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Copyright Page
The Black Butterfly. Copyright © 2014 by Shirley Reva Vernick. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901; or call 1-915-838-1625.
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Vernick, Shirley Reva.
The Black Butterfly / by Shirley Reva Vernick. — First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-935955-79-5 (hardback); ISBN 978-1-935955-80-1 (paperback); ISBN 978-1-935955-81-8
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Hotels—Fiction. 4. Love—Fiction. 5. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 6. Christmas—Fiction. 7. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.V5974Bj 2014
[Fic]—dc23 2013044152
Book & cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio
With a whole semester off—sort of!
Another handcrafted electronic edition from
Pajarito Studios.
Dedication
For Alan
Chapter 1
December 14
Nothing travels faster than the speed of light
with the possible exception of bad news.
—Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
One thing you might as well know about me: I’m a collector. Not tacky salt ’n’ pepper shakers like my mother or lava lamps like my Uncle Cosmo, who’s been stuck in the 1960s for half a century, or smuggled Cuban cigars like my grandfather Quinn. I collect something that’s legal and takes up a lot less space: quotes.
I can’t say why, exactly, except that I like words. You can do things with words—vent, fantasize, escape, create—and you never have to worry about them walking out on you. They’re like having a dog, only without the shedding or the drool. All you have to do is string them together in the right way, and suddenly you’re telling a story or changing somebody’s mind or even making some kind of difference. I think the day I’ll know I’ve made good in the world is the day I hear someone quoting me.
Mostly I collect famous people’s sayings, but I’ll hold onto things ordinary people say if they’re good enough. Like, just yesterday my sociology teacher said, “Having a family is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain.” I don’t know if he made it up or if he got it from someone else, but I liked it so I wrote it on my jeans leg. And who knows? Maybe I’ll say it myself someday when the situation calls for it.
Today the situation called for something my guidance counselor once said: “Life stinks.” All I wanted was to spend Christmas vacation with my own mother in my own house. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently.
It’s like this: Mom is in Idaho, 2,500 miles away from our place in Cambridge, Massachusetts. In case you’re wondering why on earth she’s in the potato state for the holidays, I’ll tell you. She’s chasing ghosts. Yes, you read that right, chasing ghosts. And if you’re thinking how weird is that, well, you don’t know the half of it. My mother not only believes that “paranormal forces” exist, but she thinks she’s going to launch some fabulous new career for herself by catching one on film. All by herself. Like a way, way indie flick. She’s the director, producer, camera operator, publicist and host of her so-called documentaries. Her results? Let’s say they’re less than stellar. In fact, let’s say they’re nonexistent. But mere constant failure never slows her down. No, nothing as trivial as reality is going to stand between her and her dumbass ideas. So last week when she heard about some ghost haunting a backwoods town out in the wild West, off she went. As usual.
And off I went, as usual, to Mom’s best friend Gigi. Gigi has a one-bedroom apartment in Harvard Square over The House of Teriyaki. For the last eight nights, I’ve been sleeping on her lumpy couch with her four cats, the wail of traffic, and the stink of day-old stir-fry grease. But Mom told me not to worry, that she’d finish up in plenty of time for the holidays. Then we’d celebrate her masterpiece, which PBS or Nova would undoubtedly scoop up, and things would start looking up for us.
I was actually in a pretty good mood after school today when I went to pick up Gigi at Midnight Brew where she works behind the counter. Mom was due home tomorrow, so I had only one more night on the couch. Plus school break was just around the corner. Right now, the idea of sleeping till noon in my own bed for two whole weeks felt like winning the lottery.
The good mood didn’t last long though. I knew something was up as soon as I saw Gigi sitting in the shop’s window seat nursing a big styrofoam cup of coffee. She never drinks that stuff, at least not since she started working at this place. Terrible hours, terrible people, terrible uniform—sort of like my life but with minimum wage thrown in. She can’t even stand having the smell of joe in her apartment anymore. So she must’ve really needed the jolt now.
“Hi Geej.” I dropped my backpack under the coat rack, which is painted to look like a smiling octopus holding up its tentacles.
“Huh?” Gigi seemed startled by my voice. “Oh, hi Penny. You’re early today, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” I flopped down next to her and waited to see if she’d unload. I figured the chances were 50-50. If she’d just had a fight with her boss or come up short on her cash register, she wouldn’t say anything here. But if it had something to do with me, she’d want to say it in a public place, where I couldn’t get too…expressive.
I kicked off my clogs and settled into my habit of watching the Harvard kids sip their fancy teas over their iPhones and their poetry books. Gigi peeked at me over the top of her cup and took a big gulp of air. I call this a warning breath. It’s what people do right before they say something they know you don’t want to hear. They take in an oversized lungful of air and hold it, hoping, I guess, that their bad news will magically disappear by the time they get around to exhaling. Damn, it was about me.
“Your mom called earlier,” Gigi said, trying to act nonchalant, but I knew a warning breath when I heard one.
“She’s not coming home tomorrow, is she.” It was a statement, not a question.
I couldn’t believe it. I’d literally been counting down the hours until Mom’s return. Not because I really thought we’d be rolling in glory. I know the deal by now, how no one will buy or even consider her film, how she’ll sit around staring at her toenails until she gets up the oomph to beg for her job at Whole Foods back, and how she’ll eventually start snooping around for another lead. Still, I wanted to get back
