The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (78 page)

Her face was set in white cement and with her right hand she held on to the only real asset she had ever had in life—her daughter, Robin, who would soon leave her and never return.

It was reaching eight on this quiet Tuesday evening, as Savannah exited her apartment building with her baby. In her left hand she clutched a medium-sized suitcase, containing the most important of Robin’s possessions.

Savannah’s chest was a blob of ice and her brain an insentient lump. She felt nothing and no thoughts traversed her mind.

She reached Butcher Garden at eight-forty and was immediately let in.

Rochelle was waiting on the front porch and she hurried down the steps as the battered black Ford rolled in. Her feet were bare and her hair tousled, and as Savannah stepped out of the car, Rochelle seized her arm, so frantically, Savannah looked up startled.

“I’m so glad to see you!” Rochelle cried in a croaky whisper. “You don’t know what’s just happened!” She was near tears and began pulling Savannah up the porch steps.

Rochelle gave a sharp knock on Grant’s bedroom door, then pushed it open and went in, dragging Savannah with her.

Reclined on the double-bed, his head on a pillow against the headboard, his eyes shut, lay Grant. Next to him was Estelle, her arms wrapped around her husband, holding him desperately.

Rochelle let go of Savannah and rushed to Grant.

Savannah opened her mouth to say something, but could say nothing. Then she saw it, and a streak of lightning went screaming up her back to her head. Lying at the foot of the bed, like a grinning mad dog, was a revolver. A whiff of gunpowder reached her nostrils, faint but distinct, and she shuddered violently.

*

G
rant hadn’t been able to stop shivering.

Somehow he had shoved the gun into his trouser’s right pocket. But it had protested vehemently and refused to go fully in, the butt sticking out in a defiant sulk. Grant had pulled his tucked-in shirt out and hastily covered the weapon. The feel of the nasty steel nauseated him.

He thought of his wife. They had met at a dinner Eric had given for Rudolf Bodine, a New Yorker with whom Eric did business. Estelle was Rudolf’s youngest daughter and the Bodine family were on vacation to New Halcyon.

Eric was a greenhorn businessman then, just starting out in life. At the age of eighteen, he had left Birmingham, UK, and his middle-class family, in search of independence and fresher pastures. Starting out with two hundred dollars, he had begun life at New Halcyon as a sales-assistant in a departmental store. But two months later he quit, then rented a small shop and began dealing, first in electrical items, then quickly expanded to other engineering stuff. In three years, Eric Butcher had become the biggest trader in New Halcyon. On a visit to his brother, Grant, still in college, fell in love with the place and he wrote back to his parents that he had decided to stay on. The chemistry between Grant and Estelle had been instant and one thing led to another, quickly culminating in marriage.

Grant loved young Estelle’s sparkling gray-green eyes and slim legs, her narrow waist and her high bust, her glistening brown hair and her free-flowing laugh. She was the homely kind. To Eric’s wife Paula, Estelle was the perfect foil. Estelle loved nothing more than to take care of the house and the bigger the better. When once, Grant casually broached the subject, she simply said, “Why does the modern woman always have to be a career person? You should do what pleases you, what gives
you
satisfaction and fulfillment and not chase stereotypes of what a modern woman should be like. The home is what gives me the greatest pleasure and the greatest peace.” Grant did not argue anymore. As long as she was happy. So, as the Butcher fortune swelled, and with it their residence, Estelle smoothly took charge of the household and all matters concerning it, leaving her sister-in-law to pursue her work with the countless charities.

She had been a good wife. All through his life, it had been Estelle that Grant had turned to in his lows. Not many words needed to be said, just being in her arms, feeling her quiet sturdiness, was enough to calm him down.

Grant had got Estelle to speak to Art. At first, she had typically not wanted to get involved. But he had persisted, hammering into her the importance—nay, the sheer criticality—of the situation, and she had finally relented. She had talked to their son, even implored him for the very first time in her life. But it had been a vain drill. Eventually, she had thrown her arms up and withdrawn into her burrow once more.

Now, as Grant readied for the final chapter of his life, he gave a low moan.

Forgive me, Est. Forgive me for failing you so late in life. But please understand my predicament. Sometimes there are things that are bigger than one’s own self.

Grant breathed deeply and his chest hurt. However he tried to justify it, a part of him shrieked
MURDER!
Two wrongs didn’t make a right, a voice within said. Also, it didn’t change the fact that this
was
his son no matter what. He didn’t recognize Art anymore, but his son he still was. And more importantly, his wife’s boy. It was unbearable to even think what this would do to her. It would completely shatter the cozy little world she dwelled in.

Think of her. Think of what you are about to do. Are you going to deprive your wife her only son? That beloved woman who trusts you, looks up to you, depends on your support. With this one cruel act, you shall be divesting her of both a son and a husband. Oh, how cruel is that? This good woman, without who you would not be what you are today, who has been the backbone of your adult life, who has looked after your every need while you made a name for yourself in the world…what are you doing to her?

And then the image of the monster came back. This was no son of his, but a beast masquerading as an offspring. Often your worst enemies are born into your own family; they are your own blood—a crucible from where there is no escape. What sort of a person would so ruthlessly and with such single-minded determination endeavor to destroy the life of an innocent mother and child, when in truth it was none of his business? What sort of a person would slickly corrupt the most honorable institutions so that he can lay his faults on his own wife, wrecking her life with guilt, misery and shame? A man who would go to any length to have his way and didn’t care how it affected others. This was no progeny of his, this was a brute of the worst kind, a brute he had to put an end to. As leader of the nation, he owed it to his people. And beyond everything, Savannah was one of his people.

Estelle would have to live with it. It was, after all, better not to have a child then to have a mass of wickedness.

Rise above yourself and your personal concerns, Grant.

No, think of her, Grant, think of Estelle. Think of what all this shall do to her…

You are not just another citizen, Grant. You are a leader of ten million people. They look up to you; you must lead by example. Nothing is more important for a person in your position than to do the right thing.

Estelle shall be completely devastated. She may not even survive the tragedy. And you shall be solely responsible. Do you want to betray the woman who has stood by you all your adult life?

Do not listen to the selfish voice, Grant, you must do what is right. You must stick to your values, no matter what the cost. It is time to walk the talk.

Grant looked down. His head throbbed like crazy. He ran his hand over his face and found he was sweating freely. His shirt felt sticky. His soul ached.

He gave a sudden sob, then turned around with a jerk and with quick shabby steps headed out of the room, his mind racing wildly.

He paused for a second outside Art’s door, then rapped sharply. Too sharply. The door was answered immediately, as if Art was waiting for someone. He seemed surprised to see his father, but he stood aside.

“Is something wrong, Father?” Art said. “Has my daughter arrived?”

Grant looked at Art. But he quickly looked away realizing he couldn’t look the man in the eye anymore.

“Aren’t you well, Father?”

Grant felt choked. His dry throat burned.

“Please sit down here,” Art said and took Grant’s arm.

The touch of him sent a repulsive chill down Grant’s legs. Automatically he shook himself free.
Do not…do not you touch me!

Art flinched at his father’s reaction, startled.

Grant desperately tried to steady himself.

“You’re trembling, Father. Do sit down. I’ll summon the doctor.”

“Wait!”

Art stopped.

“You will not do it!” Grant shot, his voice painfully strained. Then he suddenly yelled, “YOU SHALL NOT!”

Art’s face turned frosty. “We’re not getting into that again, Father,” he said. “The book on that is closed.”

Grant’s right hand went to his trouser pocket. For a second, he went very still, then the gun was in his hand.

“What…what’re you doing?!” Art squealed, shrinking back, a look of mortal fear coming to his eyes.

“You will not do it…you hear me?!” Grant rasped, his gloomy face glowering. The gun pointed at Art’s chest.

Art was seized by utter terror. It showed in the whites of his eyes—they bulged like a pair of ping-pong balls. His lips parted in a scream, but no sound came out. Then he began to convulse on his feet.

Grant’s knees began to wobble. He felt giddy and thought he would pass out. Somehow he kept the gun arm up. Involuntarily, he began to mutter a prayer.

They stood there shaking, father and son.

“What in hell…!” The cry came from the door.

Grant screwed his head around. It took him a while to sort out his vision, then he saw Wolf.

Wolf gawked at Grant, at this unreal scene before him, frozen in incomprehension.

Then he shook his head fiercely, as if to snap himself out of it. He leapt in front of Art and shielded him with his body.

“Sir, what are you doing?!”

Grant seemed stunned by the sudden development.

“Sir, drop that, please!” Wolf shouted. “Drop it…NOW!”

“I will kill him…I shall kill him! Who does he think he is?!” Grant shrieked.

Wolf was completely covering Art now, who was quaking violently behind him.

“Have you gone crazy?! Please drop that gun or someone…”

“You move out, Wolf…go away…I will kill him! I shall not permit him to destroy more lives! I am the President of this nation, I shall not allow him to destroy the life of one of my citizens. I shall protect my people at all costs…each one of my people! That is my bloody duty! You go away, Wolf! Leave!” There was bitter loathing in his voice.

Wolf suddenly relaxed. “No, I’m not going anywhere, sir. You’ll have to kill me first,” he said calmly.

“I will kill you both! You are evil…both of you! You cannot steal a child from her mother! I will not bloody allow it! You evil people…evil…evil…!” His rage was such that the room threatened to burst into flames.

“Then kill me first, sir,” Wolf said coldly. “But I won’t let you harm my brother.”

Grant stared stupidly at Wolf, utter dismay on his face. And Wolf looked back at Grant. On the wall, the clock ticked the seconds away.

Then suddenly, Grant’s chest flagged, his face began to crumble—the juice seemed to gush out of him and unable to support himself anymore, he collapsed to the floor. He lay there, supported on his left elbow, the gun limp by his side.

“Holy Father!” Estelle cried from the doorway. She rushed to her husband.

Rochelle arrived a second later and the two women clung to Grant.

Wolf continued to shield Art, like a lioness her cub.

Eventually, the two women helped Grant to his feet. Rochelle noticed the gun and picked it up. One finger closed absently around the trigger. There was a bang and a bullet ricocheted off the floor near where Wolf and Art stood, then died on the wall behind them. The women screamed, as did Art.

.

H
e was shaking so badly, Wolf had to hold him tight in his arms. With his immense strength, he carried Art to the bed and laid him down.

“It’s going to be alright,” he whispered comfortingly, the standard universal words of reassurance.

Art’s eyes were still bulging and stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Wolf knew he had gone into deep shock. Then Wolf noticed a damp patch on Art’s pants.
Sweet shit, he wet himself.
Wolf vacillated whether he should summon a doctor, but finally decided to wait. He glanced at the wall clock and it said six-thirty pm. Another hour and a half and Savannah would be arriving with Robin. He looked back at Art. His eyes had shut now and Wolf could almost hear the thumping of his brother’s heart. Art’s breathing was rapid and gasping and a thin stream of saliva ran down the corner of his mouth. To see one of the most powerful man in the world reduced to this was scary.