skit #23: yellow pansies

My brand new shoes are covered in bug guts, brand new Ferragamo loafers. When I go to call the exterminator, my grandfather says, 'No, no, no. Those are Callippe Silverspots. They'll turn to butterflies.'

He was an entomologist for sixty years. After eight or so gins, he'll regretfully admit to breeding belligerence into the West African Killer Bees as weaponry during the War to End All Wars. But in the same breath he'll recognize my marriage, so who knows whether the coot gives a damn about insects.

He alleges the caterpillars are after the yellow pansies in my garden. He can't tell me why they don't care for the tricolors or the magnolias. 'Maybe they just don't like the taste,' the hypocrite supposes.

My driveway rests under a blanket of writhing legs and legs and legs and thoraces and legs and legs. I tip-toe through the orgy Nature conducts, nonjudgemental with etiquette. When I tell him this, my grandfather reminds that larvae are sexually immature, that mating is impossible.

All the pansies have been stripped of flesh. They'll outlive the winter only by digestion by caterpillars, as baby fat and love handles and spare tires. My flowers skeletoned, I doubt my husband will plant more next year. I wonder what will they eat then.

It's begun to snow. Frozen, most of them curl mortally on the cement like misplaced commas. 'None of them formed cocoons,' wondered grandfather. He had me out there with egg cartons, nestling to safety one caterpillar per cup.

It's been a couple of years now. No new caterpillars. The pansy stalks have long withered with no replacements planted. The Callippe Silverspots are so fat they're spherical, like marbles. All of my husband's attempts to contact an exterminator are thwarted by grandfather's guile: hiding the larvae, histrionic distractions, snipping phone lines, whatever it takes. 'They'll turn to butterflies. They'll change.' he repeats.