about how that would have been received by the miserable old bat.

  Hugging myself, I glance over to her and catch her rolling her eyes at me. I am so tempted to flip her off again, but the sight of the crucifix hanging above the huge stained glass window stops me. Instead, I smile as sweetly as I can and ask her if she wants me to sit with her. She doesn’t even answer me, which I am glad about. Dutch will be in soon and he can sit next to me instead.

  There won’t be a huge turn out. Kev and his new bird of course, Sandra and Joan who are already here. I vaguely remember someone mentioning that Bobby’s social worker has been invited, but all social workers that I know are like my arse, so I’m not holding my breath.

  He was only four.

  God, I can’t even think about it without wanting to be sick.

  It was tragic, a freak accident.

  Dutch blames himself, and that’s half the problem. He blames himself for not being there that day, for leaving Bobby with the sorry excuse for a mother that they share. I swear some people shouldn’t be allowed to breed. And I can say that with conviction because I feel exactly the same about my parents. Wherever they are.

  He’d let himself out of the house, into the street.

  The football went with him.

  The pavement was narrow.

  The driver just didn’t see him coming out between the parked cars…

  There is a scuffle at the back of the church and the bumbling idiot of a vicar appears from the door to wherever vicars get ready. Vestibule? Is that what they’re called? His hair is out of place and he looks like he’s literally just got dressed. This doesn’t bode well for a respectful service. I’m sure there should have been some music by now.

  I’m so restless and the urge to get up and find out what’s going on is almost unbearable.

  From behind the same door, a plump, red-faced woman in a twin set and pearls emerges. I assume she is the organist, and I watch as she straightens her skirt and touches her hair…

  Oh my fucking God. They didn’t! Did they? I suppress a giggle by biting down on the inside of my lips and spin myself back around to face the front. The eyes of the Virgin Mary seem to follow me and they give me the creeps.

  Come the fuck on.

  Why is no one else here yet?

  The fat, sexual deviant perches on the edge of the stool behind the organ, and suddenly, the church is filled with the sound of All Things Bright and fucking Beautiful. I am about to get off my seat and wrap the cushion at my feet around her head when I hear footsteps from the back of the church.

  They’re coming.

  I can’t look because I will lose it.

  I can’t believe no one else is here. Julie should be, but I imagine that she’s following the coffin. Julie is the poor excuse for a mother… I fucking hate her.

  I pick at the chipped nail varnish on my thumb and keep my head bowed low as I sense the procession nearing. I really am not sure I can stay. I need Dutch to sit with me or I will have to leave.

  I have no idea what happens next because I keep my eyes trained to the floor until I feel the familiar body heat and smell of leather and cigs as D sits next to me.

  Thank fuck.

  I tuck my arm inside his and lean my head on his shoulder. I know he doesn’t want me to say anything, but I can tell he wants me right there.

  And so we sit in silence, all of us, for what feels like hours but what I am sure is only about fifteen minutes. I’ve never been to a funeral before, but I was under the impression that someone usually did some kind of speech. There is no speech for little Bobby and this makes me incredibly sad. I get why Dutch doesn’t want to do it, but Jean? Sandra?

  Julie is too busy wailing at the front for that. I don’t know why. She barely knew the kid.

  I am still at a loss as to why she was allowed custody of him.

  No evidence to suspect anything untoward is going on.

  Other than the fact she was stoned out of her skull most of the time. Like I said, social workers are like my arse.

  With her completely drugged up, it was left to Dutch to do the parenting. The house was spotless because D went round every day and made sure it was. Bobby was clean and fed, because Dutch wouldn’t have it any other way.

  There are no dads on the scene. Not for either of them. Bobby’s dad was non-existent—a one night stand after some sleazy drunken sex apparently. Dutch never knew his dad either. He skipped town after he’d beaten Julie up when Dutch was only five months old. She turned to drugs, couldn’t cope and gave him up. She was always allowed visitation though, so he grew up calling her ‘mum’. Some mother. He’d been fostered with a view to being put up for adoption if Julie could make up her mind, but she couldn’t. She’d get herself clean, promise him the world and then fuck it all up again. I blame her inability to keep a promise for the fact that he is so cold and closed off. Don’t get me wrong—I know him better than anyone does, but I never really get to see inside properly. We are so close, but he always keeps me at a slight distance and I’m not sure I will ever get in.

  Joan agreed to keep us until we were sixteen but then made it clear that we would have to be moved on or fend for ourselves. Dutch being Dutch was chomping at the bit to get out, so as soon as his birthday came around, he made plans to leave. I had to wait another six months before I could go, but I joined him eventually.

  Being sixteen and trying to get ahead is fucking hard work, let me tell you.

  I turn to him eventually and watch the muscles in his jaw flex over and over again. Julie’s wails have subsided and the organist has piped up again, a more sombre song at least.

  The time is going to come in a minute where we have to walk out following that tiny box and take it to be buried. I can’t go. I just can’t. I can’t watch them do that to a child, and I can’t watch my best mate fall apart when the thing is ended. He’s still had a purpose up until now, but when that coffin is covered over, I am not sure what he’s going to do. I think it is going to be up to me to keep him rolling. Quite how, I am not sure yet, but I will have to come up with something to fill his minutes.

  MY FOOT TAPS of its own accord against the headrest of the passenger seat and I am driving myself insane. I just want to get back to the flat, take off this stupid shirt and curl up in front of the TV for the rest of the day. We are meant to be going back to Joan’s for the wake but I really can’t take anymore of this today. Yes I kind of owe it to Dutch and to Bobby, but I really don’t get the idea of funeral teas. We’ve said goodbye, we are all upset, so why are we now going to stand around and rub each others arms sympathetically, give each other sad smiles and tell each other again for the hundredth fucking time that we are so sorry for the loss, that we are here for whoever needs us, that we are happy to do anything for anyone who isn’t coping. We all fucking know. It’s shit. The whole fucking thing is shit, and I just think we should all be allowed to go home and deal with whatever stage of grief we are in at the moment, on our own. Sure some people need to be around others and keep busy, but some of us fucking don’t. And I fucking don’t.

  I loved that kid with every fibre of my being and I am really fucking sad. I want to cry on my own, I want to snot all over my sleeve and wail like Julie. He was like my own brother and I feel so empty inside.

  The car door opens and Dutch slides in beside me.

  “Pub?”

  I turn and look at him, flicking my eyes from his left one to his right and back again, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. I can do the pub. I can do the pub any day if it means I can get inside that incredible mind of his and find out what he is thinking and feeling. The ugly snot crying can wait till later. So I nod. “Pub.”

  He nods back at me and we wait for Joan and Sandra to arrive so we can break it to them that we are not going to the wake.

  Sandra is Joan’s best friend. She is an equally despicable human being and has also been around us for e
ternity. They’re like the horrible aunties in James and the Giant Peach. No compassion, just strict rules and put-downs. It’s no wonder D and me are like we are: stubborn, feisty and fucked off with the world. Going from having no real parents to being ruled by Joan’s iron fist is enough to twist anyone’s outlook on the world. A role model we have not had, other than each other.

  We have learned together side by side, leaning on each other… and, without question, in any circumstance, even if it is when a copper is chasing you down the street for nicking a pack of ciggies, we have each other’s backs: always have, always will have.

  LIVING WITH YOUR best mate is great fun when life is good, but when the shit hits the fan and you’re both in a dark place, it can be absolute hell. We haven’t spoken meaningfully for nearly a week now, and falling out of the taxi after spending a silent couple of hours in the pub, knocking back shots of whiskey just to numb the feeling in our hearts, I feel it is about time I try again to say something. It’s kind of on my shoulders at the moment. I need to drag him back from the darkness, away from the precipice that he is teetering on the brink of. I have to box up my own sadness and deal with it later, because if I don’t intervene, I fear I will lose him to the evil that gripped him in his early years, and frankly, I can’t let that happen. Dutch’s battle with his aggression has been a serious one and has almost landed him in prison on more than one occasion. I can’t have him travelling that slippery slope right now.

  “Dutch.” My eyes won’t stay on his face as the lids drop lazily over them. He ignores me and turns away, stumbling up the curb, his hands deep in his jeans pocket. If he falls now, he’s gonna smash his face on the pavement. “Oi. Look at me.” I slur the words out of the side of my mouth. He grunts something and moves forwards towards the path to our house, swaying from side to side, his feet unable to place themselves one in front of the other.

  “Dutch! We need to fucking talk right now. We can’t carry on like this. Turn the fuck around. Now.” I am so very aware of how drunk I am when I speak, but I fully expect the torrent of anger that eases its way, slowly at first, from his mouth as he spins awkwardly towards me.