The Butterfly Man (3)
David Godden

 

The next day I went to his office feeling positive about things. I was not sure why he wanted to tape me, I supposed it was so as he did not have to write up everything I said from memory. That way he would get everything and there could be no mistakes. I didn’t really mind though.

He greeted me and told me to go straight to the couch and lie down. There would be no lengthy preamble today. I guess he must have all the background on me he needed. I lay back on the comfortable couch and he came over. He showed me the tape recorder and he made a test recording to see that it worked. He then spoke into the microphone.

“This is a recording of my second session with Rebecca Miles. Rebecca? Could you please talk into the mic for the record and say that you have signed a waiver for me to record our session?” I did as I was asked and he began to process of putting me under.

I took a little longer this time, as I was now aware of what he was going to do and I was curious to try and follow the sensation as I went under. I wanted to try a feel the point at which I actually went into a trance. It did not really work and I went under without realising it.

***

“Rebecca? Can you hear me?” I replied yes, I could hear him.

“Good. Now Rebecca, I want you to go back to where we were yesterday, back to the point where you were telling me about Mister Morris. Can you remember that Rebecca?

OK, now I want you to tell me again about Mister Morris. Can you do that Rebecca?”

My mind felt free and I was floating in a place where there was no pressure. No doctors or hospitals, no one telling me I was sick in the mind. I was free of the problems that had haunted me all my life. Then I heard Mister Peterson talking to me, asking me about Mister Morris.

“We are in his house. He has a lovely house, we can play here. Not like at home. I can’t play at home. Not allowed. Here I can though, Mister Morris is very kind to me.

He showed us his butterflies again today, down in his cellar. There are thousands of them, all different colours, all of them different sizes, big, small. Some of them are really big. So pretty, so delicate and fragile. Mister Morris is very kind to them, he doesn’t kill them. He lets them die on their own when they get old and then he puts them in boxes.

He has lots of butterflies. I want to touch them. I want to touch them like he does, when he touches me. I like it when he touches me. He gave me a big hug today and I like that. I love Mister Morris, he is so nice to me.

I want to put my hand in the cage with them. I want them to settle on my hand like they do when he puts his hand in the cage with them.

Oh no, they are getting out. Flying around the cellar. They won’t come back, Mister Morris is going to be angry with me for letting them out. I can’t make them come back.

Mister Morris is here. He is catching them in his net and putting them back in the cage. He is asking me why I am crying?

He is wiping my eyes, taking the tears away. He is so kind to me. He is giving me another big hug. He is not angry with me at all. He says it was just a mistake, not to worry about it. He says he won’t tell anyone if I don’t. It’s our secret. Ours alone no one will ever know.”

“Rebecca, I want you to open your eyes when I count to three. Are you ready? OK, one, two, three, open your eyes Rebecca.” With my eyes open, I blinked against the light coming in through the window. I sat up and swung my legs off of the couch. Mister Peterson was back behind his desk like yesterday.

I went over and sat down. He did not look up at me.

When he did, he had that odd look in his eyes like yesterday.

“Rebecca, can I ask you, have you seen Mister Morris since you were taken into hospital?” I thought it was an odd question.

“Not while I was in hospital, no. I saw him the other day. We met and had coffee.” Then I remembered the car ride here yesterday and I guess I must have blushed a bit in my shame.

“Why are you blushing Rebecca? You have gone very red, is it something to do with Mister Morris?” I felt as complete fool now. I said that, yes, it was something to do with Mister Morris, but I felt such a heel for the way I had treated him, that I did not elaborate on why it made me blush.

Mister Peterson asked me a few more questions, mainly about Mister Morris and then he told me that he needed to do a little work on this case, to consult with a few colleagues and that he wanted to see me in two weeks time, a few days before Christmas.

I left the office and went home, feeling less enthusiastic than I had the day before. I suppose that I was thinking that even Mister Peterson was stumped about my case and that it was his way of telling me he could not help. I got home and I was in a bad mood. In the kitchen, I made myself something to eat.

The boiling pan of soup brought me out of my reverie. It had spilled over onto the stovetop and it was even now dancing around on the hot plate, little drops of soup, frantically racing around, trying to escape the killing heat.

It was then that I noticed I was holding a knife in my hand and that my other arm was folded across my chest. The knife was close to it. Oh my god, had I been about to cut myself? I dropped the knife and stood back. I was shaking now. I was alone and I had come close to cutting myself again. This time it could have been a lot worse. If I had really hurt myself, then who would have been there to help me?

I turned the heat off under the pan of soup and grabbed my coat. I had to get out of here.

I had no intention of going to Mister Morris’ house, but that is where I found myself.

The lights were on so I figured he was home. I went up the path and rang the bell.
It seemed like an eternity before he answered the door. I was stood there shivering not only from the cold December air, but from the shock of what I had come close to doing to myself. He was surprised to see me, and I would not have blamed him if he had slammed the door in my face for the way I had treated him the other day, but he just stood aside and told me to come in out of the cold.

Once inside he led me into his kitchen. It was nice and warm. I remembered this kitchen, as Susanna and I had spent many happy hours here drawing pictures and telling stories to each other. It was a friendly familiar place and I felt safe here.

We sat down at the table and he placed his arms on it, his hands held together, clasped tightly. I sat there with my head hung in shame. How was I going to apologise for the other day?

In the end I did not need to. Mister Morris spoke first.

“I am glad you chose me to come to Rebecca. I know you do not have many friends here. I also know you don’t have any truck with the Church anymore. I also know what is probably going through your mind right now, yes I know I said that the other day and you tore me off a strip for being so presumptuous, but I really do know how it feels. There is nothing to apologise for, if that is what is making you hang your head like that. As I said, I am glad you chose me to turn to.” He got up and put on a pot of coffee, leaving me to sit and wonder at this man’s compassion and kindness.

The coffee was made and he sat back down at the table. I looked at him for the first time properly since turning up on his doorstep. “Thank you Mister Morris. I really don’t deserve this.”

“OK, lets get one thing sorted out. You are not thirteen years old any more, please call me Arthur, or Art as my friends call me. Now, what in the hell are you doing wandering around in the cold on a night like this?” the question was forthright and demanding. Gone was the subtle gentleness that I had always remembered. There were shades of my father in that tone of voice and I must have cringed back a little, as he looked surprised and he reached out over the table to take my hand. This time I did not jump back from the physical contact with him. He took my hand gently and held it in his own warm palm.

I could hold it in no longer. First came the tears and then came the tirade of garbled nonsense as I tried to pour out seven years of pain and hurt in a few seconds. Experiences that I had in hospitals, the meeting with Mister Peterson, the coldness of my parents towards me, everything came flooding out at once, like a river bursting its banks, sweeping away everything that found its way into its path.

Art sat and listened to me without interrupting, without judging or trying to analyse what I said. He just listened to me. For the first time in my life, someone just listened.

I don’t know how long I talked for, but by the time I had finished the coffee had gone cold. Art poured a fresh cup for me and sat back down.

I was exhausted and emotionally drained. I didn’t feel I had anything left inside of me. Art just sat there and watched me.

Eventually he spoke, as he saw the look on my face that almost begged him to say something to break the silence.

“You know, when my wife died, I was pretty relieved really. We had been married for fifteen years. Fifteen years of misery and frustration. All those years spent together, it was like living with a total stranger. You see, it was she who introduced me to the Church. Oh I went to Church regular enough, but this was her Church not mine. I went there just because I was in love with her and I wanted to marry her. She said that would only be possible if we were to be married in her Church. So, I joined them. I soon found out though that it was not for me.

I doubt you will have remembered much about them, but they are very puritanical about sex and love and physical things. They did not encourage sex, even between married couples. By all means, do it to have children, that is the only way, though if they could have found another means they would have. Artificial insemination was not around back then, but it would not surprise me to find out it was one of them that invented it.

Our relationship was almost a barren one. Sex was something that happened once to conceive Susanna, after that it ended. Never to be repeated. That was why I was relieved when she died. Not because it meant I was free to sleep with whomever I pleased, but because I would no longer feel those pangs of longing for the woman I had loved.

Your folks were pretty much like that too. I remember you as a kid, coming here to play with Susanna. Your dad phoned me and gave me the ground rules for you being Susanna’s friend. He was almost as cold as my Jean had been. Your mum was not much better.

So you see, when I told you I understood your feelings the other day, I really did mean it.

Now, as to why you do what you do to yourself, I have no idea. I am not a doctor and I can’t pretend to understand it all, but I do know that it all stems from your folks that I am sure of. I don’t know the whys and the wherefores, but I am not any one’s fool. I have eyes in my head and remember even now how you clung to me like a limpet once when I did what I would have done with any kid. I simply hugged you and you clung to me, as if you were to let go, then the world would end. Now that told me a great deal about you. You just needed love, that’s all. That was something I know your folks never gave you.

My Susanna is all caught up with the Church. She became just like her mother, cold and empty. She never showed me any affection or love after she turned about fifteen. The Church had her good and proper. Then when she was eighteen, she was old enough to make up her own mind and she took off for Europe and the mission. I haven’t heard from her since and I doubt I will ever again. I know how that makes me feel, and I could imagine that hurting yourself to try and get those you love to notice you could be as good a way as any. But as I said, I can’t say for sure. I am not a doctor.

Now, I think that you are just about ready for bed. Drink your coffee and I will drive you home. Then tomorrow, if you want, you can come see me again and we can talk all you like. But only if you want. Nobody is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”

The relief I felt was incredible. This man, this simple but kind man had managed to identify the very thing that had driven me to damage myself for years. I was light headed with it all. Why had I not seen it before? It was all so simple really. Art drove me home and I promised I would come see him the next day for sure. I had a new-found friend and I was not about to loose him. Neither of us noticed the car parked opposite his house as we left the drive in his car as he took me home.

***
Art drove back to his house with a sense of relief. He had wondered why Rebecca had blown up at him like she had the other day and he was too afraid to go to her house to ask her. He did not know her state of mind and he did not want to be the one responsible for pushing her over the edge into doing anything that might harm her. He was relieved that she had now a reason for her self-mutilation. He was not sure that it was all of it, there could well be much more to it, but he felt they had hit upon the root of most of it.

He got out of his car and walked up to the front door. As he put the key in the lock, he felt that there was someone close by watching him. He turned slowly around, in case it was some drug-crazed mugger. He did not want to startle them and end up with a knife through the chest for the sake of a few dollars. As he turned he saw the man come out of the bushes in the garden. He looked normal enough, well dressed and not at all like a mugger. Art relaxed a bit, maybe he was just lost.

“Can I help you?” he asked as the man drew closer.

“You might just be able to do that. I am looking for Mister Arthur Morris, would that be you by any chance sir?”

Art nodded his head. “That’s me. And you are?” he asked the stranger.

“Detective Muir, Mister Morris. I would like to speak to you if I may.” Art’s heart leapt. Could it be something to do with Susanna? “Sure, come on in,” he said and threw the door wide open.

 

 

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Copyright © 2001 David Godden
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"