Steel Butterflies

By Elizabeth B Splaine

Based on True Events

 

Deadly secrets & destructive, unintended consequences are unearthed in this coming-of-(s)age story of an unlikely friendship between a teenage girl and a former WWII spy. 

 

Some truths are best left u

• Language: English
• Publisher: Van Velzer Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781954253353

Book preview

Chapter 1

kisspng-swallowtail-butterfly-eastern-tiger-swallowtail-cl-swallow-5acf80f30edc40.1571205315235484030609.png

Ebony?

The fifteen-year-old stared outside at a group of moms waiting to pick up their kids from school. She noted they were wearing the uniform: black yoga pants (preferably Lulu Lemon) and a fitted, coordinating workout top. The late May sunshine bounced off their Yeti containers as their sporadic laughter carried through the open window.

Ebony Dobbs!

Ebony whipped her head to the front of the classroom where a sour-faced Mrs. Pickering stood with arms crossed.

I asked you what you believe caused the fall of communism in the USSR.

Ebony felt her cheeks get hot and anxiously glanced at the clock as it edged ever so slowly to 3:07. She forced herself to focus.

"Um…it’s complicated, but…I guess I’d have to say that when Gorbachev introduced Glasnost and Perestroika the Soviet people got a taste of western freedom and decided they liked it. But the Soviet government didn’t like the loss of control. That, coupled with its inability to pivot with the rapidly changing times, led to a collapsed economy, which only angered the people even more. The war in Afghanistan didn’t do the leadership any favors either, since the military, which had always been a central force in communism, showed itself to be weakened and on the verge of collapse. And then there’s the Chernobyl nuclear disaster which, despite Gorbachev’s promises of transparency, was covered up, but of course rumors leaked out and ran wild. I think the final blow, though, was when Reagan came to power and put international pressure on Gorbachev. Arms reduction talks started and the Nuclear Forces Treaty was signed, eventually leading to the Berlin Wall coming down. It was all downhill after that." She glanced at her best friend, Connor, and winked. He rolled his lips in to stifle a laugh.

Ebony glanced at the clock again, then at Mrs. Pickering, whose bright red lips were pinched in a tiny moue. She had obviously expected to catch Ebony out, to embarrass her in front of the class. Ebony smiled innocently until the irritated history teacher shifted her gaze.

Okay, next week we’ll get into the effect the fall of communism had on the economies of the world. Please don’t forget your assign—

The bell rang and the class erupted, drowning out the rest of her speech.

That was epic! Connor said hooking a book-laden backpack over his shoulder. You schooled her. Seriously, Eb!

Ebony shook her head. She’s okay. She just doesn’t understand we can multi-task. I can stare out the window and still listen. Most adults don’t get it. We’ve grown up multi-tasking.

"My mom says people really can’t multi-task. In reality, their brains are paying attention to one thing at a time. It’s just that their attention shifts so quickly it seems as if they’re doing two things at once."

I know your mom’s a brilliant psychiatrist but, just for the record, she’s wrong.

Connor grinned, highlighting slightly crooked teeth. Ebony loved his smile because it reminded her of David Bowie, as did his hair. Too bad Connor’s mother felt otherwise.

You should wear your retainer, C. How pissed is your mom every time she looks at your five-thousand-dollar mouth?

Connor smiled again. So pissed she promises she won’t spend another dime on my teeth. So, it’s a win for me, I suppose.

They left school and headed into the parking lot where the line of cars waiting to collect students snaked into the street.

Connor!

They turned to see Connor’s mother, Dr. Sarah Leibovitz, dressed in cream Chanel and looking like the successful professional she was. She beamed at Ebony as they approached the car. Hey, beautiful! Great to see you. She turned to Connor. C’mon, Connor. We have to get to the animal shelter for your interview.

I forgot about that. See you soon, Eb.

Why are you interviewing at the animal shelter?

Connor stared at her. Are you kidding me? We’re at the end of sophomore year! This is, like, the most important summer for us. You gotta get on the college train, girl. Get a job, volunteer somewhere, get an internship, join a club. Connor pointed into the distance. Look at that! The college train’s leaving and you ain’t on it.

Ebony smirked. I have a job and you know it.

Yeah, at a fish store yanking poor, helpless snails from their homes to make salads. That’ll look really good on a college app.

Connor Patrick, We’ll be late! Get in the car. Connor obliged, and Dr. Leibovitz rolled her eyes. He’s so dramatic. You’re fine. But you should get on the internship thing soon. Otherwise, there won’t be any good ones left. See you soon, Ebony. Say hi to your mom.

As they sped away, Ebony smiled, remembering how they’d met. A native of New York City, Connor and his parents moved to Barrington because Connor had been expelled from an elite private school after hacking into their computer system to add several days off to the school calendar. His mother now ran the outpatient psychiatric unit at Providence Health System, his father found a spot in a Boston-based financial firm. Barrington was a small community, so when most kids saw the new computer genius with green hair, they avoided him. But Ebony reserved judgment. As a bi-racial daughter of a single parent, she knew what it felt like to be on the outside, to be singled out, so she waited and watched. One summer afternoon she spotted him on Barrington Beach, a lone figure trying to skip rocks into the bay. She observed his feeble attempts from a distance. He never gave up, nor did he become frustrated, two traits that earned her respect. After ten minutes, however, she couldn’t stand it and approached to help.

I’m guessing you’ve never actually skipped rocks before today.

He smiled a crooked smile, unabashedly honest. Does it show?

Just a little. Here, let me show you.

That had been the summer before freshman year, and they’d been practically inseparable ever since. Two awesome years of laughter and friendship.

Ebony turned to see a gaggle of girls exit the front doors. She and Connor had nicknamed them the Untouchables because they carried themselves like they owned whatever room they walked into. They weren’t exactly mean, just standoffish enough to spark curiosity. The core of the group was old Barrington money, and many of them possessed the kind of easy beauty that allowed them to sparkle in a baseball cap and Chuck 70s. A tall, stunning brunette pushed through the doors last. Chastain Brooks was an intelligent, natural leader who the Untouchables followed like ducklings. Although she and Ebony shared several classes, they’d spoken only once when Chastain asked what grade Ebony received on a test. Since then, Chastain simply ignored her. Chastain’s mother died several years ago from breast cancer. Ebony considered talking to her about it, but the emotional wall Chastain constructed seemed as impenetrable as the Untouchables’ cool veneers.

As Chastain approached, the other girls spread out until they overtook the entire sidewalk, secure in the knowledge they wouldn’t be challenged. Their uniformed mothers gazed lovingly at them, their perfect, white smiles anointing them the next generation of privileged, white Barrington aristocracy. Chastain locked eyes with Ebony, then averted her gaze while dismissively tossing long hair. You’re not worth my time, the gesture stated.

Ebony’s insides tightened. She felt the familiar twist of a jealous gut. She considered her own curly hair, almond-shaped eyes and her name, bestowed at birth by her white father as an homage to her mother’s strength, dark skin and stark beauty. It wasn’t enough that she was a mixed-race child with a black mother and a white father, but they had given her a name that served as a constant reminder of her differentness in a town that was painted primarily white. Sometimes she hated her name, sometimes she was proud of it. She often wished she’d been given a name that didn’t invite attention.

With Connor by her side, however, Ebony had carved out a niche for herself—a witty, acerbic personality that no longer invited ridicule. She rarely thought of herself as an outsider, choosing to focus on the friendship with Connor. She’d even considered running for class treasurer next year. It was only when one of the popular kids like Chastain Brooks actively shunned her that Ebony was reminded where she ranked in Barrington’s teen social hierarchy.

She sighed heavily as her phone buzzed with a text.

Running late. There soon. Mom

When Ebony once patiently explained to her mother she didn’t need to sign texts, she informed Ebony it was a carryover from the days when the only text one received was in a letter, and letters were always signed.

Ebony started walking toward the end of the line of cars and spotted her mom’s rusted, blue Toyota. She jogged toward it, tossed her heavy backpack through the open back seat window and plopped into the front passenger seat. Hey Mom.

Jean Dobbs looked tired in faded blue scrubs and scuffed white Crocs. Warm, brown eyes crinkled at the corners with a special smile just for her daughter, yet there were deep circles underneath, as if she hadn’t slept well or was worried about things over which she had no control. Her black hair was laced with premature gray and had been pulled into a hastily constructed French braid. Wisps competed for release and stuck out at odd angles, giving the impression of a spiky halo. Jean glanced sideways at Ebony. You don’t work at the fish store today, right?

Ebony tensed, sensing what was coming. No. Why?

I’m late picking you up because a new patient was just added to my schedule. You need to come with me. Hope you don’t mind. It’s in Newport.

Ebony closed her eyes. She hated tagging along on home care visits. She detested the smell of old people and the way they gazed with rheumy, vacant eyes. She always wondered what they were thinking but never asked, having made that mistake only once and living to regret it as she sat for more than a half hour listening to an old man drone on about every ache and pain. Ebony appreciated that the only reason her mother took on new patients was to fund her college ambitions, so how could she complain? Sure. Fine.

This woman might be interesting, Ebs. She’s ninety-seven and lives in a mansion on the water.

I doubt it, Ebony thought gazing out the window. She had hours of homework and no desire to talk with an ancient, ailing person, no matter how interesting she might be. Her mind wandered to the Untouchables, then to Chastain and her silky locks. Do you think we could do something about my hair?

Jean frowned. What do you mean? You have beautiful hair.

Ebony grasped a curl and absentmindedly twisted it. I guess.

You have the most beautiful hair in the world.

Ebony smirked. You have to say that. You’re my mom.

Hey, listen. I made that hair, and it was no picnic, let me tell you, so don’t sit there and tell me—

Ebony laughed out loud. Okay, okay. My hair’s just fine.

Damn straight it is.

Ebony stared out the window. I need to get an internship, Mom.

What? Why?

Ebony shrugged. Prep for college, I think. Next year I’ll be a junior so I need to show on my applications I care about something or someone besides myself.

Jean smirked. Is that right?

Yes.

And do you? Care about someone other than yourself?

Ebony rolled her eyes. Of course I do. Connor’s going to work at the animal shelter.

Why don’t you work there too?

Ebony scrunched her nose. Animals aren’t my thing.

Maybe you should work with me as a volunteer.

No way!

You could do worse and you’d learn a lot.

Ebony imagined smelling soiled undergarments while sitting in a cramped room with an old person staring steadily at her. The claustrophobic vision coupled with the aroma made her gag.

Okay, okay. Never mind. Just be polite to this old woman, alright? The last thing I want is to cause her more stress with my dramatic, over-reactive kid.

Ebony waved. Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get there and be done with it. I have tons of homework.

Ebony felt Jean’s eyes on her as she leaned into the passenger door and closed her eyes. Her mind whirled with thoughts of SATs, the Untouchables, an internship, and the old person she was about to encounter. She sighed heavily.

Bad day? Jean asked.

It was okay.

Jean reached across and squeezed Ebony’s hand. I love you, Ebs.

Ebony nodded without opening her eyes. I love you too, Mom.

Chapter 2

kisspng-swallowtail-butterfly-eastern-tiger-swallowtail-cl-swallow-5acf80f30edc40.1571205315235484030609.png

Ebony’s head bounced off the window, waking her from a twenty-minute cat nap. Ouch!

We’re here.

Ebony blinked. Where’s here?

I think...it’s this driveway coming up, Jean commented as she consulted Wayz on her phone. Yup This is it. Huh. It seems kind of…

Creepy? Ebony finished, rubbing her eyes and gawking at their surroundings. Straight ahead, heavy tree branches hung low, threatening to scratch the top of the car as it passed. Bushes leaned into their path to actively impede progress. Ebony shook her head. As in, ‘don’t go into the haunted mansion’ kind of creepy? Like, ‘the call is coming from inside the house’ kind of creepy?

No, Jean answered patiently as she drove slowly. More like, ‘it’s a job and I need it so we’re going in’ kind of creepy.

Jean turned into a driveway that seemed not to exist, a slender gap in an unkempt rose hedgerow. Thorns scratched the windows, creating a high-pitched whine that pierced their ears. Gravel crunched under the tires as the car muscled through overgrown brambles that clawed at the worn paint. Ebony shuddered as her mind replayed every horror movie she and Connor had ever watched. The Toyota finally emerged into a circle that surrounded a marble fountain covered in moss and algae. Tadpoles were swimming in the dull gray water under the ever-watchful eye of a slimy, green cherub.

Out of the car, Ebony heard waves crashing against the beach as she inhaled an intoxicating scent. She searched for the source and noted a massive tree with thick, dark green leaves and huge white flowers.

It’s a magnolia tree. I didn’t know they grew this far north, Jean said.

Ebony turned her attention to the house. Peeling, faded, sky-blue paint hung in loose strands from the exterior. Cracks permeated the stucco. Faded black shutters hung from rusting hinges, giving the house a droopy, pathetic appearance. In contrast, perky, deep green ivy climbed wildly up the left side of the mansion, threatening to overtake the entire structure; a parasite slowly engulfing its host.

You coming or what? Jean asked as she gripped an oxidized knocker on the massive front door.

Movement at the edge of Ebony’s vision caught her attention, and the back of her neck felt prickly. She examined the house again, noting curtains in a third-floor window fluttering.

Ebony! Come on! her mother urged.

Ebony shook her head. Nope. I want to stay out here.

Jean crossed her arms. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to be in there at least a half hour.

It’s fine, Mom. I’ll be out here doing homework.

Ebony Louise, get over here. Now.

Ebony knew not to mess with Jean Dobbs when she narrowed her eyes and set her ample mouth in a straight line. "Okay. But just so you know, I enter this house with grave reservations. Emphasis on the word grave."

Jean blew out a mouthful of frustration and banged the knocker three times.

Always in threes, Mom. That’s how it starts. Three witches. Three wishes. It always ends badly.

How about third time’s the charm? Huh? How do you explain that? Jean smiled smugly.

Who doesn’t have a doorbell?

Houses that were built a long time ago. Be nice! Jean hissed as the heavy mahogany door swung open.

Ebony expected a butler; a tall man whose brow overshadowed deeply set eyes. Instead, a stout, balding man in his late fifties whose bulging belly spilled over the top of his pants stood there. His face was broad, his eyes were spaced almost too far apart, giving Ebony the impression of a hammerhead shark. Large lips didn’t do his appearance any favors, building up the fish comparison in her mind. As he glowered at them, Ebony scanned his generous frame and noted a grotesque big toe peeked out of a hole in dingy gray socks. He’s not a fish, she realized. He’s a troll.

You must be from the home care agency, he growled. He breathed heavily. Ebony wondered if he might need home health services in the not-too-distant future.

That’s right, sir. We’re here to see Ms… Jean referred to her phone. Ms. Celeste DeWit.

The troll grunted and moved to the side so they could enter. Ebony passed, smelling cheap cologne and another aroma she couldn’t pinpoint. Tobacco? That would explain the heavy breathing. The two scents didn’t mix well.

The three of them stood in a cavernous foyer until Jean cleared her throat. I’m Jean Dobbs. And you are? She offered a hand.

He ignored it. Who’s she? Your daughter? His voice was as gravelly as the driveway.

Ebony inched closer to Jean, who recalled her extended hand. Yes. My daughter. The agency called last minute, so I really didn’t have a choice but to bring her today.

He grunted again. You had a choice, Ms. Dobbs. We always have choices. Perhaps not palatable ones, but they’re still choices. That’s what Celeste says anyway.

The word palatable didn’t jibe with the walking heart attack. Ebony suppressed a smirk as she watched her mother form a civil response. My daughter won’t be accompanying me in the future. Don’t worry.

A frisson of relief slid down Ebony’s back. She’d never felt such repulsion as she experienced in the presence of this man as well as this house. It took all her will not to run back to the car and lock the doors.

Good. This is no place for children. Celeste says that as well. He glared at Ebony, who restrained the urge to kick him in the shin. Follow me.

Jean and Ebony shared a strained glance before walking single file down a hallway lined with black-and-white photos of a stunningly beautiful woman. Although the age of the photos’ subject increased, she never lost her grace or elegance. Quite the opposite, actually. With each passing year, the woman seemed to gain confidence, the talented photographer caught that quality on film. Ebony weighed a desire to know about the pictures against her distaste for speaking with the troll. Curiosity won out.

Who’s in these photos?

The man stopped abruptly, causing Jean to bump into him. That’s Celeste.

Ebony stepped back to examine the collection. There were at least thirty photos, each capturing Celeste unposed. It was as if she had paparazzi following her around. Who took them?

Jean shot her a warning glance. We’re not here to look at photos. I’m here to work, Ebony.

As the troll turned a corner, Ebony lingered to take one last look. Celeste clearly took great pride in her graceful, lean lines that filled out an evening gown or a pair of safari pants. Her hair was long in one shot, then cut in a pixie. Blonde and then brunette. Her skin was lighter in some photos and darker in others. It could have been a tan or simply the lighting. Her lips were often pursed as if she were blowing a kiss or perhaps it was an affected adaptation to accentuate impossibly high cheekbones. Most of all, it was Celeste’s eyes that grabbed Ebony’s attention. They were bright, yet sad, as if they’d already lived a lifetime and had seen things they wanted to forget. Perhaps she’d lost someone dear to her when some of the photos were taken.

Ebony! Jean commanded. Ebony hurried to catch up.

They turned a corner and Ebony’s breath caught in her throat. A withered figure sat in front of a massive window with floor to ceiling curtains, the metal throne of her wheelchair stark against the elegance of the silk draperies. Her body had contracted into a C shape so that gazing at her visitors was impossible. Her eyes were glued to her narrow feet which were immobile in the footrests of the chair. Gnarled hands with long, yellowed nails pushed against the armrests in an effort to force her body into a more erect sitting position. Although she fought valiantly, time and gravity imposed their wills and she relaxed into the chair, inclining her head to the side.

Ebony fought an urge to run. This situation—the smell, the horrific visual, the claustrophobic atmosphere—was everything she detested about old people. She knew these feelings were rude and unfair; they probably came from a place of fear and misunderstanding, but she didn’t care. There was no way the shrunken waif in the wheelchair was the same person in the hallway photos. She felt her heart quicken as she glanced at Jean, whose piercing eyes said, Don’t even think about running.

Who is here? The old woman’s quivering voice was thick with a French accent.

Jean stepped forward. Good afternoon, Ms. DeWit. My name’s Jean Dobbs. I’m the visiting nurse sent to care for your leg ulcer and any other health concerns you might have.

Adam?

The troll hustled to stand behind her wheelchair. I’m right here, Celeste. His voice had changed. It was higher-pitched and warmer. Either he genuinely cared for the old woman or he was a good actor. As his penetrating eyes met Ebony’s, she intuited the answer. I’m not going to let anyone inside this house who might cause you harm. Ms. Dobbs is okay. I vetted her.

Ebony’s lip curled. He’d done nothing of the sort. He hadn’t even asked Jean for identification, much less called the home care agency to verify her appointment. Then again, Ebony reasoned, no one went around pretending to be a home care nurse. Unless they wanted to rob an old person, Ebony’s active imagination continued. She shook her head to clear the unwanted thoughts.

Who else is here? Celeste asked.

Ebony sensed her mother’s edginess as Jean cleared her throat. My daughter’s here with me today, ma’am. But she won’t be coming in the future. Your request came rather late in the day when I was picking her up from school so I—

Can the child not speak for herself?

Ebony’s heart started racing. She threw Jean a panicked look but Jean gestured for her to speak. Ebony gritted her teeth. This was exactly why she hated coming with her mother on medical appointments. She danced from one foot to the other, then breathed deeply. Um, hi, Celeste, um, I mean, Ms. DeWit.

Jean closed her eyes and sighed in exasperation.

It is Madame DeWit to you, young lady. The old woman had managed to straighten herself somewhat. Her voice had become stern, the accent more pronounced.

Okay. Um, Madame DeWit. My name is Ebony. Nice to meet you. Ebony threw a desperate look to Jean and shrugged. She didn’t know what else to say.

This is no place for children. Celeste waved her hand as if to conjure Ebony’s disappearance.

Ebony stole a glance at the troll. Told you so, his eyes sang under a raised left eyebrow. She narrowed her eyes in response and resumed sulking.

Come here. I want to see you, the old woman ordered.

Ebony screwed up her face and looked at Jean. You cannot possibly expect me to approach this ancient crone, her eyes pleaded.

Please, Celeste said simply; not commanding, not begging.

Ebony winced. She could already smell the oldness and didn’t relish getting closer to it. She pictured Connor playing with kittens and puppies. Maybe animals were her thing. At least I wouldn’t be here.

The troll made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a growl. Ebony glared at him, then forced herself forward until she was standing next to Celeste’s wheelchair. The old woman’s bowed head was tilted to the side, allowing Ebony to examine her. Her dyed hair clung like a fitted hat on her small head, sky-blue eyes were rimmed in red. Sallow skin hung from her cheekbones like a dress on a hanger, reminding Ebony of a bird, fluffy with feathers but in reality, fine-boned and delicate. Ebony saw none of the spark from the photos and averted her eyes as she breathed through her mouth to avoid the nauseating combination of Chanel No. 5 and urine.

I cannot see you. My posture… she trailed off and raised a china hand to accentuate her point.

Ebony set her mouth, then leaned forward, meeting the old woman’s sunken eyes.

Why, you’re beautiful! she breathed. Simply astonishing. Your name again?

Ebony.

Celeste’s thin, pale lips drew back from rotting teeth in an attempt at a smile. Ebony swallowed hard to avoid vomiting. She couldn’t fathom that this witch hunched before her was the same beauty in the hallway photographs.

So fitting. Your name. You’re mulatto?

The word entered her ears like an ice pick. Ebony was accustomed to microaggressions from white people, comments tossed carelessly as a shot across the racial bow. Sentences that started with the phrase, I’m not a racist but… She was also familiar with gestures made, consciously or unconsciously, that made her feel other, like when a white person crossed the street in an effort to avoid making eye contact with her. But she had never been called mulatto, a word that contained historical bigotry of epic proportions. Ebony found herself speechless as she turned to Jean for guidance.

Jean’s mouth had dropped open but having negotiated the racial divide for much longer than Ebony, she recovered quickly. "Ms. DeWit, the term mulatto is inappropriate and offensive."

Celeste reached out a claw and grabbed Ebony’s wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. Forgive me, child. I honestly didn’t know. I can’t seem to keep up with anything anymore. She released her grasp, her hand falling to her wasting lap.

Ebony stared at her transgressor while competing emotions wrestled in her brain. Did the old woman truly not understand how offensive that word was? Ebony’s eyes scoured the old woman and saw only defeat, remorse and infinite sadness. Although she wanted to be angry, to rail against her racism, Ebony was surprised to find that instead she felt an overwhelming rush of sympathy for the fractured woman seated before her. Ebony’s eyebrows came together as tumultuous thoughts competed for dominance. In the end, as people of color have been doing for centuries, Ebony chose the more challenging path of kindness. I forgive you.

The genuine remorse in the nonagenarian’s eyes caught Ebony off guard so she looked away to avoid crying. When she met the old wo-man’s gaze once more, Ebony thought she detected a hint of the spark from the photographs, finding herself wondering about the younger Madame DeWit. What were her hopes and dreams? What had she seen that caused the sadness behind her once-bright eyes? Who was that woman?

Madame DeWit patted her hand. "I’m sorry you must kneel so I can see you. It’s my back,