The Fall of Butterflies (21 page)

B
y the time I get back to Denbigh, I'm convinced Remy will be off somewhere with Humbert Humbert eloping but, no, she is there. In the room, quiet.

“Remy?”

She doesn't say anything.

“Um, hello? Remy?”

She looks up.

“What are you doing here? What's the matter?”

“He never showed up.”

“Who, Humbert?”

“Yeah, he was supposed to pick me up at six and he never showed. Didn't call, didn't text. Nothing. Just fucking blew me off. On Thanksgiving.”

She looks up at me, pleading somehow.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Milo just dropped me like a hot potato.”

“Are you serious?”

“Uh, yeah. Just fucking blew up at his family and blew up at me. And then just left. I'm sort of in a state of shock right now. Which is why I'm not currently bawling my face off.”

“Oh. God . . . I was hoping he'd changed.”

“What?”

She's shaking her head. “He's been so angry lately. But he seemed to really like you and I thought maybe he'd grown up. Or maybe you would change him or something stupid.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I should have said something. I'm sorry. I wanted to. But I just didn't want to ruin it, you know?”

“Sort of.”

“Milo is just one of those guys. Great guy. Horrible boyfriend. Why do you think I never went out with him?”

“Well, I wish you would have told me, honestly.”

“I thought maybe you had a chance. I'm so sorry. God, what a fucker.”

“So you think that's it? You don't think he's gonna text or anything? Or try to, like, fix it?”

I don't know why I'm asking Remy this. Except that she
obviously knows a whole lot more about this than I do. Apparently.

“Honestly, no. He sort of like . . . shuts down. You know?”

Great.

“Well, I didn't know, but I guess I know now. God, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Don't. He had me fooled, and I've known him since day care. I thought he was maybe gonna be different with you.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you're different.”

“Well, apparently I'm not different enough. Ugh. I guess I should've known when he made out with you.”

“He just made out with me because he felt sorry for me.”

We both stay quiet for a second, contemplating our mutual pathetic society.

“God, we're a couple of sad sacks, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Remy checks her phone. Puts it down.

I do not want to think of what could happen to Remy if we stay here. What kind of downward spiral seems, at this point, almost imminent.

“Okay, you know what, Remy? What if we go to a meeting?”

“I already went.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

“By yourself?”

“Yep.”

“Remy, I'm proud of you. That's great.”

She seems unmoved.

“Yeah, well, I don't know what I'm gonna do for these next two days. Just sitting around. Driving myself crazy.”

And she's right. We have the whole weekend. And the possibility of no phone calls or texts or excuses from Humbert for two days? Will not be good. By then, from the looks of her, Remy might implode. Go catatonic.

“How do you do it, Willa?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“Like, just get up every day and get things done and think everything's gonna be okay.”

“I don't think everything is gonna be okay. Are you kidding? I'm deathly afraid nothing is gonna be okay and I'm gonna end up dead in a gutter somewhere. Or like a bag lady. Or like one of those crazy people you see walking across the crosswalk, talking to themselves, gesticulating.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. I never realized that. I just thought you were simple.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean like you don't freak out about things the way I do. Like, you don't make everything hard.”

“Honestly, Remy, I don't have the luxury of making everything hard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything is hard, like naturally, like your mom runs off with the best man and your dad is broke-ass and now you have to leave 'cause you're a hick and you want your mom's approval even though you kind of hate her guts and your dad's still in love with her and you just want to shake him and say, ‘Stop it! She doesn't love you! She doesn't love anyone! She doesn't even love me!' and why would she love me because nobody fucking loves me and people just break up with me in a cab on fucking Thanksgiving!”

Something is wrong with my eyes now. They're leaking some kind of liquid substance.

“Willa? Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. Sort of. Maybe.”

“I didn't mean to call you simple.”

“It's okay. You know, fuck it, let's just go somewhere this weekend and hunker down and study and forget about all of this, okay? No more boy thinking.”

“Yes. You're right. No boy thinking. Although technically Humbert Humbert is not a boy.”

“Remy, I'm serious. I'm not gonna go anywhere with you
if you're gonna be freaking out about
him
the whole time. I can't take it.”

“Okay, okay. You're right. I won't. I promise.”

“Me, too. I promise. Nothing about Milo. Okay? Now where should we go?”

“We could go back to my place?”

“New York? No way.”

“What about, what about the other one?”

“The other one?”

“Yeah. We could go to Old Mill.”

“Old Mill?”

“Old Mill Farm. It's in Greenwich. There's, like, no one out there right now. It's deserted. In August, forget it. But right now . . . ghost town.”

“And is this a farm? Like what
kind
of a farm . . . ?”

“Um. Yeah, it's totally a farm. You'll like it. You'll feel right at home because you're a farm girl who is used to churning her own butter and making out with her relatives behind the barn.”

“Yes, of course. We all do that.”

I know, looking at Remy, who has finally calmed down, thank God, that the place I am going to has nothing to do with the kind of farm I am accustomed to, with cows and mice and a barn cat. I know there will not be chipped paint or a tractor involved. I know there will not be a soul around
named Bubba or Billy Bob or Buck or Beau. And that's okay. All that matters is that there's not a soul around.

Right? All that matters is that we get focused and don't think about boys or drugs or texts or the lack thereof and everything is going to work out perfect now.

Because I am on this.

Because we are in control.

Right?

Y
ou should see us on the train, Remy with her dark circles under her eyes and me with my terrarium. My plan is to open this dumb terrarium in the forest and liberate this frog. Along with Milo. Who also turned out to be a frog.

The kids across the aisle are very interested in my tree frog, that is for sure. It's sort of a funny thing. There's a little blond-haired boy, like a Little Lord Fauntleroy, who keeps crawling all over himself to get to ogle the tree frog. Then there's another boy, an African-American boy, who is also very curious, but a bit more shy. Now, it's safe to say these two moms come from very different backgrounds. Like, the Fauntleroy mom could be named Muffy. And the other mom looked like she just got done working a thousand-hour
workweek, on her feet, no breaks for lunch. I mean, she looks tired. Exasperated. Over it.

The Muffy mom has a little more energy. More energy to lovingly guide her son to be curious but not impolite. To say please and thank you. To listen. To be respectful. The other mom doesn't quite have that much energy. I'm assuming because she doesn't have a nanny at home. Or maybe a chef. Or even a gardener. All things that Muffy clearly has.

So the city boy gets less patience. He doesn't get yelled at or anything. He just gets more exasperated looks and a few poignant sighs.

Both boys stare into the terrarium, which is perched on my lap. Inside, a red-eyed tree frog is looking back at them. Full of questions, these boys!

“What do you feed him?”

“Crickets.”

“Eww.”

“Or worms.”

“Eww!”

Little Lord Fauntleroy looks at his mom. “Mommy, he eats bugs.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Even worms.”

“Well, well. Now, honey, next stop is our stop. So let's get ready, okay?”

The other mom, the exhausted one, calls her son over. She's had enough. The little boy grudgingly goes back but continues to stare. His mother closes her eyes.

Fauntleroy continues to marvel at the red-eyed reptile.

“Okay . . . Mom! I have a great idea!”

“Yes, dear?”

“Maybe we can get one of these?”

“One of what?”

“A frog! A tree frog!”

“Why don't we put it on the list, honey.”

“Oh, Mom! Please? Pleeeeease?”

“Honey. I said we'll put it on the list.”

The train comes to a stop and the little boy looks like he is just about to cry. I mean, he really does look not just like you took his Popsicle but that all the sadness in the world just became clear to him and now he is looking straight into the abyss.

I can't bear it.

I hold up the terrarium.

“Here, ma'am. Sorry, I just . . . do you want it? I wanna get rid of it. It was a gift, and I really don't want it, honestly . . .”

“Oh. Really?”

“Mommy, Mommy, please!”

The mom sighs, looking at little pleading Fauntleroy.

“We're Pembroke girls,” Remy drawls.

I'm not sure if this is supposed to speak to our character and breeding, or perhaps the character and breeding of the frog.

She turns back to me. “Are you quite sure?”

“Mommy, pleeeeeeease?”

“Okay, honey, but only if you give a very polite thank-you. Like a gentleman.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much for the frog.”

I hand the terrarium over to the boy. He squeals with delight. “Froggy! I love you, froggy!”

The mom smiles and gives me the universal expression for “Oh, these crazy kids.”

They get off the train, terrarium lifted high above the seat backs. The train pulls out of the station.

The city boy, tucked in next to his resting mother, looks at me.

Daggers in his eyes.

He wanted the frog. Of course he wanted the frog.

What did I just do? That other kid probably has a million toys in his giant toy room built only for play. And this kid, the one staring swords at me, he probably has one broken G.I. Joe or something.

I'm an idiot.

Remy says the obvious. “Maybe you should've given it to the other kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

The exhausted mom doesn't notice; she's asleep. The boy continues to look plaintively.

“God, I feel so guilty.”

Remy looks at me. Then she looks back at the boy.

The train pulls into the next station.

“Now you know how I feel.”

I
f you ever wanted to live in a haunted house, go live with Remy. I'm not kidding. This place is spooky. First of all, it's definitely not a farm. Not even close. It's not even a house. Nope. Not that, either. Anybody with eyes and a semirespectable grasp of the English language would call this a castle. Because that's what it is.

There's a train station in Greenwich that doesn't look like much. The cabdriver doesn't look like much, either. Not hideous or anything. Just ordinary. So everything is just ordinary until you go down this extremely long, curving, tree-lined street that pops you out onto what basically constitutes an oval with a shallow pool in the middle surrounded on each side by four giant plants. Topiaries, I think you call
them. I, on the other hand, don't call them anything because I have never seen them before.

“That's the gazing pond.” Remy smirks at me. “Don't forget to gaze into it.”

The cabdriver starts to get nervous as we drive halfway down the oval to the front. Maybe he thinks we're thieves. I mean, Remy is dressed like she's wearing three outfits. Maybe he thinks we're homeless. Maybe he thinks we're about to steal the castle.

“Thanks, keep the change.”

Remy pops out and I follow her. Trying not to look too impressed by the estate in front of me, where it's possible Satan was born.

The cabdriver idles and eyes the house a bit before driving off. It seems to me, and I don't think I'm making this up, that he's actually shaking his head as he drives off. I can't tell if he's shaking his head that anyone actually lives in this demonic monstrosity or if he thinks we obviously don't live here and are hoodlums attempting to fool the world!

Whatever the case may be, he glides off into the distance, around the curve, leaving Remy and me standing there in front of a place that looks like it might actually open up its mouth and eat us.

“So, this is the farm.”

I try to sound vaguely humorous, but geez, this place is
really making me self-conscious. Something about the vines everywhere and the Tudor stylings and the giant mahogany door. I'm a total spazbot.

Remy seems to clock my general discomfort and, God love her, tries to deflate the whole thing.

“I know . . . I didn't want to show it to you because I knew you wouldn't come. It's ridiculous, isn't it? I have no idea why we still have this. I think it has sentimental value or something.”

She heads to the door and starts rummaging through her book bag.

Is it possible that she is actually looking for a key? Is it really that simple? Oh, here's the iron key to that giant door to that zillion-dollar estate. Really? But just as I start to form the thought, she's gotten an old-fashioned iron key out and she's finagling with the keyhole.

“Isn't there an alarm system or something?”

“Of course, but we never use it.”

Right. Shrug. Why would you possibly use an alarm system?

Before I know it we are in the haunted halls of horror, and let me tell you, this place is ripe for a
Scooby-Doo
reunion.

Also, I would like to note that the ceiling is basically the top of the castle, formed by these giant wooden arches in a row. You know, like you used to make with your hands in
grade school saying, “This is the church, this is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people.”

Except that in this case there aren't any people.

There's an enormous Persian rug and some oil paintings embedded into the wooden walls . . . but no people. Also, I would like to point out that there's a huge marble three-dimensional fresco above the fireplace so you don't have to worry about finding a mirror or anything to put up there.

“Um, isn't there like a butler or a creepy caretaker we're supposed to run into right about now . . . ?”

Remy smiles. “You're cute. No, I told everybody to leave. But to answer your question, yes. There is a caretaker. But he's nice. Not creepy. And he's not here. At least I'm pretty sure he left already.”

“Let me guess. His name is Mr. Willies.”

“His full Christian name is Silly Willies.”

I laugh like a total goofball.

But I'm glad we're back to being goofy. Anything but listening to that endless palaver about Humbert Humbert.
That
is a fate worse than death.

The good news is this definitely seems like the kind of quiet place where we can get some studying done.

“So, on a scale of one to ten . . . how haunted is it around here?”

“Mm, I'd say . . . about . . . nine.”