10/13/10

The Butterfly
By Wayne Scheer


Richard and Marcie met at a group therapy session for single parents whose mates had died.

Neither had wanted to attend the session, but their therapist--they had been seeing the same shrink after the death of their spouses--urged them to do so. He said it would be good to talk about their situations and vent their emotions with people who shared a similar experience. The doctor even arranged daycare since his patients were single parents. The meeting took place in a conference room near the therapist's office.

Tears flowed. A box of tissues was passed around like a joint at a Grateful Dead concert. Marcie managed a smile when Richard suggested she not Bogart the tissues.

Most group members spoke of love, of missing the shared moments that make a life complete--waking beside a loved one, washing and drying the dishes together, laughing at an innocent comment made by a child. Richard confessed to mixed feelings. His wife of four years and mother of their three year-old son, Billy, was killed in an automobile accident while with her lover. She had left a note saying she was leaving Richard, not even mentioning little Billy.

But in her haste to escape, she and her lover tried passing a slow-moving car and hit a 1998 Ford pick-up head-on.

Marcie, lost in the details of her own unhappy marriage, only half listened to Richard's story until he mentioned the year and model of the pick-up truck.

"When did this happen?"

"About four months ago."

"The fourth of March?"

"How did you know?"

She had married a man who reminded her of her father. Unfortunately, like her dad, he turned out to be an abusive drunk. His life ended when his truck was blindsided by the car driven by Richard's wife and her lover.

When they realized the grim coincidence of what had happened, they did something totally unexpected in group therapy. They laughed. Uncontrollably. First him, then her. They laughed so hard, they hurt. Then they excused themselves and walked out of the meeting, their arms around each other's waist, unsure which one was holding up the other.

Together, they picked up the kids, bought snacks, and took the children to a nearby park where there was an open field and picnic benches. It was a beautiful summer day and they needed to talk.

Conversation strained at first because the children, who had been playing together earlier in the day, suddenly grew bashful and held on to their parent. Plying them with Cracker Jacks and lemonade helped ease the tension.

Marcie dug into her purse and pulled out toys--a small rag doll, a tiny metal airplane, a flag and a rubber duck. She laid them out on the grass nearby and successfully distracted the children.

"That's the difference between a mother and a father," Richard observed. "All I have in my pockets are car keys."

With the proverbial ice broken, they spoke freely of their marriages and their children. Richard told Marcie how he had destroyed the note his wife had left, so Billy would never see it. Marcie spoke of how she had hidden the bruises left during her husband's alcoholic rages.

Marcie admitted that when the police came to her house to tell her about the accident, her immediate reaction after the initial shock was relief. Richard confessed to a similar feeling.

They moved closer together and held each other's hand under the picnic table, sharing an unstated need to continue sheltering their children.

Just then, as if on call, a brightly-colored butterfly floated by and landed on a nearby flower. Without a word, the children dashed to where the butterfly landed. But the insect fluttered in the wind, and the laughing toddlers took chase, flailing arms and spindly legs.

Richard and Marcie watched that the children didn't run far. And then, for the second time in what seemed like a long, long while, they laughed. This time their laughter offered gentle relief and a hint of rejuvenation.


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Wayne Scheer has locked himself in a room with his computer and turtle since his retirement. (Wayne's, not the turtle's.) To keep from going back to work, he's published hundreds of short stories, essays and poems, including, Revealing Moments, a collection of twenty-four flash stories, available at http://www.pearnoir.com/thumbscrews.htm. He's been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.