BUTTERFLY
By Holmes Miller
Bone-tired while driving home, Barry thinks about Joanne. She is Ruth's friend and is coming to visit. Three times in the last twenty years, that's how often he has seen her. But it seems like more, probably because Ruth speaks of her so much. They met in the late nineteen-sixties at Ruth's country club when he and Ruth just graduated college. Barry noticed Joanne as soon as he stepped onto the pool's apron. She sat at the edge in a white bikini, legs dangling in the shallow water. She was a real head-turner, thin with a brilliant tan and perfect skin. Her light brown hair fell over her shoulders and ran down to her waist. “Wow!” he thought.
Barry walked over and Ruth introduced her. She smiled; her teeth were perfect. She was perfect. He couldn’t understand why she was with this Alan guy slouching next to her, already pudgy with black kinky hair, greenish-brown tortoise shell glasses, and a nerdy, supercilious demeanor cultivated by two years of law school at Yale with one to go.
They talked, or rather Alan talked and everyone else listened or at least pretended to do so. He planned to go into corporate law, which was unusual back then since everyone with a pulse and conscience wanted public interest. He droned on, talking about himself, his things, and the money he would soon make. Although Alan made Barry sick, Joanne adored him and hung on his every word. When Alan took a dip in the pool, she gushed over how much she loved him and how much she learned being with him. Ruth couldn't understand it either—Barry could see that from her quick glances and surreptitious raised eyebrows as Joanne talked. Later, when driving back to Ruth’s place, they laughed, gobsmacked over this odd couple.
It didn't last. Alan called off the engagement early in the next year. The next time Barry saw Joanne, she said breaking up with Alan is the best thing that ever happened to her. At least she got that right.
Barry and Ruth married a year later, in 1970. Joanne was a bridesmaid. Barry was beginning graduate school that fall, and before leaving, Joanne insisted they stop over to meet her new boyfriend. She was in love again. The boyfriend's name was Steve, and he was studying for a master’s in chemical engineering at RPI. He had short blonde hair and was athletic looking, in jeans, a plain black tee shirt, and toned muscles. Joanne wore jeans too, with a sleeveless cotton top with red and yellow flowers. She sat next to Steve, who massaged her thigh the whole time, as if kneading dough.
Barry liked Steve more than Alan, which didn’t mean much, as Alan was a very low bar. It was clear Steve was in heat, not love. He hurried the conversation and did everything but ask them to leave. The next day Joanne asked them what they thought of Steve. "I like him," Barry said. "He seems nice." Joanne smiled broadly, nodding her head. "Yeah," she said happily. That was the last they heard of Steve.
Barry decided to go for a doctorate in economics at Northwestern. He and Ruth lived in Evanston, in an apartment three blocks from Lake Michigan. By 1972 they had a baby, a boy. In the summer they could walk to the lake, spread out their beach blanket, and enjoy a blissful afternoon. Graduate school was stressful, but looking back, their life was idyllic.
That summer, Joanne and her new boyfriend, Evan, visited. Joanne and Evan were hitchhiking across the country. They were going to spend time with friends in California, then hitchhike back east. Evan was an artist, a real artist, not some mixed up hippie who did macrame or slapped paint on a canvas and called it art. He was a realist, and he painted portraits and landscapes that looked as real as good photographs. You had to stand close to see the difference. Barry, whose artistic talents peaked at stick figures, was floored by Evan’s ability and viewed his talents on a level reserved for rock stars or major league baseball players.
Evan was very handsome and had long, curly black hair, hip round wire-framed glasses, and a close cropped beard. He was a few inches shorter than Joanne, and they were a striking couple, both being so good looking, and she being tall and thin and he being short and compact. They arrived late at night and the baby was already sleeping. Ruth told them to use the living room and sleep on the sofa bed. Evan passed on the sofa bed and spread out his sleeping bag on the floor. Then, Joanne stopped him.
“No,” she said, insisting that they both had to sleep in the same place. Either both would use the sofa bed or both would use the sleeping bag—she would squeeze into it with Evan. “No,” Evan said. They argued about this and finally woke up the baby. Barry, trying to control his anger, to no one in particular, said, "Look, why can't Evan sleep in the sleeping bag and Joanne on the sofa bed? I don't see what's the big problem here?" Joanne looked at him, incredulous. Then, Evan too. Their relationship was beyond rationality; it required unanimity on every point. As a result, they fought over everything.
Joanne and Evan stayed two days, and when they left, Barry and Ruth were exhausted. They left the baby with a sitter, drove into Chicago, and celebrated with a dinner in Old Town. Until now, in 1987, that was the last time Barry saw Joanne. She and Evan lasted nine more years, breaking up and coming back together like matter, under the influence of some mysterious natural force. Finally, they split up for good, with Evan somewhere out west and Joanne in Vermont.
Joanne and Ruth still corresponded so Barry knew all these details. He also knew that Joanne had found a cause—she was a "full time peace activist,” as she called herself. She was arrested for picketing nuclear laboratories and visited Cuba once and Nicaragua twice. Barry thought this was all very funny because during the Vietnam war she was apolitical.
Over the years Barry changed too and has done very well. He is an investment banker on Wall Street with a big house in Short Hills. He makes lots of money but rationalizes this by saying money is just to keep score; it hasn't distorted his values. Still, money does buy lots of things that Barry likes. His new Mercedes 560 SEC, for example, that now ascends the long driveway to his place. It is eleven PM, and he has worked late on a big deal, one of those takeovers you read about on page one of the Wall Street Journal. His client is doing the taking over, and his adrenaline is flowing, having been pumped up since seven that morning when he arrived for an early breakfast at a hotel near his office. When he arrived at his office, his secretary handed him Ruth’s phone message—“It’s on. Joanne is coming to stay for a few days.”
***
When Barry walks into his kitchen, three women sit at the round white table by the big bay window in the breakfast nook. Ruth's back is turned toward him, and Joanne faces her. A stranger sits next to Joanne. Joanne has changed. Her hair is cut short with a few grey streaks in front. It is dull even though she sits beneath the kitchen light. Bags hang under her eyes and her skin is a little blotchy. When she smiles, faint creases appear across her face like thin cracks in glass.
“Hi, Barry," she says, and stands up to greet him. He leans over the table and gives her a rudimentary hug and a peck on the cheek.
"You look great," Barry says.
"I guess," Joanne says. "It's been so long." To her left her friend sits still, patiently, blankly staring into space, looking like a bored witch. Her hair is jet black and parted in the center with noticeable white roots running from front to back. Her face looks haggard, and her cheekbones protrude out, and as if to compensate, her eyes seem ready to drown in their sockets. This woman wears a black summer dress with two straps over her bare, bony shoulders. Lying under a strap starting at her left shoulder and running down toward her breast, as if sleeping beneath a dead vine, a large red, yellow, and blue butterfly tattoo perches, looking like a remnant of something now gone, maybe her youth, however wild or weird it might have been.
Joanne introduces her. "Barry, this is Delores. Delores, Barry. Delores is my friend.”
Barry smiles wanly and holds out his hand. Delores doesn’t smile and perfunctorily extends her hand in return. “Hello,” she says, barely grasping his palm, then letting go, with no eye contact, as she focuses on the wall behind him.
The kitchen is a mess. Plates are stacked on the counter by the sink and the table is covered with crumbs and partially eaten slices of cake. The women have been drinking coffee, and empty cups and saucers sit in front of them. Two cigarette butts lay in Joanne's cup, and three lay in Delores’s. On the counter, the light of the Nespresso coffee is still on. Barry walks over and turns it off. To no one in particular, he says "It's almost gone." He holds up the pot. “Do you ladies want any?" Joanne shakes her head and looks at Delores, who replies, "Not me.”
“We don't want any," Joanne says to Ruth. Barry watches all this and realizes he wants a drink, but not coffee. There are limits. He already has had twelve cups of coffee at work and that is enough caffeine, even for him. He walks over to the corner liquor cabinet and takes out a large bottle of Bacardi rum. He hasn't had rum in a long time and decides to have it now. "Where's the Coke,” he says to Ruth.
"Try the refrigerator,” Ruth says. He can't find any. "Nothing here."
"Try the cabinet," Ruth says. “If it's not there, we don't have it." Barry looks, and she’s right. But there is some Pepsi in the cabinet and that's a good enough Plan B. Barry scoops some ice from the freezer and pours himself a rum and Pepsi. Holding up the rum bottle, he asks, "Anyone else?"
No one answers or even pays attention. Barry waits, then lays down the bottle on the counter and begins to drink. The drink tastes good, so good that he quickly empties his glass. To no one in particular, he says, "That tastes so good that I’m going to have another.” After slowly pouring another rum and Pepsi, he joins them at the table, turning his chair around and leaning on its back, like they do in the old westerns. "This better be your last,” Ruth says, and Barry raises his glass to her in a mock toast.
Joanne and Delores exchange glances.
"So what exactly are you doing here?" Barry asks Joanne.
"Now?" Joanne said.
“I mean why are you visiting us?”
“Oh, we're going on a peace trip. Our plane leaves Kennedy late tomorrow afternoon. So I thought what a great time to catch up. I mean seeing old friends. That’s what it’s all about, right?”
"I guess,” Barry says. “And this peace trip. Where to?"
"Russia, actually," Joanne says. Delores leans over and takes a cigarette from her purse, pulls her chair in, and puts her elbows on the table. Then she lights up.
Barry watches her, somewhat annoyed. Yet another cigarette. How does she know it’s okay to smoke inside? How about asking? Rather than spark a confrontation he says, "Russia. I have a good friend whose son went there on a tour last summer. He's studying Russian. He loved it. Very educational. Lots of history there. But the country is a mess. It’s collapsing."
Joanne smiles and remains silent. Delores takes a deep drag on her cigarette and blows the smoke out slowly toward the ceiling. It hangs over the table, then dissipates. “That’s your opinion,” she finally says. Her voice is raspy, and she sounds like an old woman.
"Is this a peace group tour?” Barry asks Joanne, ignoring Delores.
"Not exactly. We're the US representatives at a worldwide peace conference."
“I see," Barry said softly, trying not to chuckle. He is floored, Joanne going to some staged communist peace extravaganza. "Is this the first time you've been there?"
Joanne nods. "Delores has been there before."
Barry looks at Delores. "Once before," she says.
"Well," Barry said, trying to sound interested. "Then this will be number two. What's it like? Really? You read so many things. . .”
"It's a wonderful country," Delores says. "Very progressive. Women have a major role in society, everyone is healthy, and there is no racism, poverty, and no unemployment."
Barry can't believe it's the nineteen-eighties and there are still people like this around.
“When did you go?"
"Last year,” Delores says and takes another drag on her cigarette. Barry watches her and realizes that it is official—she is a nut case, and he wants nothing more to do with her. But she isn’t done. “People don't realize the high level of grass roots support for peace all over this country. It's incredible, really …”
“It is. Really incredible,” Barry says, cutting Delores off. “That’s why Reagan won a second term in a landslide.” He shakes his head. Then for a long moment, they are all silent. Ruth sips her coffee even though her cup is empty. Finally, Barry says, "This Evan guy you lived with. Whatever happened to him?”
“He's out west now," Joanne says.
"In Oregon," Delores says.
How does she know this, Barry wonders? They both live in Vermont. “He's still painting," Joanne says. "Doing well the last time I heard. He’s an art professor.”
"You know," Barry says. "He could make lots of money. I mean lots, his style being so realistic. He could make a fortune painting portraits.” Turning to Ruth, he says, “Don’t you think so honey?”
Ruth shrugs. "But maybe he doesn't like painting portraits."
"Or dealing with rich people," Joanne says.
Delores chimes in, "He hates rich people. It is a matter of principle with him. He'd never paint a portrait of someone he didn’t like just for the money." When finished, she glares at Barry, challenging him to say something.
“But wouldn’t Evan paint my portrait? We were good friends. Doesn’t that count too?”
Delores smiles. "Some people still have their principles."
"Do you know him, Delores?” Barry says. “Or have you just heard about him? Or maybe you are making all this up.”
“Stop, already. That’s enough,” Ruth says.
Chastened, Barry looks at his glass and seeing that it is empty, walks over to the counter to pour himself another drink. He holds up the bottle. "Anyone else for a rum and Pepsi or whatever the hell it is?”
"Barry please," Ruth said. "Isn't two enough?”
Barry smiles. “Just one more, honey. I've had a long day. You want one, Joanne? Delores?”
"I don't drink," Delores says.
“Ah," Barry says. “A teetotaler! You know, no one drinks rum and Coke anymore, unless you go to the islands. Isn't that true Ruth?"
"If you say so. I haven't taken a survey."
"I think it's true," Barry says. "I just realized it. It hit me.” He takes a few sips and contemplates and sighs. :Now that is good. Where was I? Oh that's right. Evan being in Oregon and maintaining his principles and all. Not selling out. And you, Joanne. You 're in Vermont?"
"A continent apart,” she says.
"You like it up there?"
"It's alright."
“We were skiing up there last year. At Stowe. A friend has a place and lets us use it."
Joanne chuckles.
"What's so funny?" Barry asks.
"The idea of him letting you use his place. You have so much money, you could get your own place.” Ruth blushes and glances at Barry.
"What makes you think I have so much money?" Barry says.
"Look at this house. God. It must cost a fortune.” Joanne pauses. "What do you do exactly?"
"I'm in investment banking," Barry says.
Joanne stares. “What’s that?”
“I do deals. For example, one company wants to buy another one. Or not be bought by another one. Financial advice. That sort of thing."
"Oh, I see. It must pay well," Joanne says.
Barry smiles. "You wouldn't believe how well it pays. I'm working on a deal now, if I told you the name of the company you could buy the stock and make a fortune."
"If I had any money to buy the stock," Joanne said, laughing.
"Right. A minor detail.”
“Joanne would never buy stock," Delores says. "Stock is part of the decay of this capitalist system of yours. It’s disgusting."
“Really?” Barry said. He hasn't heard such ignorance since college and, in a way, enjoys it. He is ready to argue because he likes to argue, but not with Delores; he wouldn’t waste his intellect on her. Instead he says, "Some people see it differently."
"It’s amazing," Joanne says. "How different you are now. Remember when I visited you in Evanston. We watched the people getting off the El train from Chicago, dressed in their suits with their briefcases. You made fun of them and said you could never be like that."
"I said that?"
Joanne nodded. "And now you're one of them."
Barry laughs. "It’s even worse. No need to take the train anymore. I've got a free parking space in the basement of my building. But I’ve got to leave real early to beat the traffic. Can you believe it!"
"I feel like I'm in the enemy camp," Joanne says, laughing.
“It’s not funny,” Dolores says. She shakes her head. “Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.”
Barry glares at her, this crazy woman with her limited insult vocabulary. And in his kitchen no less. Before he can say anything else, Ruth says, “You missed a good dinner. A souffle and some salad.”
“It was delicious," Joanne says. "Ruth is such a good cook. A great cook.”
What’s left of dinner is on the counter. The burnt yellow souffle crust looks soggy, like a used sponge. In the salad bowls, scraps of lettuce float in olive oil. Barry collects the plates, scrapes the scraps in the disposal, and places them in the sink. “Already after midnight,” he says. Then he runs the water and flicks on the disposal switch as the four of them listen to its roar.
When done, he says, "I'm going upstairs. See you later." The ladies were silent. It is only when he begins to climb the stairs that he hears them laughing and carefree, as if a cloud has lifted.
***
In the middle of the night, Barry wakes from his dream. Ruth is beside him, sleeping on her side, turned away from him, breathing softly, relaxed. Barry’s heart is pounding, and he feels afraid. This is the dream. He is back in college in a large house, maybe his old fraternity, but different. The house itself must be some sort of restaurant because students are eating at tables in every room in it. In his dream, Barry wanders through the rooms, looking for the kitchen, the source of the food that everyone is eating, but he can't find it. The students look up from their tables a stare at him, then return to their meals, indifferent to his search. One doesn't and keeps staring and finally says in a loud stage whisper, “Who is that old man?”
Barry can't understand why he can't find any food for himself. Finally, on a corner table, he sees a burnt hamburger patty on a plastic plate. Barry takes a plate and covers the patty with a mound of fries, thinking that he can escape without anyone knowing that he is stealing the patty. As he walks toward the front door, fries slip off the plate and fall to the floor, until none remain.
Finally, a man in a white cook’s apron walks over to him. He tells Barry that he has made a mistake. This table is not for food; this table is for inedible scraps. As the man leaves, a student who had overheard the conversation laughs. Barry is furious; these students were babies when he was in college and now—this. He lifts the plate above his head, balancing it on his palm like a waiter, and hurls it across the room. It smashes against the wall and falls to the floor. Barry looks around defiantly, but the students try to ignore him. To them he has crossed the line; he is crazy.
Barry lies in bed, thinking about what this all means. The digital clock reads 3:43. The red colon separating the minutes and hours pulsates and he watches, the :43 changes to :44. Ruth still breathes slowly and steadily. She is on her side, still turned away, curled up and hugging her pillow. Barry places his hand on her hip. She purrs. He slides his hand up her side and onto her breast. "No," she says, still asleep and turns onto her stomach.
Barry is wide awake. He knows he will not sleep and anyway, must get up at 5:30. In the night’s silence, sounds are magnified, appearing and disappearing like flashes of distant lightning in a storm. The floors creak and the refrigerator hums. A clock ticks. A sudden breeze through the open window rustles a curtain. Then he hears a new sound, like faint flapping like a distant flag ruffled in the wind or a towel snapped at the beach. He listens closely and first thinks it is from outside. Then he realizes it comes from the guest room where Joanne and Delores sleep.
He investigates. Walking toward their room in the middle of the night, everything looks gray and grainy, unformed, like snow from an off the air TV station. The door is ajar, and Barry gently pushes it open. One bed is empty, and Delores and Joanne lie in the other one, snuggled close together. The scene seems as settled as a still life painting. Yet, not. Color pierces this gray place. Red and yellow and blue, luminescent in the dark night, the butterfly darts—alive and free—as if a spirit metamorphosed into life.
Barry stares as the butterfly flits toward the open door, its vivid colors so prominent against the night’s muted grays. The butterfly pauses mid-flight, suspended in the air between the two sleeping figures and Barry. It hovers, then darts back into the shadows and disappears altogether. Barry remains still, waiting for it to reappear. He waits for a few minutes. Nothing happens and he wonders, unsure if it was ever there at all. He closes the door softly and returns to bed, Ruth’s silhouette now curled away from him. He lies down, the sheet cool against his skin, the pillow soft and comforting. He stares into the darkness, where the butterfly’s afterimage hovers in his mind, inviting yet unknowable, like a question he cannot answer.
