The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (28 page)

So when Robin happened, and then when Wolf-Savannah happened, the remaining deficiency in Grant’s life began filling up. He had a prêt-à-porter granddaughter now and then Wolf and Savannah would have more children, and Grant’s life would be pure ecstasy.

As he walked on this Sunday, Grant looked around him. He loved the district. While New Halcyon herself was a celebrated green city-state, with mostly temperate climate the year around, Salisbury Park was a lush paradise with bounteous vegetation. The coconut palms of course, but there were Banyan trees, Mongo (wholly unusual for the north Pacific islands), Tamarind and Gulmohar. It wasn’t a myth that the air temperature in this region was generally a couple of degrees cooler than the rest of the Rectangle. The vast Salisbury Garden adjoining the final lane and adjacent to the ocean, topped it all, with its variety of fountains and flower beds. Grant circled the final lane and turned back. He would walk about four miles in all.

He returned home just past six, as day was breaking on the horizon, as the rest of Butcher Garden was slowly stirring to wakefulness. Sitting on the edge of his bed he began pulling his sneakers off. The door opened then and his wife came in.

“Ian called five minutes ago,” she said and her face was distraught. “He wants you to call him back right away. He said it was very urgent.”

But Grant didn’t see her face…he was looking down. “So he is back from the States, is he? Just in time. I would never have forgiven the bugger had he not made it.”

“You better call him back quick. He seemed disturbed.”

“Typical Ian,” Grant laughed. “The slightest thing disturbs him to death. I fail to understand how he became a judge…and the chief judge of the Supreme Court at that.”

He got to his feet, put the shoes away, and went to the washroom. Ian Cass could wait. There was no hurry. Then later, they would chat at leisure, and chat for long…the whole day.

Judge Ian Cass was Grant’s best chum, and they had been friends for the last thirty-six years. Cass was the only person, besides Grant’s wife, with whom Grant could overflow with his heart and not feel inhibited in the slightest. And overflow with his heart Grant badly wanted. He was so swamped with joy, he wanted to share it with his dear friend.

He was midway through his bath when his wife knocked on the washroom door.

“It’s Ian again!” her shout came through the spray of the shower.

Grant frowned through the froth on his face and marched to the door.

“Tell him to snuggle down, will you? I am in no condition to take his call right now.”

“It’s critical, Grant. He
has
to
talk to you…now! Here’s you cell,” Estelle said. There was panic in her voice.

Grant mumbled to himself, then went back and wiped his face and arms on the towel. He opened the door a foot. Estelle handed him the handset and Grant thought her hand was shaking.

“Goodness gracious, Ian…” he began. But he was cut off.

“Have you seen The New Halcyon Tribune?” Cass’s voice was throaty and sent a little chill through Grant.

“Not yet. What is it?”

“Just see it.” And the line went dead in Grant’s hand.

For a second, Grant stared at the opposite wall. He dithered if he should ask his wife to hand him the paper here in the wash. But finally he decided to finish the chore first.

He was out in five minutes. Estelle was standing near the door and Grant’s heart clutched when he finally looked at her face. It was ashen as a cadaver. In her hand, she was holding The New Halcyon Tribune.

Forgetting his manners for an instant, he grabbed the newspaper from her. And the blood whooshed out of his face too.

The front page caption screamed:

A New Halcyon Tribune Exclusive:

Wolf Butcher’s Bride a Prostitute

Grant gawped at the caption for a long time, stunned and immobile. And Estelle stood beside him, quivering quietly.

Eventually, Grant looked at his wife and they stared at each other wordlessly. Slowly, Grant’s jaw began setting in a hard line. Then suddenly he was on fire and he dashed to the bedside table for the fixed-line, forgetting the cellphone he had left in the washroom. He riffled through the phonebook, then punched in the numbers. As he waited, he could feel his legs trembling with rage.

The line was quickly answered.

“Get me the editor,” Grant said in a voice of cold menace.

“And may I know who’s calling?” a polite male voice inquired.

“President Butcher.”

“Oh, really? … But…but he’s at home right now.”

“Give me his number!”

“I…I can connect you to him if you like, sir.”

“Do it.”

“Just…just a minute, sir.”

The ‘Hold’ music started and Grant gritted his teeth. His left hand unconsciously clutched the newspaper in a creased mess. It was almost a minute before the music ceased.

“Glick here,” a sleepy voice said.

“What the bloody hell do you think you are doing, you rotten excuse for a human being?!” Grant said in a raw, grating voice, so atypical that it chilled Estelle. A cord on his neck stood out heatedly.

“We’re only doing our job, Mr. President,” the voice said evenly at the other end.

“This type of a job? This? Even a pimp would not stoop so low.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mr. President. I won’t allow…”

“Shut up! Shut that foul mouth of yours! Now listen, you cheap man—if you do not bring out a special addition in two hours apologizing, I am going to haul your sad bottom to court and if it is the last thing I do in my bloody life, I will see to it that you get put away for a long, long time.”

“Please go right ahead, Mr. President,” Glick said. “But remember, we back all our stories with impeccable facts.”

Grant spread the newspaper and glared at it. The piece was credited to some guy called Maddy Witcher.

“Get me this thing…this Maddy Witcher, or whatever its name is.”

“She must be at her home right now, Mr. President. However, if you insist, I can connect you to her.”

“She is a woman?” Grant asked a little taken aback.

“Is that a problem, Mr. President?”

“No, no…just connect me to her.”

“Gladly.”

A longish pause, then, “Yes, Mr. President, what can I do for you?” a new female voice said.

“Maddy Witcher?” he said rigidly.

“Dot on, Mr. President.” The voice was smooth and impassive. Very controlled, very professional.

Grant paused. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, as he tried to control the fury that was boiling in his throat. “Are you the one that wrote this…this bloody garbage?”

“I wrote the piece, Mr. President.”

“How did you dare?”

“Just the truth, Mr. President, and nothing else.” Grant thought the tone had the slightest hint of derision, as if the woman was enjoying herself.

“Damn, it is the truth! Do you people even know what that word stands for? Do…”

“Mr. President, obviously you haven’t read my article suitably, or you’d know that the caption is borne out by incontrovertible facts. I’d advise you to read the whole piece carefully, sir, then judge for yourself.”

A little wave of dizziness swept over Grant’s head.

“If nothing, just check out one fact: the cellphone number on the website. It no longer exists, but you call Orange and they’ll substantiate that it once belonged to Ms. Burns.” There was a short pause. “I’m very sorry, Mr. President. I hope this wasn’t true. Unfortunately, it is.”

“Like bloody hell it is! And yes, you
are
going to be sorry. Very sorry! If an unqualified apology is not published and distributed in two hours, you are going to be very, very sorry, the whole bunch of you.” And he bashed the receiver down. He didn’t realize he had snapped it into two. He glared at the newspaper again.

The text was detailed and claimed to be a reproduction of some website called http://www.butterflylass.net.

Grant got to his feet. He ignored his wife and walked out of the room to his home-office. Estelle followed him.

He turned the laptop on, then logged onto the Net.

It was all there, what the newspaper said. Grant shook his head firmly.
What does it prove? Nothing.
Could you
really
see the woman’s face?
No way.
It could be anyone, any woman. He turned the machine off. He turned around and looked at his wife. She looked so helpless, like some desolate child, he instinctively went over to her. He took her in his arms and held her. He needed her as much as she needed him.

“It is going to be fine,” he whispered in her ears. “These criminals are not going to get away with this junk, I promise you.” And he held her tighter.

“So you don’t think that this is…” she said feebly, her face against his shoulder.

“How can you even think that way?! These are complete lies. Bloody lies, I tell you! These people are out to get me. The ‘Tribune’ has always been against me, you know that. They cannot hurt me personally, so now they go after my family. But they have just made a fatal mistake. I must call Vasels.” He fetched his cellphone from the washroom. As he was about to call his lawyer, his eyes once again fell on the newspaper.

For a minute, he was thoughtful.

Finally, he called Orange.

It was ten minutes before they got back to him. And Grant’s heart sank.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Is it true?” Estelle asked, her voice low and husky.

“Yes,” he said. But then he looked up and there was a new determination on his face. “But it is all a terrible misunderstanding. This simply cannot be true! Savannah? Oh, no, no! It is unthinkable. Even to see that wonderful woman in that light is a sin. A great sin! There has to be an explanation to all this. Someone could be misusing her cellular without her knowledge. It could have been stolen. Or perhaps the Orange rascals are lying. They could have been bought over by the ‘Tribune’. This is a dreadful, dreadful gaffe. Something, somewhere does not add up.” He went to his cell’s phonebook and quickly found her number.

Come on, Savannah, pick it up my girl!
But it rang, and rang, and finally Grant disconnected. He now tried her fixed-line. But again, no go. Even the answering device was turned off. After a while, he tried her cell again.

As he listened to the incessant ringing, he turned to his wife.

“Wolf must not get to read this, do you understand?” His eyes were feverish pools. “No way can he see this. He does not deserve it. I do not want my son…” His eyes fell on the door and he gelled. Estelle followed his gaze.

Standing in the doorway was Wolf.

For a second, they regarded each other, then Grant hurried to his feet.

“Hide the paper,” he whispered urgently to his wife as he walked toward Wolf. He forced a wide smile. “There you are! Ready for the big day, son?”

But there was no smile on Wolf’s face. His face was cheerless and in that Grant realized that his boy had come to know. Grant’s eyes flashed.

“Do not worry about a thing, Wolf, these rascals will pay for it, I promise you. I was about to call Vasels. We are not going to be thwarted by such pathetic attempts from antisocials.” He put a hand on Wolf’s shoulder and gave it a good squeeze. “You stay calm. Let me take care of this…I am calling Vasels right now.”

“Sir, wait.”

“There is no time to lose, son!”

“It would be pointless to sue. The paper’s right.”

Grant regarded Wolf. Wolf’s face was pained and he couldn’t hold the older man’s gaze.

“What are you saying?” Grant demanded.

Wolf tried to look at Grant, but his eyes fell away again.

There was a sudden rush of blood to Grant’s cranium and he leapt forward. And he did what he had never thought himself capable of doing—he slapped the big moviestar hard across the face.

“How dare you! How dare you even…” He grabbed Wolf by the collar with both hands, shaking him furiously. Finally, Estelle rushed over to them and she caught Grant’s arms.

“For Jesus’ sake, Grant, what’re you doing?!”

“How dare he speak this way of the woman who is going to be his wife in a few hours? Has this man lost all sense of decency? Has he…”

“Let go of him, Grant!” Estelle shouted, tugging at his arm. “Let go of him, I say!” Somehow she managed to yank Wolf free, then pushed him out of the room and shut the door. She seized Grant by the arm and pulled him back to the bed. “You sit here…and take some deep breaths!”

After a while, Grant looked up at his wife again. “I am okay now, but do me a favor and leave me alone for a while,” he said. Estelle started to say something, but he cut her off. “Please!”

When she had gone he picked up his cellphone again.

This time, it was answered, on the seventh ring.

“Savannah?” he said when he didn’t hear anyone greet him. “Speak up, Savannah, I cannot bloody hear you!”