The Butterfly Plague (7 page)

She put it in her pocket.
Memento mori
.

The dog gave all the footprints a hefty once-over, lifted its leg on the ashes, and nosed off. He seemed to want to go back, not forward. So Ruth followed.

At 7:30 that night she heard one of B. J.‘s children yelling and she went out onto the balcony, where she was witness to the discovery of a nude female corpse that had been washed up on shore. It was the body of the girl with the red hair, the one Ruth had seen that morning. “Oh,” she said. “God…”

Ruth went inside and locked herself in her room. She took off her clothes and stood with her back hard up against the wall.

“Not like that…” she whispered. “I don’t want to die like that…”

Her gaze shifted—watching the window as she listened to the commotion on the beach. Not really knowing she was doing it, she began to “swim.” Her arms made motions—forcing her shoulders against the wall—one arm and then the other reaching up and out and in and up and out and in—the rhythm gaining in momentum—locking—as she whispered, over and over, “
eins, zwei, drei. Eins, zwei, drei
…”

In the pocket of her beach pajamas, flung upon the bed, was a small garish piece of bathing suit: scorched. Ruth knew it had belonged to the red-headed girl, now dead on the beach. Its smell was everywhere. Her nostrils and the room were filled with it.

The Chronicle of
the Mysterious Lady

Friday, September 2nd, 1938:

Bel Air

10:00 a.m.

The Little Virgin was in bed.

The bed was hung on all sides with curtains. Inside, a light shone down on the occupant, casting a warm and peachy glow over face and figure, sheets and pillowcases. The effect from outside the bed was one of many-coloured shadows; no features were visible: only the delicate profile.

A maid came and went with various Implements of Beauty, while another busied herself with flowers, setting them into bowls and Oriental vases.

The Implements of Beauty, lying on little trays, were passed through the curtains, used or disregarded, and then passed back to the waiting lackey. The atmosphere was surgical and silent, while a certain aura of imminent rebuke permeated the air.

Back and forth: back and forth: silvered trays, lacquered trays, inlaid trays, and trays with ormolu handles; small white towels fluttered in the breeze as back and forth through the netted portals loads of Kleenex were passed, loads of facial cream, bottles and syringes, loads of cotton; combs, curlers, brushes, and hair ribbons; hair tonics, hair nets, rats, falls, pins, buns; loads of jellies, jars, and Jergens; trays of pencils, rouge, lipstick, kohl, and mascara; toilet water, ice water, hot water, drinking water; mirrors, mirrors, mirrors; files, scissors, and emery boards; patience and paper bags.

“That will be all,” said the voice. “Bring me my lace shawl, Maureen.”

“Yes, madam.”

It was done.

“The visiting gentlemen,” said the voice, preoccupied in tone, “will start arriving at eleven.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Coffee, biscuits…and sherry. Nothing more.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you remember what I told you about the napkins?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“For God’s sake, nothing paper.”

“No, ma’am. Never.”

“Tell Fiona her flowers look sweet and she’s not to forget to set out the potpourri.”

“Yes’m.”

“Now, I want that copy of
Vogue
someone brought in yesterday. And
Vanity Fair
. And the papers the minute they arrive.”

“Yes’m.”

“Did you listen to Louella?”

“Yes’m.”

“Well?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Not a word.”

“Very well, then.”

Maureen wavered doorward, her stack of trays loaded onto a sort of tea wagon specially designed for madam’s boudoir. There was much to do before eleven.

The eyes behind the bed’s veiling shifted back to immediate matters.

“Maureen?”

“Yes’m?”

“Pour a bottle of cologne into that blue bowl.”

“Yes’m.”

“
Bois des Isles
.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Maureen…”

“Yes, madam?”

“If you spill any on yourself…”

“Yes, madam…”

“Change your costume at once.”

“Yes’m.”

“Maureen?”

“Yes’m.”

“You look lovely, my dear.”

“Thank you, madam.”

“Don’t forget to polish your shoes.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Now. Get me the
Vogue
and the
Vanity Fair
.”

“Yes’m.”

At last Maureen managed her escape and trundled off with her wagon down the hall.

Inside the bed there was a Virginal silence, and then a long, long sigh.

11:00 a.m.

“Mr. Maynard, madam.”

“Roscoe!”

“My dear.”

“Come and sit over here…”

“Thank you.”

“You look so elegant. Tell me your news.”

“I have spoken to Warner Niles.”

“And?”

“Intrigued, but at the moment, no response.”

“I see.”

“He was…”

“No explanation, Roscoe. Only news. Tell me who else.”

“Alistair Boyar.”

“And?”

“Intrigued…but no response…at the moment.”

“I see.”

“He was…”

“I tell you, Roscoe, no explanations. On.”

“Peter Trotsky.”

“And?”

“Intrigued—but no response.”

“Who else?”

“Ivan Dorfmann.”

“And?”

“Intrigued.”

“But no response?”

“He was…No.”

“I see.”

“Harold Houghton.”

“Yes?”

“Intrigued—but no response.”

Pause.

“Madam?”

“Yes, Maureen?”

“I’ve brought the coffee…”

“Take it away, Maureen.”

“But ma’am. You said…”

“Take it away. Mr. Maynard will not be staying.”

“Yes’m.”

“Well, Roscoe. Anyone else?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“I’d love a cup of coffee.”

“I’m sorry, Roscoe, but I’m really rather tired.”

“Very well.”

“Good-bye. And thank you, Roscoe.”

“Any time, my dear. I’m always at your service. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

“No explanations, Roscoe. That is all.”

“Very well. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Walking.

“And Roscoe…?”

Turning in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Don’t come back. You’re fired.”

The sound of footsteps lagging down the hall.

11:20 a.m.

“Mr. Carter Cooper to see you, madam.”

“Cooper Carter.”

“Sorry madam. Mr. Cooper Carter.”

“That will be all, Maureen.”

“Yes’m.”

“Well, Cooper. Sit by the window. Show me your profile. Yes. I always love that profile.”

“I can’t even see you, sitting way over here like this and you behind all those curtains. Does Letitia Virden hide from everyone?”

“Never mind, you haven’t come here to look at me. You’ve come to tell me your news. What about Bully?”

“Before Bully—I want to know what happened with your emissary. Had he any success?”

Letitia rattled her bracelets impatiently. “Of course not,” she said. “Did we really expect it?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t worry you, Cooper?”

“Not in the least. We don’t need them. Remember, you have me and everything I am and everything I own at your disposal.”

Letitia beamed. “Cooper, your faith in me is wonderful.”

Cooper Carter coughed.

“And now, about Bully. It is true—was it suicide?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Cooper.

“Unfortunately nothing. It’s a miracle of timing. I was thrilled.”

“You always had a cruel streak, my love.”

“No. I was always practical, Cooper. And I still am.”

“So.”

“Go on, then. Come to the cause.”

“No one is certain. There are only rumours.”

“And what are they?”

“They’re all predictable in my estimation. Some say it was debts, others say it was drink, some even say it had to be an accident. His daughter thinks he was murdered.”

“Nonsense. He danced right under my train.”

“That’s what they say. And she says it was murder.”

“She’s an hysteric.”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Well, they’re looking at the will today. Didn’t want to do that till after the funeral—and that, as you know, was yesterday.”

“Yes. I was there.”

“A little dangerous, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. I never got out of my car.”

“So—I’m afraid I have nothing extraordinary to tell you. Except that everyone was very sorry and most people think poor old Bully just got too deep in debt and couldn’t face the fact he was too old for a comeback.”

A silent, unseen reaction. Tension.

“Has my name been mentioned at all?”

“Not a word,” said Cooper Carter.

“Very well.”

“I’ll check out the will situation this afternoon.”

“By the way, you should know that George is coming.”

“Oh? Can you handle him?”

“Of course.”

“In spite of what he knows? Shouldn’t I buy him off?”

“No, my dear. Thank you, but no. There’s no need to waste your money, no matter how much there is. I can take care of George.”

They smiled.

“But I’m grateful, Cooper. You’re very loyal.”

“You pay me well, my dear.”

“As if I paid you with money! Or needed to!”

Cooper laughed.

“Don’t be so cynical,” said Letitia. “Come and say good-bye.”

A hand and forearm emerged, so entwined in silk that hardly any flesh was evident. Cooper Carter walked across the room. He lifted the hand; he kissed its fingers; the voice begged one last look at his richly masculine profile; he gave it…

And left.

12:00 noon

“Mr. Damarosch.”

“George.”

“Hullo.”

“You may go, Maureen. This time, definitely coffee and sherry.”

“Yes’m.”

Pause.

“Well, George. We meet again.”

“Where the hell are you? I can’t even see you. What in the name of God are you pulling now, Letitia?”

“Now…George.”

“Don’t you ‘now George’ me. I want to see you. Get the hell out of that bed.”

“No.”

“I’ll drag you out, Letitia.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes I will.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Children.

“If you take one more step, George, I’ll shoot you.”

A gleam of metal made an announcement through the gauze. George retreated.

“Bitch.”

“No, George. No language.”

“Language be damned, it’s what you are.” He sat down.

In the bed beyond the curtains there was a sigh and the sigh sent a tingle through George Damarosch, sitting there paunchy and spruced over with the odors of male toiletry. He blinked. His eyes watered. He stared with a slightly thyroid pop, leaning forward, feet together, fingers balanced on his knees, his lips working out the patterns of possible words, but silent.

Suddenly, the voice from the bed said, “How’s Naomi?”

“Letitia, you know we’re divorced. For years. Years. Why must you say her name?”

“She’s part of you. I can’t avoid her name anymore than you can avoid your own.”

“I never loved her.”

“That’s a lie. A hopeless, stupid lie.”

“I never loved her…”

“You adored her. Worshipped her. Built her a temple. That’s why you hate her so.”

“Never.”

“Always.”

“You. You. It was always you, Letitia.”

“Nonsense. When you married Naomi Nola I didn’t even exist. Tell me how she is.”

“I don’t know. I never ask.”

“Shall I tell you, then?” said Letitia.

“I’m not interested. I don’t want to know,” said George.

“She’s dying.”

Maureen came in with the tray. She set it down. Poured the coffee and sherry, passed these, passed the biscuits, and left.

“Dying?”

“Of cancer.”

Silence.

“Who told you this? How do you know everything? You’ve been away for years. Now, you suddenly come back and you know everything. Everything. How?”

“That doesn’t matter, George. I know. That’s all”

“It does matter. It matters. Who have you seen?”

“No one.”

“
Who have you seen?
”

“Your temper hasn’t changed one bit, has it?”

“Who!!”

“I swear to you—no one. I merely heard that she was dying of cancer. I just—heard it. That’s all. Really, George. You’re so possessive.”

“God damn you! You come back to me after sixteen years just to tell me my wife is dying.”

“I haven’t come back to you, George.”

“You’ve come back…”

“Yes. But not to you.”

“I love you, Titty.”

“Don’t call me Titty. You love everyone.”

“Love everyone. That’s nonsense.”

“Shall I read the list?”

“List? List? What list?”

“This list…” Rattlings of paper are heard. “Corrine, Eudora, Belle, Marie, Norma…”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“And Peggy. You love everyone.”

“Lonely old man…”

“What?”

“I say, I’m just a lonely old man.”

“Where are your children?”

“What damn children?”

“Ruth and Adolphus. ‘What damn children,’ indeed. Don’t you ever see them? Talk to them? Write to them?”

“Hah! What about your children?”

The bed froze.

“I don’t have any children. You know that.”

“Fairy tales!”

“How may a Virgin have children, George?”

Silence.

“How, George? Answer me, how?”

“I know your secret, Letitia. I know the lie. Don’t forget, I was there the day it began. In the garden…”

“There? Where? What garden?”

“At Falconridge.”

The gun went off. The ceiling shook. George climbed over the back of his chair.

“Sit down, George.”

George sat down.

A little smoke made its way through the bed curtains and curled up through some peonies toward the ornately plastered ceiling. George watched it die.

“I understand that Ruth has come back from Germany,” said Letitia.

“I—I—I…”

“Have you seen her?”

“I—I…”