Dr. Fontaine stood like a stuck pin: straight-backed, arms crossed, neck craned, gaze fixed on an unfilled spot in her conservatory graveyard of pinned-up butterflies. Her collection—the world’s largest—spanned wall-to-wall, stretched vaulted ceiling to polished floor along the left-hand side of a sparse room with nowhere to sit but a stool reserved for her tin of tacks.
It was early fall. An open window let in bird trills, leaf crumbs, and, on a brushstroke breeze, three blue-skinned, bald-headed, wing-backed faeries. Chrysanthème, Magnolia, and Perennial. They flitted to the bookshelf across, a many-storied oak monstrosity packed with tomes like Rhopalocera Malayana, Lepidoptera and Conservation, and Genera et Species Animalium Argentinorum Tomus Secundus Insecta Lepidoptera. Upon each they perched, on the top-most shelf, to watch unseen as Dr. Fontaine nodded, snatched three tacks from the metal tin, and triple-pinned a purple speckled South American Red Cracker into the nagging gap. Chrysanthème swooned. Magnolia gushed. Perennial shuddered.
Perennial, the youngest, smallest, and so, of course, most bullied of the three, didn’t care for the collection. Not that she didn’t appreciate the beauty of it, the way the doctor had—like a poet—made rhythm out of death with colors, shapes, sizes, down to the length of an antennae and crook of a leg. It was the death. Perennial had no stomach for it. No, she came for Dr. Fontaine’s daughter, Amélie. Amélie sat hunched over a drawing pad on the floor beside the bookcase, with legs folded under, skirt tucked beneath to protect her knees, a position almost pious. Beneath plaited red hair, her freckle-splattered face was in a familial pinch as she considered her rainbow of well-sharpened pencils. She nodded, picked up the Hunter Green, and set it to slithering down the page, putting the final touches on her drawing of three beautiful blue butterflies on the edge of a forest on a day not unlike the one outside, sun-soaked and sweet.
Done. She tore the drawing free. Then, up she got, and off she went, leaving a pitter-patter trail of echoes, slowing as she came to where Dr. Fontaine stood. Amélie reached up and tug-tug-tugged on the end of her mother’s blouse.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
She tapped with her hand still balled around the green pencil. Dr. Fontaine didn’t move—she was frowning at a gap between two blue nymphalids. Amélie poked—then jabbed. Dr. Fontaine yelped, looked down at last to see Amélie, her drawing, and the surprisingly sharp little pencil. Her face became furious as Amélie’s became fearful, meeting for a moment, like passing winds, at an understanding of what had happened. Dr. Fontaine made a tsk-tsk sound through her teeth and flicked Amélie on the nose so that Amélie, in her turn, yelped, and fled to her corner.
Above, Chrysanthème and Magnolia nodded their approval and began to debate which specimen Dr. Fontaine would use to fill the gap with only a dismissive, that girl will never learn, from Magnolia. Perennial ignored them. She watched as Amélie crushed her drawing into a ball, tossed it into a small pile on the bottom-most shelf of the bookcase, and sat back down. She rubbed her nose, bent over, and began again. This time, she did away with the forest, the sky, the sun—this time, she filled the page with a single butterfly, blues and greens, purples and pinks, swirls, stars, and squiggles. They were the most beautiful wings Perennial had ever seen—so much so that her own wings felt a little heavy on her back. Amélie worked for a whole hour, using every pencil, pausing only to resharpen, until the page was full. She tore it free unceremoniously, stood, and stormed over to Dr. Fontaine. This time, she didn’t slow, but sped up as she got closer, and pushed hard on the side of Dr. Fontaine’s leg at the moment she was putting the first tack into a glorious Miami Blue.
Dr. Fontaine wobbled, the Miami Blue fell, and as it hit the ground, a wing broke off—a single beautiful blue-drenched wing. Chrysanthème gasped. Magnolia wailed. Amélie tried to turn, to run, but Dr. Fontaine latched onto her arm, pulled her close, and with the knuckles of fore and middle fingers, she grabbed Amélie’s nose. Perennial couldn’t take it—she closed her eyes, reached out, and, under her breath, began to whisper a gift: to make Dr. Fontaine stop, to appreciate what Amélie had made for her. Dr. Fontaine only squeezed harder and harder—never looking away from Amélie’s face as it turned red, became wet with tears, and when Dr. Fontaine spoke, it was quiet and dangerous. Perennial concentrated, whispered faster. But before she could finish, Chrysanthème grabbed her by the wing and jerked. They tumbled, tearing at each other’s wings, until, by the time Magnolia had pulled them apart, Dr. Fontaine had released Amélie.
Perennial had no plans to sit and be lectured. She dropped from their perch, fell, and opened her wings in time to swoop onto the shelf one up from the bottom—an arms-length from where Amélie had retaken her seat, cross-legged, gripping a freshly-sharpened blue pencil. Her nose was turning from red to purple as she bent down and began a fresh drawing. Perennial weaved her gift anew. Eyes closed. She spoke it. May the next stroke of Amélie’s pencil be one of such perfection; sure to win her mother’s affection. Again, louder. She willed it to be. Again, a final third. By the time she opened her eyes, it was too late. Amélie dropped the pencil, scooped Perennial’s body up in one hand, and carried her over to where Dr. Fontaine stood with eyes pinched up at the gap she couldn’t figure out how to fill.
Benjamin Davis has stories and poems in over two-dozen literary journals including Booth, Hobart, Maudlin House, and Slippery Elm Press. His first book of poems, The King of FU (Nada Blank, 2018), was such a smashing success it shocked the indie press who printed it into an early grave. He is now working on his first six novels.
photo by Karla Ruiz (via unsplash)
Crow & Cross Keys 