by Rene Denfeld
“Celia?” It was Rich, in a hoarse whisper. Rich hated the library. He said the library made him smell like piss. Of course that wasn’t really true; it was just the warm, dry, close air that made it obvious. Celia didn’t tell him this.
“You can go. I’ll come later,” she told Rich, who put down his comic book.
“It’s almost dark—” he began.
“I’ll catch up to you. You know where.” Celia was lost in the butterflies.
Rich left. It was getting wet and cold outside, moisture dripping from the building eaves. The last of the day people were leaving their offices, hurrying through the darkening mist. Overhead a giant black clock ticked. Seven o’clock.
In the room above him, Celia was swinging her feet, smiling and reading. She pulled a piece of paper forward to draw another butterfly.
Outside the man with the mashed face and cauliflower ears was waiting. He saw Rich leave. The girl was alone, inside.
* * *
What is it you want?
When the butterflies talked to Celia, it was like the sweetest notes of music. She could hear them coming from afar. She could see them now, covering the misty library windows. They were above the fantastic chandeliers, flying all around, as thick as fabric flowers above the bowed heads of readers. She named them as they passed: painted lady, swallowtail, viceroy, brush-footed, gossamer. The original brimstone. Metalmarks, hairstreaks, nymphs, and skippers.
There was no creature at all like the butterfly—they were unique animals unlike any other. It wasn’t just their wings, covered in thousands of tiny reflecting scales. It was the truth of their complex bodies, their all-seeing eyes, their feelers. They landed on the table and smiled at her, tapping with musical feet. She smiled, drawing a wing.
Sometimes the butterflies sang to her, Celia, and their songs were like bits of music, the sound of a piano maybe. A single finger on a key, the note hanging in the air, too pretty to fall. Celia’s eyes filled with tears as the butterflies gave voice to her own wonder.
I want to be okay, she answered the butterflies. And the butterflies said yes, of course. They had promised this, from the time before she was born. They had made her mother promise this, too, before it was too late and the darkness overtook her.
One, two, three. Look!
The library lights flickered on and off above her, and the butterflies startled, rising in thick clouds. It was time to go. Celia slid her drawing into the book, gave it a kiss, and rose. Like the others with nowhere to go, she went down the stairs.
* * *
Having a baby sister had changed everything in Celia’s world.
Before, she became a wooden tree left in the bed where Teddy came on nights when her mom passed out on the couch. He put his thing into the hollow of the tree trunk, then held its lifeless branches until he groaned. But then her sister was born. During those long days when her mother slept, or sweated and moaned, waiting for her fix, it was Celia who rocked the baby, changed her diapers, learned how to mix the formula, and later, standing on a stool at the stove, boiled the carrots she mashed, testing with her own tongue to see if they were cool enough for the baby to eat. It was Celia who learned to read so she could understand the words in the Dr. Spock book she had found on the living room bookshelf. It was Celia who called the ambulance one night because she misunderstood the thermometer and thought her baby sister was dying of fever. Her mother, she explained to the ambulance driver, had the flu. That was why she slept through the entire incident.
It was because of her sister that Celia discovered time. Before she knew it, her infant sister was kicking in the dirty high chair, sucking on a pork-chop bone. Then she was two, and three, playing with pots and pans on the floor while Celia stood on a stool at the stove, cooking dinner. Celia, too, grew in these years, but she never stopped being a tree.
It had happened when Alyssa was five and Celia was eleven. She watched her sister change from being a baby to having a shape around her mouth, to having legs that lengthened and arms that took on a honeyed hue in the sun. She had the same copper hair as Celia, only lighter. She’s a pretty girl, strangers started saying, and deep in Celia the alarm sounded.
Make it me, Celia prayed. I will be the tree.
One day Celia took Alyssa out in their backyard to look for butterflies. The backyard had not been mowed for years. Celia liked it this way. There were little garter snakes in the grass, and baby toads, and sometimes the most precious of all, butterflies. “Butterflies are magic,” she told her sister as they hunted carefully in the tall grass, Celia whispering the names when they saw the ones she could identify.
A shadow fell over them. It was Teddy, come home from work. Teddy worked construction, and it was his money that bought the dope her mother now needed. Her mom was as captive to Teddy as Celia was captive to being a tree. He was standing behind them, a fresh beer in one hand, scratching his belly with the other. His blue eyes were on Alyssa. And in that moment, Celia saw how her stepdad was looking at her baby, the speculation in his glance. The planning. No, her heart cried, I will not let this happen.
The next day she went into the nurse’s office at school and reported what was going on at home. She knew exactly what she was doing; she was telling on Teddy to save her sister. She was going to save all of them.
It was the greatest mistake of her life.
Chapter 10
Naomi was climbing the steps to the library when a teenage boy came out. He had the unwashed look of a street kid, and his furtive glance, his eyes widening slightly, told her she was on the mark. She reached out, but the boy lowered his head and hurried off. The evening was getting cold, more rain clouds coming.
It was then she saw the man. He looked like a former boxer, his eyebrows broken with scars, his lips thick with keloids. He wore a blue repairman jacket, zipped up, old trousers, worn shoes. Silvery hair hung down to his chin. Not quite down-and-out, the look said. Dangerous. The man felt dangerous to her.
The man looked back at Naomi indifferently. His thick lips smiled, but it was a cold smile. He was standing under a small alcove sheltering him from the misty rain. Like he was waiting for someone.
Naomi went inside.
“We’re closing,” the librarian said as soon as she entered, not even looking up from her desk. She was absorbed in a worn paperback copy of The Shell Seekers, by Rosamunde Pilcher. Naomi smiled. It was one of her favorite comfort books, too.
“I have some flyers,” Naomi said, coming closer. “And a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She showed her detective license. The librarian put down her book, sliding a homemade crochet bookmark in place, and then put on the sparkly glasses hanging on her neck, leaning over.
A girl was coming down the marble stairs, holding a thick book. She was small and slender, wearing a dirty jean jacket. She had a heart-shaped face under a mop of messy hair, and her green eyes seemed to view the world with trepidation. She was absolutely filthy. Naomi saw a stain of dirt on her cheek as she came closer.
A part of Naomi pinged. She remembered only too well thinking they wouldn’t notice you hiding behind the dirt. But it never worked that way.
The girl glanced at Naomi, then quickly looked down. She slid the book back over the desk. Naomi caught a glimpse of the title, something about butterflies, and saw how the pages were stuffed with pieces of scrap paper. She thought of her own fascination with the wilderness after escaping captivity. The outdoors represented more than nature. It represented freedom.
The librarian smiled gently at the girl. “Thank you, Celia. See you tomorrow?” The girl nodded shyly. The librarian reached under the desk and, with a conspiratorial wink, passed the girl a small jar of nuts. Blushing with pleasure, the girl took it.
The girl cast a green-eyed glance in Naomi’s direction that was hard to read, and then hurried for the big black doors. The librarian watched her leave. She sighed. “I wish I could take her home,” she said. “I wish I could take them all home.”
Naomi remembered the man on the steps. “Excuse me,” she told the librarian, leaving the flyer on the desk to go after the girl.
Outside the mist was catching the streetlights, flickering with reflected colors. Shadows marched up and down the empty streets like the legs of monsters. The girl was at the bottom step, moving fast, with the energy of youth.
The scar-faced man had left the stoop. He was trailing her.
* * *
Celia, unable to contain the excitement of a world that brought butterflies and rain, almost danced in her movement. She raced towards a group of pigeons, waving her arms and sending them to flight: gray and magenta, tipped with a green so brilliant she couldn’t help but smile. The pigeons made a sound like the best of mothers, cooing, and in Celia’s mind they were cooing at her.
The man behind her melted into the shadows so easily that even Naomi, an expert tracker in her own right, was impressed. Impressed and more than a little scared. Not for herself but for the girl.
Naomi was aware of how empty the streets were here. A child could be grabbed, easily, and hustled into a dozen hiding places. The girl was about a block away, the man still trailing her. At any moment they might turn a corner and disappear.
Naomi began to run.
At the very last moment the man heard Naomi and spun around, light flashing on his scarred knuckles. The expression registering on his broad, pebbled face was one of consternation. His mouth opened, but then closed. Backing up quickly, he moved with surprising grace and ducked into an alley. He was gone.
Breathing heavily, Naomi stopped. The girl had whipped around, too, backing up a couple of steps while taking everything in. She quickly covered her fear with a protective sneer. The streets were silent.
“Your name is Celia, isn’t it?” Naomi asked.
“How did you know?”
“The librarian. She said, ‘Thank you, Celia.’”
“I remember you from the row,” the girl said. “The church lady.”
“What makes you think I’m a church lady?” Naomi asked, catching her breath. She smiled now, at ease.
“I saw you down there. You don’t belong.”
“Belong here, or there?”
“Anywhere.”
Taken aback, Naomi thought: She’s like a messenger. A messenger from my past, speaking my own sins, my fears. The girl was staring at Naomi with the kind of hate that comes from envy. Just for a moment Naomi saw it: she wants to be like me, but she’s afraid she never will be. The night had come up behind the girl, darkening her ears, catching the copper of her hair. Soon it would be pitch black, and a girl like this—well, she could disappear.
“I was worried for you, with that scary man following you,” Naomi said. “I’m an investigator. I specialize in finding missing children.”
A blink. No response. Naomi was close enough to see the lines of dirt on her grimy neck. She wondered when this kid last had a bath.
“How old are you?” she asked. “What’s—”
The street boy Naomi had seen earlier had reappeared down the street. The little girl turned and saw him, and her whole face collapsed in relief. She’s afraid, Naomi thought. She doesn’t know who to trust. I don’t blame her.
I know what her life has been like.
Chapter 11
“I’m glad I came back for you,” Rich said to Celia.
They were on the row, in the circus of lights. A bunch of frat boys were downtown, and the air was sharp with them. Celia preferred old men, for the times she had to. Old men were soft and called her “darling” and “little baby.” They wanted to pretend she was their daughter. It was gross, but something Celia told herself she knew.
Young men—they were made of blades. They liked to hurt, and skid row turned into a bloodbath when they were downtown.
“Thank you.” Celia came forward and leaned her face against his chest. Rich froze. In his wildest dreams Celia was doing exactly this. He lifted up his arms, slowly, to capture her, but she moved away. The moment was gone, stolen by the night. It was almost like it had never happened. Rich felt sick with despair. Nothing in this life was made for him.
“Hey, ya fat fag,” a frat boy called out of a car, as if to prove the point. The other frat boys hung out of the windows, faces wet with drink. Rich imagined scythes cutting close to the car, taking them all off at the waist, their bodies falling with a clunk, lips and blinking eyes able to say no more.
“You’re not gay, are you, Rich?” Celia asked, curious.
No, he shook his head, and his very soul ached with loneliness.
That night it was like a party on the streets. Rich and Stoner were there, of course, but so was everyone else and more. Bags filled with glue, to be huffed in the dark alley shadows. Someone carrying a gas can up a street clogged with cars. A junkie falling in a fit, drunks with wet groins, one of the frat boys vomiting against the wall while his friends, all in polo shirts, pitched bets and urged more.
Sometimes Celia hated life. She hated it even as it unfolded, even when it seemed so wondrous. The night sparkled and showed her more:
A man saying “Touch this” and “You get a dollar, my sweet,” and looking down to see the bulge of his groin, hearing his manic giggle. Dancers swaying with arms around trannies and slim-hipped boys in the night. Wondering what was in her drink, the soda someone—was it a friend?—had passed her. Black cherry cream, her favorite.
Sometimes the streets felt like acid. You didn’t need to drop it to know this. You could crawl in the gutter, taste the same dank butts as anyone else, marvel at the view. You could stand below strip club lights, seeing the whirl of a dozen lovely girls—and hear the catcalls of the men outside. Their voices were rich with want, heady with sweat and something she could not name but hoped was love. That’s all she wanted.
She felt hands grabbing her, pushing her towards the entrance, saw the security man at the door, smirking. He was large and had a greasy smile like Teddy, and this set off alarm bells in her. Celia jerked back, trying to get away. The men outside, drunk on lust, swung her around, catching her in their tangled arms and rude laughing faces, ugly teeth yellow and crooked, until suddenly she felt a hand on her and—
Everything stopped.
“I got you.” It was a small man in a tidy suit. In her befuddled state Celia saw only a slim dart of a being, with blue eyes flashing behind round glasses. He had bright silver hair, cut short at the sides, and looked far too elegant for the streets.
“Hey.” It was Rich, and he was reaching for the sodden Celia, and the nice man handed her over, smiling tightly. Celia crouched at the gutter, vomiting.
“I think someone spiked her drink,” the man told her friends. “She ought to be careful of what she drinks on the streets.”
“What happened?” Celia asked what felt like hours later, wiping the wet from her chin, aching all over. The sun was coming up.
“Let’s go sleep,” Stoner said, circles of exhaustion around his eyes.
Which was how Celia woke up to the concrete dome of the overpass above her. She was lying on her back in the dirt, the smell of urine around her, and above, the thud of passing cars counted out the time. When she felt this sick, it was hard for the butterflies to come, and this alone was reason not to do drugs or drink. The butterflies might abandon her forever, just as they had her mother.
* * *
One butterfly.
She was in a courtroom, shaking. The victim advocate—a booming woman who kept saying everything would be all right—had told her just to take the stand. Tell the truth, they all said, but how can you tell the truth when the lie is right in front of you?
Teddy.
Two butterflies.
It took most of a year even to get there. Can you imagine? A year of her mother crying, listening to Teddy on the jail phone saying he had done nothing, she would know if he had, wouldn’t she? And her mother finally saying yes. The addiction not going away but getting worse, fed by the money Teddy sent. Two candle
s her mother put on the mantel. “We are going to light these every night Teddy is in jail,” her mother said, as the candles flickered, and the look she gave Celia was haunted, like she had made a choice she had since forgotten.
Three butterflies.
Celia losing herself in the maze of lies, questioning her own reality, watching her mother talk to social workers, telling them it couldn’t possibly be true. Celia knew her mother couldn’t tell anyone about the syringes under the couch, about how the drugs had taken over her own life. She might go to jail, too. Celia in the bathtub with a strainer in her hand, watching the water pour through the holes. Who was telling the truth?
All Celia had to do was look at her sister to know she was.
Alyssa, her beloved. Taken by child services because of the allegations of sexual abuse in the home. Why did they leave Celia then? Not enough foster homes, especially for older kids, she was told. Teddy was in jail, they said. Celia was safe. They didn’t know her mother, how strong her addiction was, how open her veins were to Teddy’s lies.
Four butterflies.
Alyssa finally coming home. Different. Smelling of laundry soap from another home. Having learned to wipe her mouth as she ate, all dainty like. Flossing her teeth every night, which Celia never did, and she felt guilty and angry she wasn’t the one who had taught her. Talking about her foster family like they were the ones who really loved her, saying they had wanted to adopt her and she hadn’t wanted to come home.
“Light a candle for your father, dears. The one Celia put in jail.”
Five butterflies.
That final day in court. Led to the witness chair by the victim advocate, her hand imprisoning Celia’s wrist. Celia sitting down, quaking, seeing Teddy there, in a suit next to his public defender. The lawyer had stood, smoothing out his jacket.
“Miss Celia . . .” The attorney had stepped forward, victory already in his eyes. “What does your family call you?”
