Butterfly (41 page)

n’t going to bother himself with the company anymore. And he knew he could trust

Beverly to see that Royal Burgers continued to turn a profit. She was a hard worker; it was

all she did, work. It left him free to play.

The problem was, as long as Royal Burgers was the only place in town that served

good, tasty food at cheap prices in clean, reliable surroundings, well, fine. But now the

other fast-food chains were moving in and Royal Burgers was starting to lose. Badly.

Beverly had tried last year to talk Eddie into going public. “Put the company on the

New York Stock Exchange. Franchise it out. We can be just as big as McDonald’s.

But for Eddie that only spelled work. And he wasn’t interested. “Naw,” he said. “Royal

Burgers is a family affair. We don’t want no strangers involved. We keep close tabs this

way. We’re doing fine. Folks have been chowing down your spicy burgers and fries too

long for them to stop now. They’re, like, addicted, right?”

Wrong.

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177

Big burgers and more variety were what the public wanted now. And Royal Burgers, in

order to survive, was going to have to change with the times.

“It doesn’t look good, Beverly,” Carmen said as she opened the fridge and took out a

Fresca. The shelves were packed with the green-and-blue cans, and in the storeroom there

were cases of the diet soft drink stacked to the ceiling. When the news broke that cycla-

mates were going to be banned, Beverly had ordered as much of a supply of Fresca and

Diet-Rite as they could store. Sugar substitutes, rumor said, were going to be bitter and

unpalatable from now on.

“Where’s Eddie?” Carmen said as she took a seat on the sofa Ann had just vacated.

“Where else? At Santa Monica airfield.”

That was their latest toy: a Cessna 172. He and Laverne were taking flying lessons.

“Are we going to come out with the Crown Burger?”

“We’ll have to. And we’ll underprice the Big Mac by four cents.”

“What about chicken?”

“If we do decide to introduce chicken, it will have to be in a different form.

Barbecued, maybe.”

Beverly’s face took on a look of deep involvement, an expression Carmen knew well.

In fact, unlike Ann Hastings, Carmen knew everything there was to know about

Beverly Highland. She knew what the clipping service was all about.

Carmen had come a long way since her days as a Dallas hooker. She had a college

degree now, was working on her CPA, lived in a nice apartment in Westwood, had a

bright and healthy little girl, earned a good salary as Royal Burgers’ accountant, and had

good friends in Beverly, Ann, and Roy Madison. But she, too, like Beverly, could never let

the old hatreds and angers die. The wounds were too deep, the memories too painful. She

knew that Beverly lived for revenge against Danny, that every move she made—even run-

ning Royal Burgers—was calculated into her long-range plan to make herself rich and

powerful, and someday to make him pay for what he had done to her. Carmen sympa-

thized. She, too, had a dream of someday seeing Manuel get what he deserved.

And, like her best friend, Carmen was done with men forever.

Back in Dallas, on that fateful November day, a lot of people had impulsively turned

over new leaves. Kennedy’s death had suddenly upset the equilibrium of the world. People

had felt cut off, abandoned. They sought ways to atone for the sins they were apparently

being punished for. Crime dropped in the days following the assassination; church atten-

dance skyrocketed; old grudges were forgiven, debts erased, apologies spoken, rifts

mended. Vows and promises were made, to God and to one another. People suddenly

examined themselves and weren’t pleased with what they saw. Many, like Carmen, experi-

enced an almost religious revelation. They were going to change.

But then, as the shock wore off and the world returned to normal, the oaths and

pledges faded from memory and most people reverted to their old ways. But not Carmen

Sanchez. The unexpected and untimely death of a man she had loved and respected had

made too deep of a mark upon her. She had kept her promise to God. She was going to

be pure from now on.

178

Kathryn Harvey

There were times, however, when she felt charitable toward the world—such as when

she had received praise from her teachers at Valley College, or the day she had graduated

from the UCLA Business School, or the day Rosa had entered kindergarten—and

Carmen had softened her judgment against society. And on such infrequent occasions she

would look at the intense Beverly and feel sorry for her.

Carmen knew what dragons haunted Beverly Highland. She knew how desperately

Beverly loved babies—look at how she smothered Rosa with affection—but could never

have children of her own because of what Danny had done to her. And Carmen knew

that Beverly had once calculated when her baby would have been born and mourned that

never-to-be-birthday privately every year.

Carmen studied the head bent over news clippings of Danny Mackay, the platinum-

blond hair shiny beneath the overhead lights, and she wondered what that day was going

to be like, when Beverly finally met up once again with Danny.

“You okay for a while?” Carmen asked when her Fresca was finished. “I have to get

over to the school and pick up Rosa.”

Beverly looked up and smiled. “I’m fine, Carmen. And bring her back here. I have a

present for her.”

“Again? You’re going to spoil her before I get a chance to!” Carmen marched out with

the armload of books she was studying for the upcoming CPA exam.

When she was alone in the office, Beverly returned to the news clipping she had been

studying. It was a report of an incident that had taken place out in Victorville, in the

Mojave Desert.

The small headline read: LOCAL WOMAN BLAMES DANNY MACKAY FOR DEATH OF HUS-

BAND.

Beverly memorized the name: Mrs. Maggie Kern. Then she opened a drawer and

withdrew a map of the State of California.

Ann realized she was scared to death. Which was ridiculous, of course, because, after

all, sex was as natural as eating or sleeping. And everyone did it.

She tried very hard to be cool about the whole thing. She sat in Steve’s surprisingly

messy (and disappointing) apartment, politely listened to Pink Floyd turned up too loud,

drank the jug wine, sat cross-legged on the floor even though he had furniture, and nod-

ded through Steve’s long-winded discourse on Baba Ram Das and the psychedelic move-

ment. Steve used words like “far-out,” “groovy,” and “blow your mind.” He had Peter

Max posters on his walls, candles in the shape of genitals, and a variety of roach clips

strewn on the coffee table.

When she was well into her fourth glass of wine and trying not to be deafened by the

Grateful Dead, Ann started to realize something. That Steve, with his graying beard and

school ring and Bulova watch, was a fake. Still, he was a man. And he
had
promised her

some “good sex” after they smoked a couple of joints. And anyway, he was now pawing her,

which meant it was time to go into the other room and do something about her diaphragm.

When she had first come into the apartment, she had put her purse and coat in the

bedroom. She went in there now and closed the door.

BUTTERFLY

179

“The closer to the time of intercourse that you insert the diaphragm,” the nurse at

Family Planning had instructed, “the better. Of course, you can put it in hours ahead of

time, but the spermicide will lose its effectiveness.”

Ann was being extra cautious. The last thing she wanted was to get pregnant.

She quickly removed her panties and stuffed them into her purse. She was hurrying.

Out in the living room the music had changed to something mellow, which meant Steve

was ready and waiting for her. Ann wanted so badly to appear cool and experienced. She

would die if he guessed this was her first time.

The diaphragm was like a miniature Frisbee, but soft and rubbery in the center with a

rigid rim. Taking out the tube of jelly, she smeared it generously around the rim and

added extra in the center. Then she discreetly returned the tube to her purse. She would-

n’t want him to come in here and find it. Birth control was uncool. It was square. It took

the spontaneity out of sex, which was supposed to be done with a free, unhampered spirit.

“You fold it like this,” the nurse had shown her. “Hold the diaphragm between two

fingers, and squeeze the rim together like this. This is for insertion. Once it is inside your

vagina, it will spring open and fit snugly over your cervix.”

It had looked so easy in the doctor’s office. But now Ann’s hands were shaking and she

had used too much jelly and the damn thing wasn’t cooperating.

Finally she got it squeezed together like a taco, and just as she was bending over to

insert it the diaphragm shot from her fingers, flew across the room, landed smack against

the wall and slid down behind the dresser.

She gazed at the wall in horror.

“Ann?” came Steve’s voice from the other side of the door. “You okay?”

“C-coming!”

Hastily smoothing her skirt down, she went to the door and opened it.

He was stark naked and had an erection.

“Um…” she said.

Steve took her hand and led her back into the living room, where Donovan was

singing something nice. Ann’s heart was pounding. She had never actually seen a penis

before. Not in real life. Of course, these days they even showed up on posters. But the last

time she had experienced any intimacy with one was during high school gropings four-

teen years ago.

Steve drew her down onto the enormous madras cushions and began kissing her.

Ann tried to throw herself into the part. She made all the moves and went through all

the motions of making love and tried to get herself sexually aroused (because he certainly

wasn’t doing it), but all she could think of was that diaphragm behind his dresser and how

unprotected she was. Maybe she should stop him, she thought, as his hand went right to

the heart of the matter.

But she had come so far, and she was curious, and so desperate not to be a freak any-

more, in this age of no more virgins….

“Wait—” she said breathlessly as he was suddenly poking into her. It was too soon.

She wasn’t ready. Her blouse was still buttoned. He hadn’t made a single foray under her

bra, which was what she needed.

180

Kathryn Harvey

Steve was on top of her, his eyes closed, trying to get inside her with an urgency that

alarmed her.

She reached down to divert him. He mistook her intention, murmured, “Oh baby!”

and came in her hand.

Maggie Kern’s house stood in a new development where young families were still put-

ting in lawns and where fences had not yet made strangers of neighbors. The news clip-

ping had given out the woman’s address, and Beverly found it with no difficulty.

She rang the bell and heard a baby cry.

When the door opened, Beverly found herself looking into a very pretty face framed

with frizzy red-gold hair. But the green eyes were sad, very sad, and puffy from crying.

Maggie Kern held an infant in her arms. “Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Kern?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Beverly Highland. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few

minutes.”

“I’m sorry. Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything, Mrs. Kern,” Beverly said gently. “I read your story in the

paper.”

Something flared behind the green eyes. Maggie said, “I’m not talking to any more

reporters!” and started to close the door.

“Please,” Beverly said. “I’m not a reporter. You see, I once knew Danny Mackay. Years

ago. I understand what you are going through.”

The living room was very neat and clean and furnished with furniture that still

smelled of the warehouse. Maggie and her husband, Joe, Beverly was soon to learn, had

moved here from San Diego only four months ago. It was their dream house. Joe had even

started building a playhouse in the yard for the two children.

Maggie made a pot of coffee and brought out a fresh pecan pie. The baby was wedged

safely on the sofa between two cushions, and Beverly couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

Maggie, Beverly found, had no difficulty in talking about the incident. In fact, she

seemed to want to talk about it.

“Joe had this heart condition, you see. That was why we left San Diego. His doctor

told him he was under too much stress. That we should move to an area where the pace

was slower. Joe was older than me. He was forty-two and I’m twenty-six.” She picked up

the baby and held it to her breast. “Joe was a decorated war hero,” she said quietly. “In

Korea.”

She went on to tell the story that Beverly already knew from the clipping. How Joe

had gone to specialist after specialist looking for a cure for his problem, only to be frus-

trated at every turn. And then, two months ago, Danny Mackay had come to Victorville.

The famous Danny Mackay who was at this moment over in Vietnam delivering sermons