The Butterfly’s Daughter (27 page)

“No,” Margaret replied with a sniff. “I'm simply interested in observing the migration phenomenon and seeing the overwintering grounds.”

Stacie smirked. “Figures.”

Luz listened to the two argue about whether butterflies—or any animal—could be messengers from spirits. To her mind, it was a matter of faith and could never be proved. You either believed or you didn't. She looked up at the sky again.

“Where are they?” Luz said again.

Margaret looked out her window. “I don't see any butterflies at all. You'd think the monarchs would be passing through in big numbers about now. October is peak season.”

Stacie scooted to lean over and peer out at the sky.

“Well, it's a big sky,” Luz answered with a light laugh. “And they fly high.”

“What makes them migrate?” Stacie asked.

“Instinct. They're all following a map that instinct put in their brains and in the fall they all start traveling in the same direction at the same time. By the time they reach Texas it's like our highways at Thanksgiving. It gets crowded.”

“I got that map in my brain, too,” Stacie said, settling back in her seat. “I keep trying to get to L.A. but I always end up right back here in Texas.”

Miles rolled beneath them as Luz shared stories about the sanctuaries, the traditions of the Day of the Dead, and of how they were decorating the box of ashes as a small altar for Abuela.

Meanwhile, Margaret was taping to the box the marigolds and food-wrapper flowers that Ofelia had made. Stacie hung over the seat and watched every move that Margaret made. Occasionally she pushed her arm through the narrow seat opening and pointed with her long, scarlet fingernails where Margaret should tape something. Margaret's lips were tight and Luz thought she looked like a boiling pot about to blow its lid.

To Ofelia's collection Margaret added the yellow and red receipt from the KOA park, pinned baby Luz's pink booties onto the ends of the rope, and tied it back around the box.

“There!” Margaret said, looking at the box with thinly concealed pride. “I think our
ofrenda
is coming along nicely.”

“Oh, no, it needs color!” Stacie stated her opinion from the backseat. “It's too bland with all that brown.”

“I happen to like brown,” Margaret replied thinly.

Luz's lips twitched.

“Let me have it,” Stacie said, reaching for it.

Margaret brought the box closer to her chest and glared.

“I'm a really good artist,” Stacie said coaxingly. “Did you see all those psychedelic swirls on the guys' RV? I did that. Pretty good, huh?”

“You did?” Luz asked.

“Yep. And the letters, too.” Stacie wiggled her fingers for the box.

“But, this box is so small . . . ,” Luz hedged. She wasn't sure she wanted a purple, psychedelic
ofrenda
.

“At least let me write her name. That's my specialty.”

Margaret swung her head around with impatience. “Can't you take a hint? She said no.”

“No, she didn't.”

“Wait,” Luz interjected, throwing water on the flames between the two women. “It's all right. Go ahead and give it a try. But be conservative, okay? Nothing too weird. That's my grandmother in there.”

“Don't you worry,” Stacie said in all seriousness as she took hold of the box. Immediately, Serena jumped up from the car floor where she'd been lying on a pillow and commenced sniffing the box. Stacie nudged the dog back onto the pillow and offered her a bit of her cookie for distraction.

“I loved my granny,” Stacie said. “I wouldn't do anything that'd make her embarrassed.”

“Has she seen that tattoo on your ass?” Margaret asked over her shoulder.

“Thanks for noticing,” Stacie quipped, chin up. “At least you didn't call it a tramp stamp.”

Margaret turned back to face the road, muttering that she'd never even heard of that expression but it sounded about right.

“Since you asked, no, she didn't see it,” Stacie added with a twinge of hurt in her voice. “My granny passed two years ago and I got that tattoo for her. It's a butterfly. And not a day goes by that I don't miss her.”

Luz caught Margaret's eye and shook her head in silent censure. She glanced in the rearview, chewing her bottom lip as Stacie worked on the box. Margaret turned back to watch, at first to police the work, but as Stacie drew, she was temporarily silenced by the obvious talent. Stacie wrote the name
Abuela
in a swirling, hippie kind of calligraphy. The letters seemed to fly across the box along with the drawings of monarch butterflies traveling from one side of the box to the other. Then she filled in the letters with the muted colors of autumn. Finally, she rearranged the rope and the paper flowers in an attractive pattern around the box.

“It's beautiful,” Luz said.

“It's a start,” Stacie replied modestly.

“Honestly,” Margaret said with a modicum of surprise, “you did a good job.” She fell into silence while her fingers tapped her observation notebook in her lap, then cleared her throat. “Maybe . . . ,” she began hesitantly. After a pause, she continued more assuredly, “My father taught me that scientific observation should be impartial. Just an honest recording of what was observed. Maybe part of what I need to learn on this trip is to not always jump to make snap judgments about something, like whether butterflies are messengers from heaven, or . . . about people.”

“We could all stand to learn a little of that,” Luz said, eyes on the road.

Margaret took hold of her notebook and carefully ripped a page from it. The page was filled with her neat, vertical handwriting.

“What are you doing?” Luz asked, surprised that she'd do such a thing. Margaret had studiously pored over her notes since the beginning of the trip, religiously filling in page after page.

Margaret turned around and handed the paper to Stacie. “That's what I'm trying to do on this journey and I'd like to dedicate it to Abuela. For the
ofrenda
.”

A hesitant smile bloomed on Stacie's face as she accepted the paper. Stacie sat back against the seat and neatly folded the paper into a small square revealing Margaret's script. Then she taped it to the side of the box. Around it, she drew an elaborate gold frame and filled it in with embellishments. “There,” she said with finality. “Now that looks right.”

The car lapsed once again into silence. This time, however, Luz didn't sense the fractiousness she had earlier. Instead, she experienced a soft glow; she'd been fortunate to share so many stories with these interesting yet so different women. Maybe Stacie was right and they were all meant to meet one another. Her maps and carefully laid-out plans for the trip—outlining exactly where she'd stop and at what time—lay scattered on the floor at Margaret's feet. Probably where they belonged. She thought of Billy's words to her that magical night of butterflies.
Life isn't a series of random events at all, but rather an expression of a deeper order.
When you looked back at them all, Luz thought, they made perfect sense, like chapters in a story.

Luz glanced in the rearview mirror. Stacie had her head back against the seat with her eyes closed. Her mascara had smudged to look like bruises under her eyes. Luz turned to look again at Margaret. Her face was serene as she gazed out at the scenery, and Luz
didn't perceive any sadness in her face. She imagined Ofelia with baby Luz in her arms.

Luz sighed as she reflected on how this trip was taking so many unexpected turns, dangerous curves, dead ends, road blocks, and U-turns. Straight roads were boring, anyway. In the end, she just had to read the signs.

Luz was grateful for a turn in the backseat with Serena in her lap and Abuela's ashes by her feet. Her left leg ached from pushing in the clutch for so many days. Outside, the day was sunny and warm. The car's air-conditioning didn't work so they rolled down the windows and let the October breeze cool their cheeks and whisk through their hair. Luz lay her head against the backrest, letting it loll lazily to the left as she looked out at the miles of dreary, straw-colored landscape broken by occasional trees, apartments, or strip malls. Here and there was the ubiquitous water tank that stuck up from the flat earth like a token on a game board. The road construction had narrowed the highway to one lane and it seemed to be going on forever. Her eyelids drooped and Serena whimpered in her sleep.

Stacie looked out over the horizon and shook her head. “Where I grew up is a sight prettier than this stretch here.”

“I thought a lot of Texas was like this,” Margaret said.

“Oh, no,” Stacie replied emphatically. “Everyone thinks Texas looks like it did in the movie
Giant
. Just remote, dry land full of cattle and oil rigs. Texas is big, honey. Some of the prettiest land on God's earth is right here. You just wait. I want to see your face when you roll into the Hill Country.”

“Is that where you're from?” asked Margaret.

“I'm from Austin. But I wish you could've seen my granny's ranch. My daddy worked the place while my granny lived, but she wasn't cold in the ground before he sold the ranch and moved us to a brand-new house in a nearby town. Mama was happy, but it near broke my heart. I don't know if I can ever forgive them for selling it. It was like they up and sold our family history. I learned I could live in wide-open spaces, and I could live in big cities where I rubbed shoulders. One extreme or the other. But that in-between stuff—towns and suburbs—no way. Not for me. I up and left and I've been moving around ever since. But Lord, I miss that ranch still. There's nothing like sitting on a grassy hill in the summertime, looking over water. Or in the fall, seeing shade trees tinged in gold. Everything I remember from my childhood is from that one place.”

“It's funny what you remember from being a kid,” Margaret said. “We weren't a demonstrative family but—”

“You weren't what?” Stacie interrupted.

“We didn't hug or kiss much,” Margaret answered without rancor. “But there was a lot of love. I'm sure my parents fought from time to time, but I don't remember it. I only recall the happy moments, like us sitting under the tree at Christmas, or blowing out candles on birthday cakes. My folks were academics so we never had the money for a big vacation, but some of my happiest memories were just going hiking and hunting for plants and insects.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Stacie said with unveiled sarcasm.

“No, I get that,” Luz said from the back. She rested her hand on Abuela's box of ashes. “It's not the big holidays or the big presents that mean the most. We couldn't afford vacations either, but I never felt deprived. This is my first time out of the Midwest.”

Stacie glanced at Luz in the rearview mirror, her eyes wide. “Girl, are you kidding me?”

“Me, too,” chimed in Margaret.

“
You
I can believe,” Stacie added with a wink.

Luz laughed, preferring the gentle teasing between the two over the pointed jabs. “My happiest memories were in my grandmother's garden when we released a brand-new butterfly. I loved to watch it test its wings, fluttering them slowly back and forth, so fresh and velvety. I must've released a thousand butterflies but each time felt like the first.”

“Well, I never released a butterfly or went hunting for bugs,” said Stacie. “Can't say I'm sorry about that. And I don't remember no big vacations or birthday presents, either.” She paused and stuck one arm out the window, her fingers wiggling as though trying to catch the breeze. “What I remember are the trees,” she said. “The ranch had lots of them—oak, mesquites, pecan, cedar. There ain't no tree on God's good earth that smells like cedar. It announces its presence before you see it, like my granny's perfume. No matter where I am, whenever I smell cedar, I close my eyes and think of Texas. It's—” Stacie's voice dropped an octave. “Oh, that's not good.”

“What?” the other two cried in unison. Luz jerked up, waking Serena.

“The warning light just went on! It's flashing red. What does that mean?”

The girls looked at one another, a sinking feeling in their guts.

“There's smoke coming out of the engine. You have to stop the car!” ordered Margaret.

“I can't! There's nowhere to pull over!” Stacie pointed to the orange construction cones.

“Just wait,” Luz said, scooting up on the seat so she could look over Stacie's shoulder and see the dashboard. El Toro was old and didn't have all the fancy signals newer cars did. The red light didn't give a clue to what was wrong. Serena picked up on the tension and began barking.

“I knew it! We're going to die in this piece of junk!” cried Margaret.

Stacie and Luz swung their heads to look at Margaret, shocked by her outburst.

“Well,
I'm
not dying on this godforsaken road,” Stacie said, peering far over the wheel in search of an exit. “It'll be like
never
before someone finds us.”

“Okay, girls,” Margaret said, sounding like Mrs. Penfold. “Let's think. There's got to be a manual in here somewhere.” She jerked open the minuscule glove compartment and began skimming through the papers she found inside.

“Do you really think this piece of shit has a manual?” Stacie asked. “That manual went out in the seventies back with the upholstery.”

“Hey, at least I'm trying to do something!” Margaret shoved the papers back into the compartment but they wouldn't fit. She rammed them in and pounded the door closed with her fist, over and over, but it wouldn't close. “Just pull over,” she barked. “I don't think you're supposed to drive with the red light on.”