The Butterfly Lampshade Read online

  Inside my room, the animals were all on the rocking chair, set in their furry zoo tableau from the previous night where once again she had put them so carefully in place with a methodical concentration I saw her use with hardly anything else. I had watched, irritated, with gritted teeth, from my outpost on the bed, though by that phase of her decline I hadn’t dared knock any of them down. Still, it had all seemed such a lie, a dumb lie, a corroborated lie I right then no longer wanted to join, so I settled myself on the floor in front of Bear, bear, the bear, and using the tip of the skewer, pointed its sharp end at the animal’s soft brown furry center, and broke into the cotton. I tore at the fabric until I could see the white polyester stuffing and pull it out and empty the bear as its eyes sank and its body collapsed. Something was burning in the kitchen. Alongside the turkey sandwiches, she was trying an ambitious side dish recipe, something with caramelized brussels sprouts and garlic. I ripped the bear into a pile. Then I went down the row, driving the skewer into every animal, gifts from various birthdays and holidays over the years, the monkey, the bunny, the dog, the second bear, the lion, the second lion, forcing the sharpness into their bodies, tearing into fur, throwing out fluffy interiors, seeing their forms sigh and sink. I remember feeling so energized and liberated by all of it, like it was a good plan, a useful plan, that it might help her understand what was a person and what was a toy, that possibly I was doing her a service in terms of reality, of what constituted reality, and that there was no time to lose as she tottered on the edge of not knowing. That she did not have to every night pile them into the rocking chair with so much concern and attention, that she could step on them, throw them, let them fall facedown and stay there, that they were objects, not people, that they could not suffocate because they had no lungs. I heard the fan flip on in the kitchen and the sound of water running and her crying, and when she came into my doorway holding a dishtowel, with the caustic smell behind us of burnt plastic, stepping into my room to tell me what had failed with dinner only to encounter the stuffing all over the floor, the guts spilled, the raw furred shells, her face lost all color. She opened her mouth but no words came out. I even almost thought I saw it happen, the firmness of her thinking breaking into soft disconnected pieces, the rapid acceleration of a descent already begun. I had not caused it, but I did, without question, make her worse. “Francie,” she breathed, and I ran into the kitchen to see if there was anything on fire but just blackened brussels sprout boats in a pan and the remnants of a plastic spatula which had torqued into a rolling wave. She began to sob in my room, like she had known and loved all these animals, like they were her cherished pets, or friends, and I could hear her moving around the room, shifting things around on the floor and without seeing could guess and would bet that she was gathering all the stuffing and slowly pushing it back inside their cotton bodies and holding the fur closed like they were, each one of them, her mind.

  Why did I do it? Why did I ever think it might be useful to her to find any stuffed animals torn to pieces, when just seeing them on the floor had overwhelmed her with fear? Did I want to harm her? She was so easy to harm. In the memory, in the tent, touching the canvas edges to keep me partially in the present, I was, with my eyes closed, still standing by the burned pan in the kitchen, like a murderer caught with a murder weapon, skewer in hand, surrounded by blistered garlic bits and the metallic clank of the oven fan and the sounds of my mother’s anguish in the next room. It accelerated everything, this ripping of animals. I had to have known that something would tip. I held tight onto the canvas of the tent, and I remember I’d thought about returning the skewer to the shelf in the closet and tucking it as far back as I could in there, into the darkest recesses, but I could feel her fear of me flooding into the room, so I walked to the front door and opened that instead. It had started raining again, the pattering sound of raindrops on wet leaves, and I grasped the skewer’s handle and hurled it as hard as I could past all three floors, clattering down the steps, tumbling into greenery. It was a real risk now to a walker or stair climber in the rain in the dark, a spear flying or poking up without warning, but just in case she was right about me, I did not want it in the house.

  She stayed in my room, quiet, and I stood at the window for a long time, and watched the rain.

  PART THREE

  Butterfly

  30

  Ovid wrote the poem about the sculptor’s statue coming to life. Then, Gérôme made a painting about the poem about the sculptor’s statue coming to life. Everyone wants a piece of that story, to imagine this amazing transformation, but it’s all still operating on the same plane, art talking about art: sculpture, poetry, painting, and on. The movie about the talking toys is still a movie, so the toys and the movie slide around in the same territory, all these pieces moving freely from art-stillness into art-life with pleasure and without stress. From this safe place, the viewer or the reader can experience Aristotle’s famous concept of catharsis, where we feel things based on what is seen or read or heard, purging trapped emotions in the body. It all can happen because it is not real—the power comes from the passage of one removal (art), into another removal (person not experiencing trauma in the moment), and from this dual removal, we can be moved. Bam.

  The puncture is different. This is the realm of the traversing, the psychotic event, mind traveling into thing. I can think of no more palpable definition than the instance of the man who went into a movie theater showing a movie with guns in it and, appearing to witnesses like he was dressed as one of the characters in the movie, took out real guns, shot some of the people watching, and killed them.

  Did he understand they would die? Is it even possible to understand? The rupture was in his mind, governed by the damaged rules of his mind, but the event was not in his mind, and happened to actual people, who were living their lives and going about their days, and whose skin could be penetrated by the movement of his fantasy into them. No elusive interplay from art into a person’s soul anymore; this was blood pouring forth, life force draining. And the witnesses, the survivors, sitting in their movie seats, what about those people? They go on with their lives, holding on to that rupture. Witnesses of horror, and witnesses of rupture.

  On a small scale, a tiny scale: once, when I was very young, before the butterfly, before the beetle, I was thinking about a red crayon while playing outside for no reason I can remember when I came across a red crayon in the middle of the sidewalk. There it was, between concrete squares, pointed, red, jacketed. I remember this vividly. It was brand-new, and a perfect tomato red, and exactly like the one I’d had in my mind. The leaf blower across the street faded into silence. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I bent down and picked it up and I must’ve been at school or near school because I remember bringing it inside, and hiding it in our giant classroom bin of crayons so I would never be able to find it again, but of course I could; I saw it every time we drew, saw it on the walls of the classroom rubbed into apples, hearts, mouths.

  “I can see what you’re thinking,” my mother said sometimes, when she was feeling unsure, “you hate me, don’t you. Honey. Do you hate me?” and I would stand there with the most expressionless face I could muster and try to recall what I had actually been thinking, because the fact of her asking had made it a little true.

  31

  Do you need any water, Francie?

  No, thanks. I’m fine. I brought myself a glass of water.

  And if you need to use the bathroom?

  I already went. But just in case, I have a bucket. I found one in the garage. Is that okay?

  Jesus. Are you serious? It’s like a prison cell.

  It’s what I want.

  Toilet paper?

  I brought a roll in from the bathroom.

  You just call if you need anything else, okay? If I don’t hear you, call louder. Don’t be afraid of yelling.

  Okay.

  I’
m a very light sleeper. I’m up a lot with the baby, too.

  Thank you.

  And you’re sure you’re comfortable in there?

  Yes.

  You won’t jump out the window or anything?

  No.

  Promise?

  Yes.

  But if there ever is a fire, then you definitely jump out the window, okay? Stan, do you think it’s a burp? Will you try the arm position?

  Okay.

  I love you, Francie. I’m so glad you’re here. We both are. Sorry we keep being so distracted. We’ll talk to your mom again this weekend.

  Will I be going back?

  To Portland? I don’t think so, honey. I’m sorry. Did you think—?

  It’s okay.

  It’s just better for you to be here right now—

  Will I go back later?

  I guess it’s possible. But I think once you’re here we want you to feel settled here. We’ll go see your mother soon. We’ll make a plan to visit soon.

  Okay.

  I know it must be so different.

  It’s okay.

  I love you, Francie. I’m glad you’re asking for what you need.

  Good night, Aunt Minn. Will you do the door?

  I honestly don’t think I can let myself do it.

  I can reach my hand around.

  I don’t like it, Francie.

  It’s okay. I like it.

  Careful of your fingers. Okay. Okay. Can you hear me? How is it?

  It’s good.

  I can unlock it for you at any time.

  It’s really good.

  I’ll be right nearby. I’m going to walk Vicky up and down this hall. Do you think she’s still hungry, Stan? Sleep well, Francie. What time can I unlock you?

  When you are up in the morning.

  Probably around six-thirty then.

  Okay.

  Good night, Francie.

  Good night, Aunt Minn.

  Say good night, Vicky. Good night to Francie. She’s waving her little hand at you.

  Good night, Vicky. See you in the morning.

  32

  The morning after I ripped up all my stuffed animals, my mother went to the kitchen early to make breakfast. The rain had cleared, and out the windows the sky had intensified into a saturated and fervent blue. Mom was pouring cereal into bowls, and when I emerged from my room, she nodded at me as I sat down on one of the counter stools. She was quieter than usual but still spoke to me, asked how I had slept, if I wanted milk or juice. Before I left for school, I made a point of calling my friend Esther’s house and leaving a message asking her to please bring my baby blanket to school, the one I had left at her house the previous week at a sleepover, where I had alienated her probably forever by pretending, in my sleeping bag, not to know who she was. “It has little sheep on it and a satiny border,” I told the phone. “I would really like it back. Please.” I could feel my mother’s eyes on me as I called, and soon after I hung up, the button from the tape recorder on the kitchen counter clicked up, which meant she had likely pressed it to record the minute she woke up.

  After I brushed my teeth and changed into school clothes, we sat together on the top of the staircase and waited for Alberta’s mother to pick me up. If I squinted, I thought I might be able to see the shine of the kabob skewer below us, trapped in a bundle of wet ridged hydrangea leaves. The usual neighbor walked by with his two small white dogs. My mother was sitting an inch or two farther away from me than usual.

  “What will you do today?” I asked as we stared out.

  “Look for a job.”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe. I need to get a job.”

  Her hands sprung around her lap. She did it low and light in her lap, as if I would not notice. She lived, we lived, off some government disability funding, money from her parents, plus money from Aunt Minn and Uncle Stan. She received three checks a month, in three different envelopes.

  “I’m sorry about the toys. I don’t know why I did it.”

  She turned to look at me. For a moment, she observed me, her eyes touring my face.

  “Your face looks different,” she said.

  “My face?”

  “Is it different?”

  I shook my head, touched my cheeks. “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “It just looks a little different,” she said. She smiled.

  “It’s me, Mommy.”

  “Your nose, it just looks like it’s a little different this morning. Your eyes.”

  “It’s me, Mommy. Are you feeling okay?”

  She kept her smile pointed at me, but her hands continued springing. Alberta’s mother drove up. She didn’t like to honk, so she just waited below with the motor running, and Alberta waved at me as usual from the backseat. They had moved my booster to their car, as if I was also their child.

  “They feel like my regular eyes.”

  For a moment, my mother’s face relaxed. Her hands settled on her knees. “Of course,” she said. “Of course they are. Have a good day at school, sweetie. What are you working on these days?”

  “Color wheels.”

  “Wonderful, then. Blue with red.”

  “Green with purple.”

  Her eyes rested on the distant rooftops. “And bring back that blanket.”

  “I will.”

  33

  My train to Los Angeles was scheduled to leave at two in the afternoon, and I woke up in the loft again on that Sunday in the very early hours, this time with no alarm. The babysitter was still asleep; I could hear her steady breathing, and the occasional licking sounds of Hattie grooming himself. For a long time I watched the windows change with the light, watched the room turn back into itself again, imagining there was no travel ahead, and instead a long and cozy Sunday of activities with her and me and the city together, all dappled by the scent of lemon verbena.

  The order of the morning was, at first, the same as the day before: Hattie descending, then babysitter, coffee burbling, the slow stirring of oatmeal, a call to Uncle Stan, baby update, mother update, Aunt Minn recovering well, information about the steward.

  By then, the light was growing fair and warm, and the babysitter had opened her curtains and shades so sun rays could move into the room to place glints into the objects and reflecting surfaces. The monster, whatever the monster feeling was, the feeling that had been growing and swelling and tugging over the last two days, had passed. It had laid its turd and moved on. I felt the freshness in the room, and despite the circumstances, and the upcoming train departure, I ate my oatmeal with brown sugar and butter happily, two bowls-full. The sunlight shared the room with us, greeting us, reaching to us, so it was just natural and participatory to let my eye locate and enjoy the various glints, the babysitter’s coral-colored speckled glass vase up high on the bookshelf, the corner mirror by the door with a star of light in its top corner, and something reddish and gold glinting on the surface of the water glass by my couch bed. I finished the second bowl of oatmeal and brought it to the sink. The babysitter smiled at me as I washed the bowl and spoon and placed them on the drying rack, tucking the bowl against a wire hill, resting the spoon, pretending it was my drying rack, my daily chore, and as I did it the red-gold sparkle on the water glass occurred to me again like a pleasant thought I needed to revisit, what pretty light, what a pretty room it was on a morning touched by the gleam of a new spring sun. The babysitter rose to go use the bathroom. For a second, I thought to call out to her before she passed through that door and out of the moment, to show her the special brightness this morning had offered to us in her apartment, but for whatever reason, the impulse passed.

  She entered the bathroom, and the door lock clicked. Soon, we would fold the blankets on my couch bed together into tidy squares that wou
ld return to the shelves of her closet. She would place the dry bowl and spoon back in her cabinets, and on Monday she might pass by my classroom and see my own teacher peeling my name sticker off my cubby, explaining to the other kids that I had moved away to another town. Perhaps the class would send me a letter or two. In a couple hours, the babysitter and I would take the bus together to the train station, where we would arrive early to get everything in order before I would board the train and take it a day and a half south to Los Angeles, California, the place I would soon be calling my new home. I had a sleeper car for the night portion, a “roomette.” I would meet the steward, my second cousin, a kind and thoughtful chaperone.

  I turned from the sink and tucked in my chair at the kitchenette table. On some level I must have known something important was happening, had happened, because I can remember filling with what I would now call a formality of movement, like adulthood was brushing through my body, a gust of adulthood moving both through me and out of me and formalizing me in its wake. I carefully sidestepped the edge of the couch and moved closer to the small table and the water glass. I smoothed back my hair and brushed my cheeks clear of sugar. Hattie lapped at the water in his bowl.

  Up close, it became clear that the glint of light was more than a reflection of sunrays in the water glass but had itself shape, solidity. What had appeared to be a pool of gold revealed the body of the butterfly, with red-golden wings and splattered red dots and thin black antennae, drifting on the top of the glass of water. It was a dead real butterfly, floating on the top of the water. There were no windows open in any part of the loft. It was spring, and still too cold to leave a window open at night. The door had been locked. Butterfly migration had passed.