Butterfly's Child (27 page)

“A madonna,” he said, buttering a biscuit for her and coating it with crab-apple jelly.

Kate shook her head. She was no mother any longer; they would be better off without her. She glanced at Franklin; his eyes avoided hers. Mrs. Pinkerton had told her that the Swede had taught him to shoot and that not long ago he had brought home his first pheasant. If she was still his mother, she would not allow it; at seven he was too young, it could be dangerous.

The ride to Stockton was brutally hot; the drought had persevered into autumn and the pastures were withered. By the time they arrived at the church, Kate's dress was filmed with dust.

The sanctuary was already full, people talking and fanning themselves. The crowd went silent when the family was ushered inside and started up the aisle. Kate stared straight ahead.

This was a drama, a play, and she was an actress—noble mother, devout wife, libeled by some but a true Christian who had done all she could for Butterfly's child as well as for her own children.

In the front pew, turning to smile, were the godparents, Lena and Horatio Keast, and she made her way toward them gracefully, with poise alighting beside Lena, and after the Epistle and the Gospel readings and “Amazing Grace,” which she sang in alto counterpoint, they were all going forward to the baptismal font, Frank carrying Elmer as was appropriate and she, Rose. Rose was damp and smelled like ammonia.

The font was by the side door, which was open for ventilation. Prisms of light fell through the stained glass above the altar and threw blades of red and yellow across the font and the babies and her arm.

Now the baptismal prayers, the charges to parents and godparents,
the water, the obligatory crying of babies, the appropriate amused murmuring from the audience.

It was over. She was not quite fainting. Just a sip of air, she whispered to Lena, and handed her the baby. Quickly she stepped out the door, glided down the steps, and began to run.

Keast sank into his
chair at the dinner table and inhaled the lusty odor of the lamb stew Lena placed before him. When she returned to the kitchen, he listened to her moving about, his darling wife, visualizing her breasts shift beneath her blouse as she reached to the cupboard. He looked around the dining room, which was modest but attractively furnished, the curtains she had made stirring in the light breeze. The cottage suited them exactly for now; once the family grew, he aimed to build a larger house just outside town. It was almost dark, a fine spring evening, the sound of birds pipping as they prepared to roost. After dinner, he and Lena would have a bath, then bed. He tucked in his napkin, spread it over his belly, and took a deep breath. His good fortune was God's own miracle.

She returned with rolls and his glass of beer. A little smile for him but no kiss on the forehead. He caught her hand, touched his lips to the silk of her inner wrist, but she gently pulled away and took her seat. It was hard to read her face exactly in the dimming light, but there seemed a small crease in her forehead, the beginning of a frown.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?”

“Nothing really.” She passed the butter. “Just something a little odd.”

He waited.

“I'll tell you after supper,” she said.

“The baby?” He felt a shiver of anxiety. She had been with child for six weeks according to his calculations.

“The baby's fine.” She glanced at his stew. “Don't let it cool. I know you must be ravenous. Where did you go today?”

She was as stubborn a woman as he'd known, when she chose to be, so he began to eat, chunks of tender, moist lamb limned with fat, rutabaga, carrot, and to talk about his rounds—leaving out as many dull details as possible—the melanosis that was overtaking the Cases' horse Rebecca, the phrenitis he suspected in a coach horse. It had probably been struck about the head; no need to tell her that. “Then there was …”

She glanced several times at the sideboard. He looked; nothing out of the ordinary that he could see, a vase of flowers, her sewing basket.

“What in thunder is it?”

She shook her head. “A bizarre coincidence. Are you ready for coffee?”

“I'm ready for the coincidence,” he said.

“All right.” She rolled her napkin and slid it into its ring. “Today at the women's circle meeting, Aimee Moore—”

He snorted. “Don't let that woman rile you,” he said.

She stood and went to the sideboard, brought back a pamphlet, and laid it before him.

He held it up to the light of the gas chandelier. A program of some kind, apparently. He squinted to make out the letters.

“It's an opera,” she said. “
Madama Butterfly
is the title. Aimee and her husband recently attended a performance in Chicago.”

He looked up at her. Her face was stern, a little schoolmarmish.

“Are you hankering to go?” he said.

“No. Look inside. Here.” She opened the program to the first page, smoothed it out. “The name of this character—an American Navy lieutenant, Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton.”

“Hmm.” He scratched his head, dirty and itching. All afternoon he'd had thoughts of her washing it, she leaning over him in the tub.

“The opera takes place in Japan,” she said. “Lieutenant Pinkerton and a geisha have a child—a
blond
child—but he marries an American woman named”—she tapped her finger against the page—“Kate.
Kate
. The geisha kills herself and the Pinkerton family takes the boy away.”

“Well.” He held the program up to the gas chandelier, looked at the names. “That's something.”

“Odd, isn't it?”

“Yes. Very odd. But in nature there are many—”

“This isn't nature. It's an opera.”

“In Chicago.”

“Yes, and all over the world, apparently. It's by Puccini, one of the finest living composers.”

He flipped through the program—a biography of the great man, notes about the singers, an advertisement for the Palmer House, then back to the beginning.
Act I: Nagasaki
. Benji was from Nagasaki. The back of his neck prickled. “Just a bizarre coincidence, as you said.”

“But a coincidence that will cause talk. Thank goodness Kate isn't here to know about this. Horatio, I want you to go warn Frank.”

“I doubt Frank will hear about it.” Poor bastard had the devil's share of luck. “This will blow over,” he said.

“It's the children I worry about,” Lena said. “They'll hear about it. You can count on children to talk and be mean.”

He sighed, closed the program, and aligned it with the edge of the table. On the front cover was a Japanese woman with chopsticks in her hair. He thought of Benji's photograph. “Mrs. Pinkerton will need to know,” he said.

“Yes. You'd better take some smelling salts.” She covered her face with her hands. “Maybe I should go too. Oh, it would be the end of Kate.”

He rose from the table and put his arms around her. She had a soft cottony smell. He wondered if she had remembered the bathwater. “Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll figure it out. I'll go to the farm tomorrow.”

Frank sat in his
office in the noon light, his head bent over the ledger. He couldn't remember why, last month, he'd written down
Hogs, $1.50 per lb. on the hoof
, when he didn't have any cash hogs or plans for acquiring any.

He looked out the window at the black fields, where in a few months there would be waves of corn. Bud Case had already prepared his ground; Frank would have at it this week.

He turned back to the line of figures. He desperately needed a good year, to keep Kate in the private asylum. He'd visited the public hospital, filled with epileptics, screamers, and biters; it stank of urine and worse. If he let the hired girl go … but then his mother would leave. It would be a good year; he was sure of it. He took a long drink of whiskey from the flask, set it carefully beside the miniature ship in the bottle that he sometimes told people he'd made himself, although he'd bought it from an innkeeper in Liverpool. The bottle was covered with dust. Since Sylvie had taken over, things had gone to hell. Kate was the only one who'd taken any care with his things. He thought of her pretty hands, her wrists that looked fragile as porcelain, the dullness in her eyes now. He sipped the whiskey, held it in his mouth before he let it run down his gullet. She would chide him for drinking, but what did she expect, leaving him to raise the children on his own. His mother had been right: She was too delicate for farm life.

Someone was coming up the steps. Probably the Swede, wanting his lunch. Frank had forgotten to tell him his mother was having her Sunday meal at the Cases'.

“Frank?” Keast poked his head inside the door. His hair was freshly trimmed and he reeked of pomade. “Mind if I come in? I've brought some salve for Admiral's hocks.”

“On a Sunday?” Keast was dressed in his church suit and cravat. A bowler hat was under his arm.

“Just thought I'd drop by while I was thinking about it.” He put the jar of salve on the small table by the door and stood looking out the front window at the pasture. “Fine view,” he said, jingling the change in his pocket. “Your grandpa picked out a good home site.” He turned toward Frank. “Reckoning, eh?” he said, nodding toward the desk.

“Afraid so.” Keast wanted something. Frank couldn't remember when he'd last paid him.

Keast drew up a chair to the desk and sat down heavily, his buttons straining. “How is everyone? Kate?”

Frank shook his head, and they exchanged a long glance. There was nothing but sympathy in Keast's face; he'd forgiven him for that time at the boardinghouse.

Keast looked down at the floor, picked up a scrap of paper, and put it on the desk. “Frank, there's something strange I need to apprise you of. Perhaps it's of minor consequence in the larger view, but Lena and I thought …” He cleared his throat. “Because of the children.”

Frank stared at him. Someone must have seen him at the whorehouse in Elizabeth.

“There seems to be an opera—” Keast said.

“A what?”

“Opera. Those highbrow plays with music.” Keast gave a dismissive wave. “The women seem to like them.”

Keast usually got to the point. “What's this about the children?” Frank said.

Keast took a noisy breath. “It seems that Aimee Moore attended an opera in Chicago not long ago … and—this is the damnedest thing—Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton and Kate Pinkerton are two of the major figures. Lena is going to appeal to the women's better instincts, but …” He took something out of his pocket and laid it on the desk. “We thought you'd better know.”

It was a program, with a picture of a Japanese woman on the front.
Madama Butterfly
. The words blazed up at him.

“And you'll see …” Keast opened the program. “Here are the names of
people in the drama: American Navy Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton …” He ran his hand down the list. “Kate Pinkerton. And there's a child at the end, a blond Japanese.”

Frank blinked. “Is this something they got up at school?”

Keast shook his head. “It's in Chicago on the stage and all over—New York, Lena said, Italy. Italy is where it started, apparently.”

“I've never been to Italy.”

“It's hard to figure,” Keast said.

Frank stared at the list of characters: Sharpless. Suzuki. Butterfly. His mind wouldn't move forward.

“If the opera took place in Italy, it would be one thing,” Keast said, “but with the setting in Japan … since people know your ties there …” Keast shook his head. “Maybe Lena can forestall gossip for now, but the children, when they hear of it—and it seems inevitable—the children will be confused and upset. Teased.”

Frank tried to turn the page, licked his finger, tried again.
Act I: A hill outside Nagasaki. Cho-Cho-san is waiting for her American lover, Lt. Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton …

“This isn't real,” Frank said.

“No,” Keast said. “Just an opera.”

Frank rubbed his face hard. He was the one who ought to be in the loony place. Keast must be making this up. “It's a coincidence,” he said, “a hoax.”