Chester Anderson: The Butterfly Kid

Nobody spoke to us. Not even the panhandlers and tourists were talking to us that afternoon, which felt very curious. We were both a little up tight by the time we got through Washington Square.

The world seemed to be blaming us for the Andrew Blake affair. Mike insisted that even the pigeons were avoiding us, but he’s always had this artistic leaning toward paranoia. It comes of having been a spy. The pigeons were merely afraid of the butterflies, that’s all, but I didn’t try to explain this to Mike. Go reason with a paranoid counterspy.

When we got home, we found Sandi Heller pressing desperately against our front door, pounding on it with both fists. Great natural sense of rhythm. We could also hear the phone whistling inside.

“Hi there,” Michael chirruped.

She spun around as only a dancer should, yelping, “Oh good Lord! You’re all right!” She pressed her shoulders against the door and cried or something — it was hard to tell — saying, “Oh,” gasp, “Good Heavens.” The phone was still whistling.

I was confused, but M. T. Bear penetrated to the heart of the matter at once. “I deny everything,” he explained. “Categorically.”

“It was on the radio!” Twenty watts of frantic contralto. “Wings! I thought you were dead or something.”

Oh. That explained something. It also brought me down like a pail of cold water. Wings indeed. And Butterflies. Right.

“Sandi?” I said. She was still doing whatever it was that she was doing against our door. “Sandi, why didn’t you go in and wait for us? It’s never locked.”

She fell silent, looked stunned (Stanislavsky # 31-a), groped for the doorsnap behind her, pushed it, tottered into the living room, regained her balance brilliantly, tripped over a footstool, and fell plomp on her dignity beside my harpsichord.

It turned out to be one of those Busy afternoons when nothing gets done. To begin with, Mike and I spent at least an hour coaxing Sandi out of her hysteria. This was pretty fair time, really, considering the rumors she’d managed to invent concerning Andy’s halo, plus her innate fondness for psychodrama. I’d rather have spent the time practicing, or writing, or loafing, or doing other such creative things.

When Sandi wept, Mike comforted her, proving by glorious syllogisms that everything was perfectly all right, honestly it was. I’ve always been helpless with crying women.

When she laughed, it was my turn. I solemnly reminded her that we had no idea yet just how serious the situation was and that there was no telling what was going to come of it all. Mike, who is an ursine mountain of stability when that’s what’s needed, couldn’t cope with Sandi’s laughter, mainly because he was having much the same problem himself. I, on the other hand, worry gracefully.

Finally Sandi recovered and brewed a pot of maté. Then we talked about what had actually happened — Andy’s awkward aura and all that — and she said, “Is that all it was? My God, you people do that every day,” which I thought was a bit unkind.

Then it was five o’clock and I remembered that I ought to get some practicing done. I played amplified harpsichord in a rock-n-roll ménage called Sativa and the Tripouts, a complex vice of which I’ve since been cured. Anyhow, while I ran through changes, fiddle tunes, and baroque riffs, Sandi and Mike cleaned up the maté things and rehashed Andrew Blake’s adventures as a lover, literary agent, raconteur, stand-up comic, and, most recently, saint.

“Oh!” Sandi yelped. “Oh my! Oh good Lord! Oh my!” I leaped up, ready to stem off another laughing jag, but she just sputtered, “Phone! I mean, the vidiphone. Listen!”

It was still whistling at us, its pathetic little view screen flashing off and on red. Mike and I looked appropriately sheepish, and I picked up the mouthpiece. “Howdy,” I said, and, “Hello? Hello there? Speak up, baby, it’s your quarter.” Then I hung up. “No one there.”

“Oh my! I have to go home. Right now.” Sandi whirled through the place like a ponytailed butterfly (alas), with Mike and me trailing along behind her, being ponderously reasonable.

“You don’t understand,” she insisted, quite accurately. “I’m all right, really I am. Only, when I heard about it, you know, I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer, so I had to come over here, and I forgot to… Ob. my God, whatever will Leo say?”

Ah, it was all so beautifully normal. And when Sandi was gone (saying, as always, or quoting, “I trust everything will work out all right,” at the door), I wandered through the pad, lazily dressing for work — tight black pants, suede boots, and a gold silk paisley shirt — singing classical Beatles tunes with the day’s events for texts, chuckling inanely, and grinning till my face hurt all over me.

All this euphoria stopped when Mike said, “You know something? I’m worried.”

He was standing at the living-room windows, staring down into the courtyard. In fact, I recalled with a start, he’d been staring out the windows for the past half hour or so. This was significant. I’d learned years before that whenever Mike spends as much as ten minutes in silent thought, for my own protection I’d best take his conclusions seriously.

“Explain?” I mourned.

“Look.” He pointed down toward the courtyard, a grubby red-brick and tin-can oasis temporarily bathed in glory.

“Oh,” I said after an incredulous while. “That’s a Butterfly, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

There was no question whose butterfly it was, for it was mainly yellow, but fluorescent, with a wingspan upward of a yard. Sean’d evidently realized that the absurd size of the thing might cause confusion: when it spread its wings it displayed a pattern in glowing sable running from tip to tip that looked like this:

“He’s getting good,” I breathed.

“Yeah. Good.”

Later, “So?”

“So wait.”

We didn’t have to wait long.

“Hey,” I wondered, “I hear trumpets.” And I did, too, a blatant horn call that knew the price of everything, coming, approaching, from somewhere above the building.

“Yeah.” I could tell Mike was impressed by the unemotional flatness of his voice. “Look.”

I suppose it was another butterfly. I’ll never know how, but it was obviously making its own music — gaudy fanfares from the fool’s-gold days of Hollywood — and the day-glo polyethylene-extruded fanfares were perfectly apt.

“God.” I wasn’t swearing.

“Wait.”

It landed in the courtyard with an audible thud (an awkward butterfly?) and waddled about to the accompaniment of a hidden symphony orchestra, mainly horns and strings, not quite in tune but much concerned with the importance of the occasion. I was far too awed to comment, which was just as well, for, with a loud orchestral sweep, it spread its polychrome wings to their full ten-foot span. So, a wide-screen butterfly. Groovy.

The colors skittered and glowed, changing in a rigid order just beyond comprehension. Almost subliminal patterns of psychedelic urgency swept erotic eddies across the wings in deep tides of hypnotic rhythm, making me uncomfortably conscious of the heavy July heat; and over all this, in a living red that seemed to strike directly into my brain without passing through my eyes, bruising words succeeded each other, became one another, intersected each other like virtuoso drill teams in competition:

over again and over, always the same idea but nothing else the same, while the music screamed BELIEVE THIS like a hundred 3V pitchmen pushing soap.