Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [59]
"I'll call you there, Vincenzo. Right where you are now. The Prof will bring you back again, pick you up at your office tomorrow at closing time. Okay?"
"All right."
The Prof came back on the line. "You find your thrill in the hills yet, man?"
"Still looking. Thanks for t.c.b. on Vincenzo. Can you bring him back tomorrow night? Same time?"
"I say what I mean, I mean what I say, and those who don't listen, they'd better pray."
86
ALMOST TEN when I tapped on Blossom's door. Wearing a T–shirt that reached almost to her knees, feet bare. Her hair was tied in a loose knot on top of her head. I followed her back to the kitchen.
There was a black plastic ashtray on the kitchen table. I lit a smoke while she brewed coffee. One of the caterpillars had formed a cocoon. "What kind are they?" I asked.
"Black swallowtails. Beautiful big things. Long–distance fliers."
"How come you do that…raise butterflies?"
"When I was a kid, I used to try and catch them. The way kittens do. Not to be vicious, just chasing them because they're so pretty. My mother explained it to me. If you love something, you don't crush it. You can't hug a butterfly. She got me some caterpillars. Monarchs, they were. I remember, they only lived on milkweed. I learned patience, watching them eat, get fat, spin their cocoons. When the butterfly comes out, it's never so lovely as it is then. They come out wet. That's when they're most vulnerable. Until the powder dries on their wings and they can take to the sky. You hold them right on your fingers. They trust you then. Let them flap their wings until they're ready. Then you raise your hand and they fly away. I bring the cocoons into the hospital. On the children's ward. It's so good for them to see something get better. Fly away."
"I tried something like that once."
"Butterflies?"
"No. One foster home I was in. Out on Long Island. The old lady who ran the place, she had these rose bushes that she loved. Her pride and joy. All different kinds. That summer, we had this attack of Japanese beetles. What they do is eat rose bushes. Mrs. Jensen, she sprayed and sprayed. Tried everything. But the beetles kept on coming. It was breaking her heart."
She brought her cup to the kitchen table, holding it in two hands, watching.
"I was just a kid. Tried picking off the beetles, one at a time. But it didn't do any good—they just kept coming. So I went to the library. Looked up Japanese beetles. I found out they had what you call a natural enemy. Praying mantis. You ever see one?"
She nodded.
"Anyway, the praying mantis, it makes a cocoon. Like your caterpillars, but much bigger. Heavy strands like fiber, light brownish color. About half the size of a golf ball. I found some in a field near her house. Spent days collecting them. Put each one in a mason jar. I figured, one giant praying mantis would come out of each one. I'd hatch them, put them on the rose bushes. Have them stand guard."
"What happened?"
"When the first one hatched, it wasn't one praying mantis, it was like thousands of them. Little tiny things. So small you could hardly see them. Then I was stuck. See, I knew that birds would eat the little ones. But if I left them in the jar where they'd be safe, they'd starve to death. So I poured the whole jar over the rose bushes. When each one hatched, I did the same."
"Did it work?"
"Oh yeah. I poured out so many of the little suckers that the birds couldn't deal with them all. We had wall–to–wall praying mantises. They whacked every Japanese beetle for miles. When they get their growth, they're huge. Those front paws, hell, you could really feel them when they grabbed. So Mrs. Jensen's rose bushes were safe. But you couldn't go outside without getting dive–bombed by the praying mantises. They were all over the place. On the bushes. In the trees. In the house. All over the cars. The neighbors wanted to murder me."
"Sounds like you went overboard." She chuckled.
"Mrs. Jensen, she stood up for me. Said I meant well. I was only a little boy."
"She sounds like a fine woman."