For the Love of a Butterfly

By John Christopher

John and Brea have lived very different lives. His began as a near orphan in New York City, where he became involved with, and practically raised by, the mob; accepted as a man of honor by his fellow mobsters, young and old. His involvement in an incident, one resulting in the death of his childhood friend, lands him in prison. He now wears not only some physical scars, he carries a consuming agony and guilt over this night that took the life of his friend. Brea Rhodes is a golden girl, a sweetheart of Hollywood. A famous starlet, she is swarmed by rumor-hungry paparazzi; despite her success, however, theres something sad about the young beauty.

After his release from prison, John accepts an offer from a senior fellow mobster, and also fatherly figure to John, to head out west and tend to a faltering businesshe, seemingly by chance, runs into Brea one day at a deli. He also makes the acquaintance of enigmatic Hollywood agent to the stars named Gabe. Something about John interests Gabe, and Gabe invites John to a fancy celebrity gala hes hosting. Brea also happens to attend, and soon John and Brea find they have more in common than they imagined.

Their love affair is rapid and passionate. They cant get enough of each other, and John feels the need to keep her protected from his past and from the paparazzi. Soon, turmoil resulting from the death of his fatherly, senior mobster back east, calls John home. He must now choose between the life he once lived and the life he hopes to start with Brea. What will his final alliance be, and will John be able to protect his butterfly from the oncoming storm?

FOR THE LOVE OF A BUTTERFLY is a story of love, compassion, divine beauty and divine redemption. It is a heartfelt tale of love, with philosophical undertones that contemplate good and evil, right and wrong, pain, sacrifice, loneliness, and the divinity found in sincerity, found in truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475940879

John Christopher

John Christopher was the pseudonym of Samuel Youd, who was born in Lancashire, England, in 1922. He was the author of more than fifty novels and novellas, as well as numerous short stories. His most famous books include The Death of Grass, the Tripods trilogy, The Lotus Caves, and The Guardians.

Book preview

Chapter One

...memory, among the lost below.

The wide grey wooden strip of boardwalk was abuzz with beachgoers in 1980s-style dress. Children, some in costume and dance regalia, sparsely crowd an area in front of one of the large hotels that line the long beach side walkway. Sea gulls squawk as they glide the skies over the beach. An overhead banner strung across the boardwalk reads: ATLANTIC CITY TALENT SHOW.

A petite, six year old girl, dressed in a pretty dance outfit, sits upon a bench with her bare feet dangling beneath her; her hands timidly fidget together in her lap as she looks out toward the sea. A subtle sadness seeps from her...a colorful painted floral design with a small butterfly adorns her right cheek.

Nearby, to her right, hover a couple of other young girls. They edge in closer to her, giggling and motioning toward her slightly bigger-than-average feet...not abnormally bigger, just a sure sign she probably won’t be destined to shortness. The young girl, humiliated, stops dangling her feet, brings them under the bench some, and tilts her head toward the ground.

A young boy of similar age, with dark hair and big brown eyes, stands close by. He observes this, and approaches the vacant left side of the bench.

Can I sit with, um... he sputters.

She gives him a shy, insecure assenting nod. He climbs up and sits upon the bench, then makes an ugly face at the mean girls. ...They scatter off.

The girl, hands still fidgeting in her lap, legs curled beneath the bench, still looks down. The boy kicks off his shoes and sticks out his own feet. He curls his toes and distorts them in self-mocking expression. She shyly looks over at him with an amused smile and allows her feet to slightly dangle down again.

Politely, he looks at them. I think they’re pretty, he says.

...She becomes slightly embarrassed and bashfully curls her legs beneath again.

Recognizing this, he looks up towards her, in her pretty outfit, with her butterfly, floral-design painted cheek. He adjusts his words, Your colors...I think they’re, you have pretty colors.

She gives him a humble thank-you smile and turns her head back toward the sea. My name is Johnny, he says.

At that moment, a women wearing big sunglasses and big hair approaches, and proceeds to put the shoes back on Johnny’s feet. With a drawn N.Y accent, she readies him on his way... It’s time to go now, Mr. Say goodbye to your friend, Johnny, she says, as she leads him away. He looks back to the young girl, and with a consoling smile. It’s alright, he says. She watches him, and with a humble smile, expounds, My name is... He’s led away down the boardwalk.

missing image file

From somewhere close by, an old man’s voice bellows through John’s haze of memory...

John--Aay John, are you up? I made you a cup of coffee for your birthday. It’s hot, do you want it?

...Metal distantly clangs here and there at a distance. An old dingy tier of jail cells is the reality. Scraped into the colorless paint on the lintel above the door of the dingy, old, shadowed cell, THROUGH ME THE ROAD TO THE CITY OF WOE, THROUGH ME THE ROAD TO THE LOST BELOW.

Inside the cell, sits a young man, somewhat obscured in a shadow, he sits leaned back on an old bunk, head tilted back in reverie, John, ...he abandons his reverie and straightens his head, Yes, Marty. Thank you. John, average height, slightly better than average build, dark hair, big brown eyes, with modestly handsome face, wearing only pants and shoes, rises out of the shadow and off the bunk...two Bullet wound scars prevalent, on the right side of his chest.

Thirty-three today, right John, Marty questions? The older man’s weathered arm protrudes from the cell, to the right of John’s, and slides over a mildly steaming, just as old and weathered tin mug, full of coffee. In his characteristic, level toned voice, John answers the thoughtful old man’s inquiry, Yes, Marty; thirty-three. An old thirty-three, Marty, an old thirty-three, he says, as he lifts the coffee through the bars and into his cell. Thank you my friend, Thank you. He sips from the old tin mug, walks over to, and stands a-front a small old desk...he stirs the coffee.

So, what were you doing John, working on your writing, asks Marty? John glances over at a small stack of papers that lies on the desk, a pencil rests atop it. The cover page reads: UNTITLED".

No, Marty, getting too close, haven’t been able to stir much, what shall I call it...much creativity lately? Was just sitting here thinking back to a simpler time, that’s all.

A TV faintly crackles from Marty’s cell, Aay John they’re showin’ that celebrity girl again on my TV. They’re surrounding her again with all those cameras. Those people should be locked up in here. Look at them-do you want to see this, John?

Na, not really, Marty, but yeah, why not, push it out. Let’s take a look at the circus again for a minute, says John, with an indifferent boredom. Marty slides an old miniature TV out in front of the divide between their cells. John pulls a T-shirt on over his bare, tone frame, and stands in the middle of the cell, looking out at the broadcast. He picks up, and sips his coffee.

There on the Screen, a pretty young woman with long blonde hair, and a beautiful figure, apparent through her tight-fitting high-fashion attire, forces her fragile face stern, but cannot hide the obvious humiliation as a swarm of paparazzi maul at her with their flashes, microphones, and violating questions. Is it true, Brea?!? Do you have any comment about your ex-boyfriend’s book release!!!?

The mask adorning Brea’s face, seeps through with painful humiliation...a man’s uncouth voice crudely sounds from the cell to the left of John’s, She’s a tramp anyway-let them harass her! Her ex-boyfriend told everyone all their–

...Cutting him off, John intervenes, Aay Ralphie, do you know that girl?! No, I don’t think you do anymore than I do! Do you realize what those people put this girl through? Look at it, at her, she’s about to cry for god’s sake! And on top of it all, some little creep ex-boyfriend, for a ham sandwich sells out not only her privacy and dignity, but even his own, scalds John, as he shakes his head! No honor having scumbag creep...and now even mamoans like you Ralphie, get to call her a tramp? You think you got her by miraculous conception Ralphie? ...So sick of these envious, miserable people, reprimands and rants John, as he respites’ from the TV and picks up a nearby newspaper.

Dopey...Miraculous what, asks Ralphie?

John, standing in the center of the cell, coffee in one hand, newspaper outstretched in the other... Just do me a favor, Ralphie. Do us all a favor, shut your sewer mouth up for a night, huh, John exhorts, as distant voices ring out... Yeah Ralphie--who wants to hear you! Yeah shut up for a night Ralphie!

Wouldn’t you agree, Marty, asks John, as he lifts the coffee to his lips and looks at the newspaper. Yeah John--I agree, answers Marty, in almost child-like tone...as the TV cackles on in the background.

I’ve seen enough, Marty. You can take it in. Thank you, says John.

Marty pulls the TV away... John stands there, still looking at the headline and photo on the front page claiming, BREA’S BOY TELLS ALL. He occasionally sips the coffee, as he looks at the headline photo of a defensive, defenseless, Brea, underlain with emotion, being mobbed by paparazzi. Tears threaten to burst through the masked expression she displays. A photo of a preppie guy, of a similar age, smirks in cheap triumph as he holds up a book...the photo sides the one of Brea.

So you’re going to be out there in California yourself soon, John...you said handling some things for Jackie, asks Marty? John still looking at the front page, aloud to himself, utters... Creep!, as he tosses the newspaper into a small trash basket.

...The preppie guy’s smirking photo looks out from the basket.

Yeah, just some off time Marty -- The sun, weather, and everything, you know. John, back turned, does something near the desk, as Marty goes on... Maybe if you finish your writing, you can do something with it out there, a movie or something?

John sips his coffee and looks down at the desk, towards the

small stack of paper with pencil atop it. ...And maybe you can help that girl out with all those camera people, John? Didn’t you say you would? That you’d like to do something to them for- John, interrupting, with a grin and an amused shaking of his head... Yeah, Marty, I did.

I think that’s a good idea, John. I think she can use help with all them, says Marty with innocent petition.

So do I Marty. Maybe I’ll try and send a letter out there to her, a damsel in distress, to let her know, OK? You have my word on it, Alright Marty?

Yeah, all right John–.

See. At least somebody in here still owns a little humility, Commends John. And the writing Marty... A movie? Maybe I’ll do that too– You listening Ralphie? We’ll all be big stars. Everyone except Ralphie! says John, as he glances sarcastically towards Ralphie’s cell, then sips the last of his coffee...

missing image file

Hours later, as the night closes, and the noise subsists, John sits at the small, old desk, finishing up a letter. Some old books stand on a small shelf above the desk, some others lie crookedly stacked at the back corner of the desk. He scrawls out the closing lines...

"...sometimes very capable. Who

I am, my name, is not important...

But if ever I can help, well

...you let me know?

   Sincerely,

      and always

         Just a guy..."

...John hears Squeaking Sound approaching from a short distance away. He slowly stands, while sealing the envelope. He looks at its written destination:

"To: Brea Rhodes

100 Studio Drive

Hollywood, CA 91601"

"Return address

30 Crosby Ave. (box B7) Bronx, NY 10461"

...Then tosses it atop a news paper that lies on the desk, which, next to a photo of Brea, reads: 100 Studio Drive, Hollywood CA. 91601. ... The squeaking sound stops behind him, John turns. There, standing in front of the cell, an old hunched over man, beside a small rolling book cart, shuffles through some books.

How are you feeling today, Mr. Barnes, John inquires?

I’m all right son, I’m all right, the old man replies, with a friendly, vacant wrinkled smile. John affords him a modest smile in return, as the old man jestingly continues...

"Saw the doc the other day. Another twenty years left in me he told