Stuart Kaminsky - Poor Butterfly

“You change your story awfully fast. Reverend,” I said.

“I’ll use what I must,” he said.

“Ever done any acting?” I asked, looking not at Souvaine but at Ortiz, who still blocked me.

“A bit,” he said, behind me.

“Tell Deacon Ortiz to move now,” I said.

“I’m not finished talking to you,” Souvaine said, his voice rising. “And I will thank you to respect the Lord and his humble representative by facing me when I talk to you.”

Mr. Ortiz reached out with his right hand for my shoulder. Mr. Ortiz was faster than I thought, but he did not expect my right knee to come up into his groin.

“No,” screamed Souvaine behind me.

Ortiz grunted, his hands moving between his legs as he bent forward. I shoved him out of the way. At least I tried to shove him. He didn’t shove easily. He grabbed my shoulder. I faked a second kick to his again uncovered groin. He didn’t let go, but a reflex did make him loosen his grip. I pulled away, unzipping my new jacket. I opened the door, pulled my arms out of the sleeves, and let Mr. Ortiz stagger back a step, holding an empty jacket.

“No more violence in the house of God!” Souvaine shouted.

Ortiz stumbled after me into the hallway. Bertha was standing there with a fresh pitcher of lemonade and a frightened look on her face.

“Go with the photograph of J. Minor at the beach,” I said, moving past her to the front door. Ortiz grunted behind me as I threw it open and went down the stairs. My back, never in a good mood, threatened and warned but I couldn’t listen. It was raining harder now. I ran across the street to the Crosley and got the door open. I was in the seat with the door locked when Ortiz reached the car. I started the engine and smiled at him; he moved to the front of the car. My smile stayed where it was but I had no faith in it.

People were coming out of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. I didn’t look in their direction. I looked for help on the street. There wasn’t any. Ortiz was now holding the Crosley up by the front bumper, the wheels clearing the ground. I put the gears in reverse and let out the clutch. The car jerked backward and Ortiz fell forward, his face banging into the hood of my car. I was going at a good clip in reverse when about fifteen people, led by the Reverend Souvaine, emerged onto the street, looking at me. Most of the people were old. Most of the old were women.

Ortiz was standing now, blood dripping from his nose, rain trickling down his face. He picked my jacket up from where he had thrown it on the street. As I made a U-turn I watched him rip the jacket in two. For the first time since I had met him, Mr. Ortiz was smiling.

I drove fast enough and far enough to feel sure no one was following me, and then I pulled over to enter the loss of one jacket in my notebook under expenses. There was a park on my left and a small hotel called the Stanyon on my right. I’d used enough gas, met enough new friends, and had enough to eat for one day. In addition, I was wet. I reached behind the seat and pulled out my battered suitcase. I considered leaving the package I had bought in the car, but decided against it.

There were no people in the lobby, just purple chairs with curlicued wooden legs. Behind the registration desk a woman with gray-brown hair lacquered back who looked a little like Rosalind Russell was going through a pile of cards. She looked up at me as I approached and gave me a no-nonsense “Can I help you?”

“A room,” I said, putting my suitcase on the counter.

“You have a reservation?” she asked, still sorting her cards.

“No,” I said. “I’ve got money and a bad back.”

“Veteran?” she asked.

“Of many wars,” I said. “You always ask if your patrons have war records?”

“No,” she admitted, putting her cards down. “I’ve just had a bad day. I’m sorry. How many nights will you be with us?”

“Probably just one. I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll take it a day at a time.”

“That seems to be best nowadays,” she said, handing me the registration book. I took it and wrote in my name and address.

“Eight dollars a night,” she said.

I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the counter. She took it, gave me change, and handed me a key.

“Room twenty-one, up the stairs,” she said.

I picked up my suitcase and headed up the stairs just off the desk. When I glanced down at her, the woman was staring at the hotel entrance as if another customer had come in after me. But there was no one there.

The room was small, clean, and had a bathroom with a good-size tub. I got undressed, inspected my scars, and turned on the radio. Mary Martin sang me a song, asked me to drink Royal Crown Cola, and told me to buy war bonds and stamps today. I turned the volume up and listened to “Abie’s Irish Rose” on the Blue Network while I soaked in a hot tub.

I was dozing when the phone rang. I got out dripping, wrapped a towel around myself, turned down the radio, and picked up the phone.

“Mr. Peters? It’s Mrs. Allen on the desk. One of the guests has asked that you turn down your radio. And you left a package on the desk. Would you like me to have it brought up to you?”

“Radio’s off,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“I just found out my husband is missing in the Pacific,” she said. “Shall I send the package up?”

“No,” I said. “Open it.”

“Open …? I don’t think …”

“Please. It’s safe.”

I could hear the sound of crinkling paper as she fished the small box out of the bag. Then I could hear the box open.

“It’s a hat,” she said.

“Basque beret,” I said. “I sell them. Please accept it as a gift from the company. If anyone asks where you got it, tell them. The tag is inside the hat.”

“I can’t …”

“Gift from a satisfied customer,” I said. “I won’t turn the radio on again. I hope your husband is okay.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

The beret had been for Vera. I could get her something else.

I went to bed. Sometime later I heard a knock at the door. When I opened it my old friend Koko the Clown was standing there in a Basque beret. He had a package in his hand. He handed it to me, but it was a ghost package. I couldn’t hold it. It slipped through my hands, had no substance. As I bent to pick it up, Koko waved and into my room poured laughing people. It was a surprise party for me. Bertha Minor carried a tray with a gigantic pitcher of lemonade. Koko drank it and turned yellow. Ortiz held out two closed fists and asked me to choose. I picked the right He turned his palm up and opened it. There were three bloody teeth. Souvaine danced in with Lorna Bartholomew, whose neck was painted blood red. Raymond Griffith arrived in neatly pressed overalls and a bright neon blue tie. He was pulling a wagon full of tools. Koko and Raymond handed out the tools, and the people in the room began to bang them together to make music. Stokowski, wearing only his underwear, arrived with a violin and began to play after giving me a wink. John Lundeen came out of the bathroom, a towel around his ample waist. He looked as if he were singing, but no sounds were coming from his mouth. I tried to tell them all to be quiet, that Mrs. Allen’s husband was dead.

And then the door flew open and everyone went quiet. He was standing there, a figure draped in a black cape, wearing a black wide-brimmed hat and a white mask that covered the top half of his face. He swept into the room, cape billowing, showing a red lining:

The Phantom beckoned to me with a white-gloved right hand. I moved toward him. I was frightened, but when I was close enough I reached up quickly and pulled the mask off. The Phantom was my father. But he shook his head no and another mask appeared. I took that one off and the Phantom was my brother Phil. Another mask. This time the Phantom was me, and this scared the hell out of me. I woke up.