Butterflies and Broken Horses
By Robert Aquino Dollesin

At the kitchen island, Keller used his charcoal pencil to add the finishing touches to his butterfly sketch.  He brought the picture close to his face and studied it, an expression of displeasure filling his eyes.  Then from the television, a black-and-white nine-inch model sitting on the counter in front of him, came the grieving voice of a woman.

The woman on the television said, “She went to the carousel, saying she wanted to free the horses.”

The words brought Keller’s careful attention to the grainy picture.  He released his hold on the butterfly sketch, letting it float to the floor.  He reached forward and tweaked a small knob on the front of the television, hoping to clear the snowy image and get rid of the black horizontal lines that climbed steadily from the bottom of the screen. 

For several moments his attempts to clear the picture were unsuccessful, so he reached up and worked the antenna, shifted it in one direction and the static crackled out of the speaker.  He moved the rabbit-ears again.  This time the picture improved slightly and Keller could make out on the screen a tearful woman standing before a large gathering of reporters.

He leaned in close, tilting his head.

The image of the woman’s face grew to fill the screen.  She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, raised her face to the sky. When her mouth opened again she seemed to Keller to be addressing only him.

“Please,” she pleaded, her voice breaking, her composure collapsing. She stared directly at Keller and said, “Please. Daniela is all I have in the world. Don’t hurt my baby.”

Keller yanked the television’s plug from the wall and slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder.

The young girl sat curled in the corner of the room. She was trembling, her bound hands held in front of her face as if she was expecting to be struck.

“Daniela,” Keller said, his hoarse whisper floating across the room.

The child’s chin rose.  She shook her tangled blonde hair off her pale, smudged face and, wide-eyed, she sucked in her lower lip and shifted her bottom on the floor.  Keller’s eyes grew wide as the fringe of the young girl’s yolk-yellow dress traveled up her skinny thighs.

Keller continued to stare.  The girl moistened her lips.

He tilted his head even further, his right ear almost resting on his right shoulder.

In a frightened, mouse-like tone, the words spilled off the child’s tongue:  “I wanna’ go home.”

For a long time Keller seemed to be considering her request.  But he finally slipped off his stool and shook his head.

Keller rolled back his upper lip, revealing large, stained teeth.  He raised an arm and fluttered his fingers.  “Butterfly,” he said.  “Daniela. Butterfly.”

She wept and screamed and pleaded and kicked her heels into the wooden floor.  Keller brought his big hands up to his head and covered his ears.  He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth.  Shaking his head violently, he stomped the floor and shouted.  “Stop!”

But she wouldn’t quit fussing.  Her crying swelled to hysterical howls. Keller pounded a fist on the counter and watched the girl pull herself into an ever tighter ball, listened to her crying shrivel to a pulsing sob.

“Butterflies,” Keller said again, raising his face to the ceiling.  He went around the island and into the kitchen.  “Free the horses.”

There were two rusted Folgers cans on the windowsill above the sink.  Keller took one down and pried off the plastic lid.  Several gray moths streamed out of the can, hovered a moment before flitting up toward the bulb, which glowed and dangled loosely from the ceiling.  Keller watched his moths circle the light.  He peered back into the can, reached in and used his fingertips to rub the chalky residue.

He slid the first Folgers can aside and took the second one down from the windowsill.  He peeled back several inches of the lid.  There were more moths in this can, and Keller watched them with amazement as they crept up the metal inside, slipped through the opening and perched on the rim of the lid.  One after the other, the moths launched themselves, floated momentarily in front of Keller’s face before folding their wings and ascending into the light.

Keller let the second coffee can clank onto the floor and he spun around.  The child stared at him.

He reached up and opened a cabinet, found a can of chicken soup and brought it down to the counter. The metal lid groaned when Keller pulled back the ring.  He dug a filthy spoon out of the sink and turned to face the girl.

Step by shuffling step, Keller approached.  His big shadow fell over her as he crouched in front of her, tilting his head.  She squirmed, drew back until her spine was tight against the wall.

Keller scooped a spoonful of soup from the can. He placed it in front of the girl’s quivering lips. “Eat,” he said.

Eyes welling, the girl’s tongue darted between her lips, but she did not take the soup.

“Eat,” Keller repeated. “Butterfly must eat.”  He edged the spoon against her lips.  She recoiled, her head snapping backward, banging the wall behind her and the spoon fell to the floor.

Keller struck her with his open hand.  She cried out.

He retrieved the spoon and dipped it into the can.  He brought it up filled with soup and once again placed it against her lips.

This time she opened her mouth and took in the soup.  Her throat rose and fell as she forced down the food.  Her tiny lips trembled.  Her knees, Keller could see, shook too.

After eating about a third of the soup, she turned her head, refusing any further offering.

Keller put down the can and raked the girl’s hair with his fingers.  He pressed down on her head with his fingertips and felt her heart pounding beneath her scalp.

“Set the horses free?” Keller whispered.

The girl didn’t answer.

“Free. Daniela free horses.”

She bit her lip and nodded her head.

He reached forward and loosened the restraint around the girl’s wrists.

“Come,” he said, rising out of his crouch.

Silent and compliant, she got to her feet and the cord fell to the floor.  Keller took her tiny hand and led her toward the front door.

Outside in the cool evening air, Keller started toward the path that cut through the woods.

“I’m going home?” the girl asked.

Keller stopped.  He gazed at the child with a puzzled expression.  The wind blew her yellow dress, the fabric’s movement lulling in the wedge of moonlight they stood in.  He listened and heard the rustle of leaves, the creak of branches.  He thought about all the butterflies he‘d possessed, how he had set them free in the woods.

“Free,” Keller said.

“Home?” the girl said, starting to snivel.

“Yes,” Keller nodded, smiling. “Home.”

Her eyes got big and a light, tight-lipped smile formed on her face. “I’m going home?”

Keller nodded.  “After we free the horses.”

He sucked in the darkness and looked into the sky at the dippers.  He gently squeezed the small, smooth hand blanketed by his large, coarse palm.

She squeezed his hand back.  “Thank you,” she said.

When Keller started to walk again, the child skipped at his side, kicking up dust from the gravel path.

The mouth of the woods came into view and Keller paused again to gaze up at the bright dippers.  “When butterfly done,” Keller said, pointing to the sky with his one free hand. “You fly to the light.”

 

END