Whiskey, Walnuts, & Butterflies
Father slammed his handgun down on the table. Red-faced and furious, he snatched it up again, cocked it, and pointed it at me.
“You ungrateful little…”
I had no chance to plead for my life before he pulled the trigger.
It was the three of us—my father, my sister Elsie, and me—in a ramshackle, two-bedroom house. We didn’t have running water and relied on an outhouse in the woods behind our home. Meals were pieced together scraps from local food banks and churches.
We sat frozen, too afraid to meet father’s gaze or do anything to remind him of our presence. He had made pickled cabbage. The sliminess made my stomach turn. I forced a bite and, unthinkingly, spat it back onto the plate. I gasped, glanced at father, then frantically gathered it back in my mouth. But it was too late. The damage was done, and he had his gun.
He shot me in his mind, but the real gun was unloaded. It’s something he did from time to time, especially after a twelve pack of beer and a couple of whiskies. To be honest, anything was better than his fists.
Since mom died, Elsie and I were all we had. Elsie was younger than me and spirited enough for the both of us. Unfortunately, my father preferred children who were invisible, and Elsie simply had too much life in her. Once, her teacher asked each student to name her favorite animal and why. Elsie’s imagination told the story of a recent African safari adventure. She had gotten lost, survived in the desert, met Mickey Mouse, and eventually befriended a giraffe, Gerard. Mickey had introduced them, of course. Elsie ended her story with how Gerard had guided her to safety while she rode on his back. Since then, giraffes had been her favorite animal. Elsie was the cleverest and wittiest person I knew.
The day after my close encounter with Father’s gun, Elsie and I prolonged our walk home from school by taking detours. Elsie loved it when I taught her new things, and I had learned about butterflies in science class that day.
“Did you know butterflies taste with their feet and their wings are transparent?”
“What’s transparent?” Elsie asked, eyes wide.
“You can see through them.”
Transfixed, she wondered aloud, “How can butterfly wings be filled with so much color but you can still see through them?”
I hadn’t thought of that. I was more fascinated that they taste with their feet. We pondered this, and other thoughts on butterflies, the rest of the way home. Time with Elsie brought serenity to my world. But the light that emanated from her was not always enough to cast out the darkness we faced at home.
A week later, Elsie and I were rolling a walnut back and forth on the living room floor. I thought walnuts looked like miniature wooden brains. We made a game out of who could roll it the straightest, giggling when it would hit a groove and roll crookedly. At one point, the walnut hit a wooden plank and rolled past Elsie. She laughed and chased after it as it rolled and rolled. She caught up to the walnut and reached to pick it up. Out of nowhere, my father’s heavy work boot stomped down, barely missing her small hand and crushing the walnut. Its brains crackled everywhere. Elsie jumped back. Father’s empty whiskey tumbler dangled by his fingertips at his side. Father eyed Elsie, her curly blonde hair, pointed nose, and big blue eyes, the spitting image of our mother. He hurled the tumbler across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass and ice flew. He stormed out, muttering insults under his breath. Elsie hurried over and collapsed into my arms, tears streaking her face.
“I miss Mommy,” she sobbed.
“Me too, Els, me too.” I rubbed her back until she calmed down, then took her to bed.
That night, a loud bang jolted me awake. Thunderous footsteps followed and then a door slammed. I glanced around the room with widened eyes, then felt next to me where Elsie always slept. She wasn’t there. I crept out of the room and searched our small house. Father’s bedroom door was closed, but my sister was nowhere to be found. The outhouse. But, we always went to the outhouse together. Why didn’t she wake me up?
I ventured into the backyard woods. Murkiness assaulted me. My scalp prickled and goosebumps rose over my body. In my haste, I had forgotten shoes.
“Elsie,” I whispered. I willed the shadows to dissipate and peered into the distance. Trees stood like stiff soldiers, branches waved mockingly. No sign of Elsie.
I started to run now, adrenaline powered my strides. I dodged outstretched limbs and exposed roots. Finally, I made it to the outhouse. Chest heaving, I knocked.
“Elsie, are you in there?” Nothing. I knocked again. I caught sight of something. Elsie’s stuffed giraffe, Gerard, lay on the ground, stained a bright red. My mind raced. “Elsie!” I pounded. My stomach dropped and my knees buckled. Dreadful silence. Shakily, I opened the creaky door and peered inside, “Els?”
As if the door had sensed my desperation, it burst open. A powerful mist drifted from the outhouse. Dazzling effervescence caught the moonlight. Divine color fluttered around me: blues, pinks, yellows. I staggered back, overcome with wonderment. Something viscous and warm pooled at my bare feet. It was dark and red. I tasted iron, dirt, and sulfur.
That’s when I saw her. Elsie. My little sister. My serene butterfly. Dead. Her slight body was slumped inside the outhouse. A gunshot wound, like a small black hole overflowing with the evils of humanity, pervaded her chest. Her fixed blue gaze was empty and her gray skin, once full of color, was tragically transparent.
