Singing to Butterflies

By Marlon S. Hayes

In a small Southern town, two teenagers find themselves falling into a once-in-a-lifetime love affair, while the people around them watch with hope or despair. Flora Jean is a young Black girl who daydreams of leaving the segregated caste system of Mississippi far behind her. She's being raised by her single mother, Lily, a no-nonsense woman who

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renewed Sanity Productions
• Release date: Apr 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869304926

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Singing to Butterflies

Singing to Butterflies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Copyright 2024 © Renewed Sanity Productions

All rights reserved.

ISBN 979-8-8693-0491-9

eBook ISBN 979-8-8693-0492-6

Printed in the United States of America

For my big brother, Brian T. Hayes; my nemesis, yardstick, and former roommate. There was magic in reading books, building hotels for plastic soldiers, and learning to box with batting gloves. Thanks for everything. One love B.

Dedication

Contents

Chapter 111

Singing to Butterflies (Flora Jean)

Chapter 215

Amongst the Princes (Bobby)

Chapter 319

Gazelle (Flora Jean)

Chapter 425

Walking the Plank (Bobby)

Chapter 531

Nobody’s Nothing (Jack)

Chapter 637

Soaring

Chapter 741

New Spaces and Places

Chapter 847

In the Rowboat

Chapter 953

My Little Buddies

Chapter 1061

The Void

Chapter 1165

Whose Little Boy?

Chapter 1275

Learning to Breathe (Bobby)

Chapter 1381

Metamorphosis (Flora Jean)

Chapter 1485

The New Us (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 1591

Legacy (Robert)

Chapter 1697

Ties and Connections (Lily)

Chapter 17101

Learning Curve (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 18105

No Time for Foolishness (Robert)

Chapter 19111

Nervous Nellie (Flora Jean)

Chapter 20 115

Movin’ Up (Raymond)

Chapter 21125

Evolving (Jessica Lee)

Chapter 22129

Worker Bee (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 23135

I Do What I Gotta (Lily)

Chapter 24139

I Never Wanted Nothing Before (Raymond)

Chapter 25 143

Where did the summer go? (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 26149

New Flowers (Jessica Lee)

Chapter 27153

First Kisses Are Overrated (Flora Jean)

Chapter 28161

I Wish You Were My Father (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 29169

The Patient (Flora Jean)

Chapter 30173

I See You (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 31179

What Irma Says (Robert)

Chapter 32187

The Prisoner (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 33193

Gone Fishin’ (Flora Jean)

Chapter 34201

Peeking through the Window (Raymond)

Chapter 35205

Meeting Mommy (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 36215

A Song from the Soul (Flora)

Chapter 37231

A Trip to Heaven (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 38237

Hate Don’t Need Water (Raymond)

Chapter 39241

The Absence of Clouds (Flora Jean)

Chapter 40247

Graduating (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 41251

For Your Own Good (Lily)

Chapter 42261

Being a Little Bird (Raymond)

Chapter 43265

Losing my Superpowers (Flora Jean)

Chapter 44271

Boston (Mr. Fitzgerald)

Chapter 45281

Pouring into Him (Flora Jean)

Chapter 46289

The Longest Winter Ever (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 47303

The Bad Seeds (Raymond)

Chapter 48307

The Fly on the Wall (Jasper)

Chapter 49311

The Castle Beckons (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 50317

Robby (Flora Jean)

Chapter 51323

Clarity is a Bitch (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 52327

Wilted Flowers (Flora Jean)

Chapter 53339

Da Nile Ain’t Just a River (Raymond)

Chapter 54345

Daydreams and Clouds (Flora Jean)

Chapter 55351

Nightmares (Bobby Jr.)

Chapter 56357

Nobody’s (Robby Jackson)

Chapter 57359

Epilogue; The End of Days (Bobby Jr.)

On warm afternoons I sat under the shade of a huge cypress tree down by the creek that wound behind our house. I engrossed myself in books about other people, places, and times. My momma, Lily, would occasionally call my name from the house to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep too close to the water and tipped in. It only happened once, but ever since then she hasn’t taken any chances. I was her only child, and she made sure I knew my position.

Flora Jean, quit running so much! This Mississippi heat will make you pass out, and you my only child! I ain’t got no replacement for you! Flora Jean, get away from the edge of the water! You my only child, so you best not drown! For every situation in my young life, my momma let me know how precious I was to her. Sometimes I likened our relationship to an

Chapter 1

Singing to Butterflies

(Flora Jean)

On warm afternoons I sat under the shade of a huge cypress tree down by the creek that wound behind our house. I engrossed myself in books about other people, places, and times. My momma, Lily, would occasionally call my name from the house to make sure I hadn’t fallen asleep too close to the water and tipped in. It only happened once, but ever since then she hasn’t taken any chances. I was her only child, and she made sure I knew my position.

Flora Jean, quit running so much! This Mississippi heat will make you pass out, and you my only child! I ain’t got no replacement for you! Flora Jean, get away from the edge of the water! You my only child, so you best not drown! For every situation in my young life, my momma let me know how precious I was to her. Sometimes I likened our relationship to an owner and a prized mule. But, in my momma’s eyes, ours was the kinship between a queen and a queen in training.

Momma let me spend hours outside reading my books without interfering too often. When the blues played on our kitchen radio, Momma would turn the volume up enough for me to hear all the way down at the creek. Most afternoons she’d bring me fried chicken, fish, or other home-cooked food as a snack. She’d quietly tap me on the shoulder, hand me a plate, then disappear back into the house or our small barn. My momma didn’t view my reading time as wasteful like a lot of other parents. She knew I daydreamed of leaving here for college and the world beyond, and she was dreaming right along with me.

When you are twelve going on thirteen, it seems as if anything is possible in life. Even in rural Mississippi, where we lived in a little house not too far from a small town, I thought everything was small because all the things I read about were huge, jaw dropping stuff I could only imagine. Subways, airplanes, skyscrapers, and ocean liners were just some of the things which I couldn’t witness for myself due to where we lived. In rural Mississippi there were only a couple of ways to get around, either by car or foot. Walking alone along country roads was not advisable for a young Black girl, because things could happen. I vowed to get away from Mississippi one day, and I would only come back once a year to see Momma.

My life was simple because my momma made it that way. We weren’t farmers, so I didn’t toil in the fields. We had a huge garden though, and a big flock of chickens. I’d gather freshly laid eggs from the coops every morning, then sprinkle corn amongst the squawking birds, wash the eggs, and then my morning chores were finished. Once the eggs were clean, Lily might sell a couple dozen down at the market for pin money, but we didn’t need to sell eggs or chickens to make a living, which was something I learned before I was ten.

At school, I was regarded by my classmates as someone special, I guess. I liked to answer as many questions from the teacher as I could, and nobody bullied or ridiculed me. At recess, I played tag with the boys or jumped rope with the girls. Everybody was a friend to me, and we all got along. Sometimes, when the mood hit me, I sang to the butterflies. If a big old Monarch alighted anywhere near where I was playing, the rest of the world vanished while I sang odes to the butterflies.

I always sang, whether I was happy, sad, or upset. Singing to butterflies originally started one day while I was reading a book by the creek, and humming a hymn which I was practicing for church. A butterfly landed on a bush three feet from where I was sitting. The slow, rhythmic flapping of its wings was like a song of their own, and words came from my mouth in harmony with the melody of its wings. I timed my words, changing the tone of my voice, singing a sweet song to a beautiful creature which seemed to respond. It fluttered, seeming to be dancing to my song, and when I hit the high note to end the song, the butterfly rose towards the sky. It was as if my song had renewed its spirit. From then on, whenever a butterfly flew or rested close by, I would sing it a melodic song.

Of course, people remarked on my behavior, talking about ‘the girl who sang to butterflies.’ Even though no one ridiculed or called me crazy, I felt different from everyone. It was as if I had been given a gift from God which let butterflies dance to the sound of my voice.

My brother, Jack, and I were playmates together, following and leading each other on adventures both good and bad. Jack was two years younger than me, but I never lorded it over him or treated him as a despised younger sibling. We needed each other too much for our sibling wars to last very long.

In our house, our momma wanted peace and serenity, and our father wanted quiet. In order for Jack and myself to have fun, we had to leave the vicinity of the house. We’d tell our momma we were going to play outside, and her words never varied. Be careful, was always her final warning to us. Careful? Careful was us sitting in the house playing with our toy cars, Lincoln logs, or G.I. Joe action figures. We could play quietly of course, and not get holes in our jeans, or mud on our faces. But Jack and I didn’t like being careful and quiet when we played pirates. I was Captain Bobby and Jack was my First Mate. We had an old rowboat Father gave us when I was around seven, which served as our little skiff. My father, Robert Fitzgerald, owned lots of land and businesses. Many people looked up to him. We had a small pond about six or seven feet deep, not too far from the house. My brother and I sailed the seven seas, plundered villages, and made scurvy varmints walk the plank. On the pond, our imaginations were allowed to run wild, far away from the quiet, boring existence we endured at home.

Our mother was considered a social butterfly. Maybe she’d have thrived more in Jackson, New Orleans, or even Memphis. Her outgoing personality seemed wasted in our Mississippi county. There were only so many boards or charities she could lead, and it was obvious to my brother and I from an early age that she had little interest in being a mother.

Jessica Lee Davis was a blue blood, descended from a lengthy line of Southern aristocrats. The landed gentry, I guess. When she finished college, she married a man twenty-five years older, and, within a year, gave birth to a son named after his fatherme, Robert Fitzgerald Jr. Tradition sucks.

Eventually a nurse, or rather a nanny, was hired. The nanny was with us for the first seven years of my life. She was a Black woman named Irma, and she took care of Jack and me. She didn’t tell stories or coddle us, but she made sure we ate, went to bed on time, and were presentable when our parents required us to be. She had a hand in raising us, but our butler Jasper was the one who really brought magic into our lives.

I would say Jasper was in his late twenties or early thirties when he decided to take an interest in us boys. He’d always been in the periphery of our lives; making meals, cutting grass, trimming trees, etc. Any time Jack and I ran from the house to indulge our adventurous natures, Jasper nodded to us in greeting, and kept a watchful eye upon us without interfering. We knew he was around, and that was good enough for our young minds.

One cloudy morning, Jack and I were sitting at the kitchen table eating oatmeal and toast. My mother had given us a perfunctory good morning before disappearing into her office to make phone calls or whatever she did behind closed doors. Our father had yet to appear, so Jack and I sat by ourselves. Jasper was at the sink washing dishes. For the first time, neither Jack nor I had any ideas of what to do with ourselves on a gloomy Saturday morning. Jasper turned off the water, then turned and spoke to us for what may have been the first time ever.

Let’s go fishing, boys, he said. We looked at each other, Jack and I, puzzled by what he’d said, or that he’d even talked to us. Until then, he had only ever said Good morning to us. The morning he asked us to go fishing, I was about eight years old. Our nanny was no longer with us, but we didn’t know why. I thought maybe our parents figured we were old enough to get along without her.

Jasper told us to change into muck about clothes, and we hurried to follow his instructions. When we reappeared into the kitchen, Jasper handed us both orange ponchos to pull over our clothes, and we followed him out the back door. As we walked, Jasper carried his tackle box, explaining everything he carried in it; baits, hooks, and lures. We stopped by the carriage house where Jasper retrieved three fishing poles. He led us to our pond where our little boat rested by the shore. Our pond was not that big. However, to us boys, the pond was as big as all seven seas. Jasper sat on a boulder near the shore and explained things to us.

This is a catfish pond, he said. I tend to it as if it were a chicken coop, throwing corn to the fish and whatnot. I dumped the first catfish in here a few years ago with your father’s permission. There’s nothing quite as tasty as fresh catfish which you’ve raised yourself, I can tell you that right now.

As much as Jack and I played on our pond, we’d never paid attention to the fish swimming beneath us, or around us. Jasper explained how he caught fish for our dinner once a week, and how he sold fish down at the market every week. It was our father’s pond, but Jasper made it into a business venture, and a place to relax and catch fish.

That morning, he taught us how to bait our hooks, cast our lines into the water, and sit patiently waiting for the fish to bite. We sat there while Jasper told us tales of ‘Brer Rabbit’ and ‘Brer Bear.’ We laughed, learned, and caught a fine string of fish. Jasper cleaned them, explaining everything he was doing while we watched. That night, I devoured fried catfish, hushpuppies, and coleslaw, and to the end of my living days, I will swear that was the best catfish I ever tasted.

Daddies were almost mythical creatures amongst my contemporaries. Of course, everyone had a father as it took two to tango. But, once the dance was over, many men left. Some went toVietnam and never came back. Others fled up north, escaping responsibilities unknown to them. There were those who moved to the next county, starting over with new women and creating new families. Some went back to their wives, ignoring the children they’d created. outside of their marriage. Yes, disastrous outcomes occurred often.

My biological father, upon hearing of my coming into the world, disappeared up North never to be heard from again by my mother and me. His folks lived a few miles from us, but those relatives never acknowledged my existence or kinship, and Lily never asked them for anything. Lily told me about his relatives, cautioned me never to ask anything, nor expect anything from them. I promised I wouldn’t. Some cousins went to school with me, so it was difficult to refrain from saying, I’m yo’ people too. Mississippi’s population abounded with stories similar to mine. Stories which would raise eyebrows in other places barely caused a ripple in our Mississippi county.

Lily made up for the absence of others. We talked about everything; nothing was off limits. She subtly led me to do what she thought was right. When the Blues played in our house, it not only gave me glimpses into what life was about, but also encouraged me to sing. I had been in the church choir since I was seven, getting solo parts every few weeks. Lily knew I loved to sing. So, she had me attend church every Sunday, where I not only was able to sing, but I also had a spiritual relationship with God. Subtle.

When I was a little girl and my school friends would ask what my momma did for a living, I’d shrug and say, She sells chickens and eggs. That was what I knew then. As I got older, other pieces fell into place, and I understood the extent of my momma’s hustle.

My needs were always met, even though Momma never had a job. I knew she sold chickens, eggs, fish, and dinners every day. Single men would stop by our house and pay for a pre-packaged meal in cash. As soon as the lumber mill shift workers finished for the day, cars would start pulling into our front yard. I helped package the meals while Momma managed all transactions. Often, I noticed her add an extra bag to the purchases. For a long time, I thought the extra bag held condiments, which further showed my naiveté.

A hundred yards behind our house was a small shed which Lily kept padlocked. I wondered about it, but I had been taught not to ask questions of my momma. Curiosity, though, is a funny thing. It nudges a person at odd moments, sometimes making us find out things we didn’t need to know.

I was undergoing a metamorphosis for which I thought I’d been prepared. I was slowly being betrayed by my body, something which happened to every woman. A tall, thin girl with the energy to run and sing all day was now becoming someone new. Someone who needed to rest and have quiet moments. Budding breasts changed the outline of my body, and my thin frame started to fill-out and curve. I began a monthly battle with a new nemesismenstruation.

Headaches, cramps, loss of appetite, all became monthly recurrences over which I had no control. My momma would put a cold towel on my head, have me take medicines to ease the cramps, and sit with me for a while. I found her voice in these times so soothing, it would coax me into a deep sleep. During one of these sessions, I mumbled the question which existed in my subconscious, Momma, what’s in the extra bag you give to the men every day?

Lily hesitated as if she was deciding whether or not to answer. After a short while she replied, I’ll show you in a couple days when you’re feeling better.

I eased into sleep, knowing the mystery would be cleared up soon.

A couple of days later, I was back to feeling like myself. I was no longer bloated but was a bit depressed by the knowledge I’d have this period for what seemed like forever. I walked into the kitchen where my momma was making salmon croquettes and biscuits. The birds sang sweet songs outside, celebrating another beautiful sunny day. Lily sensed my presence, turned, and smiled at me, and seemed reassured by my healthy appearance. Her mood was infectious, and I smiled in return. She handed me a salmon croquette in a biscuit. Hot and juicy, mixed with a warm and fluffy biscuit. It was the exact kind of comfort food that I needed. Delicious.

Bring it with you, she said. Let’s go for a walk.

I followed behind, nibbling my sandwich as we walked out the back door. My feet were bare, which was usual for me around our home. I only wore shoes to church, school, or the market. Cool earth or grass beneath my feet was what I was used to, as I found it soothing, and often came to the realization that shoes bothered my feet.

I thought Lily would go at once to the shed, so I was somewhat surprised when she walked in a different direction towards a grove of trees not too far from the spot by the creek where I read my books. Under the trees there were strange green stalks growing at least six feet tall. Lily stopped next to them and turned to face me.

Look around. Notice that neither the house nor the road is visible from here. This area can’t be seen unless someone is right here, she said. These are marijuana plants, and they are illegal to grow and cultivate. I grew the first one as a lark to see what would happen. Once I started selling one, it became quite a lucrative thing to keep selling. It’s one of the things which helps us get by.

My mouth was agape. I wondered how long she’d been selling weed. No sooner had the question come to mind than she answered on her own.

I’ve been selling marijuana for six years, she said. A few months out of every year, I cut the stalks down completely. I cut them down to make sure no one has a clue they are here, then I’ll start the growth process over again. Now, let me show you the shed.

Spellbound, I trailed behind my momma; my outlaw, weed-selling Momma. Would wonders never cease?

Lily pulled keys from her housecoat and opened the padlock on the shed. I followed her inside the small enclosure and wondered at the sight.

This is a still. A small one, but it does what I need, she said. I sell quarts of ‘shine daily, along with dinners and bags of weed. I both own, and pay taxes on my land, and I don’t answer to anyone. I keep my business small, while I bank enough money so as not to draw attention to myself, all while raising a queen. Any questions, baby?

I shook my head, only partially understanding. I didn’t have questions then; my mind was too full of the information I’d received. She kissed me on the cheek, then whispered, Go sing to the butterflies, baby. Tell them your troubles.

Lily ushered me out of the shed and put the padlock back in place. Without a backwards glance she walked towards the house and left me standing alone.

I ran, the cool earth invigorating beneath my bare feet. My thoughts were about Lily’s definition of freedom, and not answering to anyone. I gained speed as I ran through the fields, headed towards my spot by the creek where I would sing my fears and hopes to the butterflies. In that moment, I felt like the wind. Or, better yet, a gazelle epitomized, unleashed, and running free.

Even in the middle of a blistering Mississippi summer, our house remained cold. Not due to air conditioning, but due to the frost which emanated from our parents. They spent little time with us, and even less time with each other. The parents on the television shows seemed to like each other; kissing, holding hands, telling jokes, laughing together. Our parents slept in separate rooms, talked to each other in monotonous voices which were never raised or lowered. They never showed any signs of affection, and only went out together for society dances and fundraisers. Jack and I were lucky to have Jasper and each other, because otherwise we’d have not known the definition of love.

I looked in the mirror and saw my father’s grayish-green eyes resembled my own. The difference, however, was his eyes were like ice, while mine twinkled with merriment. At least that was how I perceived it. I was blonde like my mother, as was Jack. Standing next to each other in front of a mirror, our resemblance was noticeable, with the only real differences being our height and our eyes. Jack’s eyes were brown. From my earliest memories, it had always been me and Jack, united against everything. We didn’t fight for real, only when we were playing. It was as if we knew we needed each other too much for any lasting sibling wars.

Every morning, Jasper drove us to our school which was thirty miles out of town. Our father picked the school. The kids were all-white and came from the upper crust of Mississippi families. I viewed them as being snobs and sissies. Jack and I only fit in because of our mother’s pedigree and our father’s money. We’d been going to this school since kindergarten, and found it wasn’t too bad. The teachers were engaged for the most part, and the classes were small. In school Jack