Butterfly Man. Lew Levenson

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       Lew Levenson

      Butterfly Man

      Published by Good Press, 2021

       [email protected]

      EAN 4064066443641

Table of Contents

       Chapter I

       Chapter II

       Chapter III

       Chapter IV

       Chapter V

       Chapter VI

       Chapter VII

       Chapter VIII

       Chapter IX

       Chapter X

       Chapter XI

       Chapter XII

       Chapter XIII

       Chapter XIV

       Chapter XV

       Chapter XVI

       Chapter XVII

       Chapter XVIII

       Chapter XIX

       Chapter XX

       Chapter XXI

       Chapter XXII

       Chapter XXIII

       Chapter XXIV

       Chapter XXV

      Chapter I

       Table of Contents

      ​

      "THE thing then is, Ken, remember your dad, keep out of strange beds and wash your neck reg'lar," Uncle Joe had said. "Son, you're a man now." Ken's breath had been stilled as he listened. "You're leaving home," continued homely Uncle Joe. "You've been pampered a bit too much. Folks call this Texas, and Texas it is to us older ones—but to you, Texas could be New York or Chicago or most anywhere."

      That was Uncle Joe.

      Dad was different. Dad was thin. Uncle Joe was fat. Uncle Joe's clothes hung about him loose-like. Dad's fit. But Ken more or less liked Uncle Joe because he was so human. Dad, of course, was human—a sweet, reasonable father, worried by failing eyes and failing business—but for a young fellow, take Uncle Joe.

      The car turned into the Camino and Ken took a look at Weber's Drug Store. Funny to be leaving it, leaving the Coca Cola cowboys and Ike and his son, Dave, and the jolt of alkie that Ike served with lemon phosphate straight. Code—code for a slug of alkie and that dizzy feeling and dad with his Presbyterian manners and thin mouth setting itself like a line dividing heaven and hell.

      Here on the corner of Alamo, the church. Ken sat straight. Indefinable his reactions toward the church. He did love Jesus. Not that pale Jesus of Mr. Barton's dry sermons, but the lush vivid-cheeked Christ who had ​appeared to him as in a vision a long, long time ago … or had his vision been a forgotten dream?

      Ken turned away from the church. Why, he did not know. At seventeen one does not decide whether one shall conform or dissent—that is, a he-man does not; and Ken concluded that as of this July morning, straight in the back seat of Mr. Lowell's Packard, he was mighty glad to get away from Mr. Barton's First Presbyterian Church of Selma.

      "Comfortable, boy?" said Mr. Lowell.

      "I'm all right," said Ken.

      "Homesick already?" the older man placed a hand on Ken's sleeve and smiled.

      "No," replied Ken flatly. Mr. Lowell looked out of the window. The car passed the two low Spanish-type buildings of Selma High. Ken felt a sharp, prickling sensation in his throat. Selma High was disappearing in the dust haze as Johnson stepped on the gas; and Selma High did mean a lot to Ken Gracey. That there frame house back of the school on Council Street—what laughs at what dirty stories! And the gym! To be free, young and white in that gym … to stretch long arms and legs, to take in deep, sweet breaths, to ride the horse, row the machine, race Bud and Bill and Lee. And beat them, what's more, beat them! In basket-ball to rise up, up and up … learning form, dribbling, tip-offs, the intricate signals of "Doc" Weston, the keen technique that brings one to success—success—center in the Dallas game—four fouls, three goals, applause and fame.

      The town dwindled into flat sandy prairie. Ken turned to Mr. Lowell and said: "Makes one sure feel sorta wobbly, this going away from home."

      ​"Ken," said Mr. Lowell, "home is where you love. In California you will learn to love a new home, a gloriously beautiful home. My boy, I'm a born Texan. I shall always come back to these barren acres because here did the seed of me sprout. And in the bitter future, I shall be borne back to Texas soil and here shall I eternally rest. But, Kenneth, I am taking you into the great world. This summer, we shall live in Southern California. Next winter in Miami. Next spring in Paris. You must always hold Texas close and dear to you. But Texas, great as she is, is but a fragment. The world, Ken—that is your apple pie. Cut it—as you will."

      Ken—seventeen—thrilled to these inspired words. The older man—old because of his graying Van Dyck, with his slanting watery-blue eyes, his oddly precise manner of clipping his words, his neatly tailored clothes, his ivory-headed stick, his faintly perfumed breath—placed that square-tipped-fingered hand again upon Ken's sleeve.

      "My boy," he said, "you make me very happy."

      If Ken was making Mr. Lowell happy, Mr. Lowell was leading Ken to Kingdom Come. At this moment when Dawson County was ending and roadside signs about the boll weevil advertised the coming of Kent County, Ken shook his head abruptly as if to make sure that he was fully