Marcia Preston - The Butterfly House

“Far out,” I whispered. And it was—far out of my limited range of understanding about her work. But I understood quite clearly that she was offering to include me, to share with me the mysteries of the butterflies. My chest inflated to the point of exploding. “How long would it take to get them? I’m supposed to do the project this semester.”

“It might take a while,” she admitted. “Only eggs or pupae can be transported successfully, and we’ll need to import the Madagascar variety of pipevine, too. I’ll see if the university has a contact in Madagascar, and tell them it’s a rush so that our research will be ahead of Britain’s. That always pulls their chain. But the U.S. Department of Agriculture might give them trouble about importing the plants.”

“Couldn’t the caterpillars eat American pipevine?” “Maybe, but not the first generation. Later on, if we get a second generation going, we could see if the larvae will adapt to the pipevine that grows farther south in the States. Or maybe try the ginger plant we have locally that’s related to pipevine.” “So if the government vetoes the plants, the project is off?” Her eyes took on a devilish light. “Not necessarily. There are other ways. In France you can buy lepidoptera eggs, pupae, even food plants—cash and carry. Smuggle them through Customs in your handbag, if you’ve got the nerve.”

My eyes widened. “Have you ever done that?” She pursed her lips like a kiss. “I’m not at liberty to say.” My grin stretched so wide Lenora laughed at me. I was practically hopping. “This is so cool! Can you call the university now?” “Shouldn’t you talk it over with your teacher first? Better find out if he’s willing to be patient, in case your project doesn’t get moving until the semester’s nearly over. And there’s always a risk that the specimens will die without reproducing.”

I waved it off. “I can talk Mr. Jenkins into it. No problem. I’m his star pupil.”

She smiled, approving my rash confidence. “If we can nurse a few through the pupal stage and get the adults to lay eggs on domestic pipevine or ginger, though, it’s possible we could keep the generations going indefinitely.”

Her voice held genuine excitement, and I let myself believe that part of it was because we’d be working together. I ran to bring her the phone, nearly tripping over its twenty-foot cord, so she could call her friends at UO.

On a Saturday morning, the two of us drove to a forested valley in the Cascades in search of wild ginger. Lenora wanted to begin cultivating it on the sunporch so we’d have a supply at hand. She thought we could buy pipevine at a nursery in Portland.

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