The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (24 page)

For an extended moment she just gaped, then shook her head briskly. “No, no…I left…long ago.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“For good?”

“Yes…yes, of course!” she nodded earnestly, her eyes downcast.

Wolf exhaled.

“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me about this?” A sudden hurt had come to his eyes.

She shut her eyes for a second. “I wanted to forget my past. I wanted to start life anew. I was tired…very tired,” she said brokenly. “I just wanted to return to a normal life… It’s been tough…so tough…” And she could say no more.

There was a long silence. The only sound in the room was the dull humming of blood in her ears.

“So who knows about this?” Wolf said at length.

“No one else…just you and me.” Her voice was so faint he barely heard it.

“And the person who sent me the mail.”

“Yes.”

He nodded, as if to himself. He looked around the room briefly.

Suddenly he relaxed, and his eyes ceded visibly. “Come here,” he said, his arms open for her.

She gawked at him stupidly. Something was wrong, very wrong.

But the arms remained outstretched, calling out to her. His eyes were plainly mellow.

There was a long moment before realization finally dawned on her. She sucked in a sharp breath, then rushed wildly to him. And as he held her, pressing her head to his chest, she began to shake.

“It’s okay,” he was saying, holding her tighter to him.

But she couldn’t stop quaking in his arms…quaking to her very core.

“I’m so sorry…” Her voice was a squeak in her throat.

“Shhhhh…!”

.

I
t was an hour later that he finally let her go, and by then the doorbell had rung, and rung, and the door had been rapped, and rapped again and again. Finally, whoever it was at the door (and Lianne it had to be), had gone away, with whatever thoughts and assumptions.

Wolf sat down on the edge of the settee. He beckoned her and she came, still diffident, still unable to look him in the eye.

He leaned forward and pulled her onto his lap. She was stiff and Wolf kissed her temple.

“Look, this is strictly between you and me,” he whispered softly in her ear. “It’s none of anyone else’s business. In any case, the past is past, done and dusted, and I don’t want to dwell on it at all. Nothing’s changed…we go right ahead with our plans.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Even after knowing who…what…I…”

“It doesn’t matter to me. No one is an angel in this world.” His eyes shone mildly. “Besides, you harmed no one at all.”

She looked down at her hands and shook her head. She was having great difficulty dealing with this. He wound his arms around her. She mashed her face on his shoulder.

“But…but…you…must…think it…over…again,” she stammered in a small voice.

“Why must I?” he demanded defiantly.

“Because…all said and done…I…I was a… That’ll never go away, no matter what. Can you live with that knowledge all your life…a person of your class, your status?”

“What class, what status…what bullshit? All this doesn’t mean a fuck…it’s all a fucking joke,” he spat contemptuously. “Big moviestar…big fucking deal!”

“But Wolf, still think…”

“Think what? That you were a whore?” He was openly piqued now. But then his tenor immediately softened. “You’re also a woman. … And yes, I can live with that knowledge. I absolutely can. If I can live with the knowledge that the legit people of this planet who govern us are some of the worst traitors and criminals of humanity, then I can very much live with what you once did. If truth be told, you are a saint in comparison.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Now don’t ever bring this up again. Or it’ll make me really, really angry.”

“But…”

“See, it’s
you
who has a fucking problem with yourself, not me. Now SHUT UP!” And he clasped her closer to him.

***

Hot
blood roaring in his ears, Wolf Butcher had sped down the streets madly toward Savannah Burns’s home earlier that morning, barely attentive to things ahead of him. The gun lay coldly primed in the glove box inside his black handbag. Hate spewed from his core and scorched every cell in his body.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a gaggle of school kids appeared before him eager to cross the road. Little boys and girls, no more than twelve years old, dressed in smart whites and maroon, barely twenty feet from Wolf’s speeding Accent. For a second, Wolf’s eyes went wide with alarm, then his heart gave a loud thump, then skipped a beat. Desperately, he slammed down on the brakes. His brain was showered by shrieks of terror as the children panicked like chicken and began fleeing pell-mell to escape the murderous vehicle rushing riotously toward them. Wolf felt his tires scream and the Accent spun on its axis and came to a shuddering halt in the middle of the road. There was a loud thud as another vehicle, taken unawares, banged into him from behind. The impact threw Wolf sideward, his head crashing into the passenger-side door. He hadn’t slapped on his seat-belt.

For a second, he lay very still, stunned silly. Then loud banging on the windows made him look up. People had collected around the car, protesting violently. He hurriedly straightened and began mumbling apologies, but the driver-side door was pulled open and he was grabbed by the jacket and hauled out onto the street. There was a hiss in the air and a pungent blow alighted on his right cheek. Then another. And yet another. Car horns hooted all around him and human mouths turned into sewerage plants, discharging unconstrained verbal filth.

“The motherfucker’s drunk…”

“Kill the son-of-a-whore…”

“Drag the bastard to the police…”

“The asshole nearly mowed the poor children…”

“Christ, the way these fuckers drive these days! There’s no respect for the other person’s life. These insects should be put away for good…”

Suddenly a kick landed on Wolf’s stomach and he doubled up. Another hit him in the back, throwing him to the cement road on his face. And now it was a free for all, as if everyone wanted their pound of flesh. He felt he was amidst a pack of savaging wild dogs. The pounding became so furious, he was bundled into a fetal position, his arms desperately covering his face and head. For a second, his mind darted to his gun in the glove box, but he at once realized it was a futile thought—he was so comprehensively overpowered there was no way he could reach anywhere near it.

Then someone barked through the racket.

“Okay, enough!” a thick masculine voice said. “He’s had the healing. Let him go now. No one was actually hurt, after all…”

There were wide protests, but the hitting grudgingly stopped.

After a while, Wolf squinted up through his arms. Blazing sunlight blinded him for an instant, but he realized that the crowd had begun to disperse.

As if suddenly disconnected from himself, he watched himself fumble back to his feet and shamble to his car like a drug-slackened beast. He sat behind the wheel in stupefaction and tried to breathe, before the blaring of horns and the renewed cursing of the people and their vicious gesticulations snapped him out. Somehow he found the ignition and brought the Accent to life. Someway he corrected its position and began moving again. He was so disoriented that for a while he drifted around aimlessly on the slow lane, letting other vehicles pass him.

.

W
olf parked at the mouth of the twelfth Lane. He sat in the vehicle and stared dully at the St. Teresa Home buildings. He felt flat. The inferno that had raged so wildly within him had completely vanished and in its place there was a frigid block of ice. His face was sore and his throat felt raw. His breath grated in the trachea. He looked down at his hands and realized they were still quivering. He stiffened his stomach unconsciously and winced as a bolt of pain shot through it. He turned the inside rear-view mirror toward him and looked into it. Well, he had lost his shades in the fracas, but amazingly, he seemed to have sustained no cuts or bruises—there was no sign of any blood. More amazingly, his thick beard was firmly on his jaw, but he was too stunned to appreciate that it was this contraption that had prevented real damage to his face.

He opened the glove box. He stared at the black handbag for a second, then with an unsteady hand pulled it out and undid the zip. The .38 looked back at him coldly and Wolf shuddered, recoiling from it as one would from a coiled viper. Hastily he shut the zip and flung the bag back into the glove box. He looked back at the Home. Where was his baby? She was there some place. He took a deep breath and it hurt. Every section of his lungs hurt—every bronchioles, every little air sac. He felt like crying…but his heart was too numb for tears. He felt tired and old and vacant.

He waited a while more, then removed his camouflage and got out of the Accent.

It was just past nine am and Wolf waited in the office. At first, Sister Toynette had been reluctant—it was school time and the girl’s routine mustn’t be disrupted. But Wolf gave her a killer glare and she gave a little helpless sigh and went off to fetch the girl.

Robin leapt on him with delight, then lavished him with kisses. He hugged her tight and immediately felt a warm glow in his wounded chest.

When they broke, she looked into his eyes and her face turned serious.

“You’re not well, Daddy,” she stated plainly.

My sharp girl.
“I’m perfect,” he said dismissively.

“Then why are your eyes so red?”

“Just need a little more sleep,” he lied, quickly rearranging his face so it betrayed not the slightest hint of the pain that was inside him. “Look, I know you’re getting late for school, but can we spend some time together?”

She nodded gladly.

They went out and began walking around, talking, talking nothing in particular, just talking. All Wolf wanted was to be with her…around her. Her proximity comforted him, as it always did. It reassured him. It gave him peace. It had been that way ever since he had first met her. Whenever he was in strife, he instinctively reached out to her, and she unfailingly came through for him. She had what no adult human could ever provide:
a soul-soothing purity…an uplifting innocence…a solacing simplicity and naturalness
.

These were the same spiritual qualities that had powerfully pulled him to Philippa as well, qualities that had kept him humane, kept him empathetic, kept him tender, for the most part …qualities humans lost when they transitioned into adulthood and became
mature
. Of course, in the typically twisted ways the mature, adult human mind works, this unadulterated relationship was at times seen as
unnatural
. But Wolf had always shrugged, feeling only deep pity for the depraved of the sad human race. Thankfully, his family had always seen it in proper light, for what it really was…even marveled at the purity, the wholesomeness, of this bond-made-in-heaven.

Now, Robin could hardly contain her joy and kept bustling all over the place as she walked; she just couldn’t remain still. Wolf tried to keep a hand on her shoulder, but it was difficult. She would take his hand, but quickly she would be off ahead of him. Then she would turn back, grab his fingers once again and bob up and down on the balls of her feet.

And seeing her thus—so cheerful, so full of life, Wolf’s mind was made up. Nothing was going to come in the way of his baby’s happiness. Nothing. He knew how close she and Savannah had become over the last few days. In fact, the two ladies had actually ganged up on him the other day. He knew how much it thrilled Robin to call Savannah ‘Mom’. Observing his girl now, Wolf was convinced Savannah was the perfect mother for her.

It was past ten when finally he let her go.

.

B
ut back in the car, and away from Robin, the misgivings returned. He thought of Savannah and his jaw tightened.

Like you are a saint!
You lied to her equally badly. And yet, she found it in her heart to forgive you, and to accept you,
a voice inside him said.

That was different
, another voice contradicted.

Oh, different? Different how? A deception is a deception. You violated her very root.

Yet, a whore? The very thought makes my gut churn. I don’t think I can bear to see her face ever again. A whore of all things!

A woman too, do not forget. And how is a whore any worse than any of us? You sold yourself all the time. And you called it ART! People sell their morals constantly. And they sell their minds. And then they justify it on top of it. Tell me, what is superior—mind or body?

Stupid question—mind, of course.

Right. So who’s worse—a person who trades a more valuable commodity or one who vends a lesser one? How is a scientist who discovers weapons of mass destruction better than a whore? How is the head of a large multinational who incessantly rapes Nature’s resources for cash better than a whore? How are politicians who create conflicts and wars, who cause death and suffering, and call it patriotism, better than whores? How are pedophile priests, clandestinely backed by their religious bosses, better than whores? Open your eyes, retard!