Marcia Preston - The Butterfly House

The Butterfly House

Marcia Preston

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Paul – husband, lover and best friend.

I love you more.

My fascination with butterflies and moths began in childhood and never waned. This book was seven years in the making, and along the way I’m sure some of the names that should be included on this page have been lost. I ask forgiveness for any such omission.

I am indebted to author and lepidopterist Robert Michael Pyle of Washington State for his patient advice and expertise, and to Kent Wilson, a fellow Oklahoman. Any scientific inaccuracies in this book are due to my own failings in understanding the intricacies of science, or to intentional licences taken in the name of a better story.

For advice and consultation, my thanks to Stephen J Cribari, Esquire, University of Denver College of Law; Doug Carr of the Spokane County Public Defender’s Office; and novelist Debra Purdy Kong of British Columbia.

Love and gratitude to trusted readers Robyn Conley, Patti Dickinson and Bette Ward Widney, and also to editor Miranda Stecyk, who’s been a dream to work with, and to my intrepid agent, Elaine English.

Alberta, Canada, March 1990

From the window of my husband’s house, I see the stranger stop beside our gate at the bottom of the snow-covered hill. He steps from his black Chevy Blazer, leaving the door open, and peers at the name on our mailbox. His down jacket hangs unzipped despite the cold overcast of the morning, and he’s wearing cowboy boots. Even from this distance I am struck by the contrast of his black hair against the snow.

“You have the wrong house,” I whisper, hoping he’ll turn around and go back the way he came. Instead he gets back in the car and drives slowly up the slope. Damn.

I switch off the single lamp on the sunporch and lay aside the pillowtop I’m embroidering, a gift for someone I love. This one is a yellow-and-black anise swallowtail, scientifically correct. A dozen other pairs of silent wings lie stacked on a closet shelf—my butterfly collection, David calls it. Each time he says the words I feel the wings inside my chest. He has no idea.

From the cool shadows of the house, I watch the stranger park his car and walk up the snow-packed sidewalk to the front door. He is surefooted and somber. I guess him to be about fifty, nearly twice my age, and for some reason this makes me even more uneasy. I stand motionless, holding my breath as he rings the bell and waits.

Go away. It’s the wrong house.

He rings again. He doesn’t look like a robber or rapist, but I’m too tired to open the door and pretend to be amiable while I give him directions to whatever he’s seeking. I need my solitude, especially today. I realize I’m pressing one palm flat against my abdomen and jerk the hand away, clenching my fist. My breathing clots in my chest.

The bell chimes again, and I jump when the doorjamb rattles under his knock.

Go away, for heaven’s sake! Nobody’s home. Whoever you’re looking for isn’t here.

And then the stranger calls my name.

Not Roberta Dutreau, my married name, but my childhood name.

“Roberta Lee? Bobbie?”

His voice sounds deep and somehow muffled. “I saw your light. Please open the door.”

My heart pounds. I don’t know this man; how does he know me? David is at work—I don’t know what to do.

“Please,” he calls out. “It’s about Lenora.”

My breath sucks in. I hurry to the door and jerk it open, sending small tufts of snow onto the hallway floor. No one ever uses this door.

The stranger stands bareheaded, his weight on one leg with both knees bowing outward like a cowboy’s. But he isn’t a cowboy. He’s Indian. His dark eyes meet mine and there’s something familiar there—something I cannot name. He’s stocky and muscular, a full head taller than I am.

I haven’t spoken aloud all morning and my voice sounds hoarse. “Is something wrong with Lenora?”

The stranger keeps one hand in his jacket pocket and the other hooked by the thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. When he finally speaks, his bass voice is flat and expressionless. “You mean besides ten years of prison life?”

I grip the edge of the door with both hands. “Who are you?”

He meets my eyes again. “I’m Harley Jaines.”

The name echoes in my head, bounces through the empty rooms. Harley Jaines Harley Jaines Harley Jaines …

“You bastard.” I grip the door tighter. “Harley Jaines is dead.”

“Sorry to contradict you, but I’m not.” A muscle in his jaw twitches.

I remember a photograph from years ago, a young man in uniform with the same black eyes—my best friend’s missing father. How I envied Cynthia the heroic status of that photo.

And now he stands at my door.

When my knees sag, the stranger reaches a hand toward my elbow, but I shrink away. He drops his hand to his side. “You’d better sit down. May I come in?”

I turn without answering and weave my way back to the sun-porch, my hands touching each chair back and door frame as if I’m walking on a moving train. I hear the door close behind me and his quiet footsteps as he follows.

Sinking into the flowered chair beside the lamp, I pull the afghan over my legs and hug my knees tightly to my chest. He stands in the center of the room, waiting, and finally sits on the sofa without being invited.

His voice is so low-pitched it’s hard to distinguish the words above the buzzing in my ears. “I’m sorry to surprise you like this. I need to talk to you about Lenora.”

“Have you been to see her?” I ask.

He nods. “Regularly, for several months. Ever since I found out where she was.”

“How is she?”

“She says she’s all right, but she isn’t. I can see it in her eyes.”

“We thought … she said you were killed in Vietnam.”

His eyes look away. “It’s a long story.”

He leans back, gazing out the wide windows toward the endless vista of snow-covered pines. “What I came about,” Harley Jaines says finally. “Lenora needs your help.”

He looks at me as if waiting for a reaction. But my mind has flown a dozen years away from here, to a house called Rockhaven that overlooks the Columbia River. I’m seeing Lenora the way she was then.

“I talked to the lawyer who represented her, if you can call it that,” the stranger says. “He’s convinced there was more to what happened than Lenora told him.”

The wings rise to the back of my mouth. I wonder if he can see them beating behind my eyes as I regard him blankly. “And what does Lenora say?”

“She’s told me about most of her life, a little at a time. She talks about you a lot. But she won’t talk about that night.”

He waits. A patient man. But my heart is like the permafrost beneath the northern Canadian soil. Resistant, enduring. I face him with silence.

“The attorney thinks you know the whole story. Says that when you were in the hospital, you told him Lenora was innocent.”

My mouth twists. “Which hospital? Which time?” But I know exactly what he means.

“Lenora has a parole hearing in two weeks. I want you to come and testify. I’ve hired an attorney, a good one this time, and we’re going to ask for more than parole. We’re going to try for a pardon.”

Harley Jaines watches my face. “She shouldn’t have gone to prison,” he says. “You know that, and I know it. I believe you have the power to set her free, if you come to the hearing and tell the truth.”