Shooting Butterflies (6 page)

Aunt Kathleen put on her reading glasses and peered at the picture of Main Street on a Sunday morning. ‘Well, firstly he should have been in church, as should you, although I know better than to try to force you. And second, his parents would be none too happy to see him with a cigarette in his mouth. They're always boasting about what an athletic boy he is.'

‘Who? I want to know who he is.'

Aunt Kathleen smiled to herself. ‘You sound mighty interested in someone you've never even met.'

‘Of course I'm interested. He's beautiful.'

Aunt Kathleen looked again at the tall blue-eyed boy with his loose broad shoulders and brown hair that was a little too clean, too shiny, to be entirely fashionable. ‘Jefferson; yes, I suppose he is a good-looking boy. He could do with a good hair-cut, though.' She glanced sideways at Grace. ‘I happen to know from his mother that he's nursing a broken heart. And don't you go taking that as a challenge.'

The McGraws, Jim and Gene, played Kathleen and Leslie at doubles, although Gene, Kathleen said, could not serve to save her life. ‘Mostly we go along for her baking. No one bakes cookies like Gene McGraw.'

And, Grace thought, her son was handsome enough to be a film star; handsome enough never to be interested in someone like Grace Shield. It wasn't that she was bad-looking; she was just that bit too tall, and she was angular. There was no softness to her, no curves to speak of, and she was aware that she looked fierce a lot of the time when all she was doing was concentrating. Mrs Shield always told her that she had the kind of looks that older, more sophisticated men would like. She had meant it as a comfort, but it hadn't worked. Older and more sophisticated meant forty at least. What use did Grace have for the admiration of men like
that? No, what she wanted was to look like the girl standing next to Jefferson in the second picture. ‘Who is she?'

‘I don't know. This might be a small town, but that doesn't mean I know everyone.'

‘She's pretty.'

‘Sure, she's pretty,' Aunt Kathleen said.

She was of medium height, a little plump but nicely so, with loose dark curls falling to her shoulders, pouty lips and an upturned nose. Aunt Kathleen must have noticed Grace's wistful look because she quickly added, ‘But so are you. Maybe not in such an obvious way, but you'll see, your time will come.' Grace told her she sounded just like Mrs Shield.

‘Anyway, I want to be obvious. And I don't want to wait for this mystical day when my kind of looks, whatever they are, suddenly become everybody's cup of tea. I want to be obvious and I want to be obvious right now.' Aunt Kathleen just smiled and shook her head.

Grace took to walking down Main Street at least twice a day hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy.

‘A hamburger? In this heat!' Aunt Kathleen raised both eyebrows; auburn and pencil thin like her dead sister's. She and Uncle Leslie had not believed Grace when she told them she had never been to a McDonald's. ‘There's a Wimpy but no McDonald's in our nearest town. They've got them in London, but I haven't been.'

‘No McD?' Uncle Leslie had sounded like a missionary who had discovered a place where no one had heard of Jesus; incredulous but excited all the same. ‘Well, someone's standing to make a lot of money over your way,' he said.

On her own, Grace dawdled, looking into nearly every shop window on her way downtown. She went inside one of her favourite places: the small electrical-goods store with its shelf of photographic equipment. She bought herself a photograph album that she had admired for some time now. It was matt-black and squat, requiring little stick-on corners that you bought on a reel, an old-timer surviving amongst the shiny red and green ones with their pockets and self-adhesive pages. She walked on down Main
Street, thinking there were more people than usual about, although none of them was Jefferson McGraw. But she did not want to give up just yet so she went into the last shop on the street, Andersen's, just to eke out the time and get some more air conditioning. The shop was having a pre-summer sale. There was a poncho in the window, knitted in bright red wool, its voluminous hood trimmed with dark fur. Grace thought of how snug that would be in winter and how becoming; Little Red Riding Hood wearing the wolf.

It turned out that the poncho was reduced to less than half its original price. The assistant, a heavy-set girl with long permbleached curls and a smile that showed she was relieved to finally see a customer, said, ‘Mr Andersen had planned to keep the fur stock over to the next season, furs being classic and always just right, but it looks like he might not stock any fur items no longer so he thought he'd get them into the summer sale.'

‘Hardly the weather for it,' Grace said.

The assistant shrugged. ‘That's the time to buy,' she said. ‘Come the season, you won't find something of that quality for even twice the price.' She went on to explain that there were two of the ponchos: the red one in the window and a white one with white fur at the back. ‘I reckon the white one would be really neat on you with your dark hair and all. You know Abba?'

Grace nodded. ‘Sure.'

‘Well, the dark one has a poncho just like this one. I saw her wear it on TV the other night. It's, like, really cold in Finland even in the summer.'

‘Sweden,' Grace said. ‘Although she's actually Norwegian.'

The girl looked at her blankly for a moment. ‘Whatever. I find them European places real hard to remember. You're British, aren't you? I know about Britain.'

Next she made Grace try on the white one, telling her it looked great. Grace asked to try the red and the assistant told her that too looked great. Grace asked her which of the two looked the greatest. The girl said there was nothing in it. Grace decided on the red, thinking that although it was half price it was still an expensive item of clothing and as she tended to spill quite a bit and sit in things it made sense to be practical and go for the darker colour.

She had been aware, for minutes now, of people gathering
outside the shop, but she had put it down to the sale. As she waited for the girl to wrap the poncho, however, she realised that these were not shoppers. Fists were raised and there was shouting, although she could not hear what exactly.

‘Lord.' The girl returned from the back, handing Grace a glossy pink and white paper carrier with the handles tied with a pink ribbon. ‘Mr Andersen won't like this.'

It was a demonstration, by now that much was clear to Grace. ‘But the war is over,' she said. ‘Anyway, what does it have to do with the shop?'

‘Nothing. But this isn't about no war. It used to be all about that, but this here is about skin. Fur-skin. I don't mind tellin' ya that Mr Andersen has had about as much as he can take of that kinda thing. His blood pressure's shooting up. He's at the clinic right now, as a matter of fact, and it's not as if they're making any sense.' She nodded towards the crowd outside. ‘I mean, them animals are dead anyway, so I say you might as well turn them into something pretty like a collar or a hat …'

‘I suppose the point they're making is that if there weren't shops selling fur and people like me willing to buy, then the animals wouldn't be dead in the first place.'

‘I don't agree with you there. I mean to say, there would be no point to them in the first place if it weren't for that you could turn them into something nice and useful. Take them minks; I mean, yours is rabbit, but take them minks.' She gesticulated towards a loose fur collar draped round the shoulders of a shop dummy. ‘No one in their right mind would have them breed if it wasn't for what you could turn them into. Same with rabbits. You ask my Uncle Kirk what he thinks of rabbits. Darned pests, that's what they are. As I see it, none of them critters would be allowed to be born if it wasn't for folks like Mr Andersen. Anyway, you come with me and use the back door and that'll bring you out right by the pizza parlour with no one being the wiser.'

Grace told her she disliked the idea of sneaking out the back as if she had something to be ashamed of. The girl shrugged and said, ‘Suit yourself,' before unlocking the door and closing it the second Grace was out.

At first no one took any notice of her. They all seemed too busy managing their placards and shouting slogans. ‘He's your brother not your coat,' one guy yelled right in Grace's face, but Grace didn't think he even saw her. It was just as well, as she had a bag full of bunny brothers in her hand.

An elderly woman walking her basset hound came down the sidewalk. The woman was fat and slow, but the dog was fatter and slower still as it pattered along behind, its stomach trailing the ground. Its tail was wagging in a lazy fashion. Maybe the hot tarmac felt good against its belly. Seeing the commotion, the woman prepared to cross the street, but by now the dog was getting nervous, circling its owner, entwining her trunk-legs with the lead. Grace had taken her camera from her crochet bag, about to take a picture of the troubled animal in the midst of the demonstration. In photography class at school, one of their visiting lecturers had talked a lot about irony. Grace reckoned that this was just what he had meant. She raised the camera and took her shot just as the basset hound lunged in panic, sending its owner tumbling, her white straw hat down over her face, her mouth open in a wide O. Grace's shot turned out extra ironic.

She was trying to help the old woman to her feet when a girl, her hair styled in a hostile bob, blocked her way. She made a grab for the carrier bag and yanked out the poncho with a triumphant shriek. ‘Blood-stained bitch,' she yelled. Grace was slow to react as she was still trying to reach the old woman who remained sprawled on the pavement, the panicking basset hound pulling the lead ever tighter around her thick ankles. Grace, on her hands and knees now, dirty sneakers and frayed denim legs marching all round her, managed to reach out and grab the dog's collar, unclipping the lead before getting to her feet and grabbing the old woman by the wrist, pulling and yanking until she had got her upright. The basset hound ran free; its high-pitched barking could be heard going down towards the river. ‘Dog went that way,' Grace said.

After that it took her a few minutes to locate the demonstrator who had stolen her poncho, but there she was, still swinging the bag over her head as if it was the enemy standard.

‘Give that back,' Grace said. ‘Give that back immediately.' She made a grab for the poncho – sale or not, it had cost her forty
dollars – but the woman was too quick and with a flick of her shot-putter's wrist she had sent it flying across the wall into someone's front yard. ‘Now what good will that do the poor creature?' Grace wanted to know. ‘It was a dead rabbit in there, not Lazarus.'

The woman raised her fist in a triumphant gesture. She was shouting and her wide-open mouth was inches from Grace's face. She was carrying on as if she'd done something brave, something special, rather than chucking away forty dollars' worth of clothing. For a second Grace hated her and that second was enough for her to punch a fist straight into that inviting mouth. By the time her knuckles made contact with the woman's teeth she was already regretting hitting her.

At the police station there didn't seem much point in trying to explain that she had not, in fact, been part of the demonstration but an innocent shopper caught up in the hubbub. So she sat quietly with the others on the benches lining the walls of the small station, waiting for her turn to be processed. It was all taking such a long time. It had been a year since the last anti-war demo and, apart from a few domestic disputes and a guy caught speeding in his father's car, not much in the way of crime occurred in Kendall. Grace supposed the police were unused to the sheer volume of suspects. She must have nodded off, and when she woke up the throng had cleared and there were fewer than ten people waiting. Amongst them was the boy she had been looking out for these last few days: Jefferson McGraw. Grace stared at him. She had a habit of staring which always annoyed Mrs Shield. But as Grace said, ‘What is the point of people if you can't take a good look at them?'

Jefferson McGraw must have noticed that stare because his cheek, the one turned towards her, turned pink. Seconds later he sat down next to her on the bench. ‘Pigs,' he said.

‘Oh no, I'd never wear
them
,' Grace, all of a twitter, assured him. His eyes were the bluest she'd ever seen on any human being.

He looked puzzled at her reply, but was not at all fazed by the way she could not take her eyes off him; he was probably used to it. He said he did not recall seeing her before; was she from out
of town? Grace told him she was from England and that she was staying with her aunt and uncle, the Singletons. Sure, he knew the Singletons, or rather his folks did. Grace said it seemed that everyone knew everyone else in Kendall, which, she added, was fine with her. It was cosy. ‘I used to live here, when I was a kid. Then my mother drove into a tree.'

Jefferson, it was obvious, was the kind of person who gave you his full attention, taking in every gesture and listening as if each word spoken was new to him. His eyes, as bright as if they'd had a good rinse and polish in the morning, grew concerned. ‘Jesus, that must have been tough.'

People said that kind of thing to Grace all the time. Usually she paid no more attention than she would to the tears people shed in front of a cinema screen; all second hand with no echo in their hearts. But Jefferson seemed, for that moment, as stricken as if it had happened to him. His shoulders hunched and there was real pain in his eyes, as if he was sharing her loss, not just watching it with interest.

It was dinnertime and the police, bored by now, let the rest of them go without even taking their details. The girl in the punch-up must have decided against making a complaint and Grace realised she was disappointed; she wanted to stay talking now she had finally found him. ‘They aren't doing their job properly,' she complained as they lined up to leave. ‘I even punched someone. I don't know why it hasn't been reported. I should be charged.'