The Butterfly Forest

ONE HUNDRED-SEVEN

I spent the better part of two weeks replacing some of the floorboards in the old house on the banks of the St. Johns River. The work was dirty and hot, but I didn’t care. I wanted to bury myself in sweat and work, wanted to stop thinking about the aberrant behavior of people like Pablo Gonzales and Frank Soto. A few days earlier, I had awakened during the night and thought I felt Gonzales’ presence in my bedroom. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind a visual hangover on a stale dream. It was an image as deviant as that moment when Cal Thorpe and I drew our guns on the dead body of Izzy Gonzales, propped in an antique chair like some used marionette, as if carefully placed in a magic box with a one-dimensional view.

I wanted to visit Elizabeth, but I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to, at least not yet. I stood on my screened-in porch with Max and waited for the rain shower to end. “I see the tip of a rainbow, Max. Let’s take a walk down to the river, maybe we can get a better look. We left the porch, the afternoon air washed clean after the rain. My cell rang. It was Dave Collins. I answered and he said, “I was just browsing online, you know, checking The Times, Post and glancing at some of the stories in USA Today.”

“Uh huh, I thought you gave that up.”

He chuckled. “Old war horses like me are comfortable in the same saddle. I saw an obscure story. It seems that a young woman in Houston, Texas, recently received a kidney transplant. All expenses paid for by an anonymous donor. The woman’s name caught my attention… a Caroline Palmer. I wonder if there's any connection to the late Luke Palmer.”

I said nothing.

“It would be a remarkable coincidence if she was related, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Stranger things have happened,” I said.

“The story says the donor made a contribution of two-hundred thousand dollars.”

“I hope she’s doing well.”

“By all accounts, she’s on the road to a complete recovery.” Dave’s voice was light, dry humor mixed with an anecdotal delivery. “It seems like this is the week for generosity. The Gainesville Sun reports that another anonymous donor gave three hundred thousand to the University of Florida’s planned research wing for the department of entomology. The only stipulation was that the new wing had to be named for Molly Monroe.”

“That’s good news.” I watched Max chase a squirrel around an oak tree.

“Sean, do you happen to know anything about these gifts?”

“You’re fading, Dave. Reception here on the river is a little spotted. You’re cutting out.” I disconnected, turned to Max and said, “Race you to the dock.” She took off running. I chased her down the long yard, her little dachshund rump bouncing, her short legs trying their best to imitate a greyhound.

The colors of the rainbow over the river brought me to a halt. Even Max paused. The rainbow made a curve in the sky with the river seeming to flow through the center of the semi-circle. The colors off the water mirrored those in the sky. Stepping to the dock, something to the far left caught my eye. The purple trumpet flowers seemed to yawn and stretch after the rain. Beads of turquoise water hung from their petals, making them look like liquid jewels.

A butterfly rose out from one of the trumpet flowers. Its black wings with the iridescent light blue trimming made a statement from the twenty feet that separated the butterfly from me. It was an adult atala, flying slowly from flower to flower, its body floating, suspended above the cascading green vines that popped with pinks and purples.

I leaned against the dock railing and watched the butterfly. Then it lifted from a peach colored trumpet flower, flew above the trellis and circled around me. It alighted on the railing less than a foot from my hand. I didn’t move. After a few seconds I held out my hand. The butterfly crawled to my finger, its wings seeming to balance its dark red body while it rested.

I could hear Molly’s voice, distant like the breeze at the oxbow in the river, but present as the invisible current under the dock. “Have you ever held a live butterfly in the palm of your hand, Sean? They like the human touch… the warmth that comes from our hands, and maybe our hearts.”

I cupped the butterfly gently with my left hand and walked to the end of the dock where Max was standing there waiting for me. I lifted my hand, held the butterfly on my outstretched palm and said, “Go back and lay your eggs… now you have another chance.”

The butterfly raised its wings and lifted from my palm. It flew high, catching an air current and soaring across the river, following the rainbow as it curved into the heart of the forest.