Butterfly (21 page)

“C
ome on, ladies, it’s time for you to get into hair and makeup!”

Seneca felt the pulsing excitement heating her blood. When they’d walked out of Miami International she’d been taken aback by the blast of heat and humidity. The hair she’d pulled into a ponytail frizzed and curled within minutes. As she sat in front of the mirror, wearing a dressing gown over a pair of bikini panties, she watched the stylist as he ran his fingers through her hair.

“I’ll take this one,” said a familiar voice behind her. Seneca smiled when she saw Yancy’s reflection in the mirror.

Reaching up, she caught his hand. “Hey, you.”

Leaning down, Yancy pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hey, yourself.” He massaged her scalp, pulling her hair back off her face. “You ladies are going to be birds—beautiful, colorful, exotic birds.”

“Does that mean I’m going to be wearing feathers?”

Yancy nodded. “Lots and lots of colorful feathers.” He
released her hair, resting his hands at his hips. “Only because you have the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a woman, I’m going to turn you into a flamingo.”

Seneca clapped her hands as she’d done when she was a child, her eyes shimmering with excitement, praying she wouldn’t lose focus. When she and Mitchell had checked into their respective hotel rooms, she’d drunk a bottle of chilled water, then practiced her walk until she could do it perfectly in her sleep. The show was scheduled to be held later that evening in the ballroom of a newly constructed cultural arts center in Miami’s South Beach.

She watched, transfixed, as Yancy, wielding a large brush and blow-dryer, straightened the front of her hair before securing it with an elastic band. He pinned up the rest of her hair into a tight knot on the crown of her head. The headpiece came next. Pure white feathers tipped with pink and orange were pinned tightly into the knot, truly making her look like an exotic bird. With her heels and the feathers she would appear even taller.

Seneca was hustled over to makeup, where the artist applied bright splashes of red, orange, white and pink to her face. Her eyes seemed to disappear under the garish paint until they were outlined with kohl. The show’s coordinator was shouting orders like a marine drill sergeant.

“Butterfly! Who the hell is Butterfly?”

Seneca raced over the frantic man who wore entirely too much makeup. “I’m Butterfly.”

“Rhys wants you to open and close. So please get to wardrobe and into your first outfit.”

Seneca felt her heart kick into a higher gear as she was handed a two-piece red-and-yellow swimsuit that wasn’t much more than a scrap of fabric and ribbon. Taking off the dressing gown and her panties, she stepped into the bottom as a
young woman tied the ribbons below her hipbones. Seconds later she had on the top and was pushing her feet into a pair of silk stilettos with ties that wrapped around her ankles. Rhys, who’d walked backstage, came over to her.

He looked her over, his eyes narrowing. “Exquisite, but you need something.” He snapped his fingers. “She needs chicken fillets.” Within seconds she’d achieved a larger cup size when the rubbery breast enhancers were inserted into her top.

The sounds of voices speaking English and Spanish and music with an infectious Latin-infused beat drifted backstage. Seneca closed her eyes, her hips swaying in time to the music. She shook her arms at her sides to relax them. If this was to be her first runway show, then she wanted it to be a memorable one—for the spectators and for herself.

She’d come to the center earlier than scheduled and had walked the length of the runway, counting the number of steps it took for her to get to the end before falling off. Keane had cautioned her about knowing exactly when the end of the runway was, because too often he’d witnessed models falling after they were stunned by flashbulbs. Not only did she know how many steps it took to the end of the runway, but she was also cognizant of its width. There wasn’t much room if she had to pass another model coming from the opposite direction.

The show’s coordinator peered through the curtain. “It’s a full house. Two minutes, Butterfly, and you’re on.”

Seneca schooled her face until there was no expression. It wasn’t about selling her smile but the garment she was wearing. She waited for the signal, then the curtain parted and, wearing a designer garment, she stepped out on the runway for the first time.

She registered the gasps as her red heel hit the floor, her arms swinging loosely at her sides. Halfway down she folded her hands at her hips, and when she reached the end of the
runway she stopped, counted three seconds, then raised her hands with the fluid grace of a flamenco dancer wielding a set of castanets, rested her hands on her hips and strutted back the way she’d come. A roar went up as flashbulbs caught the action. The curtain opened and she raced in to change into another outfit.

Seneca changed her shoes for a pair of high-heeled mules and a one-piece suit that showed a liberal amount of her toned buttocks and barely covered her breasts. The crowd roared when she reappeared, and in that instant Butterfly took flight. She was high on adrenaline, drunk on the excitement that all eyes were watching her every move.

She gave them high fashion and then some. When she returned for her final walk wearing a minuscule sheer black two-piece with a matching flowing sheer black sarong, the crowd went wild when she pirouetted and snapped the sarong as if she were a matador.

All the models lined up for their final walk, applauding, Seneca in the lead. Rhys appeared onstage and bowed grace fully, his strawberry-blond hair sweeping over his shoulder. Turning, he applauded his models, then cradling Seneca’s face, he kissed her flush on the mouth. Taking her hand, he bowed again, and she following suit.

The curtain opened and the beautiful birds fluttered back stage, where they promptly slipped out of the uncomfortable shoes. One model had had to wear a pair that were a size too small and stomp through the pain. Fortunately for Seneca, she wore a size seven and was able to find a pair in her size.

Rhys walked backstage, grinning from ear to ear. “Ladies, you were the most beautiful birds on the planet. Thank you for making the show a rousing success. Of course, you are all invited to the reception.”

He approached Seneca and kissed her cheek. “You know you were magnificent.”

Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “It was my first show and…”

Rhys put his finger over her lips, stopping her words. “Every show will be your first show when people see you for the first time. You’re going to take the fashion world by storm, because every designer from Givenchy to de la Renta will want you,” he predicted. “You have something very special, so if you keep your wits about you, you will never have to worry about where your next dollar or meal is coming from.”

Seneca swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work for you.”

“Stop being so modest, Butterfly.” He gave her a gentle pat on her behind. “Go change and I’ll meet you at the reception.”

When Seneca returned to the makeup room, she noticed several models standing in a group talking quietly to one another. All conversation stopped when they saw her, and she suspected they were talking about her.
Bitches!
Mitchell had warned her about envy and she was witnessing it live and in living color. Lifting her chin, she sniffed as if she’d smelled something malodorous; totally ignoring them, she sat down and began removing the black makeup ringing her eyes.

Seneca felt the power of fame when she walked into the reception with Mitchell Leon. Conversations stopped, then started up again as eyes followed their progress. She’d sent Mitchell a text, asking that he escort her to the reception. He’d returned her text saying that he would. After removing the makeup, she made up her face, using the subtle technique that enhanced her best features. The jeans and T-shirt she’d worn to the center were replaced by a one-shoulder dress in a flaming hot-pink and orange that hugged every line and
curve of her body. It ended at midcalf with a provocative slit up the back. The bright-orange silk stilettos pulled her sexy look together. She’d sprayed her hair with a lotion that gave her curly hair a wet look without feeling sticky. The only allowance for jewelry was Booth’s gift: the blue topaz butterfly pendant.

A woman dressed to the nines in couture and dripping with priceless jewels approached Seneca and Mitchell. “You were magnificent on the runway. I told my friend that I’d never seen anyone glide the way do you.”

Seneca smiled through lowered lashes. “Thank you so much. I hope you’re going to order at least a few swimsuits from the collection.”

“My
friend
has promised to take me to the Greek Isles for Christmas, so you know I must have a few new suits.”

“Good for you,” she drawled.

“You’re getting good at this,” Mitchell whispered when the woman walked away. He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “She’s right, Butterfly. You were magnificent, and I have the photographs to prove it.”

“All I wanted to do was make it down the runway and back without falling on my face.”

Mitchell, dressed in a black linen suit with a white silk shirt opened at the throat, did not want to believe Seneca could be that naive. She had to know she had something special that made her a standout. And if she didn’t know now, she was certain to believe the hype when she walked a European runway for the first time.

Seneca paid the driver, then alighted from the taxi. As promised, she’d come to Ithaca. Dahlia, who was sitting on the porch, sat up straight, and before Seneca placed her foot on the first step her mother had disappeared inside the house.

Dropping her luggage and tote and moving quickly, she mounted the porch and threw open the screen door. “Mother!”

Dahlia stopped and turned, drilling her to the spot with her wild stare. “Get the hell out of my house!”

“I’m not going anywhere. This is also happens to be my
home.
”

“It stopped being your home when you ran away because everyone was talking about you being a slut.”

Seneca bit her tongue to keep from reminding her mother that she wasn’t the one who’d become a teenage mother at sixteen. “Mother, please don’t.”

Dahlia pointed to the door. “Get out! Get out now!”

“What the hell…. What’s all the shouting about?” Oscar Houston had come into the house through the back door.

“I want her out of this house,” Dahlia snarled through clenched teeth. Spittle had formed at the corners of her mouth.

Oscar closed the distance between him and his wife, pulling her stiff body close to his chest. “Calm down, sweetheart. Seneca told me she was coming.”

Dahlia rounded on her husband. “You knew she was coming and you didn’t tell me?”

Oscar dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “We wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You know I don’t like surprises. I still don’t want her here.”

Seneca saw the indecision on her father’s face, wondering how many times he would have to run interference between his wife and his daughters. “It’s all right, Daddy. I’ll stay at a motel. I’ll call you and we can get together before I go back.”

“No, Seneca. I’m not going to let you check into some motel
when you have a bedroom upstairs.” What was it about his girls, he mused, that made their mother come down so hard on them? It hadn’t been that way with Dahlia and Jerome. It was as if he was exempt from Dahlia’s rage and hostility.

“I’m going, Daddy.” She’d just turned to walk to the door when she heard the heavy thud. Seneca turned back to find her father on the floor, clutching his chest. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she chanted over and over. Her father was having a heart attack. Reaching for the cell phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she dialed 9-1-1. “My father is having a heart attack!” she screamed into the tiny instrument. The dispatcher on the other end of the line spoke in a monotone, asking the address like one of those recorded messages.

“Hold on, miss. An ambulance is on the way.”

She ended the call, then sank to the floor beside her father. Dahlia sat beside him, his head on her lap. “Mom?”

Dahlia’s head popped up, and she gave her a blank stare. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

S
eneca knew from the doctor’s expression what he was going to say before he’d opened his mouth. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

The doctor placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as she slumped against the wall to support her shaking knees. “I’m sorry, Miss Houston, but we couldn’t save him. If it’s any comfort, he went quickly.”

Her eyes filling with tears, her legs shaking like Jell-O, Seneca buried her face in her hands and sobbed. Her father was dead. She would never again hear his deep voice, his booming laugh, his comforting touch and his undying pledge to protect
his girls.
Well, his girls had killed him with their squabbling and inability to get along with one another. Her kind, gentle father who’d run interference and played referee between her mother…

“My mother!” Seneca wiped her tears with her fingertips. When she and Dahlia had arrived at the hospital, the admitting doctor had recommended keeping Dahlia for observation.

“Your mother has been sedated. Would you like to see her?”

“May—may I see my father first?”

“Of course, Miss Houston. Right this way.”

She followed him past several cubicles in the emergency room, stopping at one with a drawn curtain. Seneca pulled back the curtain and walked into the small space. Her hand trembled uncontrollably when she trailed her fingers over his forehead. The EMTs had performed a tracheotomy to assist Oscar in breathing, and the instrument hadn’t been removed.

“Can’t you take that out?”

“We’ll remove it later. Let me check with the desk and I’ll let you know in which room you’ll find your mother.”

Seneca wanted to cry again, but she knew she had to pull it together before seeing Dahlia. She didn’t know what had frightened her more—seeing her father lying motionlessly on the floor, or her mother not knowing who she was when minutes before she’d ordered her out of the house where she’d lived when her parents brought her home from the hospital. Dahlia said it was her house; it wasn’t her house, but Oscar’s. He’d used his G.I. bill benefit to buy the house after he’d gone to work for the postal service. Dahlia had redeemed herself when she managed to snag a single man with no children and a house of his own.

Leaning over, she kissed Oscar’s cold cheek. “I’m sorry, Daddy, about fighting with Mom. I promise it will never happen again.” She teared up again as she ran a hand over her hair. She had to be going crazy—talking to a dead man. “Goodbye, Daddy. Tell Grandma I said hello.”

Seneca walked out of the cubicle and over to the nurses’ station. The doctor handed her a slip of paper. “Mrs. Houston is in room 247. When you take the elevator to the second
floor, follow the yellow stripe. It will lead you directly to the psychiatric wing.”

She froze, staring at the doctor’s I.D. “Psychiatric wing? Dr. Pino, my mother is not crazy.”

“Your mother’s in shock. We want to keep her overnight to make certain she’s not a danger to herself or anyone else. If she’s okay tomorrow, you can take her home.”

Seneca followed the signs leading to the elevator, a gamut of puzzling emotions tying her into knots. She’d lost her father; she couldn’t lose her mother, no matter how much they’d argued. Dahlia wasn’t a bad mother; she was a controlling mother.

There was no question her mother loved her children, but she didn’t have the same expectations for Jerome as she had for her daughters. Standardized tests revealed that he was gifted. Her brother had graduated from high school at fifteen, college at nineteen and by the age of twenty-three had earned two post-graduate degrees. Since Jerome was a mathematics and science prodigy, NASA had come knocking, but he politely turned them down to teach high school math.

Stepping into the elevator, Seneca punched the button for the second floor. The car rose swiftly, the doors opening in a soft whooshing sound. Remembering the doctor’s directions, she followed the wide yellow stripe along the wall until she saw the signs pointing the way to the psychiatric wing. She stopped at room 247.
D. Houston
occupied the top slot on a name plaque outside the door.

The door to the semiprivate room was ajar. Seneca walked in, her eyes going to the empty bed nearest the door, then to the other behind the curtain. Her mother was in the bed closest to the window. She moved over to the bed, staring down at the woman who was so still that Seneca’s eyes went to her chest to make certain she was breathing.

Pulling over a chair, she reached for Dahlia’s hand. It was warm, pulsing with life, when Oscar’s was cold. “Hi, Mom. I know you can’t hear me, but it’s Seneca. Daddy’s gone. The doctor said he didn’t suffer. I suppose he said it to make me feel better. It’s as if that’s something they teach them in medical school.

“Why didn’t you tell me Daddy had a weak heart? You had to know. He told you everything.” She exhaled an audible sigh. “It all makes sense why he wanted to retire. Why didn’t you tell us, Mama?”

Seneca went completely still. It’d been years since she’d called Dahlia
Mama.
Once she’d entered her teens she’d started calling her Mom. “Mama, how am I going to tell Robbie Daddy’s gone?” Her eyes welled up yet again. “I’m going to call Jerome and let him know, too. I don’t want you to worry about anything. We’ll take care of the funeral arrangements. I want you to rest. I’ll be back tomorrow to bring you home.”

Pushing to her feet, she reached for a tissue from a box on the metal table next to the bed. As she’d done with her father, Seneca leaned over and kissed Dahlia’s forehead, the familiar scent of her mother’s favorite perfume wafting in her nose.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Now it begins.

The realization slammed into Seneca as she left the hospital and made her way to the parking area. She didn’t know how she’d accomplished it, but she’d managed to drive to the hospital in her mother’s car, following closely behind the wailing ambulance without mishap, while Dahlia had ridden in the ambulance with her stricken husband.

Thankfully, her mother’s car was equipped with Bluetooth, making it easier for Seneca to talk and drive at the same time. She dialed Robyn’s cell phone, drumming her fingers on the
steering wheel while she waited for a break in the connection. Robyn answered after the third ring.

“What is it, Mom?”

“This is not Mom.”

“Seneca? Why are you using Mom’s cell?”

“I’m here—in Ithaca. Where are you?”

“I’m at Keisha’s house.”

“Go home and stay. I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s up, Seneca?”

“I’ll tell you when I get home. Now do as I say, Robbie.”

“Okay. There’s no need to go mad hard and try to sound like Mom.”

Seneca hadn’t realized she sounded like their mother. “I’m sorry, Robbie.”

“Okay.”

One down and one to go.
Now she had to call her brother. It wouldn’t be as easy to talk to Jerome as it had been with Robyn. Seneca wouldn’t tell her sister that their father had died until they were face-to-face. But there was no way she could tell Jerome to leave D.C. and come to New York without divulging the reason.

She dialed her brother’s home first. It rang half a dozen times before going to voice mail. She scrolled through her directory for his cell. Jerome’s voice came through the speaker after his cell phone rang twice.

“This is Jerome.”

Why, Seneca mused, hadn’t she realized how deep her brother’s voice was? “Jerome, this is Seneca.”

“Hey, sis. What’s up?”

Slowing, she stopped for a red light. “Where are you?”

“What does that matter?”

“Is Maya with you?”

“As a matter of fact she is. What’s going on, Seneca?”

“Dad died about…” She couldn’t finish. The dreaded words had fallen from her lips, landing on her heart like large stones.

“What do you mean, he died?”

“He had a heart attack. It was a massive coronary. The doctor said he went quickly.”

The seconds ticked. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s in the hospital.”

“She’s in or at the hospital, Seneca?”

“She’s in the hospital. The doctor had to sedate her, and they recommended keeping her overnight.”

“Is she all right?”

Jerome was asking questions to which Seneca didn’t have an answer. But she knew there were going to be
the
questions. Why had she come to Ithaca? What was Oscar Houston doing when he’d suffered his fatal heart attack? Other than the shock of her husband’s death, what had sent Dahlia over the edge where she had to be hospitalized
and
sedated? Seneca knew the questions would come, and she would be called on to answer.

“I won’t know that until she’s evaluated.”

“Why would they want to evaluate her? Was she hysterical?”

Someone in the car behind Seneca honked, and she realized the light had changed. “Yes.” She’d lied. Dahlia wasn’t hysterical. It was as if she’d gone into a trance. She believed the term was
catatonic.

There came another pause. “I’m at Maya’s parents’ place in Orlando. It’s going to take us a couple of days to drive up. If it was just me and Maya we would drive straight through. But with the baby we’ll have to stop and stay in a motel overnight.”

“Why don’t you fly up, Jerome? I need you to help me with the funeral arrangements as soon as possible.”

“The cost of three airlines tickets from Orlando to New York would put a real strain on my budget.”

“I’ll pay for the tickets.”

“Are you aware how much it would cost—”

“I said I will pay you whatever it costs to fly here. Pay for the tickets, let me know, and I’ll reimburse you when you get here.”

“Okay. Hang up so I can go online and buy the tickets. I’ll call you back when I finalize everything.”

“Thank you, Jerome.”

“I’m sorry about Dad, but I’m glad you were there when it happened. By the way, where’s Robyn?”

“She’s at Keisha’s house. She doesn’t know yet. I told her to meet me at the house.”

“That’s good. I’ll talk to you later.”

Seneca disconnected the call. She’d offered to underwrite the cost of Jerome, Maya and their baby to fly up to New York because she didn’t want to wait two days for them to drive from Florida. Jerome and Maya were like so many other young couples trying to live a middle-class life. There were no luxury items and very few extras.

Seneca didn’t have much more than Jerome, but the difference was she didn’t have a mortgage, car payments or a family to support. She had only herself. What she also had was the ten-thousand-dollar signing bonus. She was also expecting payment from Booth for shooting the Cadillac ad and for appearing in Rhys’s swimsuit show. There was still the matter of funeral costs, but Seneca was certain her parents had put aside monies for emergencies
and
the inevitable.

She was only twenty-one, but Seneca felt three times that age. It was as if she’d been in a rosy bubble that had exploded
into millions of little irretrievable pieces. When she’d told Robyn their father had died from a heart attack, Robyn had become so distraught that she’d locked herself in her room, refusing to come out. In the end, Jerome was forced to take the door off the hinges.

Seneca managed to get her sister out of bed and into a shower where she shampooed her hair and washed her body. They got into bed together, talking quietly as they’d done when they were younger.

Dahlia was home, but monosyllabic. She didn’t know where Oscar kept his financial records or official documents like his military discharge papers. Jerome had assumed the task of notifying Oscar’s employer of his passing, while Seneca and Maya visited the local funeral home to make arrangements for the funeral and burial.

When Seneca called Booth to inform him that her father had died and she wasn’t able to locate any of his bank documents, the agent volunteered to overnight a check, less his commission, for the Cadillac ad. True to his word, after she’d signed confirming she’d received the envelope, she opened it to find four checks payable to Seneca Houston in the amount of forty thousand dollars each. She’d earned one hundred sixty thousand dollars for a ten-second commercial. She drove to the bank, signed the checks and deposited them in her accounts.

Seneca sat in the kitchen with Jerome and Maya. Robyn had taken James Scott and sat on the porch with her nephew while keeping an eye on Dahlia.

She met her brother’s eyes across the table. “Funeral expenses total twelve thousand dollars.”

Jerome closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “Where are we going to come up with that kind of money?”

“Don’t worry about it, Jerome.”

His hand came down, he glaring at his sister. “What the hell do you mean, ‘don’t worry about it?’”

Maya placed a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Jerry.”

He glared at the pale hand for a long moment before she dropped it. “Don’t get into this, Maya. It concerns family.”

Her face paled before becoming flushed with color. “What the hell am I, if not family? That little boy on the porch with your mother and sister is proof that I am a part of this family.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Seneca smiled.
Oh, the girl does have a backbone.
When she’d first met Maya, Seneca had felt she was too submissive. If Jerome said jump, she jumped, and that was why he’d married her.

“Answer me, Jerome Houston.”

Jerome dropped his gaze. “You’re right, Maya. You are a part of this family.”

He knew the importance of family more than anyone sitting at the table. After Oscar married his mother he’d come to Jerome telling him that he wanted to adopt him, making him legally his son. His rationale was that they were now a family, and family members shared the same last name. It was the same thing he’d said to Maya on their wedding day. She was now a Houston and therefore family.

Maya assumed a brittle smile. “Thank you, darling.” She directed her attention to her sister-in-law. “Why are you saying ‘don’t worry about it?’”

“I said that because I’m willing to pay for the funeral.”

A frown furrowed Jerome’s forehead. “You know you can’t use the money from the fund set up for your education.”