Butterfly Soup. Nancy Pinard

a few hours. I’ll still have time to practice my flute.” Valley opens the fridge for the milk. She hears her mother crinkle the box’s paper liner, then grovel around in the box for a handful. Her mother’s teeth crunch rhythmically on the mouthful as Valley pours milk into the bowl, scattering the Os to the perimeter of the dish. The no-eating-between-meals rule doesn’t apply to mothers.

      “You really should have asked me first.”

      Valley rolls her eyes. Does every little decision have to go before the governing board? She modulates her voice to sound like her father’s—the voice of reason calming an excitable woman. “Her sister’s getting married. Her mother-in-law caught the flu and can’t babysit. Mrs. Harper is counting on me.”

      Her mother takes a package of chicken breasts from the fridge. “Mrs. Harper has an infant, Valley.”

      “Yeah. So?”

      “So you’ve only watched older children. You don’t know what you’re doing.” She removes the cellophane from the chicken and drops it in the sink. Watery chicken blood pools in the plastic tray beneath the mottled yellow pieces.

      Valley’s lip curls at the sight. “I’m sixteen, Ma. It can’t be worse than the Johnson twins. I get one into bed and the other one’s out running around again.” Her mother is ridiculously cautious. She hadn’t allowed Valley to go to overnight parties, either—until two years after her friends were allowed. Then when she finally went, it was no big deal. So you didn’t sleep that night. You went home and took a nap.

      The chicken has disgusting yellow fat in globs around the edges of the skin. Her mother pulls them off with her fingers. It looks nasty, but Valley can’t tear her eyes away. “Do you have to do that while I’m eating, Mom? It’s sooo gross.” Why is her mother wearing a nice dress to do such a messy task?

      Her mother runs tap water over the breasts. “It’s only chicken. How’ll you change a diaper if you can’t stand chicken?” The blood in the tray dilutes to a pale pink.

      “Lots of my friends babysit infants, Mom. Half those girls aren’t as smart as I am.” Valley puts a spoonful of Cheerios into her mouth. Joanie is regularly left to watch the Cranfords’ sprawling farm full of kids and animals.

      “They have little brothers and sisters to learn on.” Her mother strips the thick skin off a breast. The flesh beneath has a vulnerable bluish-purple cast. Valley’s hand involuntarily flattens to her chest.

      “Is it my fault I’m an only child?” It’s a cheap shot, and Valley feels a twinge of guilt—but mostly satisfaction—poking at the soft spot in her mother’s armor. Her mother would have loved a whole houseful of kids.

      “Just don’t expect it to be easy. You can’t throw him in the crib and talk on the phone.”

      “I wouldn’t do that. I’m not like that Diane Locklear. Why are you always lumping me with the crazy kids in the news?”

      “I don’t. I brag about you all the time. About your flute playing. And how well you speak French.” She looks up, her face the picture of motherly pride.

      “We speak English in this country, Mom. And no one in Eden cares that I play the flute.”

      It’s true, what she’s saying, why she will never be popular.

      “What do you think? That everyone’s going to gather at Millie’s on Saturday night to hear me play Mozart? Or how about at the Pizza Carryout? I could toodle away in front of the road map while the dropouts sprinkle mozzarella.”

      “That’s honest work, Valley. And I certainly don’t insist you play the flute. You can quit this minute. I have more to do than drive you to Dayton every week for your lesson.”

      “I don’t want to quit, Mom. That’s not the point.” What would she do without her flute? Being an only child is no fun at all. “And I could drive myself if you ever let me take the car out of Eden.”

      Her mother lets out a long sigh. “How was your date last night? Did that boy behave himself?”

      “I don’t want to talk about it.”

      “Don’t get huffy. I just asked And take that necklace off. Babies break necklaces. You don’t want to lose it.”

      Her mother now turns a bar of soap over and over in her palms and rubs it around between her fingers and under her nails. The suds drip on the chicken skins, and Valley grits her teeth, as if soap and chicken should somehow be kept separate.

      Valley drops her bowl into the chicken mess. “I’m going to be late. Goodbye, Mom.” She listens with satisfaction when the screen door thwacks shut behind her.

      Joey Harper starts fussing the second his mother hands him to Valley. Mrs. Harper retrieves her pocketbook from the dish-cluttered table and wipes her brow with her forearm. “Will you be all right?”

      Valley nods. Mrs. Harper has walked her through Joey’s routine, demonstrating how to lower the gingham blind, raise the crib rail, fill the humidifier and wind the teddy’s music box. “My mother’s home in case anything happens,” Valley assures her, though she has no intention of calling home. When it comes to nervous moms, she knows the script.

      Mrs. Harper looks back at the two of them on her way out the kitchen door. “He’s just been changed and fed. The phone numbers are on the wall next to the phone, and there’s a Coke for you in the fridge next to his bottle. I threw clean rompers in the dryer. They’ll be done in a bit if you need one.”

      Valley crosses her arms around Joey’s diapered bum while he waggles his face into her chest. He’s a cute little guy, especially when he isn’t fussing. “I’ll be fine. Enjoy the wedding.”

      Mrs. Harper sends Valley a tired smile. Valley goes to the door, shifting Joey to her hip so they can wave. She pumps Joey’s arm up and down. Joey yowls and strains toward his mother. “Hush, Joey.” Valley grips his chubby thigh. “Mummy will come back.”

      Mrs. Harper backs out of the narrow driveway, honks twice, and heads down the street. Valley’s used to crying kids. At first the Johnson twins fussed when their mother left, but they’re four now and cry when their mother returns. Joey scrunches his fists into his face. Valley thinks he’s settling in, but he surprises her and exhales another loud howl. He sounds, in fact, as if he’s just warming up. Valley jiggles him on her hip. A high-pitched squeal pierces his longer wailing, dividing it in sections. She stops jiggling. The squealing continues. The pitch ascends half an octave higher on the next breath. A sweat breaks out on her upper lip. She lifts him from her hip to her chest, cuddling his head under her chin, but his screaming is too close to her ear. “Jeez, Joey, you sound like Joanie’s pigs.” She imitates the pigs. Joey stops, looks at her, then takes a breath and yowls louder. Valley tilts her head away. The roots of her hair tingle. Just when she thinks it can’t get any louder, he pulls out another stop. “This little piggy goes to market. This little piggy stays home,” she chants in his ear. Joey shrieks back. She’s heard of pitches high enough to shatter glass. Mrs. Harper will come home to a house full of broken windows.

      She spies a vacuum cleaner on the dining room floor. From the crumbs on the rug, it looks as though Mrs. Harper never got to use it. Valley switches the canister on with her foot. Its whine breaks into Joey’s crying. He snorts a minute, body shuddering, then lowers his pitch to match it, just missing. The interval is awful. Valley switches it off, heads to the living room rocker and sits down. He arches his back and flails his arms, toothless gums spread wide around his bawling. His legs pedal at her stomach and thighs. He is hard to restrain, but she rocks anyway. How can a four-month-old baby be so strong? With the chair still moving, she doubles over him and shhs in his ear, but Joey can’t hear. His blue romper is damp with sweat. Tears streak down his cheeks.

      Valley sings “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” at the top of her lungs, clapping his hands and adding a “wheeha!” at the end of each line. The Johnson twins love that. Joey wails.

      Facedown at her feet is a fluffy