Free Butterfly's Child by Angela Davis-Gardner Page B

had restrained herself so long this afternoon. Aimee gave a short disquisition on the influence of Japanese woodblocks on Western art—Whistler, most notably, she said—then asked Kate if the scene portrayed in the print seemed true to life.
    Kate glanced at the picture of two women in kimono seated outside a Japanese house, its sliding doors open to reveal straw mats, a low table, and a large vase.
    â€œAs far as I can tell,” Kate said, with a nervous laugh. “But I wasn’t in Japan long, just a few days. I did live in China, however, as a young girl.”
    â€œWe’re all so interested in your little orphan boy,” Mrs. Cassidy said. “You were so brave to take him in.”
    â€œWe’re fortunate to have him with us,” Kate said. “He’s a wonderful boy.”
    â€œHow did you find him exactly?” Beth Moss asked.
    Kate told the story she and Frank had concocted—Benji being left at the Catholic church, the appeal to their charity, the reason for his name. She said it all calmly, with appropriate animation. She should have been an actress, she thought.
    â€œHe’s such an unusual-looking child,” Mrs. Cassidy said, reaching for a cookie.
    Kate’s heart fluttered.
    â€œBut appealing,” Aimee put in. “Really quite appealing.”
    â€œIf you’re referring to his blond hair and his Japanese face,” Kate said,“that is unusual to see here, but not in Nagasaki. Nagasaki has a long history of exchange with the West—the Dutch, for instance, have been in residence there since the seventeen hundreds.”
    A shy woman whom Kate didn’t know raised her hand. “Was it a hard choice for you?”
    Kate took a deep breath, then told how she’d searched her heart, gone to pray at a church commemorated to Japanese Christian martyrs. “I decided it was the Christian thing to do,” she concluded, “and the right thing for a woman to do.”
    The ladies applauded.
    â€œWe don’t need to read novels,” Mrs. Cassidy said, “when we have such interesting
true
stories to hear.”

 
    Before school started,
Keast taught Benji his numbers, using marbles and a slate he’d borrowed from Miss Ladu. The boy was a whiz; by September he even understood the concepts of addition and subtraction, though he seemed leery about the prospect of school itself. When Keast suggested to Frank that they let the boy have a look at the schoolhouse, Frank agreed—acting a little huffy, but Keast knew Frank wouldn’t have thought of it on his own. Not that he didn’t care for the boy, but he lived in a world unto himself.
    Halfway between Plum River and Morseville, the school was a small stone building in the middle of a pasture dotted with white and yellow flowers. It had hardly changed since Keast was a boy—the same flagpole out front, the bell over the door, and, along the edge of the pasture, an Osage orange hedgerow that stretched all the way up the slight hill.
    Miss Ladu had given Keast the key to the school, but he sat down on the steps to wait for Benji and Frank. They were late. He took out his watch several times, fogged the face with his breath, and rubbed it on his trousers. When they finally appeared, they were walking on opposite sides of the road, Benji kicking a small rock in front of him, Frank frowning, his hands in his pockets. Benji’s face had that bee-stung look he got after he’d been crying, and his hair was flat and dirty. His hair had lightened during the summer in the fields so that it was only a few shades darker than Pinkerton’s.
    Keast rose as they came toward him. Frank took a large book out of his satchel and held it up to show Keast. “A dictionary,” he said. “English to Japanese. There will be things he doesn’t understand.”
    Keast said nothing as he turned and went up the steps to unlock the door, but in his opinion Benji knew