by Bryl R. Tyne
Charley didn’t just walk away from the restaurant that day; she abandoned the life she knew. She put up a good fight, but in the end, her mind couldn’t handle her only child’s rejection. No one noticed Charley missing, for Irene passed away with a smile on her face later that evening, never to realize Charley’s fate.
Mortal life. So fleeting, so unfair, the more I think on it.
I pity you. Despite my fascination or my envy with your God-given status, few of you, in comparison, ever seem to “catch a break,” as you say. So, why hadn’t I intervened in Charley’s life sooner, you ask?
It wasn’t time.
That’s my answer, clear and simple. Forcing further change on Charley back then would’ve done more harm than good. Charley wasn’t ready, until now.
I rounded the corner into the alley behind Mel’s laundromat and handed Charley the brown paper bag before settling on the offered blanket-seat. “Pastrami on rye.”
“You’re a good man,” Charley said, unfolding the stiff paper wrapping with delicate fingers.
Man? Don’t flatter me. Leave it to Charley, though. Not only did she see me, but also she saw me as I longed to be seen—without title, without reverence…without my wings. Quite ironic, given the fact she also saw butterflies when no other human around her was capable of doing so.
“They’re beautiful. You’re going to miss them, Zag. See that yellow one with the fiery orange streaks?”
“Yes. It’s very nice,” I said, and I wasn’t lying or even bending the truth. I saw them also.
“I lost mine.” Charley swallowed a huge bite of pastrami as she told me this, then dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “But the other night, I dreamt of her. I know she’s around.”
“Yes. She’s around—somewhere.” I couldn’t help but smile at the innocence in Charley’s wandering gaze. Little did she know, the butterfly she’d claimed as her own was waiting for her, elsewhere. “I know where your butterfly is staying these days, Charley.”
She scrunched up her empty wrapper, placed it and the used napkin inside the paper sack. “You’re going to ask me to follow you, aren’t you?”
My turn came to swallow, as I wondered if Charley had picked up the ability to read minds also.
“No, not really. Not unless you’re interested in finding your butterfly.” Forgive me Papa, for I had lied. “I can show you where she is now. She’s found a most lovely garden.”
Charley searched my face, but I could tell she was searching for something deeper—my motive, perhaps.
“You’d like this place. They have benches—the stained wooden and wrought-iron ones you love so well.”
Though I cringed internally at the mere thought of getting within ten paces of nature, I kept up the front, the smile, the plan. After all, Charley deserved happiness more than any human I’d ever known. Not as if among humans I had favorites—okay, yes, of all my charges, Charley was my favorite, and from what I witnessed in your society with each new day, I was certain she would forever remain my favorite.
Her gaze snapped to the trash she’d balled up in her hand. She stood from her crate-seat, tossed the bag into the dumpster at her side. “Fine. But I’m cleaning this place up first. God knows who could stop by. I’d never forgive myself if they saw such a rat’s nest.” She continued muttering about the state of her living area as she moved about her small nook in the alley, straightening discarded crates, folding blankets, and stacking them in a neat pile beneath one of the dryer vents.
“Got a little something I think you’d like.” I interrupted her busyness to present her with a new shirt, a flowery skirt, and a pair of flats without holes in the soles I’d picked up while procuring her sandwich.
Clear, from the look she threw, her suspicion had returned. After a minute of study, she snatched the white box from my hands and cracked open the lid. Her eyes widened, but she said nothing until I handed off the shoes.
“What I got on isn’t good enough for you?” Her voice cracked, and I noticed the moisture collecting in her eyes.
“You’re my friend, Charley. I want you to have something extra special and nice.”
Shoving the box back at me, she said, “I can’t take this.”
She couldn’t take it? I wasn’t sure how much of her stubbornness I could take. Here I was, talking to her as if we had all the time in the world. I had a job to do, had to get her moving, convince her to follow me somehow. My insides hurt, a pain I didn’t recall experiencing with any of my charges to-date. In an unexpected move, for I felt awkward the moment I did it, I pulled Charley into my arms, crushing the box of clothing between us. “I love you,” I told her.
With a start, she backed out of my embrace. “T-thank you,” she managed on a whisper but looked away as she continued, “I’m not accepting these, Zag…I can’t.”
Though I knew her like no one else in her life ever had, I was at a loss to her resistance. I could tell her that sometimes it’s all right to let others do things for you, that one small show of gratitude may mean more than…oh hell, I didn’t want to preach. Think. Think. Think. “At least let me treat you to a facial.”
With her palm, she scrubbed over her whiskered chin. “I believe I’ll take you up on that one.”
I tucked the box and shoes up under my arm and we set off along the sidewalk, heading to the west side of town. I purposely passed up two barbershops, instead opting for a fancy salon. Charley paused at the door. “They’ll never let me in here. What’s wrong with the shop two blocks back?”
“My treat. I pick the place.”
Charley stared, her eyes wide, her hands trembling. I lifted my chin, straightened my thin tie. “Let the bastards tell me, no,” I said and dragged open the plate glass, motioned for her to enter first.
When she declined, I went on ahead, hoping she’d follow. In three strides, I was at the counter. A young Asian woman greeted me, her tasteless eye makeup as distracting as her broken language. “Good afternoon. How may we help?”
It would’ve suited me if she’d spoken her native tongue, but she didn’t know, and I wasn’t here to explain. Took me all of a minute to find my voice, rarely did I appear or have the need to act human. “How much do you require for the works? You know, hair, shave, facial, wax, manicure, pedicure?”
She smiled with a glint in her eyes. “Two hundred fifty dollar—forty extra if you need shampoo and style, but for you, two hundred should cover it.” She took a breath.
I deposited seven fifty dollar bills on the counter, then fished out Charley from behind me. “I’m buying this young lady the works.”
“Oh.” That one word was all that escaped, as her eyebrows arched high, and she eyed Charley from the Gene Wilder-gone-wilder hairdo to the gnarly fingernails. Forcing a smile, she took a tentative step from behind the counter and took Charley by the arm. “This way, ma’am.”
“Don’t touch my hair,” Charley warned as she was led toward the sinks in the back.
The woman seated Charley and stepped on the lever, releasing the chair to recline. “Just shampoo. No problem.”
“It’s one of my better features, wouldn’t you say?” Charley looked up at the confused salon attendant, who appeared agitated slipping on a pair of rubber gloves.
I partook of an offered bottle of water and found a seat where I could keep Charley in sight, no matter which area of the salon she happened to be. After two shampoos, a major conditioning, a stylish cut, and a perfect shave, the woman ushered Charley to and helped her into a seat with a heated vat of water at the base to soak her feet.
Charley shied away when her shoes were removed and again, when the woman attempted to lower Charley’s feet into the warm water. Another attendant joined the first to help, and the two set about scrubbing, massaging, filing, buffing, and much to Charley’s dismay, chatting.
It took less than a second of Charley’s gaze locked on mine for me to know trouble brewed. Though, in their language, the women caught up on the l
atest family gossip, Charley felt certain they were mocking her. I was beside Charley’s chair before she could open her mouth. “Your hair is beautiful,” I said, running my fingers through the detangled strands, patting her arm with my other hand.
“Want color?” One of the women questioned from her seat at Charley’s footbath.
Charley’s brows furrowed as she leaned my way and in a weak voice said, “You never said anything about—”
I interrupted. “Cherry red or one of those French styles?”
With somewhat of a huff, Charley leaned back in her massage chair, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Eyes still closed, she said, “I’ve always wanted one of those French Manicures.”
Together, the attendants smiled, and one said, “French Manicure, very nice,” before standing and hustling away.
I squeezed Charley’s hand, debating the best way to inform her without causing panic that I needed to step outside. The attendants dried Charley’s feet and slipped on a pair of paper flip-flops. Charley watched with amazement as they set about prettying her toenails; I rubbed my watery eyes.
“That smell in here is something awful.” I couldn’t thank Papa enough that Charley had noticed my dilemma. “Why don’t you step outside and get some fresh air. I’m okay, Zag.”
While Charley finished with the pedicure, I stayed outside, playing up the chemical stench excuse. Hands in my pockets, I paced the sidewalk through the manicure and avoided speaking or bumping into anyone as Charley braved the eyebrow waxing.
When she finished playing musical chairs, she stood before a long mirror, admiring her fresh look. I made my way back into the salon, to her side, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Though I couldn’t wrap my head around the high maintenance you humans require, I said, “Don’t you look ravishing,” knowing those words Charley most wanted to hear.
She pursed her lips, licked over the soft color, and then batted her lengthened lashes my direction. “Ravishing, my ass. I’m drop dead gorgeous,” she teased, but an instant later, alarm marred her expression and she turned to where I’d originally taken a seat. Her focus landed on the white box, her painted bottom lip quivered.
“A gift is a gift, Charley. Go ahead.”
Wearing a smile, she retrieved the box and shoes and, for the first time in a long time, she walked with the excitement of youth, making her way into the restroom on the other side of the floor.
I had to smile when she emerged and posed in her new outfit, one hand on her cocked hip, the other behind her head. Her personality hadn’t faded and her wit remained sharp, even at seventy-three. With a sudden halt to the fun, she looked at me, seemingly lost.
In a flash, I was at her side. “Would you like a drink of water?”
She nodded, slowly, and though the mood was celebratory, I couldn’t fight the gnawing in my gut, as if my insides were being shred into tiny pieces. “Time to go, Charley.”
Bottled water in hand, we exited the salon, again, heading west. After a quarter mile or so, I stopped for Charley to rest. “How much further, Zag?”
She wouldn’t find her butterfly if I didn’t intervene. We had over five miles to reach the sanctuary her butterfly had claimed as home, and I was out of options. Please Papa, don’t be angry…. “Just around the next bend,” I assured Charley, lifting her into my arms.
Within seconds, we alit outside of town. I eased Charley to the ground, pried her clenched tight fingers from the collar of my suit. “It’s okay, Charley. See? Just like I told you. We’re here.” She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. Before us stood a magnificent country estate, stables, woods to one side, and a beautiful marble fountain surrounded by an elegantly adorned circular drive. “She’s staying out back,” I said.
Still, she said nothing. I led her to the front doors, rang the bell, and then disappeared to anyone but Charley.
A neatly dressed woman answered the door, with a toddler hoisted high on one hip. “Yes? May I help you?”
Tell her, you’d like to see the room for rent.
Charley heard my words but paused, her forehead creasing for a moment before she spoke. “Y-yes, I’d like to see the room you have for rent, please.”
The woman smiled as she placed the child on the floor of the tiled entry. “You go play, Justin,” she said, then turned back to Charley. “Come in. Come in.”
Justin tagged along behind us as his mother led the way through the palace-like home. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” the woman said as she pushed open a door at the end of a long hall.
“Charley.” Charley stepped past the woman and into the more than spacious room.
“Hey, Mister, what’s your name?” The toddler whispered, with a tug on my hand.
I lifted a finger to my lips and the little boy smiled up at me with winking eyes.
The woman followed Charley into the room, offering her tour speech, but Charley seemed fascinated with the sliding glass doors. I leaned in the doorway, watching.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the woman asked.
Charley’s chest heaved as she struggled with the latch. She turned as the woman stepped around the end of the bed. “What is this place?” Charley pointed to the enclosed garden on the other side of the glass.
“It’s a butterfly sanctuary. I’m sorry, I didn’t list it in the advert—” The woman gasped when Charley took one of her hands, met her gaze.
“She’s out there. I see her! Please help me, Monica.” Charley released Monica’s hand and once again, set about yanking on the locked door.
With trembling fingers, Monica flipped open the latch and though shaking, she aided Charley’s desire to slide open one of the doors. Justin giggled, and again, I beckoned him to be quiet, not to give me away. As Charley stepped into the atrium, Monica stood back with a bewildered stare, the toddler now clinging to her leg. “She likes butterflies!” Justin gave a delighted squeal and, with a burst, raced out into the garden to join Charley on one of the wooden benches.
Monica continued to stare, unblinking, for the longest time before feeling the air for the bed behind her. Her legs hit the mattress and she sank to the edge of the bed, still staring into the atrium, her eyes rimmed with moisture.
After a good ten minutes, Charley returned from the mock paradise, a toddling Justin, fist wrapped tight in her skirt, a bold violet and black-streaked butterfly in her hand. She held the creature close to her chest and smiled. Nothing in this world compared to seeing Charley happy. My insides wrenched a little tighter. Papa, please…don’t take her now that she’s happy, just a while longer.
Charley talked incoherently to the butterfly in her grasp before settling on the edge of the bed and lifting her face to Monica. For a brief moment, she smiled, then thumbed the tears off her daughter’s cheeks. “Don’t cry, Monica. I found her.”
Monica reached up and tucked the hair behind one of Charley’s ears. Butterfly safely cupped in her hands, Charley lay back on the bed, closed her eyes. “I found her, Monica.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And, she’s beautiful.”
“Daddy?” Tears flowed freely as Monica threw herself over Charley and wailed.
No matter how many times I’d helped a charge enter the beyond, I hated this part. I tried blinking away the moisture clouding my vision but to no avail. Charley wasn’t only one of my charges, though; she was my friend. Insides a mix of anger and something oddly resembling peace consumed me. Unable to bear the influx of confusing emotions gracefully, I turned to leave.
“Mister?”
I felt a tug on my hand. Wiping my face, I met the gaze of the young boy at my feet. “Why is mommy crying, mister?”
Taking a deep breath, I squatted to Justin’s level. “Listen, okay? Your mother needs you, right now. You go and give your mommy a gigantic hug, and don’t stop hugging her until she says to. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He trotted back into the room, oblivious to life’s realities.
Papa was right. Monica had been read
y, but that didn’t lessen her pain or Charley’s.
Or mine.
Despite the Big Cheese’s endless praise and doting over you humans, I felt my envy wane. No amount of consoling would soothe me. Not this time. Piece by piece, my job had been killing me inside. I needed space, a quiet place to think. Only then would I report to Papa.
In seconds, I alit in the alleyway behind Mel’s Laundromat. After a moment of silence, I lifted one of Charley’s folded and tattered blankets to my nose. Inhaling deeply, I fell to my knees, clutching it to my chest.
Broken
My previous assignment touched me in a way I still, after a week of Sundays, couldn’t figure. After all these weeks, I had not ascended the Heavens for home or for counsel with Big Papa. Why, you might ask. For no other reason than obligation had I been here for thousands, performed my duty when needed most, and watched graciously as many had passed. Yet I struggled to understand why after all these millennia and out of thousands of charges, the passing of Charley had such an impact on me.
I searched for answers to my current insubordination, concluding only that maybe I was tired. The deeper I thought, the more obvious the truth became; there was no maybe to it. After all this time, I was tired. Tired of helping, but more apparent, tired of hurting.
I shouldn’t have let myself get this way, should’ve made sure I was better prepared, studied harder, prayed more diligently. Truth was, I was so deep in my pain and so determined in my longing, I could not have conceived the detrimental effects of my thinking. I did realize, however, that I would not seem to let it go, no matter how I tried. My emotions appeared to have gotten the better of me.
Because of this, I felt almost ashamed. Almost.
Charley had been the first of my charges to convince me emotions were not a waste of time. Since losing Jagniel, I’d turned off, little by little, tuned out, did all but forget anything good existed in my realm or in yours. Because of Charley’s faith and tenacity, I felt accepted, loved… In truth, if not for Charley, I may have never experienced love again, at all.
