The Glass Butterfly (17 page)

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Authors: Louise Marley

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: The Glass Butterfly
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She never spoke to him again about her girlhood. She didn't describe the pain of ruined playdates, the embarrassment of strange calls when she was at school, summoning her home for nonexistent emergencies. She never told him how her father reacted to her mother's illness, the towering rages that left her cowering in her bedroom while he stormed around the house. She understood, eventually, that fear was at the heart of her father's fury, the fear of losing control, of losing his wife, of their entire life as a family coming apart. There had been no question of therapy, or counseling, only the awful day when her mother—who had ceased speaking, stopped eating, refused even to get out of bed—was taken away in an ambulance. Tory had been terrified of being alone with her father, but with her mother gone, his rages disappeared, too. He no longer shouted or broke things. He didn't do much of anything, in fact, but go to work, then come home to sit, silent and broken, at the kitchen table. Tory, by the time she was twelve, was keeping house, cooking, shopping, cleaning, washing clothes. Jack never knew any of this.
It was a great relief for Tory to go off to college, and it was there she discovered music. She went to New York with some friends to hear
Madama Butterfly
at the Metropolitan Opera, and the perfect beauty of the melodies and the harmonies was almost more than she could bear. The inevitability of Cio-Cio-San's tragedy overwhelmed her. Tory, the most reserved girl of all her circle, wept through the entire performance. When she went to bed that night, the arias whirled around and around in her head, perfectly memorized. She had the strangest feeling of recognition, as if she had always known this music. She began to search out CDs, go to every concert she could find, immerse herself in this unexpected pleasure.
Whenever she went home, it was like being in a prison of silence. She and her father crept around their hushed house, avoiding each other. The two of them made ritual visits to the mental institution to visit her mother, and on the way back they might assure each other she looked a bit better, she had said a word or two, perhaps she was on the mend, but neither of them believed it.
Jack never knew any of that. She poured it all out to Kate one day, talking and talking, a spate of words as if someone had opened a dam that was on the verge of cracking. But she never told her son.
Now, far from her son and her closest friend, she looked down at the shivering dog in front of her, and the intensity of her sadness was almost more than she could bear.
She tried to edge around the dog to open the gate, but when she did, it fell to its side, as if the only thing holding it up had been the support of the wooden slats. Its ribs stood up like those of a wrecked ship, each bone visible through wet fur. It shook visibly, wasted muscles rippling from head to tail. She stared down at it in an agony of indecision. She could leave the gate open, go inside, hope the dog could fend for itself. Perhaps it would get up and wander off. Or perhaps it would die, right there where it lay.
“You pitiful thing,” she muttered. “You're like me—wet, alone, and miserable.”
The dog's ears twitched, and it gave one small whine, as if in agreement.
Tory sighed. She couldn't do it. She couldn't go in and close her door, hoping the dog would disappear and solve the problem for her. She trotted up the walk and into the house. She grabbed a towel, and hurried back through the yard to where the dog trembled on the bare ground, the open gate looming over it like a coffin lid. She bent to wrap the towel around the thin body. At her touch the dog's tail, a bedraggled flag of brown and white fur, beat three times against the ground. Tory felt her heart beat in time with it, each strike of the wet tail a thud in her own chest. “Okay,” she said softly. “Let's get you up. You don't want to lie out here in the cold.”
She was surprised, when the dog struggled to its feet, at how tall it was. Its head reached her mid-thigh. It wavered on its long legs as she helped it up the walk. She kept the towel around it, worried it might have bugs or mange or some other doggy pestilence. Its shoulder bumped her knee as they made a slow, awkward progress up over the single step and into the cottage. Tory shut the door with her foot, then turned to start scrubbing the dog dry as best she could. It lay flat again, and she knelt beside it, rubbing its flanks and chest. When she gingerly lifted its head to dry its ears, its long pink tongue flicked out and scraped her cheek.
She chuckled in spite of herself. “We're a pair, you and I, dog. Lost and lonely, and more than a bit damaged.” She rubbed it from head to tail, then picked up each big paw and dried those, too. It submitted with patience to her ministrations. She didn't know if dogs liked being rubbed, or if this one was just so tired—or ill—it didn't care. As the sand and water came out of its coat, she found no signs of injury or noticeable sickness. It—he—was just bone-thin and cold.
Tory coaxed him to get up, to move onto the rug in front of the easy chair. She had chopped wood the day before, and now she laid a fire with kindling and crushed newspapers and a nice dry log. In moments the fire crackled pleasantly, and warmth swept out into the chilly room. Tory, kneeling on the hearth, surveyed her unexpected company.
He was on his belly now, lying with his head on his paws, his eyes shining with firelight. His ears twitched as she came to her feet, adjusted the fire screen, sat on the edge of the little couch. “Listen,” she said. “I don't know anything about dogs. I don't know what you eat, or what you need. I can probably afford to pay for one vet visit, but if there's anything seriously wrong with you—” The dog's long eyelashes swept down, then up. “I don't even know if Iris will let you stay here.”
The dog sighed, a huge, gusting puff of air that came from his lean flanks and made his nostrils flutter. With a groan that sounded very like one of relief, he rolled onto his side again and lay flat, his head toward the warmth of the fire, his tail extended beneath the easy chair. His eyelids drooped.
Tory watched the dog breathe. He looked like some sort of spaniel, she thought, but she had no idea what kind. She bit her lip, trying to think of what she should do next. Water first, she supposed. He would need water. She had some hamburger in the refrigerator. She was pretty sure all dogs liked meat.
She filled a bowl from the tap, and put it near the dog's nose before she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She had to call Iris before she did anything else.
“Paulette. Did you change your mind?”
Tory caught a breath. “How did you know it was me?”
“Caller ID. I put your number into my phone. Don't you have it?”
Tory nearly took the phone away from her ear to look at it, then blinked at the foolishness. “No. No, this phone isn't much.”
“I left a message at the flower shop. They're expecting you in the morning. Is that why you called?”
“It's not that, Iris, but thank you. I haven't changed my mind. I'll be there. What I called about, though—the thing is—” Tory glanced back at the brown-and-white dog, lying in front of the fire. She said helplessly, “Iris, it's this—this dog.”
A long pause made her wonder if their call had been cut off. She was about to say something more when Iris said, “A dog?” in a wondering tone. It was as if Tory had told her it was a spaceship.
“This dog was—it was collapsed in front of the gate. Wet, shivering. Skinny. I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't just leave it there.”
“What kind of dog?”
“I don't know. Big. Brown and white, long hair. He's kind of sweet.” She rolled her eyes, embarrassed at what she had said. She didn't know, really, if the dog was sweet. He might turn into some sort of monster when he wasn't so tired.
There was another pause, but Tory could think of no way to fill it. She waited. It was as if she could hear the process of Iris thinking, all the way from her pretty house across town.
“Well,” Iris said finally. “Actually, the rental agreement says no pets. But you—” She expelled a sharp breath, as if through her teeth, and it was somehow a sound of decision. “Paulette, you've done so much work on the place. It's never looked better. I would imagine when you leave, I'll never know there was a dog there.”
“You know, Iris, I hadn't really decided to keep him,” Tory confessed. “He just—he's lying there in front of the fire, and he looks—”
Iris laughed. “Like he belongs?”
Tory pressed a hand to her chest. The sudden, premonitory pain pierced her through. It took her breath away. She whispered, “Yes. He looks like he belongs,” and the pain subsided.
“Well, then,” Iris said brusquely. “More of a cat person myself. But you'd better keep him. Company for you.”
Company. Yes. And something else, something Tory knew very well but couldn't guess at yet. Her heart thudded at the thought, that familiar sense that something was coming. She said through a dry throat, “Thanks. Thanks very much, Iris. Do you know if there's a vet in town?”
15
Oggi il mio nome è Dolore.
 
Today my name is Sorrow.
 
—Butterfly,
Madama Butterfly,
Act Two
D
oria stood, hands on hips, and looked around at the spotless kitchen. Old Zita had gone to her bed an hour before, but Doria had stayed on, scrubbing, polishing, tidying. The brass-and-steel
espresso
maker was filled and ready for the morning, and the table laid for breakfast. She was tired now, and she would have to be up early to begin it all again, but there was still the basket of ironing waiting for her. She put a stick of wood in the stove, and fetched the two irons from the pantry to begin to warm while she set up the ironing board.
Beyond the screened window the night looked thick and dark. Autumn often brought clouds and rain to Torre, gloomy days, murky nights, sometimes thunderstorms and great flashes of lightning that lit the clouds from within as if God had set them afire.
Doria set the basket of ironing on the table and went to fill the sprinkler at the sink. She yawned, wishing she could go to sleep. At least, if she had to iron, she could listen to the desultory sounds of the piano from the studio. Puccini was working on
Fanciulla
again.
She sprinkled water over a linen tablecloth, smoothed it over the ironing board, and picked up the first iron. Just as she was testing its heat with her finger, she heard his whisper.
“Doria!”
She turned from the ironing board, and found Puccini standing beside the sink. His cigarette hung from his lower lip, and he gestured with the glass of port in his hand, making the dark wine slosh over the rim. “You're still up,” he said, grinning. “Good! I hate being alone when Mademoiselle Minnie is behaving badly!”
“Signore.” She crossed to the towel rack, took the oldest one there, and bent to wipe up the spilled wine. “Your Mademoiselle Minnie will not behave if you drink so much.”
“No, no, Doria
mia!
It's the other way around! I drink because she will not behave!”
Doria tutted as she folded the towel and replaced it. “You should go to bed. It's late.”
“No, no,” he said. “These are the best hours. These are the hours the music comes to me!” The slur in his voice told her he had drunk more this evening than usual. He took a step, stumbling as his weight shifted to his bad leg. She put out her hand to steady him, and he chuckled. “
Grazie
. You're very nice to an old man.” Then, with a louder laugh, “An old drunken man!”
“You're not old, signore.” She stood back, and shook her finger at him. “You are, however, quite drunk.”
At this he guffawed, then clapped his hand over his mouth like a guilty boy. “Shhh,” he whispered loudly. “You'll wake my policeman.”
Doria pursed her lips to quell her smile, and said as sternly as she could, “You shouldn't speak so of your wife.”
“No?” He leaned back against the sink, puffing on his cigarette, filling the kitchen with its toasty scent. “No, perhaps I shouldn't.” Another laugh. “But I will! She dogs my every step, just like one of the
carabinieri
in their striped pants and silly hats!” He took another drink of port, and said in an undertone, “Have you
seen
her hats?
Mamma mia,
what contrivances! They lurk at the top of the wardrobe, hulking there in the shadows like—like monsters waiting to leap at me! I swear to almighty God they give me nightmares!”
Doria giggled before she could stop herself. Elvira's hats were the talk of the village. They seemed to grow larger and more elaborate every year, with great swaths of netting and massive collections of silk flowers. It was, Doria thought, a thing rich women did as they aged, compensating for lost youth with fancier dresses and bigger hats, the most expensive gloves and the softest shoes.
“Women,” Puccini said with bitter humor, “have ruined my life.”
“No, no, signore, surely not!”
“
Sì, sì, sì,
signorina, absolutely true!” He took his cigarette from his mouth to drain his glass, then stuck it back between his teeth, sucking on it so the tip glowed fiercely. “Women—my sisters, my wife, my mistresses—they steal my soul! They want to tell me what to do, where to go, whom to see—whom
not
to see. Their endless chattering drowns out the music in my head!”
Doria thought he had a good point. He needed to concentrate, of course, and they distracted him. His sister Ramelde came to Torre to harangue him for his offenses. His sister Iginia, the nun, wrote him scolding letters. His lover Corinna had even threatened a lawsuit! Of course, some of the fault must be laid at his own doorstep. He could have settled on one woman, and avoided the scandals and the arguments and the—
Puccini dropped his cigarette in the sink, and it hissed for a second or two before it went out. She saw the gleam of his teeth beneath his black mustache as he smiled. “Doria! Come into the studio with me,” he said. “Listen to what I'm working on. You have a good ear! Maybe you can tell me what's wrong.”
Doria's breath caught, and she gasped, “No, no, maestro! I know nothing about music!”
He put out his hand to catch her wrist, and tugged her roughly toward the door. He meant to be playful, she knew, but his grip hurt, and she couldn't pull away from him. “Just
un momento,
Doria
mia,
” he said, with laughter in his voice. “Just let me play you a little of Mademoiselle Minnie—talk to you about it—”
She trotted after him because she had little choice, but she protested at every step. “Maestro, your friends will be here tomorrow, Pascoli and Caselli. Play it for them! Ask them your questions!”
He paid no attention. “I hear you singing around the kitchen, and when you're cleaning upstairs,” he said cheerfully. “You
understand
my music, Doria, I can tell you do! It touches you. It moves you!” As they passed through the dining room, he snatched up the port bottle from the sideboard. “Elvira doesn't understand anything about my work—except, naturally, for how much money it brings in.” He released her when they reached the studio. He banged the bottle down on his desk, where he could reach it from the piano. He snagged an extra chair, then flung himself onto the piano stool. “Sit, my little friend, sit! You will help me with this beast of an opera!”
Reluctantly, Doria settled herself on the chair. It was ridiculous, of course. She knew nothing of how an opera should be composed, nor how to criticize its faults. Anything she knew she had learned in the long nights of the maestro's illness, when he talked on and on about arias and recitatives, staging and orchestration. All she knew about
Fanciulla
was that Puccini had been agonizing over it, that it was due in New York far too soon, and that he was terrified of a huge failure after the grand success of
Butterfly
.
She watched him turn the pages of the handwritten score, splotched here and there with cross outs and insertions and scribbled notes, and her heart throbbed with a mixture of pity and admiration. He was, despite his fifty years of life, like one of her brothers, all bravado and bluster one day, all doubts and despair the next. She wondered Elvira could not see that all her badgering only made things worse for him, only drove him farther away from her. The two of them were like petulant children, tormenting each other in some twisted game no one but they could understand, subjecting everyone around them to their tantrums and tumult.
Puccini played a few bars of a melody, and turned to her, his eyes pleading. “There!” he said. “You see? It's not working.”
“No, signore,” she protested. “It's beautiful. I don't know what to say, because I—truly, I don't even know the story of this opera. Of your Mademoiselle Minnie.”
He spun on his stool to face her. He had picked up his thick pencil, and he held it ready in his hand, as if she were going to tell him just what to do and he would write it out. He said, “It's a terrible story, and Minnie is the ugliest name any of my heroines has ever had.”
She gave a wry little shrug. “But she's American. Perhaps in America, it's considered a beautiful name.”
He fumbled in his pocket for a fresh cigarette. “Not even an American could love that name! But I'm stuck with it, as I'm stuck with this play. I wish I had chosen the other play, but I've gone too far to stop now. It's due in New York! There's no time to start again.”
Even the name of New York made Doria lightheaded with wonder and envy. She had never been to Milan, to the great La Scala. She could not even dream of going to the Metropolitan Opera in New York City, America. She sighed a little, and spoke gently, as she would have spoken to the very youngest and most spoiled of all her brothers. “Tell me the story, maestro. Something must have appealed to you, when you chose it.”
“Oh, yes.” He held the cigarette in his teeth while he struck the match. He drew a lungful of smoke, and blew it out in a big ring. “For one thing, the villain smokes cigars!” He laughed. “And they all shoot guns! Two of my favorite things.”
“Who is the villain? And why do they shoot guns?”
He squinted at her through the viscous yellow cloud of smoke. “The villain is a
sceriffo,
in the far west of America—California. They all carry guns there, I think.”
“What is a
sceriffo?
And who is this Minnie?”
“A
sceriffo
is a sort of policeman. And Minnie is a young woman who keeps an inn,” he said. He took the cigarette from his mouth and examined the glowing tip of it thoughtfully. “She keeps the inn, and all the men who come to drink there love her. She teaches them the Bible—”
“The Bible!”
“Yes, she's very virtuous.” He winked at her. “But she carries a gun, too, right here!” He pointed one finger down the front of his shirt. “The
sceriffo
is furious because she won't marry him, and then a bandit comes to town, and she falls in love with him.”
Doria smiled, imagining a girl with a gun and a Bible falling in love with a bandit. “And so,” she said, “the
sceriffo
tries to arrest the bandit, and she pleads for the life of her lover.”
“Esatto!”
Puccini laughed again.
“Maestro, it seems a very good story for an opera.”
He gave a negligent shrug. “I suppose. In this scene, Minnie plays a card game to try to save her lover.” His laughter died, and he turned back to the piano. “It's not working.” He played a few notes. “I want the singers—the
sceriffo,
and the virtuous Minnie—to sing recitative, back and forth, back and forth, as they play their cards—but there has to be tension, or it's just—it's just silly. Already there is so much in this opera that's silly. All the time they're playing the game, the bandit is hiding upstairs, wounded by the
sceriffo
's gun.”
“So many guns,” Doria marveled.
“Oh, yes, many guns. I think Americans go around shooting each other all the time.” He played the notes again, shaking his head, puffing gouts of smoke into the dimness of the room. “This could be a good scene, though, the bandit bleeding in the attic while the sheriff and Minnie play cards. . . .”
“Poor Minnie! She must be so worried!” Doria put both hands over her heart.
Puccini glanced over his shoulder at her. “I suppose she is.” He eyed her. “Is that what you do when you're worried, Doria? Put your hands there, so?”
Embarrassed, Doria dropped her hands. “I don't know, signore. I suppose if I'm worried—if I'm afraid—my heart beats hard, and perhaps I put my hands there—” She did it again, one hand pressed to her chest, the other covering it.
“Yes,” he said. “Your heart beats hard, because you're afraid—you're afraid he will die, and you're afraid you will lose—” He began a slow, repetitive bass with his left hand, and with his right he seemed to conduct, as if he could hear the orchestra in his mind. He chuckled, and said, “She cheats, you know,” but he kept on playing. “She cheats the
sceriffo
at cards, and all the while her lover is bleeding . . . and the blood runs down through the boards and drips onto the hands of the cardplayers. . . .”
Doria held her breath, afraid of distracting him. The corners of the room lay in deep shadow. The last embers of the fire glowed from the hearth, but there was no other light except for the candles in their sconces. The candle flames flickered, their shifting light shadowing the deepening creases in Puccini's face, making him look even older than he was. He needed rest, she thought. He looked exhausted.
Suddenly, Puccini exclaimed, “Ah ha!” She jumped, but he laughed. “Very good, Doria
mia,
very good indeed! You see, I
knew
you understood!”

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