The Glass Butterfly by Louise Marley

empty now, twirled on its chain just beyond the sliding glass door. November sunlight, cool and faintly yellow, sifted through the stand of cedars. The sugar maples had shed most of their leaves, and the ground was thick and bright with them. Tory had loved this time of year, gathered huge armfuls of leaves to fill baskets here and there around the house, filling the place with the scent of the woods. He wondered what she put in the hummingbird feeder, and if he should refill it.
    â€œChet can help you decide what to do with it,” Kate went on. “It’s a good car, and it’s only two years old. You probably want to have it repaired.”
    â€œWill the insurance cover it?”
    â€œIt should. There will be some paperwork.”
    Jack chewed on his lower lip, watching a gray squirrel dash through loose red leaves. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I think I’ll get it fixed. Do I have to go get it?” The idea of seeing the car, with its crumpled hood and broken door—the door, presumably, his mother had fallen through—made his belly go cold.
    â€œChet can do it,” Kate said. “Okay if we handle that for you, then? I’ll call the sheriff back. Chet will make the arrangements.”
    â€œThanks, Kate. And thank Chet for me. I really appreciate you guys helping me out.”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” she said, with firmness now, and a touch of briskness. “Now, listen, honey. You’ve been staying alone over there for too long. Won’t you come and have dinner with us? And Chet was asking when you’re going back to school. He offered to drive you to the train when you’re ready.”
    â€œLook, Kate, it’s really nice of you. Both of you. I’m just—I’m okay here, for now.”
    The squirrel reached the trunk of a sugar maple, and scrambled up, its fluff of tail swinging behind. Jack turned back to face Tory’s desk, with its photos and its big calendar blotter, dotted with notes in her cramped, precise handwriting. The chill crept up from his belly and into his heart. He felt as if he had a rock in his chest. A cold, unforgiving rock.
    Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to get off the phone, to go to his mother’s collection of CDs, and play something, anything. He wanted to hear her music.
    Kate released him in a few moments, saying she would let him know about the car, making him promise he would call her in the morning. He promised, as much to get off the phone as because he would have anything to say by morning. He went into the living room, leaving the file drawer open in the desk. He walked to the cabinet holding his mother’s collection, and pulled down a CD at random.
    Mahler, Symphony no. 5. He popped open the jewel case and lifted out the CD. Mahler was as close as his mother would allow herself to get to Wagner. She had said so often. He put the CD into the Bose, and wandered into the kitchen as the attenuated melodies and ponderous harmonic progressions began to fill the house. He felt a bit better with the music playing. He felt connected to Tory.
    Was his hunch right, or was it wishful thinking, guilt over having been a bad son, a difficult teenager, a distant young adult? He found a picture of the two of them behind a row of cookbooks, and took it down to hold in his hand. Kate had snapped it at his graduation, and he remembered the moment. His mother had put her arm around him, pulled him close to her. It had been a long time since they had been that close physically. He remembered often feeling as if there was a fence between them, a barrier of some kind, not of their own making, but holding them apart. He gazed at the picture, wishing he could call back that moment, turn and hold his mother in both arms, let her hug him as tightly as she wished.
    She looked nice in the picture, her hair clipped up, a simple short dress showing her trim legs. It was only two years ago, and he looked