The Butterfly Plague (33 page)

The visual signal of the trees seemed to cause a panic amongst the new arrivals and before anyone could believe what they were seeing—their eyes and ears filled up with butterflies.

Children tried to scream.

People ran.

Some clambered into their cars, calling names: Bertha! Hilary! Leroy! Run! Engines started. An old man was knocked down. A woman by the name of Francine Quigley was struck by a backing truck and instantly killed. Priests from the mission and police from the town arrived and fought for order and calm. But the air was filled with dazzling wings and any call to order was stifled by them. People began to choke on inhaled butterfly scales. The air was full of dust. Later, twenty-two victims were operated on. Parts of butterfly wings and masses of powdery scales were removed from their lungs. Three died, all children.

Dolly crouched low, now, in the rumble seat, and threw a blanket over his head. Miss Bonkers sat down on the floor and drew the aviator helmet over her face. Ruth struggled to make the top rise. Dolly scrambled up beside the nurse, and at last they were all safely inside, with Miss Bonkers squashed in the middle and the windows raised.

“What is it?” said Ruth, pulling wings out of her veil. “It’s terrifying—terrifying! What is it?”

“I’m sure it’s a nightmare,” said Dolly. “Or I pray to God it is!”

To her relief, Ruth had seen Noah wrestling B.J., the children, and the dog into their car. From time to time, as the insect tide fluctuated, Ruth caught glimpses of the excited faces of Charity, Peter, and Joe mouthing exclamations behind the windows, while the dog mimed a frenzy of barking.

A child, unknown to anyone inside, came and banged on the Franklin’s side window. Dolly rattled his cane against the glass and the child fled across the field, choking and terror-stricken, where it was lost in the stampede of its panicked elders.

On the far side of the field, Octavius sat, erect and quiet, in the back seat of his limousine, while a thousand wings beat in soft adoration against the dusty glass of the car’s windows. It seemed as if he had expected this to happen, that they should so mutely clamor to reach him, to catch a glimpse of him. To be with him in the car. His expression was a mixture of terror and aloofness. As though he might have been their long-lost sovereign, returning from exile uncertain of their mood, and finding them jubilant.

Elsewhere in the field, motorcars would not start or could not start, or be made to move. Engines were clogged with butterflies. The ground was inches thick with a sodden mass of dead and dying insects. There was no traction to be had; people could no longer run, but fell as though shot on a battlefield. Butterflies pelted themselves at the windscreens of cars and the spectacles of the old. Still, but for the sounds of spinning wheels and desperate engines, and but for the sounds of moving wings and slipping feet, there was silence. Human silence, now. Whatever mystical silence there had been had fled.

No one dared breathe. No one dared cry.

At last the clouds of wings settled, merciful and benign, upon the trees. The terror was over. The people withdrew.

In years to come it was known as Fringes Field. A cross was erected. The butterflies returned yearly. But the people had left forever.

And yet the Butterfly Plague affected different towns in different ways. Perhaps it should be said it affected different people in different ways—different spirits.

Remember Edwina Shackleton in the city of Pacific Grove?

She was instrumental in putting forward the petition that brought about the creation of the following ordinance:

City of Pacific Grove—Ordinance No. 352

PROTECTION OF BUTTERFLIES

Adopted Nov. 16, 1938

Ordinance No. 352

An Ordinance providing for the protection of the Monarch Butterflies during their annual visit to the City of Pacific Grove
:

THE COUNCIL

OF THE CITY OF PACIFIC GROVE

DO ORDAIN AS FOLLOWS:

Section 1
. It shall be unlawful and it is hereby declared to be unlawful for any person to molest or interfere with in any way the peaceful occupancy of the Monarch Butterflies on their annual visit to the City of Pacific Grove, and during the entire time they remain within the corporate limits of said City, in whatever spot they may choose to stop in; provided, however, that if said butterflies should at any time swarm in upon or near the private dwelling house or other buildings of a citizen or the City of Pacific Grove in such a way as to interfere with the occupancy and use of said dwelling and/or other buildings, that said Butterflies may be removed, if possible, to another location upon the application of said citizen to the Chief of Police of this City.

Section 2.
Any violation of this Ordinance shall be deemed a misdemeanor and shall be punishable by a fine of not more than Five Hundred Dollars ($500.00), or by imprisonment in the County Jail of Monterey County for not more than six (6) months or by both such fine and imprisonment.

Section 3
. This Ordinance is hereby declared to be urgent, and shall be in effect from and after its final passage. The following is a statement of such urgency: Inasmuch as the Monarch Butterflies are a distinct asset to the City of Pacific Grove, and cause innumerable people to visit said City each year to see the said Butterflies, it is the duty of the citizens of said City to protect the Butterflies in every way possible, from serious harm and possible extinction by brutal and heartless people.

PASSED AND ADOPTED BY THE COUNCIL OF THE CITY OF PACIFIC GROVE, this 16th day of November, 1938, by the following vote:

AYES: COUNCILMEN: (Mayor) Fiddes, Norton, Galbraith, Burton.

NOES: COUNCILMEN: Lee Matthews.

ABSENT: COUNCILMEN: Solomon.

APPROVED: Nov. 16, 1938.

William Fiddes,

Mayor of said City.

ATTEST: ELGIN C. HURLBERT, City Clerk.

Thus it was, the Butterfly Plague came to California in November 1938.

The Chronicle of
Dolly D.

Wednesday, December 14th, 1938

Any act of courage requires a little anger—a little or a lot, as the case may be. With Dolly, it was a lot.

After all these years in his smart white bungalow, with the pool and the tennis courts next door, someone had offended him. They’d thrown a ball (and it had seemed quite deliberate) which broke his plate-glass window.

He’d been sitting there staring out—but not, he was certain, offensively—when one of the players, a guest, Dolly assumed, had turned and seen him watching. With excruciatingly accurate aim, this person had thrown the ball right at Dolly’s face. Naturally, it hit the window—and naturally, the window broke.

The pitcher had roared with laughter and disappeared, but moments later an apologetic neighbor had appeared at Dolly’s front door.

Still trembling from the frightful experience, Adolphus had gone to answer the beckoning bell.

“Oh, Adolphus, I am so terribly sorry. What can I say?”

“You can say that you’ll pay for my window, that’s what you can say, Dorabella.”

“Very well, I will pay for your window.”

“I accept.”

“You weren’t hurt, honey, I hope.”

“No. Oh, no. If I’d been hurt, Dorabella, I’d already’ve bled to death. I’d be lying there dead and you’d be standing here ringing this doorbell till kingdom come!”

“Goodness, Adolphus. I just tremble at the thought. Is the damage
exten
—sive?”

“One totally broken window. That’s how extensive.”

“Well, I blush with shame.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes, Dorabella. Why, he took aim before he threw. And he leered at me. I tell you, he leered. He just loved breaking that window. Loved it. Who the hell is he, anyway?”

“Why, that’s Jackie Manta Stupa, the famous baseball pitcher. Didn’t you recognize him?”

“Well, I recognized him for an ape, my dear. But that’s all.”

“I must confess, he’s had an eye on your window for a whole two days now.”

“I believe you.”

“But it’s understandable.”

“I beg your pardon? Understandable!”

“Well, it is. I mean, it’s terrible, but understandable. He pitches ball, honey. Think how seldom a really great pitcher like that gets to break a window that size.”

“Or to kill someone…” said Dolly.

“Now, now, Adolphus. Don’t be silly.”

“You didn’t see the look on his face, Dorabella, and I did. He’s a killer.”

“Well, I’m sorry. And I’ll pay for the damages.”

Dorabella swung around, hip first, to take her leave.

“It’s really the fault of all these dreadful butterflies, anyway. I mean, if it hadn’t’ve been for them, why, we wouldn’t have had to drain the pool. And if we hadn’t’ve had to drain the pool, well, we wouldn’t have been pitching ball. And if we hadn’t’ve been pitching ball, well…”

She gave her shoulders a lofty shrug.

“He’s just so full of energy, and now, I don’t know what we’ll do.”

“Why don’t you go and fly a kite,” said Dolly.

“Oh, ‘Dolphus! There isn’t a lick of wind, not a lick!” Then she got it.

“Why, you’re joshing me! You mean thing!” She laughed. “Imagine Jackie Manta Stupa flying a kite! Oh, that’s just precious!”

She ambled seductively away, still laughing, until a circle of butterflies rose up and fluttered around her head, at which point she began to scream and curse.

“Get away from me, you crazy monsters!” she screamed. “Fucking
maniacs
!!!” Then she commenced, as best she could, to kill them. “Bloodsuckers!”

Dolly watched, amused and horrified.

At last Dorabella had repulsed the attack and stood fuming and raging on Dolly’s side lawn, brushing corpses from her blouse and hair. Then, as one might retrieve a broken egg, she reached down between her breasts and eased a few more bodies out onto the lawn. She wept at this, in disgust.

“Oh, Dolly! They was right down in
side
me!
Haagh
!”

“They’re only butterflies, Dorabella. Quite harmless. There’s no need to kill them.”

“They’re sons-of-bloody-bitches,” was all Dorabella would say. “Sons-of-bloody-bitches!”

“At any rate,” said Dolly, “you owe me a hundred dollars.”

“Oh, go fly a kite!” screamed Dorabella, frustrated and maddened by the butterflies.

“You forget,” said Adolphus, calmly. “There’s no wind.”

He shut the door in the face of further protests.

How dare she, he fumed. She’d started away quite content to pay the bill and then those butterflies…

Why, wasn’t it terrible! She was blaming him for those butterflies in her bosom, just because those butterflies had been on his property.

He looked out through the broken window.

There was Jackie Manta Stupa.

What on earth was he doing?

He was murdering butterflies with a baseball bat. And Dorabella was egging him on. She just stood there screaming, “Sons-of-fucking-bitches!” while Manta Stupa yelled something else.

At first Dolly couldn’t make it out.

Then he could.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” the baseball pitcher was yelling. “Kill! Kill!! Kill! You orange faggots!”

Dolly went quite pale and it was soon after this that he decided that he would go out and drive his car.

Himself.

Alone.

After all, it wouldn’t be safe to stay there. Not with that man killing things. With a baseball bat.

9:50 a.m.

The Franklin was parked in a tidy stucco garage at the side of Dolly’s house.

Every time he saw it sitting there he thought of Myra and was sad.

Some evenings he would just go out, around sunset time, and stand there in the shady driveway and stare at the purple rump, morosely.

Other days Ruth would come and take the car away, and as it drove off into the distance (if Dolly was there to watch its departure) he would stand on the sidewalk watching it dust off the road, and he’d mutter to himself, “Some day…Some day…”

He often half-heartedly gave sighs, thinking about it, and envisioned himself ensconced up front, alone, driving into some orange sky somewhere.

But Dolly did not know how to drive.

However, on that Wednesday, after Manta Stupa’s attack on the butterflies, Dolly flung caution to the winds and came, actually running, out of the house and nearly fell to his knees on the rolling ball-bearing sea of gravel, and practically ruptured himself yanking open the garage doors.

“Orange faggots, indeed!” he said aloud, as fifty or sixty monarchs flew into the sunlight from what had been their prison. “I’ve got to get out of here!”

Dolly gave the Franklin the once-over. He was so used to sitting in the rumble seat that he barely knew, in his panic, how to get into the front. In fact, he did not get into the front at all, but piled in amongst his pillows in the back and stared from there at the mysterious dashboard, the pedals, and the steering wheel.

How did they work?

He tried to envision all the drivers he had watched from over their shoulders: Myra, Ruth, cabmen, chauffeurs, and friends. Men with Negro hands. Women in leather gloves. Boy drivers with golden, flicking wrists. Bus drivers with hirsute knuckles…

He closed his eyes and watched all these fingers working in his mind at once.

They yanked at things, pushed things, pulled things, and slid things. They wiggled one thing and wobbled another. Then there was a long passage of jerking something knobby back and forth, back and forth back and forth back and…

Oh, dear.

Oh, my…

Low down, out of sight, they slid in and withdrew darkly oiled contrivances. They battered momentarily at something which shook and quivered, gurgled and slipper-slappered. But what?

Now, all the many drivers together settled their buttocks with firm resolve. They stretched their legs—massively thighed—bulgingly calved. They pushed and paddled and finally jammed hard down with their feet. Then with their heads hunched forward, shoulders lunging, they grabbed at the whole shaking, slipping, farting contraption, nearly ready now to explode in giant petroleum spurts and giving off heaving sighs of breathless satisfaction, they roared off into endless rhythmic journeys.