"The Butterfly Effect, Times Four" by Mark Budman

The Butterfly Effect, Times Four

I.

I drove through a tunnel of green on a road so narrow that an occasional twig would slap against the car with an angry thud. It wasn’t my car, but I twitched every time I heard a hit. I was always careful with the living things. I’ve never tore off a fly’s wings, or burned ants with a magnifying glass even when I was a boy. But I did rub off the powder from a butterfly’s wings once, and I kept washing my hands after that until they bled.
I’m a refugee from urban and suburban life. I came here to escape the pestilence, the police brutality, the racial strife, the economy crashing. This place must take me as I am: broken, bleeding from my eyes, and almost-white-looking. It has no choice.
The road turned sharply. A large cat, an orange tabby, stood in the middle of the road. Its eyes caught the light beam and sparkled — a green explosion. No way could I stop in time. I swerved, but the car hit it with the rear wheel anyway. Another thud. I stopped. I couldn’t remember if you have to report hitting a cat, or was it only a dog? As I could see in the rear-view mirror, it was still breathing. I closed my eyes, trying to slow down the rabid flapping of my heart. I got out of the car; I had no choice.
The cat raised its head when I approached and hissed. It coughed up blood. I’d never seen cat’s blood before, and I didn’t expect it to be just like mine.
I felt a touch on my shoulder. I rose from my knees and turned around. A young woman, no older than twenty, stood so close to me that the mint scent of her breath touched my face. She had a face of many colors. A pretty butterfly, with powdered wings.

II.

I was fingering my phone when the narrow road turned sharply. A dog, a golden retriever stood in the middle of the road.
I swerved but the car hit the dog anyway. Another bang. The airbag inflated and punched me in the face. The engine stalled. I said, shit, shit, shit. I untangled myself from the bag. I couldn’t remember if you have to report hitting a dog, or was it only a human? It was still breathing, if I were to believe the rear-view mirror. The bushes blocked the driver’s door, so I had to climb out through the passenger’s one.
The dog raised its head when I approached and snapped at me. It coughed up blood. I’d never seen dog’s blood before and I didn’t expect it to be just like mine. I felt a touch on my shoulder. I rose from my knees and turned around. A young woman, about thirty, my age, in jeans and T-shirt stood so close to me that the cinnamon scent of her breath touched my lips. Her hair the color of honey streamed down her shoulders. The skin of her face was multicolored, like Joseph’s coat. A butterfly with unfolded, fragile wings.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I tried to stop, but —“
“My fault entirely,” she said. “I left the door open, and he escaped.”
She knelt by the dog. It had stopped breathing already.
“Help me to carry him,” she said. “My house is just a hundred yards away.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s the least I can do.”
I picked up the dog. The thing was like a bag of bricks.
Struggling to keep my balance, I followed the woman through the bushes and saw a log house in a small clearing. A lawn tractor stood by the garage and the grass was immaculately cut.
I’ve never seen anything more peaceful. Truly, an enchanted place.
She opened the door for me and let me in. I eased the dog down carefully on the wooden floor. My spine creaked. She took a blanket from the bed and covered the dog.
She came close to me and unbuttoned the top button on my shirt.
I open my mouth to say something endearing, but nodded instead. Would I dare to rub the powder from her wings? She beckoned me in the bathroom and began to fill an old bathtub that stood on iron claws.

III.

I bent over the dying cat, and I felt a touch on my shoulder. I rose from my knees and turned around. A young woman stood so close to me that her mint scent touched my face, like a breath of a butterfly. She had a strangest makeup.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I tried to stop, but —”
She knelt by the cat. It had stopped breathing already.
“Help me to bury my Tom,” she said. “My house is just a hundred yards away.”
“Sure,” I said. “That’s the least I can do.”
I picked up the cat. Though big, it weighed nothing, I swear. I followed the woman through the bushes and saw an old stone house in the middle of a small clearing. The weeds grew knee-high and ivy covered the walls like a hand-made tarp.
“Wait,” she said. I leaned against the wall. She came back with a shovel and strolled away silently. I followed her.
“Dig here,” she said.
I dug in. She dropped in the cat. “Cover him.”
“A drink?” she said when I filled in the hole with earth.
“Sure,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid to live alone in the woods?”
Then she came close to me and unbuttoned the top button on my shirt.
“You have blood on your hands,” she said. “Take a bath.”
I meant to say, “Will you join me?” but nodded instead. The powder on a butterfly wings is really tiny scales.
She followed me in the bathroom and began to fill an old bathtub that stood on iron claws. The fragrant mist rose from the water.
“I’ll sponge your back,” she said. “I hope you are not ticklish.”
I climbed into the tub and closed my eyes. “Aren’t you afraid to live alone in the woods?” I said.
She kissed me on the lips, unless it was a bite.
“Wait,” she said. I stood outside, fully dressed, leaning against the wall. The clouds ran across the sky too fast, like in a surreal movie. A dragonfly hung in front of my face. My heart thumped against my ribs as fast as the beating of its gossamer wings. She came back with a shovel and strolled away silently. I followed her like an obedient dog.
“Dig here,” she said.
I dug in. The earth was soft as if someone had already dug in this place. A big hole, the size of a human grave.
“Would you like a drink?” she said when I was done.
“Sure,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid to live alone in the woods?
“I have weapons,” she said. “Even a woman can defend herself with the right weapons.”
I followed her into the house and she seated me in a massive chair of brown-stained wood. If you added leather straps, it would look just like an electric chair I’ve seen in the Sing-Sing prison museum. She poured me a chocolate-colored drink into a tall glass. I meant to refuse it — what if she was nasty? — but took a sip instead and closed my eyes. Would I have to wash my hands for days again?
She kissed me on the lips, unless it was a bite. Whatever it was, it felt good. I licked blood off my lips. I won’t die today. Will she?

IV.

I drove through a tunnel of green on a road so narrow that an occasional twig would hit against the 2018 Accord with an angry thud. The road turned sharply.
A young woman stood in the middle of the road. She had a frightening rainbow face. Each color was like beam hitting my eyes. No way could I stop in time. The airbag hit me in the nose. I bled like a mad dog. Like a forest cat.
I got out and knelt next to the woman. She had stopped breathing already.
A butterfly emerged from her open mouth. A butterfly with scales on her open wings. It was so pretty, and it rose rapidly in the moist air, a refugee on its way to a better place.

Mark budman

Mark Budman is a first-generation immigrant. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Catapult, Witness, Five Points, Guernica/PEN, American Scholar, Huffington Post, Mississippi Review, Virginia Quarterly, and elsewhere. His novel My Life at First Try was published by Counterpoint Press.

Headshot: Mark Budman

Photo Credit: Mathew Haddad