The Butterfly Affect
By Patrice Stanton
copyright 2013 Patrice Stanton
Cover & glyph designs copyright 2013 Patrice Stanton
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This book is a work of fiction and any similarities within it to other persons (living, dead, or fictional), businesses (public, private, non-profit, or fictional), places (actual or fictional), or events (current, historical, or fictional) are purely coincidental. The work (and therefore all elements it consists of) are products of the author’s imagination, so are used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Section 1 of 13
Section 4
Section 8
Section 12
About the author
1
Brett was only five when the ‘gator incident happened, but she remembered it like it was yesterday. It was why she always knew the answer to her oft repeated can-I-please-have-a-pet question would forever be, “No”. But she kept trying.
Darn it all…Goll darn it all, she said to herself.
It hadn’t been her fault that Florida had had alligators. Even outside the zoos.
She turned to look towards the nearby stretch of golf course; strained to see anything low, long, and dark moving ponderously away from (or back towards) the small water-hazard. Coast clear from there, back across their own manicured lawn, and all the way to and including the deck and the pool she sat alongside.
Did Texas really have them, too?
It hadn’t been her fault either, that her mother, back then, had a fondness for very, very small dogs. Several at a time. Whose yips from out-side, were barely audible inside, particularly with the AC running...which it always was in Florida. Nor was she the one that absolutely had to, had to, had to, live in a house on some kind of watery-way, instead of just a high-way, where, her dad had shouted back at her mother later, at least those blasted yip-yappers would have “only gotten run over” instead of getting chomped in half and eaten in two gulps because their sparkly doggie-collars got in the gator’s teeth and slowed it down.
“As if losing my babies wasn’t enough,” her mother had cried towards her littler self, “he had to go on rubbing salt in the woon…” Or rubbing salt somewhere Brett didn’t get. Her dad had gone on to say that staking the dogs together made it like Christmas for the alligator. Brett didn’t quite understand that part either. She’d only seen the thing eat the last of the three tiny dogs, but how could he compare the horror of those two bites to the days and days of Christmas fun?
“Doing its bloody business right in front of the kid…For Cripes’ sake.” Brett’s dad said at the time. And he’d clearly blamed her mother and all her “lifestyle choices.” But the little girl was sure he still loved her and her mother.
I mean, he always said, always says...stuff like, Cripe, and Goll darn, when we girls are around.
And now this very weekend in fact, at the grand old age of eight, Brett would act like a lawyer-in-training; would argue the case for that love, on his behalf. To her mother, always the ultimate judge.
Otherwise he’d’ve just used bad words, Brett could claim, like practically every movie they watched, or for sure like every other mother and father that ever set foot in any of their houses always had.
“Mother, you’re lonely, too, aren’t you,” Brett said after all that heavy recollecting. It was clearly out-of-left-field judging by the woman’s change of expression. It wasn’t the sort of superficial Sunday poolside Bible-study chatter they engaged in. After all, her mother had told Brett repeatedly they didn’t need to go to any stuffy old church. They could have a fun time out by the pool; she’d get all the “man dating” black-book mumbo-jumbo some judge said she’d have to get. “And a tan.”
“Now, darling,” her mom drawled, “why would you think that?” The she sucked down the remaining slush from her still frosty, long stemmed glass.
That was record time for her mother’s first Sunday-brunch Martini, Brett guessed, judging by the lone lemon twist and single skewered olive triplet, now sitting forlornly exposed by the sudden absence of their bath. “Olives for energy and lemon for vitamin C,” her mom always explained, breezily.
Three was her mom’s memorial-number: for the deceased dogs; her marriage to Brett’s father (her third, which she pinky-swore with Brett, at the start of the separation a few months earlier, would be her last); and some “other things Brett was too young to know about.”
Brett had orange juice in her tall double-walled glass. She wasn’t big on things in her drinks, but her mother insisted the cook garnish her beverage, too, (on Sundays) with three “somethings.” Today it was pineapple chunks, which the girl now scarfed down one at a time. As she did, she acted like one of the caged reptiles she’d recently seen on a science show. As it went from unmoving into instant action: for the unwary small rodents thrown in at feeding time.
The air temperature poolside was already 90 in the shade as the girl then absentmindedly flipped her picture-Bible’s pages to kill time. Even she knew the moment needed to be just right. Especially to spring this eternal pet-question. But why her mother seemed to be playing dumb about being lonely, she didn’t get.
“I know you’re lonely,” Brett repeated carefully, “Because of, well, you know…your sleepovers…you know...how you say you don’t like it when all your friends go home after a party.” Even in the shade Brett could see her mother’s face flush red.
“Well, dear, I didn’t think you…” her mother started.
“I’ve been wondering, Mom,” Brett knew it was time to go on to the real subject, and pets and Bible-plagues were sort of related, she’d reasoned.
“I know, I know,” her mother said quickly, “I promised to tell you all about love and babies, and…”
“Not now, Mother,” Brett said abruptly, “this is important.”
“Oh,” her mother said, sounding relieved. She grabbed a box of plastic flags kept on the spacious teak patio table; rifled through a few and chose the one with the bold graphic of two olive-laden Martinis. One small snap! loosened the “single drink” banner already flying (in the contraption Brett’s dad had designed and marketed and reportedly made $millions on, so far). Another sharp plastic click! and the unwavering “double” flag was successfully hoisted.
Louisa, who was paid to hover within ear- or eye-shot at all times – especially on hot days, poolside - delivered two frosty-fresh olive studded libations within a mere handful of minutes.
“No, no, no, Louisa,” Brett’s mom said to the brown-skinned longtime employee before she had set the first one down.
“But, ma’am,” she began, pointing to the slowly revolving flag.
“One was supposed to be another juice for Brett,” she gestured to the girl who loudly slurped the last of a tall orange juice through a bright pink loop-de-loop straw.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” she stopped, set the second drink back on her tray and was about to leave when her boss’s hand shot out and stopped her.
“As long as you’ve gone to the trouble, Louisa…”
Brett looked up at Louisa and gave the middle-aged woman a sly smile and got a wink in return.
“Be right back, Miss Brett.”
“I’ve been
thinking, Mom,” the girl said after Louisa was out of earshot, “why couldn’t I have another ant farm…that wouldn’t be any bother…”
“Darling...do you remember what happened with your first one?” she shuddered slightly, “No, of course you don’t.”
Brett wondered how such a small drink could chill her mother so, considering after only one tall glass of icy juice, she herself was still sweating.
“Nope, I don’t,” said the girl, “but I know how much you like to kill ants, so even if some of them died it wouldn’t make you sad – like other kinds of pets, um, might…” Brett had both hands under the table and worked to keep as many fingers crossed for luck as she could. Her face, unbeknownst to her, was in a serious grimace.
“I see the whole ant-fiasco is beginning to come back,” the woman said matter of factly, “but you’re right, darling, a few more dead ants in this world…” her voice drifted off as she absentmindedly swirled the olives around and around the remainder of her latest Martini. The housekeeper-cook-&-sometimes-nanny returned to give the girl her second glass of juice, which she’d taken time to not only pour over crushed ice rather than cubed, but had adorned with a paper-parasol.
“Wow, look, Mom…” Brett said, then to Louisa, “Thanks.” The child suddenly turned serious, adding, “And Louisa, we’re taking a meeting right now, so we’d appreciate not being disturbed for the next little while…”
This time it was the two adults who exchanged looks. Louisa quickly turned then scurried back to the air-conditioning, leaving the bathing-suited “executives” to their meeting.
“Well,” said Brett’s mom, “this sounds very serious, but let me first say there will be no insects, no spiders, no snakes, no frogs, no…” Brett started laughing.
“Hey, Mom, I think you just answered most of the Bible quiz!” They both laughed at that.
“How about a tuh-rare-um, Mom, they’re like a glass box…”
“It’s ‘tuh-rare-REE-um,’ sweetie, and no...way too many things can climb walls.”
“We’ll put a ceiling on, Mom, something the air can go through and it could…” Brett twirled her straw in her juice; she was thinking hard how to make her plan foolproof.
“Havalock on it?” offered her mother, suddenly feeling her Martinis.
“Pre-cisely,” said Brett, like her dad often had, once he’d lead someone to an obvious conclusion, “even scorpions…”
Her mom had just taken a big draw on that second of the twin Martinis; she choked slightly on the olive she’d been working to wash down, “Sco-orpp—,” she half-gagged. Wiping her mouth as daintily as she could on a linen napkin, the Missus regained what was left of her inebriated composure.
“No Scorpions,,,my God, whoever’d pay good money for horribl-l-beests-lyy-ke that?” she shuddered again. “They’d need their heh-dex-zaminned…”
“That’s the great thing about them, Mom,” Brett said, undaunted and nearly aglow.
“Whaaadiz, darlin?” she said, growing more slurrily by the word.
“They’re free,” Brett practically shouted.
“Swee tart,” said her mom, “not so loud…whaass-free?”
“Scorpions are free, Mom,” the girl said, “they’re everywhere in Texas, just walking around waiting to be caught and put in a tuhrare-reeum…” Confident she’d sealed the deal, Brett then focused on sucking up the remaining juice before it got too melty. “So what do you say, Mom…Mom?”
Brett’s mother had the same wild-eyed look as the day she’d told the Mister to pack his bags, only this time she wasn’t scouring the pool-deck in vain for the phone she’d only dialed partway to 9-1-1…this time and in her particular state, she sought Brett’s hypothetical bug. A drinker’s dilemma that duly compounded all searches, but particularly one for a nightmarish creature of uncertain appearance, was the fact the well martinni-ed woman’s eyesight was not fully in her command.
“Mom?” Brett pushed back hard on the heavy iron patio chair, about to go over to her mom’s side to help her look, she presumed, for a contact lens. Then it dawned on her. “Mom!” the girl tried to get the woman to look up, “Mom…they’re night bugs, they’re not-turnal.”
“Oh, sweetie…” the woman, clearly sobered by the rush of adrenaline, collapsed back into the chair, “Why ever didn’t you say so…and it’s nocturnal, nok-turn-nul. And no, we will not keep scorpions because they’re poisonous – if you ever, and I mean ever, see one, you scream as loud as you can…for Louisa, and she will kill it. And I’ll tell her that,” she looked around for the woman, “…right away.” She found the one-Martini flag, put it in place, then hoisted it with a violent jerk, then smoothly drained the last of the by now barely cool drink in-hand.
Louisa came trotting out.
“Spee kuvv the Dehvill,” her mom said, as Louisa came trotting out; she’d relaxed again from the momentary excitement, let the medicinal beverages go back to doing their work, but now stared at the helper who was missing the drink tray.
Louisa wasn’t empty handed, but it wasn’t the demanded Martini either.
”Happy Birthday, Miss Brett,” the woman said, somewhat breathlessly, first handing the girl the smaller of two plain brown shipping boxes and setting the other beside it.
I’ll be right back with your Martini, ma’am,” she said, suitably apologetic, “it’s just that the doorbell rang and, well, never saw a Sunday delivery…”
“Ohhh Lou ee-ssaah…juss fergett the drinnnk I’m gonna lay down,” she said with near the same difficulty as she was having pushing back the heavy patio chair. Brett’s mother strained to see the top of the box; moved her reading-glasses up, down, then yanked them off all together trying to read the return label on one of the boxes: Brett’s father.
Uvv-corz-z he’d send giffs err-lee,” her mom said sloppily, “Dammimm… dammimm to…to…” she looked down into Brett’s happy eyes then steadied herself up against the table, “…to Heck! Right, swee-tee? To Heck, I say…” With that she took off slowly towards the double doors where Louisa waited, still holding it open.
Brett didn’t watch her for long; she was to busy wondering what her dad had sent, but it was now nearly 100 in the shade. Before she’d tear into the mysterious boxes, she’d take a quick dip in the pool. She turned to see if the two women were inside; they were, so she went gingerly over to the steps. She’d make sure to stay in the shallow end - as she’d been instructed countless times.
2
Moments later she was using a dinner knife, very inappropriately, to open the boxes: the smaller first, as it had been labeled, “Open Me First.” The heavy, hardbound book, inscribed “with love, Dad,” was about butterflies and full of beautiful photos, technical illustrations, and data on food, habitat, and migratory patterns. Brett was pretty sure her mother would think it was too grown up for a kid her age.
If I can’t have a real pet, I can look at pictures, at least.
The long skinny package contained a note from Brett’s dad, in addition to its enigmatic contents. He empathized with the girl’s inability to find an animal, “Mom could agree to live with.”
Rushing inside with the goodies and finding her mother nowhere in sight, she asked, “How could he have known, Louisa?”
“Oh, your daddy is a pretty smart man, miss.”
“And look…he also says “be on the lookout for a third package in a day or two,” what could that one be? What do you think, Louisa?”
The woman had no idea of course.
And she agreed the long box’s primary “gift” was truly odd. It was the leftover roll of wrapping paper the book had been covered with: an intricately illustrated assortment of nearly two dozen unique, life-sized butterflies, each labeled with its name in both Latin and English, printed against a creamy-yellow background.
Directions were for the girl - with Louisa’s help - to cut out several dozen of the iridescent beauties and poster-putty them to the ceiling of Brett’s bedroom: his house-payments, so his order
s, with his blessing. “The Missus has no say in it,” he’d written.
3
“Well, miss,” she smiled down at the girl as she added, “we have our orders...so let’s go.”
Louisa had readily agreed; the gifts were “cool.” She’d worked for the family long enough to know better than to do anything remotely considered decorating, without The Missus’ explicit say-so, but this order had come directly from The Mister and since he was the one who paid the bills…all of them…including her salary, not the mention this place’s sizeable mortgage – which was monstrous, most likely – cutting and gluing decorations on a ceiling was how she’d be spending her well-compensated Sunday afternoon. Besides, she thought, with no slight amusement, she’d have done it all for free merely for the priceless look that was sure to crack the normally implacable mug of The Missus.
As they worked through the early afternoon the wastebasket filled with paper trimmings, while the stack of paper butterflies grew and grew. It even fluttered slightly in the constant breeze of the overhead fans.
They stopped, even kept company during a brief shared lunch break at the kitchen counter – peanut butter & jelly sandwiches with glasses of cold milk.
“Dad knew I didn’t like all those paintings in my room, didn’t he, Louisa?”
“Yes, miss, he knew you wanted the murals of the movie-princesses, but your mother wanted…”
“Mother wanted the blurry, spotty kind of scenes like some famous painters used to do. So that’s what I have. Except now…” the almost-9-year-old was imagining how perfect the having the wrapping paper butterflies looking down at her, from their perch, way up on her sky blue ceiling which had been studded oh-so-artfully with all those tiny, blurry, puffy clouds.
Louisa clattered the dishes into the sink. “Later,” she said, as if speaking to a dog, then less sternly to Brett, “The poster-stuff is...” she said, and pulled a package from one of the kitchen junk drawers, “right here. You take it and I’ll get the tall ladder from the garage. I’ll meet you in your room.”
The Butterfly Affect Page 1
