Virgin With Butterflies (22 page)

Boy, I sure was tired, so I quickly had a hot bath and crawled into a real bed for the first time in I don't know how long.

I woke up to let in a bellboy with four white orchids and a card in 'em with Mr. Wens's right name on it but scratched off—why, I don't know—but on the other side he had written, “Pure like you, white like you, expensive like you, and only God can make them. Wens.”

I wore the orchids down to have breakfast with him and he showed me papers full of war and me, but I was so anxious to get started I didn't want to eat hardly, and certainly not to waste time reading things about myself that I already knew.

“You're sure you won't disappoint me now by writing a travel book?” he says.

“I've already written a lot,” I says, “but don't worry, it's just so I can show it to my grandchildren,” I says, “so they won't think I'm lying too bad.”

“Let's go,” he says, and we did.

It was better flying over the land, and my own land at that, as they say in the songs.

We had fun, with officers and two nice girls that were army nurses with uniforms. They were a lot of fun, and they made me kind of proud that women could be like soldiers and good fellers, and yet know when a joke has gone far enough, and still not be prissy.

Now, just to prove to myself that Mr. Wens wasn't right, and that this is no travel guide, I'll skip everything till we got to Chicago.

The pilot was nice, and before we landed he showed me a pilot's eye view of Chicago. There was the Wrigley Building, and the lake, and Michigan Boulevard, and the Outer Drive and all, just as if it didn't know I had ever been away, and it sure didn't.

Cities don't miss you. There's always plenty of others to take your place, and that made me think of Butch's. I asked Mr. Wens, and he said he hadn't been there, but he had heard Pimples hadn't gotten out of jail. He said we'd go there tonight and see, and then I could get a night's rest at the Drake and start off to Mattoon tomorrow to see Pop.

“I don't know about the Drake,” I says. “What money I got left, I better use to pay Mrs. Calahan that I owe some rent to,” I says. “And I should get back to my few belongings, if she hasn't sold 'em,” I says.

But he only laughed and said, “What a girl,” again.

We were coming in to land so I buckled my belt. And as we leaned over forward to come down I'm ashamed to say my old trouble came on me at the sight of Chicago coming up to meet me. I thought those butterflies had
molted into caterpillars and that I had graduated from them that night at Mulloy's, but no, there they was still on the job. But they settled down as soon as my feet was on Illinois.

It didn't seem like I could believe it. Here I was in Chicago, and maybe none of it had happened to me at all. I could have been standing there yet wondering, but then the reporters and photographers came with their flash bulbs, and that brought me back to life.

So after a picture or two we got in a taxi and drove to the Drake—the same rooms up near the top. Mr. Wens told me to telephone Mattoon, on him. I had the receiver off the hook and the operator had said, “Order, please,” before I remembered that Aunt Helga didn't have a phone.

So I took a bath and went to sleep for a nap, singing to myself that old song that starts, “Chee-caw-go, Chee-caw-go, dum-deedily-dum.”

The telephone woke me up—it was Mr. Wens downstairs. I dressed and went down. We drove to Mrs. Calahan's and did I get a surprise.

Mrs. Calahan was a circus performer before she got too fat for her brother to catch her. He could still catch her—she said he never had missed in twenty years—but her weight was too much for his knees on the trapeze, so she couldn't do it anymore.

“Well,” she says, “come in, come in,” and I wondered what could had come over her. But it seemed like she had seen the mystery-woman pictures in the papers because she had saved my things and even washed out a slip and a pair of knickers and ironed 'em, too. She said I was a celebrity, and she was glad to have had me in her
house. She only charged me what I owed and no interest, and said she was glad to have me back anytime—or the young gentleman, if he didn't have a place.

Mr. Wens thanked her and told her he was my manager.

Just as we were leaving she says, “By the by,” she says, “a lady has been coming here asking to get in touch with you off and on. Gray hair and sad face. I can't just recall her name but a very respectable person.”

So we went away, me wondering who it could be. We had dinner and went to a show, and then after midnight we went over to Butch's.

I was glad to have Mr. Wens along, on account of Yanci and the Beaver, or maybe even Pimples.

We went in the door, and I couldn't hardly believe it could be so much the same—Butch behind the bar, a few customers, the juke box lit up and playing, Moe holding a tray like always with both hands flat under it on account of no thumbs. And a girl selling cigarettes, out of a new bright-red tray, her long white formal around the floor. And who was it but Millie.

I just looked and stood there with my mouth open, for here was Millie as slim as I was, pretty near, and her hair newly touched up and done very nice, and all fixed up as if she hadn't never met that Curly.

But just then, she saw me, and she let out a yell that made the customers all turn around. She hugged me with the new tray up, edgeways between us, and the packs of Chesterfields and Old Golds and Luckies went all over the floor.

Moe came over, with his funny way of shaking hands. Even Butch looked pretty near pleased, but not
quite—till I asked him if he hadn't found the tray and the cash box, and he hadn't. Nobody had, for there it was, just like I left it, up over the Ladies' john, though now it was covered with dust. Butch counted the money in the cash box before he could really let go and give Mr. Wens a Scotch on the house and me a Coke.

Well, I was scared to ask Millie about the baby, so I says, “Where's Red?”

“He's home,” she says.

“You mean you're together again?” I says.

“Why not?” she says.

“Well, that's fine you're together.”

“Together?” she says. “Red and me is married,” she says, “and being as Red's sprained his ankel at the Y. playing handball, I let him stay home and mind the baby till I get back from work. So you see, it all worked out fine.”

“But the baby,” I says.

Millie blushed right through that liquid powder she uses to cover her complexion.

“Well,” she says, “anybody can make a mistake, I guess.”

“Of course, Millie,” I says, “and, anyway, Red had forgave your mistake long before I went away.”

“I don't mean that mistake,” she says. “You sure can get fooled,” she says, “and was Red tickled, and did he tease me.”

“Wait a minute,” I says, “go slow.”

“Well,” she says, “I guess that Curly, he didn't mean so much to me as what I thought.”

“Why?” I says. “Come on, Millie, don't be so ornery, talking riddles.”

“You done it,” she says. “When I saw your picture in the news,” she says, “dressed up all in black and flying off with a man,” she says, “I just gave a low moan and doubled up. When I came to I had a six pound premature boy with hair as red as my face was—and that was as red as fire. Well, after that, when Red proposed for my hand,” she says, “I just couldn't hardly find any grounds for refusing him,” she says. “And that's all.”

I thought we were going to lose Mr. Wens, but he got hold of himself after awhile.

All we could find out about Pimples and the others was that they weren't together anymore, anyway they didn't come to Butch's much.

So I was saying goodbye to everybody and explaining to Millie that I didn't want the job back, and anyway, it was hers before it was mine. Then Butch says, “Did you get in touch with that lady who was here a couple of times asking after you?” And he told me about the same as Mrs. Calahan had said.

So we went back to the hotel through the north door by the lake because there were reporters at the other one and in the lobby.

So I slept in the room with the rose-colored curtains. I had plenty to think about, but like always, nothing stops me from getting a good sleep, so I did.

There were more papers full of me that came up with breakfast. Mr. Wens came up, too, and we had breakfast in the parlor. Then we went to the station.

“The last lap,” he says as we got in a yellow taxi, that like all yellow taxis, brought a lump in my throat.

“How do you account for your good luck, Miss Universe?” says Mr. Wens.

“I've got a bug,” I says.

“Dear, dear,” says Mr. Wens.

“Some bugs are good luck,” I says, “and I got one of that kind.” And I pulled the chain out of the neck of my dress and showed him the green scarab that Mr. Bosco had crossed my palm with on Christmas Day.

“That's the chain the old prince gave me,” I says, “and this is a little bug a friend of mine gave me. When I saw that the little bug had a little link on it for hanging, I hung it on, and I wear it for luck. The chain was supposed to be for a pretty big diamond, but I kept that safe in my bag so it got lost. But I must say, if I had to lose something, I'm sure glad it wasn't this bug.”

“You mean the diamond got sunk with the plane?” he says. And I told him that it was sunk along with everything else—except the little box that it seemed like something had helped me to save, and that I wasn't going to open till I got home.

“Yes, sir,” I says, “that little bug took care of me and always will.”

But I didn't say anything about the children and grandchildren Mr. Bosco had said it would bring me, not wanting to remind myself that I didn't know where Jeff was at.

Mr. Wens had said last night that he would try to find out, and somehow, I thought there was nothing Mr. Wens couldn't do. He hadn't found Jeff for me yet, but that morning I still hoped he would.

W
E GOT TO THE DEPOT
and was it crowded. We had quite a wait for my train because I had been so scared of missing it.

While we were standing first on one foot and then on the other, I heard my name, and I looked and saw a little gray-haired woman waving at me over the shoulder of a sailor. She looked familiar, but I couldn't place her.

Even when a porter moved some bags so she could get through I didn't know who she could be. Then she came over and spoke to me and took my hands and big tears spilled down her face.

It felt cold in the depot when I realized who it was. “Why, Mrs. Harwood,” I says, and I introduced her to Mr. Wens (that I remembered to call Mr. Swift). He saw that she wanted to talk to me, so he said he wanted to get some magazines, and left us by ourselves, me and Dr. Harwood's wife that my brother had shot so dead.

As soon as Mr. Wens was gone she put her hand on my arm.

And “Listen careful,” she says, and she told me she and Dr. Harwood had talked it over, and he was so sure the boy was the guilty one. They had both hated Willie's
testimony because he was trying to mix poor Uncle Ulrich up in it.

Well, they didn't have hardly any money, she said, but as the doctor's trial went on, it seemed like her husband had more money. Then she found he had that very expensive lawyer.

All of this had worried her a good deal.

And then when her husband got killed by Willie, she couldn't help wondering how it had happened that her husband was killed in Uncle Ulrich's shop. What was he doing there, she wondered. So the doctor got killed and Willie got sentenced, so she came to Chicago and got a job.

After a year she sent for her furniture and when it came she found in a little drawer in the doctor's desk three letters to her husband from Uncle Ulrich.

The first one said that he would arrange for a lawyer, and that the doctor was to be sure not to forget their agreement. The next two were just notes that had come with checks. One of the checks, for two hundred and fifty dollars, was signed by Uncle Ulrich. It was still in the envelope because her husband hadn't cashed it before he died.

So she just put the check and the letters in a plain envelope and addressed 'em to Aunt Helga in Mattoon and sent 'em off.

Well, the very next week, she read about the inquest on Uncle Ulrich, and started worrying over these things—her letting Aunt Helga know anonyomously that maybe Uncle Ulrich had been guilty about Darlene, the girl that Willie had brought to the doctor and then
had died, getting them into all that trouble. And Mrs. Harwood worried over whether they had anything to do with each other. So she had tried to find out where I could be to ask me about all this.

She had seen pictures in the papers saying that I was back and staying at the Drake. She'd gone there and the hotel porter told her he had gotten my ticket to Mattoon on this train.

Now, what she wanted to know was, did I think it could be her fault if anything had happened to Uncle Ulrich?

I knew I had to put the kibosh on what she thought, right now, once and forever.

I always knew when I had to decide something important by that little flutter of butterflies, and I sure felt 'em now. But I leaned over and gave Mrs. Harwood a little hug.

“Listen, Mrs. Harwood,” I says. “You're a fine lady,” I says, “and you've had more than your share of trouble. And I think it's good you found me, before you got so worried you might do something that would maybe make a lot more trouble for yourself. I'm pretty near the only person that could ease your mind,” I says, “so listen careful.”

I had to get this settled once and for all, and the decision I had to make wasn't any little decision, I can tell you. But, when I thought what could happen if she went on worrying like this, I knew I had to do anything to stop her, or we'd sure be in the paper again.

So I took a deep breath and I says to myself, “Butterflies, do your stuff, but here goes.”

“Listen, Mrs. Harwood,” I says, “it never happened, what you think. I was at Uncle Ulrich's inquest, and he
died of an old ailment, the doctor said, brought on by eating mushrooms that was always poison to his system.”

She opened her watery eyes, and “I see,” she says, but I saw I hadn't convinced her yet.

“Listen,” I says, “I was with my brother, Willie, over at Springfield the night they did what they did to him, and Mrs. Harwood, that boy broke down and cried and told me Uncle Ulrich had nothing to do with it. He wanted Dr. Harwood to help him put it on Uncle Ulrich but he wouldn't. So Willie made up his mind to get the doctor. He hid in the butcher shop because he had heard Uncle Ulrich on the phone, asking the doctor to come there. And when the doctor came, he did get him.”

My butterflies were zooming and looping, but I still had one more lie to say.

Mr. Wens was at the gate now with the gateman, both of 'em yelling and pointing at the tail end of the train, just waiting to pull out.

But I had to finish, so I nodded to him and took her arm and walked her towards the gate.

“I'm sure glad, Mrs. Harwood,” I says as we walked and the gateman looked at his watch, “I'm sure glad you didn't do anything that might have hurt poor Aunt Helga more than she had to suffer by poor Uncle Ulrich's death,” I says. “She told me,” I says, “that she got the letters and that she didn't know, but she had hoped it was that you had sent 'em. She was so touched that you wanted to show her how kind Uncle Ulrich was to other people, just like he always was to her. Now you can forget it all, except that you did a kind deed for another poor widow like yourself.”

With tears of gratitude in her eyes, Mrs. Harwood kissed the biggest liar in Illinois. Mr. Wens pushed me on the train while it was going. He stood there on the platform waving, but my butterflies were fluttering so I had to get the porter to open the little door quick, so I didn't get to wave back to Mr. Wens.

I hadn't let Pop or Aunt Helga know I was coming or anything because I didn't know how sick Pop was; I thought I had better just walk in.

The more I thought of me getting home, the more the feeling of me going to see Pop got so big in my chest it nearly pushed out the ache that I wasn't going to see Jeff for I didn't know how long, if ever. But when I thought about Jeff again the feeling about seeing Pop was pushed over to make room for that.

I thought about the lies I had told, that I always thought I was never much good at before. And I thought surely Willie would forgive me. It couldn't hurt him now, and I had learned enough about trials to know that if Mrs. Harwood ever told that coroner about the checks and how she had sent 'em to Aunt Helga, it would all be gone over again.

No, I was glad I had done what I did, and I asked Willie to please forgive me for saying those lies about him.

All this I was thinking while I was sitting for the first time in the parlor car. We were going into the ugliest part of Mattoon, if there is an ugliest part. I felt like Willie would have understood and would have forgiven me if he could. So I stood up and was ready to get off long before I needed to, but I couldn't wait.

“Anyway,” I thought, “now I know why Aunt Helga
waited a year to do it to him—if she did do it to him.” I didn't like to think she did but had to.

Mr. Koltinsky took me home in his taxi. He had seen the papers and he wanted to know a lot, and I talked to him with my mind shut.

And then we turned the corner past the Passtime Theater that used to be Mrs. Murphy's Ice Cream place, and there was the street and the house, with the fence at the low end of the yard painted new where Pop had filled the ground in, and there was the porch and the door shut.

I got out and paid Mr. Koltinsky and he said, “Glad to see you back,” and wouldn't take any tip.

I opened the gate that was always easy and firm, because such a good carpenter lived here. And I put my hand on the knob of the front door that was always unlocked, and then I thought, “Suppose it's locked, suppose nobody lives here, or suppose that something has happened to somebody.” And I got so scared, I didn't dare to try the door.

So I rang the bell, which I hadn't never done before in my life, and it sounded like a bell in a house where somebody had died.

I stood there listening to how fast I was breathing; I stood there for too long. And then the door opened, and it was Aunt Helga. And then over her shoulder in the hall was Pop with his mouth twisting out of shape. Then we were all hugging each other in the dark hall. I was hugging Pop and Pop was hugging me, and my hat fell off. Aunt Helga picked it up and went in the dining room and shut the door. Pop took me into the parlor and we sat on the sofa. I put my forehead on his thin old
shoulder till I could feel the buckle of his overall strap pressing into it, and I just sighed and settled down, and I was home.

After a while Aunt Helga came in, looking pretty and sweet, with a big tray of sandwiches and a big pot of tea. Pop made me take off my shoes and he tucked the crocheted quilt around me and sat and looked at me, smiling. While we all drank and ate, I talked and talked and told 'em about everything I could think of.

I told them about the little green bug and showed it to 'em, and told 'em what the wish was about having grandchildren. When I told them what the prince had given me and how he had told me not to open the little gold box till I got home, I could see it began to get pretty exciting for them, especially about it keeping me comfortable all the rest of my life.

Finally I got to the part about us getting shot down, and me saving nothing but the bug around my neck and my writing book and one little box.

They got so interested, and Pop said, “Well, I guess this is the time.”

“For what?” I says.

“To open it,” he says. “You're home, and I thank God for that, be he Catholic, Lutheran or Indian,” he says, “you're home. But it don't seem to be for want of trying to get yourself killed,” he says.

So I says, “All right.” I opened my bag and there it was, pretty near the only thing I had brought back to prove I'd even been. So I gave it to Pop, and he says, “You better.”

And I says, “Oh, no, you better.”

And Pop says, “I think you ought to.”

And I says, “I would rather you opened it, Pop.”

And Pop said, “All right. Podner.” And he started to. But just then, I heard something. And it was the sweetest sound ever made in the world since the angels sang in Bethlehem about peace on earth and goodwill to men and all that. It was sweeter than Lily Pons or any other music, and it made my hair curl and uncurl all over my neck. I knew that sound, and the heavens just naturally went crazy with music.

It was the stomp of a big heavy old G.I. boot on the porch, with a big heavy old Texas foot inside of it.

Don't ask me how I knew. I hadn't dared to even ask if they knew where he was at. But there it was, and it shot me up off of that sofa and out into the hall, my stocking feet not hardly touching the floor. I don't know how I knew, but I knew it couldn't be the mailman or a neighbor or Buffalo Bill on a mule, it was Jeff and nobody else. So I opened the door and stood there, waiting, hoping for the cyclone to hit me, but it didn't, not right away.

Jeff just stood there for a long time and he came in quiet and shut the door quiet. He didn't seem able to say or do anything and neither did I. Then he says, soft and hoarse in his throat, “Oh, Jesus,” he says, “oh, thank Jesus.” And still I couldn't move. And then he began to grin with big tears in his eyes, and “For God's sake,” he yells, “what are we waiting for?” And, boy, I sure had forgotten how strong he was, and how big and rough and gentle and everything that I ever wanted in this world or the next.

After about a year, we went into the parlor and sat down, and “Listen, podner,” Pop says, “I still got this here little box, but I sure think it's you that ought to open it,” he says.

“Go ahead, Pop,” I says.

So he opened the box and his forehead wrinkled right up, and he looked like he had opened a bureau drawer to get a handkerchief and found a litter of strange kittens.

“Look,” he says, so we did. And then after awhile, “How's this going to make you comfortable the rest of your life?” he says.

“That ain't the box that's supposed to do that,” I says. “That box is at the bottom of the Indian Ocean,” I says, “along with pearls and emeralds and diamonds and some of the finest people I ever met,” I says. “But this is the one I saved,” I says, “and if it makes you comfortable for the rest of your life,” I says, “that's all me and Jeff care about.”

“But hadn't you better give it to Jeff?” Pop says. “Why, there never was such a pipe in the world.”

“It ain't mine to give,” I says. “It's yours. Look how you're printed on it, in gold. It was sent to you, special, by the Rockefeller of Burma. And besides,” I says, “I got something else for Jeff.” And I took off the chain from around my neck with the little green jade scarab bug hanging on it and I put it in Jeff's big hand.

“What's this?” he says, sitting there on the sofa and looking down at me.