The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (27 page)

Still fantasizing, she finally went back, now feeling positively drowsy. The mind had calmed down and she would sleep well, she was sure.

A mild stench reached her as she opened the dorm door. She paused and sniffed. But she couldn’t really tell. Shrugging, she proceeded to her bed.

The smell grew progressively stronger and was positively pungent when she reached her bed.
God, it is as if someone has peed
, she thought, her nose wrinkling. She looked around, but it was too dark to make out anything. Perhaps some bird had come in through the window, maybe a bat (it happened all the time).
But Jesus, what a stink!
She looked at Moon-Moon—she was sleeping exactly as Robin had left her.

She sat down on the bed, thinking
smell, smell, go away, go away please. I don’t need this now. I need to sleep,
so she could dream some more. But the smell wouldn’t go away, instead got really bad. Perhaps she should wake Moon-Moon up and put the lights on.

But she didn’t have the heart to—Moon-Moon was sleeping so blissfully.
If I also fall asleep I too won’t feel the stench.
She decided she would pull the blanket over her head and then she wouldn’t smell anything. Soon she’d be fast asleep and everything would be fine.

She called Stripey. But he had disappeared under the bed, or somewhere, and all of Robin’s whispered cajoling was without avail. Perhaps he too was bothered by the stink.
But doesn’t the silly realize that by coming inside the blanket, he won’t smell it anymore?
She waited some more, but Stripey was obstinate, and she shrugged and lay down and pulled the blanket over her.

Dampness hit her back and shoulders right away and Robin’s heart gave a leap of alarm and she bounded out of the bed. She reached behind her and found her dress was wet. Very gingerly she bent forward and touched the middle of the bed. It was soaked. Then a waft of stench smacked her face afresh and Robin realized someone had urinated on her mattress…someone with a terribly infected bladder.

She jumped back in horror and screamed.

***

Sunday
, April 13th, two am. Wedding day.

Butcher Garden had finally fallen asleep.

All but one man.

Like Robin before, Grant Butcher was far too stirred for slumber. He had never felt this way—this ecstatic. Not during Art’s wedding, nor his daughter Olivia’s, nor during Sage’s.
Come to think of it, not during my own either.
His chest ballooned like a toad’s throat—so much he couldn’t breathe. But it was an exquisite suffocation and he wouldn’t mind if he passed out because of it. A few hours more and his beloved son would wed, and Butcher Garden would bloom over.

If Grant had one gripe it was that Wolf had insisted on a private affair.

“Only family, sir,” he had said firmly. “And we’ll hold the formalities right here at Butcher Garden.”

And that was exactly how Grant hadn’t wanted it. For once…just for once…he had wanted the occasion to be a lavish affair—the biggest wedding New Halcyon had ever seen. He would hire the New Halcyon Stadium and the whole of the island would be invited. The celebrations would begin a week in advance and the entire New Halcyon Grand Hotel would be booked for foreign guests. All of Hollywood and all of Art’s friends from around the globe would be in attendance.

But Wolf just wouldn’t play and Grant had become melancholic.

But only briefly. Then his unassailable spirit had bounced back.
Anyway, not all is lost,
he had consoled himself. He could still relish the occasion and he managed to prevail in at least one matter. He insisted on inviting some of his closest friends (“Only the very closest”) to the wedding.
Only one-hundred-fifty, no more,
making Wolf’s jaw drop to his chest.

For the rest, Savannah had said she had only one close friend that she cared to invite, who would also be her bridesmaid, some girl called Lianne.

Fulfillment resonated in Grant’s heart now as he stood under the night sky this early Sunday, in the front garden.

All the pain, all the struggles of the past couple of years (and they had seemed like a thousand years) had at last come to an end. How things had changed over the last few months. Once where there had seemed no hope, now there was only joy and harmony. The Butcher family had finally bounced back from its worst disaster.

There was an added reason for Grant to be so happy. A couple of hours ago, they had been on the back porch, the entire family, relaxed and making small talk, when suddenly Wolf had approached him. Bending low, he had whispered in Grant’s ears.

“May I talk to you for a second, sir?”

“Most certainly.”

They had gone back to the family living room, the two of them.

“Yes, son?”

Wolf’s face had been sober. “I want to work for you, sir. Like Sage did.”

Grant had been taken aback. He had looked at Wolf, and for the first time ever, Wolf had held his gaze and looked right back and not flinched. Those green eyes glowed with such earnestness, that something had stirred in Grant and he had stepped forward and taken Wolf in his arms in a loving embrace.

A little later, he had asked, “What about your movie career?”

“That’s over. I’ve retired. I want nothing more to do with it. I’ve had my fun, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positively.”

And there had been nothing more to say.

Now, Grant’s thoughts went to the new members of the family. His first thought went to Savannah.

There had been griping—among Grant’s close friends—that Wolf was letting the family badly down by marrying a very ordinary woman, a woman who was no more than a small secretary in some unheard-of firm. It did not behoove the Butcher family status. There had been similar grumbling when Art had married a very middle-class girl. Wolf had sunk even lower and it tarnished the grand Butcher name. But Grant had paid no heed. He stood by his son and his choices. To him a person’s standing by birth had no value. What mattered was quality.

And quality was what had attracted him to Wolf’s bride. Although, what exactly that quality was, Grant had no idea whatsoever…except that just being around this woman gladdened his heart and made him feel good.
How can you ever explain that? How do you ever analyze such intangibles?
Grant looked forward to the day when Savannah would call him ‘Dad’. But he wouldn’t force it—he would let it happen naturally, let
her
feel the impulse to address him that way. Then that would make it truly special. On his part, he would make doubly sure that this woman received all that he and his wife had to offer. She would lack for nothing at Butcher Garden, with the Butcher family.
Absolutely nothing
.

Grant raised his face to the stars and inhaled a slow, long breath.

Then there was little Robin. Grant had been mightily fond of Philippa, but even he had to concede that there was something exceptional about Robin that put her in a class apart. It was a maturity beyond her years—perhaps as a result of premature self-sufficiency, brought on by her situation. Although Grant didn’t like to think that way, Philippa came off as a spoilt brat in comparison.

Grant realized that Robin was a pint-sized version of Savannah—in every way. The same prettiness, the same unexplainable quality. One just felt good being around the little girl.
The two could not have been more alike had they been real mother and daughter,
Grant thought.
Oh, Holy Father, what miracles thy craft!

His thoughts went to Wolf now.
What can I say? This young man is a blessing to any parent.
No, he wasn’t perfect by any stretch of imagination—in fact, quite the opposite. He was mercurial at times, and had scary bouts of fickleness and weakness.

But never where it matters
, Grant told himself. He was abundantly cognizant of Wolf’s standing in the world. He was Hollywood’s top star, with a worldwide draw. They had said of him being one of entertainment industry’s most powerful people. And yet, not once in all these years had he ever spoken back to his elders in the family. Not once in all these years had he ever refused a request from them. Not once had he ever had a drink in front of them, or appeared before them after one. Not once had he sat in their presence with his feet up or crossed, and he stood up every time an elder came before him. Not once had he shamed his family in any way…unlike most Hollywood guys who inevitably do at some point.
How can one not love a son like that?

Grant felt an overpowering longing to see Wolf’s face…
just one more time.
He couldn’t wait till morning…morning seemed years away. He realized then that over the past couple of years the young man had become such a vital part of him that he needed his proximity like he needed his daily bread. For a moment, Grant shut his eyes.

And he thought of the Big Secret that he held in his heart. A secret only he and his wife knew—a secret that would be the topping on the cake; a topping that would be the ideal wedding gift for his beloved son. A secret that would be revealed only after the wedding.

For, Grant had decided to legally adopt Wolf. Officially make him what he already was and had been for a very long time now. And he knew Wolf wanted nothing more, although he was too shy to enunciate it himself.
Well, this is the perfect time.

A deeply pious man, Grant felt so blessed, he joined his palms together and dropped to his knees and lowered his head. And for the first time in two years, his eyes flooded. Tears trickled down his cheeks and he uttered a little prayer from the bottom of his heart.

He was not to know then that come morning an all-destroying earthquake would hit the Butcher family all over again.

IT
did not matter when he went to bed, Grant Butcher was up at four-thirty am every day, including Sundays and holidays, no exceptions. Nor did he need an external aid to rouse him. He had his own inbuilt timepiece, finely tuned and flawless.

On this Sunday, the Big Wedding Day, Grant woke up as usual, and although he had slept barely an hour, he felt recharged. He looked at his soundly sleeping wife, looked at her serene face, and Grant smiled to himself. There was still half an hour to go before her day began and Grant very quietly swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

He went to the kitchen and snapped a light on. His routine was set—beginning with a squeeze of lime in lukewarm water, a glass of it. Thereafter, it was time to head for the toilet. By the time he was done with his morning chores it was approaching five and it was still dark outside and his wife had begun to stir.

On the dot of five, Grant left Butcher Garden for his morning walk. It was the best time of the day for it, when pollution was at minimal, when the streets were still deserted, when the air was at its best—a time for booming breaths, a time to enliven every cell in one’s body, a time to feel the harmony of life. Perhaps he was the only President of a nation in the whole world who went around like this without a single policeman or security guard accompanying him. It was the ultimate proof of his unanimous popularity among his people.

Grant had always been a man of peace and harmony. A stable man. Not for him the frantic pace of life, although he was by far the busiest man in the city-state. Passionate about his work, he nonetheless always had a part of him that remained detached from it all.

Not for him the vices of civilization. He did not drink alcohol at all (hadn’t for the past couple of decades), nor smoked; he did not drink tea, or aerated waters. The only indulgence he allowed himself were two cups of coffee, one with breakfast, one around four pm. There were other things to Grant: though he was a politician, he never lied. Perhaps that was a consequence of him seeing himself as a social worker, who used politics, and the power that came with it, as a tool to further his goals for society. Politics had never been an end in itself. Despite being a politician, Grant saw corruption as the greatest evil on the planet. Despite his family’s wealth, he remained personally a simple man. Material pleasures were not one of his weaknesses. He owned but four sets of clothes and would have been happy with two, but for the requirements of his job. He gave few parties and attended fewer still. His room was the simplest in Butcher Garden and were it not for his wife’s insistence, he would not even have air-conditioning. It had few other furnishings besides—three cupboards, one his, two Estelle’s, a dressing table and other sundry paraphernalia, mostly his wife’s stuff. He had few other wants—his hobbies outside his work were reading and writing. He wrote in longhand and his handwriting was flowing and clear (he rarely used a computer…he left that for his staff). He hardly saw any television. But he loved to sit on a reclining chair in the back porch and watch the waterfall and the waters of the swimming pool. He could sit all day, just watching, doing nothing, and be happy.

As a result, Grant slept the moment his head touched the pillow.

Yet, he
did
have a weakness. It was his family, his only indulgence. Spartan himself, he nonetheless, loved to indulge his kin. He would get expensive gifts for everyone all the time. But he had especially loved to pamper Philippa, and her death, together with that of the others, particularly Sage, had been a colossal blow.