“You’ll see, my girl is wearing such a pretty dress today,” Calderón says to Gorriti. “It looks so nice on her with those brown eyes she has—its color, you know. And those little feet . . .” They’re standing with the other parents, waiting anxiously for their children to be let out. Calderón is talking; Gorriti is looking at the still-locked doors. “You’ll see,” says Calderón. “Stay here, you have to stick close because they’re about to come out. And yours, how’s he?” The other man pantomimes pain and points to his teeth. “You don’t say,” says Calderón. “And did you do the tooth fairy? With mine it’s no good, she’s too smart.” Gorriti looks at the clock. The doors will open any second now and the children will burst out, laughing and shouting in a tumult of colors, some spotted with paint or chocolate. But for some reason the bell is delayed. The parents wait.
* * *
A brownish butterfly lands on Calderón’s arm and he quickly traps it. The creature struggles to get away, but he presses its wings together and holds it by the ends. He squeezes hard so it can’t escape. “You’ll see, you just have to see her,” he tells Gorriti as he shakes it, “she’s just adorable.” But he presses so hard he starts to feel the tips of the wings sticking together. He slides his fingers down and sees that he has marked them. The butterfly tries to get free, fluttering its wings, and one of them splits down the middle like paper. Calderón is sorry, tries to hold it still so he can get a good look at the damage, but he ends up with part of the wing stuck to one of his fingers. Gorriti watches him with disgust and shakes his head, gestures for him to drop it. Calderón lets go. The butterfly falls to the ground. It moves awkwardly, tries to fly but no longer can. It finally stays still, flapping one of its wings every now and then, but it doesn’t try anything more. Gorriti tells him to finish it off once and for all, and Calderón, for the butterfly’s own good, of course, stomps on it.
He doesn’t even have time to lift his foot when he realizes something strange is happening. He looks toward the doors and then, as if a sudden wind had breached the locks, the doors open and hundreds of butterflies of every color and size rush out toward the waiting parents. He thinks they might attack him; maybe he thinks he’s going to die. The other parents don’t seem to be afraid, and the butterflies just flutter among them. The last one comes out, lagging behind the others, and joins them.
Calderón stands looking at the open doors and through the windows of the main hall, at the silent classrooms. Some parents are still crowding in front of the doors and shouting the names of their children. Then the butterflies, all of them in just a few seconds, fly off in different directions. The parents try to catch them.
Calderón, on the other hand, stands motionless. He can’t bring himself to lift his foot from the one he has killed. He is, perhaps, afraid of recognizing his girl’s colors in its dead wings.
MOUTHFUL OF BIRDS
I turned off the TV and looked out the window. Silvia’s car was parked in front of my house, its emergency lights blinking. As I stood there wondering whether there was any real possibility of not answering the door, the bell rang again: she knew I was home. I went to the door and opened it.
“Silvia.”
“Hello,” she said, and came inside before I could get another word out. “We have to talk.”
She pointed me to my own sofa and I obeyed, because sometimes, when the past knocks at the door and treats me like the past four years haven’t happened, it turns out I’m still a dumbass.
“You’re not going to like this. It’s . . . It’s intense.” She looked at her watch. “It’s about Sara.”
“It’s always about Sara,” I said.
“You’ll just say I’m exaggerating, and that I’m crazy and all that. But there’s no time today. You’re coming home with me right now, you’ve got to see this with your own eyes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Plus, I told Sara you were coming, so she’s waiting for you.”
We sat in silence a moment. I was wondering what the next step would be, until she frowned, stood up, and walked to the door. I picked up my coat and followed her out.
* * *