The Girl Who Threw Butterflies Read online

  Her mother even smelled big: When she walked through a room, her scent lingered long afterward. Evidence of her father's existence had always been real but more subtle. You'd have to know what you were looking for to spot the signs of him. A folded newspaper, pencil, and completed crossword puzzle. His keys hanging on a hook by the back door. A couple of cans of Coke in the back of the fridge.

  And now, after just six months, Molly was afraid that little by little, bit by bit, the last traces of him were in danger of disappearing altogether. Some of her father's effects—that's what they call your stuff after you die—were gone now. They'd disappeared from the house. Molly had looked for them. She knew where they belonged, where they'd always been. She knew every nook and cranny in the house, where her mother hid presents. Molly searched on the top shelves and in the low drawers, behind the furnace. Things had gone missing. His golf clubs with their tassel covers. The grass-stained sneakers he wore when he mowed the lawn. Molly knew that her mother was responsible, but she never caught her in the act. Never saw her packing a box or dragging a bag to the curb, never saw her with tears in her eyes.

  So it was a gradual, invisible, but profound disappearance, like erosion. The surface of the earth being trans-formed. But this was worse, really—it was intentional. It was thievery. Her mother was, if not a suspect, then what the police would call “a person of interest.” In this case, the only one.

  Molly stood and stretched. Her hamstrings were tender, and there was a soreness in her shoulders. Morales and his stretching. But it was okay. She liked the idea that she might be getting stronger, more limber.

  Molly wandered into the kitchen and drew herself a glass of water from the tap. She looked back in on her mother—crossing something off one of her to-do lists from the looks of it, still achieving at this hour—and headed upstairs.

  At the top of the stairs she made a hard right into her parents’ bedroom. It was neat in a generic sort of way, inspired, Molly assumed, by a magazine, some designer's idea of simple luxury, or luxurious simplicity. It cost a bundle to look Amish. The bed, dressers, and bedside tables were light wood and clean lines. On the bed there was an eggplant-colored quilt her mother had paid a fortune for in Pennsylvania.

  On her dad's side of the bed there was no book, which was wrong. Back in October he'd been reading a fat biography of Lincoln, and Molly was curious how far he'd gotten, but it had disappeared. His little digital alarm clock was still there, but probably not for long. It seemed somehow not right to Molly that it was still keeping time, still clicking off the minutes.

  Alone in her parents’ bedroom Molly felt sneaky and weird, like a burglar or a sleepwalker. But she couldn't help herself. Now she felt drawn inexplicably to her dad's closet. She'd visited a couple of times before, when she had a moment alone in the house, just to think about him, to feel him maybe, to breathe him.

  She stepped into the closet and inhaled. He was a flannel-shirt, cotton-sweater, and jeans guy. For her dad, every day basically was casual Friday.

  When she was little, she used to make him take off any-thing made of wool, anything scratchy, so she could snuggle into his vast, warm softness. She used to slip into his big shoes and shlup around the house. He used to put a shape-less canvas hat on her head, some kind of fishing hat, his yard-work hat, and Molly would wear it happily, despite her mother's protests (“That thing is filthy!”), because her dad had told her that the hat possessed magic powers. While she wore that hat, he told her, “No harm can come to you.” She loved to hear him say those words.

  Her dad's favorite brown corduroy jacket was still hanging in the closet. He'd had it as long as she could remember. If he needed to look semidressy, that's what he'd put on—for a band concert or an open house at school, for a Christmas party. Sometimes he wore it to work over jeans. Molly's mother bought him new jackets from time to time, preppie gold-buttoned blazers and tweed herringbones. He'd thank her, admire them and try them on, and then the next time he needed a jacket, he'd be wearing the brown corduroy.

  Molly took it off the hanger and slipped it on. It was way too big, of course; she was swimming in it. But she pushed up the sleeves. It was probably a look that Celia could pull off. With the right attitude, baggy could be hip. If Celia wore it, it might become a fashion trend, the Next Big Thing. Molly knew that she looked exactly like a girl wearing her dad's sport coat. No matter. The lining was smooth, and Molly liked the sensation of being encased once again in her dad's bigness.

  There was something stiff inside the jacket's breast pocket. Molly reached in and pulled it out—a reporter's notebook, spiral bound, tall and thin. There was a pencil jammed into the wire. Molly flipped it open, feeling a flutter of excitement. There might be something in it from her dad: a note, a message, directions, advice, a map, some-thing, anything. She would have been glad to find a grocery list, minutes from a boring meeting, some doodles. Seeing his handwriting would be like hearing his voice. But no. Every page was blank.

  Molly took the pencil, touched it to her tongue, and held it poised over the pad expectantly, the way reporters do, waiting for a quote. She stared into the rack of his shirts and chinos. On television, reporters were fearless. They could intimidate people with questions. They threw them like knives. Reporters shouted out what was on their minds and then demanded follow-ups. They played hardball. That was the name of the game.

  Mr. Williams, I'd like to ask you about that night.

  She'd been thinking about it for six months, and it still didn't make sense. He was not a reckless man. He was not like one of those drug-and booze-addled middle-aged rockers who wrapped a sports car around a tree every other month. He didn't drink. He signaled his turns and, as far as Molly knew, observed the speed limit. And yet, one night in October, driving the same highway he had many, many times before—hundreds, maybe thousands of times—he'd lost control, crashed through a guard rail and rolled down an embankment. Obviously Molly knew less than she thought she did.

  If I may. With all due respect. There re some things we're still not clear about. Isn't it true, Mr. Williams, that again and again you were known to tell your daughter to “be careful”? Isn't it true that you would tell her this under the most ordinary circumstances? If she picked up a pair of scissors or sliced a bagel, if she was climbing a stepladder, getting on her bicycle, walking to school, lifting any object larger than a loaf of bread, isn't that what you would say? “Be careful”?

  Molly could hear her mother moving around down-stairs. It was a commercial break. Probably her tea was cold. Any minute she would notice Molly was gone and would investigate. Solitude was suspicious.

  So let's cut to the chase. On that night in October, Mr. Williams, when you drove home, as you had many, many nights before, with your wife and daughter at home—your daughter who needed you, Mr. Williams, who needs you—were you careful? Did you take care?

  “Molly? Molly?” Her mother was at the bottom of the stairs, shouting up at her. “What are you doing up there? Are you all right?”

  8. THE ART OF GRAFFITI

  he next morning when Molly got to school, she found a message scrawled across her locker in black Magic Marker. GIVE IT UP, it said in thick letters, and after that the writer had added an ugly name, and then three exclamation points. As if one didn't do the job. Molly's first thought was of her dad, the copy editor. What would he think about punctuation in hateful graffiti? He'd taught her long ago that exclamation points, even one at a time, were usually excessive—no need to shout, he liked to say.

  Her locker was near the end of a long corridor of science classrooms, a quiet neighborhood in the city of the school. Who besides her even knew it was her locker? I know where you live. That's what the stalkers always said to their victims in horror flicks. Next thing, they're hiding in your closet with an ice pick. These guys, her tormentors, they knew right where she lived.

  So what am I supposed to do about this? Molly wondered. She had no experience in being a victim. She felt no desire
to make a report, file a complaint. The last thing she wanted was to create an incident, get Vice Principal Niedermeyer on the case, be the subject of some sort of investigation. All she wanted, really, was to grab her English notebook and to go to class, get on with her day, business as usual. Now this.

  It was still early, the halls nearly empty, but the bell was going to ring in just a few minutes. Molly found some tissues in her bag and tried to rub out the words but with no success. Leave it to these jerks to use permanent marker, she thought. She spit on the tissue and rubbed again, harder, but managed only to smudge the writing a little.

  There was some light traffic in the hall, the clickety-clack of somebody's heels behind her, the squeak of sneakers. She kept rubbing, stupidly, uselessly.

  She paused for a moment, and when she did, she sensed something. There was somebody standing behind her now, she could feel it.

  “Losers,” a familiar voice said. Molly turned. It was Lonnie House. He was kneeling, digging through his backpack. His hair looked as if it had been styled with an egg-beater.

  “Hey,” Molly said.

  “Hey,” Lonnie said. “Let me give you a hand.”

  “It won't come off,” Molly said, but she just kept rubbing anyway, her tissue now a worthless, pathetic wad.

  “You need some kind of solvent, like paint thinner,” he said. “Something with alcohol.”

  He kept zipping and unzipping various pockets and compartments, pulling out pencils and brushes, a big eraser, tubes of what must have been paint, a small T-square, a drawing pad, more pencils.

  “You really come equipped,” Molly said. “You're an art store on wheels.”

  “I try,” he said. “But right now, I'm coming up empty.”

  “Thanks anyway,” Molly said.

  “Wait a minute,” Lonnie said. “That was just Plan A. There's also a Plan B.”

  He had a marker in his hand now, uncapped—Molly could smell it—and he was standing in front of her locker door, studying it.

  “What are you doing?” Molly asked.

  “A mural.” Then, after just another moment of study, he went to work—filling in letters, darkening spaces, adding new lines and sweeping curves. The marker made little squeaking sounds, and Molly could hear Lonnie humming quietly under his breath. It was like he was some sort of art-making appliance, and what she was listening to was its motor. Or maybe with his pen in hand, Lonnie was a happy cat, purring.

  Before long a crowd had gathered. Something unusual was going on, somebody was breaking the rules, and nobody was going to want to miss that. Not so dramatic as a fight, but still pretty good theater. Not bad for a Friday morning.

  Lonnie meanwhile didn't even seem to notice that he had an audience. He just kept working, kept humming, his hand and arm in constant motion, making big sweeping lines, broad strokes. It was something to see him so assured, so bold. In class and on the practice field he sometimes seemed a little bit lost, but here he was the picture of confidence and focus. If he had been a ballplayer, the announcers would be saying that he was locked in—now he was in the zone.

  When Lonnie finally took a step back to study his drawing, the hateful message was gone. It had not been erased or covered up—more like borrowed or stolen, transformed into something else entirely. In Lonnie's drawing, there were three long-limbed figures crowded together, like scarecrows, one hunched, one squatting, one standing upright. It took Molly a moment to realize it was a baseball scene: an umpire, catcher, and batter frozen at home plate, their eyes all fixed on a ball speeding toward them. The ball was trailing motion lines, which made it look fiery and dangerous, like an asteroid.

  A few of the bystanders made some noises of surprise and admiration, and somebody started to clap, but all of a sudden there was an ominous silence. Molly turned her head and saw everyone scattering, walking away fast.

  It was Niedermeyer, and he had something like a smile on his face. He was showing his teeth.

  “My, my, my,” the vice principal said. “What have we here?”

  Molly found Celia in the library. Lonnie was nowhere to be seen. Was he being interrogated by Niedermeyer? It wasn't a pleasant image. Molly remembered how when Niedermeyer had led Lonnie away, he'd looked like someone under arrest—he'd looked handcuffed. But Lonnie looked a little proud, too, a little defiant, like a political prisoner.

  They were supposed to be finding critical interpretations of Great Expectations, but actually Celia had been researching women in baseball. “You ever hear of Jackie Mitchell?” she wanted to know.

  Celia pointed to a picture on the computer screen in front of her. In the photograph, a young woman in an old-time wool baseball uniform, a lefty, was following through after throwing a pitch. Somehow Molly knew that she wasn't just striking a pose, that she'd actually just delivered a pitch. Her eyes were following the flight of the ball, and she was biting her lip in concentration.

  “Nope.” Molly shrugged. “Never heard of her.”

  “Of course not,” Celia said. “She signed a contract to pitch for the Chattanooga Lookouts in the 1930s. This was a professional team, a men's team, not that All-American Girls thing with Madonna and Geena Davis. She struck out Babe Ruth in an exhibition game. Even I know Babe Ruth. What do you think of that? Babe Ruth!” She looked at Molly, waiting for a reaction.

  “Babe Ruth,” Molly said.

  “And then you know what happened?” Celia asked. “I'll tell you what happened. The commissioner of baseball, the great Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis, gave her the boot. Voided her contract. Because baseball was ‘too strenuous for a woman.’ What a load of crap.”

  Finally, Celia noticed that Molly wasn't right and asked what was the matter. Molly gave her all the details. She told her about the hateful message, about all the exclamation points. She told her about Lonnie's Magic Marker mural, how Niedermeyer had busted him and let her off scot-free.

  “Lonnie?” Celia asked. “Lonnie House? He came along and drew a picture over the message?”

  “You should see it,” Molly said. “It's really something.” “Lonnie is really something,” Celia said. She smiled, a little wickedly.

  It felt good to be talking to Celia. But telling Celia about what had happened made it feel more real, like some-thing that had happened to her. What she understood, what she felt now, was that it was aimed at her, no one else. It's nothing personal was how Molly's mother often responded when Molly described some stinging slight, some injustice. As if that lessened the hurt. But this was totally personal. Molly knew what it meant. She remembered that look on Lloyd Coleman's face.

  “It's a hate crime,” Celia said.

  “That's what it is.” “They do hate me, don't they?” Molly said, and her voice broke. “They want to void my contract.” Celia patted her arm, but she didn't disagree.

  “What did I ever do to them?” Molly asked.

  “Nothing,” Celia said. “Not a darn thing.”

  “It's nothing I did, is it?” Molly said. “It's who I am.”

  Celia must have gathered her thoughts after that. By lunch -time she was ready to weigh in. She was angry and indignant and not about to hold back.

  “They are such cowards,” she announced. “Gutless. That's what they are. Gutless.”

  Molly just nodded.

  “It doesn't take much courage to vandalize a locker,” Celia said. “They never quite got around to signing their names, did they?”

  She was speaking so loud, Molly was afraid they'd be overheard. Lloyd and his crew were at the far end of the cafeteria, but still, Molly wondered, why broadcast? It crossed her mind that maybe Celia wanted to be overheard. Probably not. Probably it was just Celia being Celia, blasting away on her tuba, playing a solo in the key of outrage.

  “‘Give it up’?” Celia said, and snorted. “I mean, is that their best stuff? That's it? That's their A-game?”

  Molly had to agree. It was pretty lame.

  “You know what it sounds like to me?” Celia
said. “ ‘Surrender Dorothy.’ Do you remember that scene in The Wizard of Oz? The witch riding her broomstick in the sky above the Emerald City, writing her message in smoke?”

  Molly smiled. It was funny to think of Lloyd Coleman riding a broomstick. But what wasn't funny was the prospect of seeing him that afternoon at practice. Thanks to him, she had a painful purple welt on her shin. There was no telling what he would try next. There were plenty of ways you could hurt someone in baseball. Balls, bats, cleats—you could turn anything into a weapon. Who was going to watch her back?

  “Dorothy had Toto,” Molly said. “I feel like I'm in this all alone.”

  “You could get a dog,” Celia said.

  “My mom's allergic,” Molly said.

  “Figures.”

  “Dorothy also had the Scarecrow,” Molly said. “Don't forget about that. She had the Tin Man.”

  “You've got me,” Celia said. “You've got Jackie Mitchell.”

  “Plus,” Molly said, “Dorothy had ruby slippers.”

  “You don't need ruby slippers,” Celia said.

  “Oh, I don't, do I?” Molly said. “Personally, I think I could use a little magic.”

  “You've got your own,” Celia said. “You've got your own kind of magic.”

  While she was putting on her cleats that afternoon, Molly thought about Jackie Mitchell. She struck out Babe Ruth! It was mind-boggling. The greatest home-run hitter who ever lived. Probably he was expecting fastballs, Molly figured, and Jackie gave him something off-speed. She must have outsmarted him. Molly would have loved to have seen it, the Bambino whiffing in grand style, screwing himself into the ground. And then she was banned from baseball, blacklisted.