Butterfly's Child (5 page)

She took out a book of Mother Goose rhymes and a silver spoon with his name engraved on the handle, the latter a motivation for him to learn to use table utensils properly. Neither of these items evoked any interest.

He liked the blocks, though, light wood with a high varnish, made in three different sizes. She helped him build a wall, and he began to make stacks of his own. She sat for a few minutes watching him as he carefully placed one block on top of another; he seemed to be counting under his breath.

“I'm glad you like the blocks,” she said. He didn't look at her. She hadn't expected a thank-you, but she thought there might have been a glance of understanding, or a smile. Maybe he would never learn to love her, and she might never have a child of her own. The nausea on the journey had been a false alarm, nothing but seasickness, and Frank was disappointed in her once again.

“What's all this?” Frank's mother stood at the parlor door, hands on her hips. Mrs. Pinkerton was a doughy woman, her face a web of wrinkles. Her vanity was her nut-brown hair, which had not a trace of gray in it.

“Benji needs some amusements.”

“My children never had any fancy playthings.”

“He's lonely,” Kate said. Mrs. Pinkerton gazed at the boy without speaking, but Kate knew what she was thinking—that they should have left him where he was. She and Frank had managed to convince her that they had saved an abandoned orphan and intended to make a Christian of him, but Mrs. Pinkerton took a dim view of the enterprise. Soon they would have their own children, she said, and why name the boy Benji? That name should go to her grandchild. Nevertheless, she had a soft spot for the boy and was forever feeding him sweets, ruining his interest in healthful food.

“There's supper to get on the table,” Mrs. Pinkerton said.

“I'll be there presently.” Kate waited until Mrs. Pinkerton had returned to the kitchen before carrying the other box upstairs to her bedroom. She ripped it open and laid out on the bed a blue flowered print dress that would set off her eyes and an embroidered white nightgown trimmed in eyelet. She would wear the gown tonight with her hair brushed over her shoulders and some of the scent that Frank liked dabbed on her neck.

She took off her apron, changed into the blue dress, and sat at her dressing table, leaning toward the mirror. The color was becoming, and it gave her a pleasant little shock—as always, these days—to see that she looked much the same as ever. A cloud of golden hair, intense blue eyes, a complexion without flaw—in spite of the relentless labor in the house and garden, in spite of Frank's eyes no longer reflecting back what he used to call her luminous beauty.

Ever since their visit to Japan, Frank had lost his appetite for her love. He had suffered a terrible jolt, but so had she. She had thought they could take comfort in each other and, after a few weeks, return to their old habits, albeit with the changes necessitated by Benji's presence. The first two years of their marriage, Frank had been devoted and their lovemaking passionate; they had taken a secret delight in coupling under her mother's roof, where they had lived until they decided about the farm, stifling their laughter with kisses.

Frank was having a difficult time managing a farm for the first time—she understood that. But as the weeks passed, he receded further from her. He often seemed distracted, silent, looking into the distance. No more embraces or kisses except in the bedroom, where he seemed a stranger, no intimate conversations, no words of love.

He must be consumed with guilt over that woman, his senses dulled by shame. Kate had tried to help him with his burden, encouraged him to talk, but he evaded her. Only reluctantly had he told her the woman's name: Cio-Cio, Butterfly. A name for an exotic beauty, she had thought, but pushed aside the nettles of jealousy. Men sowed their wild oats, and this was in the past, except for Frank's suffering. She would have to be patient and resourceful to bring him back to her. She must try harder, and with God's help, their union would be revived.

“Kate,” her mother-in-law called up the stairs. “The men will be in shortly. I've done everything but snap the beans.”

She sat on the front porch with the beans, and when she saw Frank coming from the barn, fanning himself with his straw hat, she flew to the road to meet him, seeing herself as he might, the blue skirt belling out, her eyes ablaze with devotion.

He stopped and frowned at her. His nose was sunburned. “What's wrong?” he said.

“Nothing. Why shouldn't a wife come to greet her husband?”

He laughed and shook his head, smacking the hat against his dusty trousers. “Mighty grimy husband,” he said.

“Nonetheless handsome,” she said. He laughed again.

She went with him to the back porch and after he washed up, handed him the towel.

“To what do I owe this royal treatment?” he said, grinning, one eye shut, as he scrubbed his face dry. “You seen something new in the catalogue?”

“Well …” She smiled and looked down at the bodice of her dress, but he was hanging up the towel and even at dinner didn't notice the dress, though her mother-in-law did, her eyes fixing on every button and tuck, as if to measure the cost.

After supper, Frank went upstairs to his study to work on the farm ledger, while Kate sat in the parlor with her needlepoint, Mrs. Pinkerton knitted, and Benji played with his blocks, the marmalade cat purring in his lap.

He was a sweet little boy, but with him in the house it would be impossible for Frank to forget that woman. The mother of his child. The phrase sank into her like lead.

She rethreaded her needle. She must keep in mind that she was partly to blame for this predicament. She should never have insisted on the trip to Japan—a second honeymoon, she pleaded, before they made the move to the farm. The Orient was an interest she and Frank had in common—she'd lived in China as a young child with her missionary parents—and he had some business in Japan, he'd told her, some money he'd invested, a considerable sum. Recovering the money would offset the cost of the trip, she'd pointed out.

He'd not had a chance to look into his financial affairs, for that first morning an urgent note had come, interrupting their lovemaking. The paper had trembled in Frank's hands. “What is it?” she'd asked. “Nothing,” he replied, but she'd found out soon enough.

Cio-Cio. Butterfly.

Kate had a glimpse of the woman before Frank shielded her view. Gleaming black hair, skin smeared with something like chalk, painted lips, and, beneath her, a river of blood.

She shivered: a ghost slipping over her grave.

“Time for bed,” she said in a bright voice. Benji looked at her. “Cookie?” she asked. That was one word he understood. He followed her to the kitchen, carrying the cat, which he kept in his lap while he ate his cookies at the table. She didn't comment on the untouched glass of milk. The one time she'd insisted, he spat it out. She tucked him into bed, the cat beneath the covers. Mrs. Pinkerton disapproved of animals in the bedroom, but Kate saw no harm in it; the cat was Benji's only comfort except for the ball.

Frank was still in his office, staring out the dark window, the ledger book open before him. She put on her new gown and returned to him. He hadn't moved. “Come sleep, darling,” she said. “You're tired.”

He followed her to the bedroom, undressed, and got into bed while she sat at the dressing table, brushing her hair. Not so long ago, he would have brushed it himself.

She climbed into bed beside him, moved her pillow close to his. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed. His forehead was sunburned too, she noticed.

“Frank,” she said. “I have … a wifely concern. That woman …” She hadn't meant to begin this way.

“What woman?” he said, opening his eyes to stare at her.

“The poor Japanese woman—Butterfly. I know you're suffering remorse,
but you mustn't blame yourself. A normal woman who is set aside will manage to survive, without … doing such a thing.” She thought of the searing moment in the garden when Richard McCann told her he had proposed to Emily Kettering, in spite of the understanding they'd had.

“Suicide is more acceptable in Japan,” Frank said. “A matter of honor.”

She studied his profile.

“How long did you live with her?”

He cut his eyes at her. “What does it matter?”

“I'm interested—concerned. How long was it?”

“Not long.” He yawned and stretched his arms behind him, knocking against the headboard. “A few months, or weeks …”

“Do you think of her often?” Her heart began to pound.

He hesitated, and in that hesitation she knew a lie was forming. “Of course not,” he said. “I love only you.” He shifted to his side, facing her, and kissed her cheek. “My dear wife,” he said. He put his arm around her and closed his eyes and murmured, “You're right, I
am
tired.” Within a few moments his breathing began to deepen.

He loved her, then, that woman. Tears stung her eyes. This was more than God could expect her to endure.

It became harder to push herself through the days, hauling water from the pump, wringing the clothes, making conversation at mealtimes. She was bruised deep in her body, where no one could see.

She tried to pray but felt spiritually dry. The pastor at the Plum River church was unlearned, his approach to religion primitive. She could not confide in him, and she had as yet no friend in the community. She was alone in a house with a husband who loved another, and their child. Butterfly's child. Although she continued to attend to Benji, cooking dishes that might appeal to him, trying to teach him words and phrases of English, and although she constantly reminded herself that he had not asked to be born or to suddenly find himself in this alien world, she could not forget that he was the offspring of that woman.

Often in the evenings as she sat with her needlework, an image of Butterfly clicked into her mind, like a colored lantern slide: black hair, elaborately arranged; a startling mask of white face; painted eyebrows and lips; like a mannequin but for the eyes that burned at her. In the next slide the woman was lying on the floor, one arm outstretched, a bloody
sword beside her. On the back of her neck were strange white markings covering skin that was muddy brown like Benji's.

She was glad the woman was dead, glad as she punched the needle through the stiff template of her pattern—such a sinful thought that she pricked her finger, then blotted it against the back of the needlepoint. And she wished that Emily Kettering was dead too. To keep back thoughts of Emily dying in childbirth or falling down the stairs of her fancy new home in Galena or wasting away with consumption, her hair growing mousy and thin, Kate pressed the needle into the meat of her thumb. By the time she had finished her first new handiwork and hung it on the wall of the parlor, a constellation of rusty blood spots filled the back of the sampler that read:
Amor Vincit Omnia
.

One Sunday after
dinner, a boy named Eli came to play. Benji was helping clear the table but Papa-san said he could leave it and go outside with Eli. Benji had seen him at church, a tall boy with a loud voice and hair the color of sweet potatoes. He had his dog with him, white with black spots and one black ear. Benji squatted down to pet him and the dog licked his face. Both he and Eli laughed and Benji could tell Eli wasn't a kappa because of his laugh that wasn't scary and his nice brown eyes.

Eli said some words Benji couldn't understand. Benji didn't know anything to say but hello; Eli said hello and for a while they made a game out of it, saying hello back and forth and laughing. Then Benji taught him to say “
Konbanwa
,” and they laughed some more. Eli saw Mama's ball in Benji's pocket and pointed to it but Benji shook his head.

For a while they threw sticks for the dog to fetch and then played tug-of-war with the dog, using a long stick. After that they played tug-of-war with each other. Eli was stronger, but Benji held on to the stick so that he was pulled along like the dog. He made growling noises and pretended to bark and Eli laughed so Benji barked louder. The dog began to run around them, barking and jumping for the stick. Benji fell down and Mama's ball rolled out of his pocket. The dog almost got it, but Eli snatched it up first. Since Eli had saved it, Benji let him hold the ball and look at it, but he didn't like it when Eli threw the ball up and down. He held out his hand for Eli to give it back and he did.

They went into the house and Benji showed Eli his blocks and top
that were in the parlor and went to put the ball in his room, under the pillow.

When Eli left, Benji went into his room and reached under the mattress for the kimono. If he put the ball inside the kimono no one could find it.

He unfolded the kimono all the way and put the ball in the middle. There was something inside the kimono he hadn't seen before, a square of cloth near the hem. Although the square was the same color as the lining, there were stitches along the edges, and what was underneath the cloth felt stiff.

He tried to loosen the thread and then bit it with his teeth, just like Suzuki used to do. He tugged the thread out of one end of the square and reached inside.

“
Okasan!
” he whispered. It was a picture of Mama standing by a chair. Papa-san was sitting beside her, holding a watch. Mama's head was turned a little to one side, as if she was listening to him. He held the picture against his face. It was cool and smooth and smelled like tatami.

He heard Blue Eyes and the old woman talking in the kitchen so he put the picture back in the cloth and folded the ball inside it, in a place where it wouldn't hurt the picture, then put the kimono under the mattress. When he left his room and went into the kitchen, everything looked different to him because of his secret. The house was like a picture of a house but he was real, walking around in it. Even if it was a kappa world, nothing was going to hurt him.