let me tell you somethin

Runnin as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me, and over my shoulder I see Amahl comin up behind me. Ain’t runnin, but walkin real fast so he don’t attract no attention. The street crowded from all the people walkin to Rockefeller Center to see the tree light up, all lookin at me like I some kind of thief or somethin.

Quick turn up Fifth Avenue to Forty-Eighth Street where I cross into the plaza. Jammed with people, but I turn the corner and throw myself into the doorway of some office buildin. The door locked so I just sit there, real quiet, breathin fast, out of sight. Some of the Yuppies stare at me.

glare back at them

Feet screamin, I take my heels off, leave them in the doorway and start windin through the crowd. Think I lost him, but no harm in workin a little deeper into hidin. After a few blocks an alley where no one is hangin, and I squat behind a dumpster to catch my breath.

Amahl used to be my boyfriend, but he been pimpin me for a couple years now. Last week I told him we was through. He went crazy and started chasin after me with this pipe. Savin my ass I lie to him, tell him I just wanna reduce my work load. Believes me for awhile, till he hear I was doin some of the regular johns on the side. Not givin him his cut.

This afternoon, just as I gettin down to business on old Mr. Happy, Amahl jump out from under the bed. Throwin me outta the way, he beat on the john for awhile and start swingin at me with that piece of pipe. Started runnin. Good thing he all strung-out and crack-blind or I’d be a bloody mess by now.

Peek out from behind the dumpster and look down the corner. Don’t see him nowhere, so I rest a few more minutes before sneakin towards Penn Station.

Plan to run to New Jersey like Margerie did. Course, the stupid bitch run out of money and come back to the city soon after. Amahl take her back and let her work for a few weeks or so till he figure she ain’t got it no more. Then he crack her head with that pipe and dump her in the alley near Park-Fast. Dead as a body gonna get.

footsteps

A hand on my shoulder and a piece of metal pipe come hissin at my face. Amahl yellin at me as I lie on the ground, tastin the blood runnin out my nose and into my mouth. He lean over me and crack me in the ribs. Gettin tough to breathe. Can’t scream.

Yo bitch, he yell. Don’t wanna work no more, huh? Thass cool. I fix it.

Grabbin my legs and spreadin them wide, he roll me over the way he like it. Tell myself to breathe. Know I should kick him or roll back, but my brain ain’t movin, legs can’t think. Dress all up over my head and now he standin on my thighs, pinnin skin to the ground, spreadin me apart even wider. A cool draft between my legs. Nostrils flarin, he pull the pipe back like a sledgehammer, aim it at my crotch and

he’s gone

Look up, seein this huge brother poundin Amahl on the head with the pipe. Amahl tryin to get up, screamin innocence, but the brother keep on poundin him. Bam Bam, Amahl bleedin. Falls to the ground like he dead, only I still hear him moanin.

Brother come over to me and roll me on my back. Big man, deep brown eyes, rolls of fat. Huge torn-up hands movin towards my neck.

Legs spread apart, and I can’t fight back, can’t even move. Know what’s comin.

No, I say. Please no. Not now. Later. Please.

Brother lift up my head and cradle it in his arms, wipin the blood off my face.

He say, Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna hurt you. You gonna be fine baby, just fine. You mind if I call you that, he say. Baby?

The little concrete bumps on the sidewalk before I pass out.

______________________________

Thirty-Third Street, just off Seventh Avenue. A sheltered spot between a bakery and a clothes store, and just inside, the stairs lead to the subway. Brother call this place the Cave, and I been here since I got beat up two weeks ago. Some warmth rises up from the subway below, no wind, tan painted concrete walls.

No sign here for the subway, so we’re pretty much left alone-just The Commuters passin by and they don’t care bout you one way or the other. Some-times pick up a little cash from the tourists as they come out of Macy’s, but not from The Commuters though. They don’t give you shit.

The man who save me named Butterball, president of what he call the Thirty-Third Street Club. To sleep here you gotta be a member, and considerin there’s only four of us, Butterball don’t take just anybody. A big man, built all heavy on top with short, barrel-lookin legs. Must weigh near on 300 pounds, but I can’t figure out why. Don’t seem to eat no more than the rest of us.

Butterball’s Basic Rules: do what you can to earn your keep, don’t shoot up or drink too much, don’t do your whorin in the Cave, and keep yourself clean. Butterball say as long as you clean you still got your dignity.

Two other people live in the Cave with us. Plato been around the longest, way back when there was another Butterball to keep everything cool. A skinny white boy with long straggly hair and wire-rimmed glasses like that Beatle guy used to wear. A head case with an education. Story goes, Plato was a Yale philosophy professor in the sixties. Said he got fired for smokin dope with some of his students and then couldn’t get a teachin job anywhere else. I guess it could happen.

Then there’s Mother Theresa. Plato call her that because for every dollar she get, she end up givin away fifty cent to any old fool who ask her for it. Looks about seventy years old, face all crooked and witch-nosed, walkin humped over to one side. Ain’t got a whole lotta teeth left either. Give the bitch a broom.

Ten years ago she and her man come to the city from Puerto Rico for a better life. Bad idea. One year later, he go out to buy beans and never come back. No money, no job and no beans, so out to the street she come. Maybe that’s why she so damn suspicious bout everythin. When I first meet her, she accuse me of bein Buterball’s whore. Told me I just like the one who took her husband away while he was out shoppin for beans.

Worst thing is I gotta stay with her while Butterball out lookin for food and money and such. He say I ain’t strong enough to leave the Cave yet, so I gotta sit here all damn day, listenin to the bitch whine and hack-up snots and lung cookies.

First thing every morning, I make sure I ain’t dead. What I do, is reach out from under the blanket and rub my hands on the concrete bumps of the sidewalk, eyes still shut. When I know I’m alive and breathin, look over and make sure Butterball still there. He never leave till he see I’m awake. Scared that Amahl might come and get me again.

Under the blanket changin my underwear. Last night I wash them in the bathroom of Penn Station just usin hand soap and warm water. Underwear still cold and damp, so I wrap my hands around them to make them warm. Wrap the old ones in a bag so I can wash them tomorrow. Been in the city three years, but never had to sleep on the streets before.

takes some gettin used to

Butterball wakin up now, reaches for the stash which he keep in a bag tied to his waist and strapped to his leg. Stash is all the club’s money and valuables. All he got of mine is a gold bracelet my gramma give me when she die. When he wanted to take it from me, I told him I’d rather starve than sell that bracelet. Says he ain’t gonna sell it, just hold it so no one would mug me for it. Pretty smart, which is why he the Butterball.

______________________________

One morning Butterball wake me up real early, long before the sun even up. Takin me for a walk to show me my new neighborhood.

You well enough to get around now, he say, and I don’t think Amahl comin back for awhile.

Steps of Madison Square Garden, sittin there watchin traffic, no words. Butterball next to me, lookin like he waitin for somethin.

So, he say, what you doin in the city?

I say, Is that your business?

It is if you wanna stay in the club, sorta like checkin your references. You been here for two weeks and I still don’t know your real name.

I truly don’t remember, I say.

Fine, he say, tell me what you want, but tell me somethin.

tell him

I’m from Hogback Mountain, South Carolina. Fifteen years old, drop out of school cause I get pregnant and can’t afford no abortion. Daddy kick me out of the house, but it didn’t bug me because I wanted to be with the baby’s father and live happy ever after, you know? So I move in with Old Man and have the baby, and it ain’t long till he start drinkin all day and beatin on me till I can’t stand it no more.

One day I come home from the store. Open the door, bed squeakin and yes yes yes, Old Man doin his thing on the woman from downstairs. The baby cryin and screamin in the other room, and Old Man just tell me to get out, like I had no business even bein there. I leave, try to talk to my mama, to tell her what goin on, but she say Daddy don’t want me around no more. Mama say she come check on the baby tomorrow.

Next day Old Man go out to buy his bottle in the morning, so I sneak back in his house and gather up everythin worth stealin. Take the bus to Columbia, sell the Old Man’s stuff and use the money to get to New York.

Soon I run out of money, but Amahl take me in and give me all the booze and dope I want. Next thing I know, I’m suckin down salesmen so we can pay the rent.

Butterball say, Wait. What about your baby? You just left him there?

Yup, I say. Didn’t know what else to do. Thought maybe without me, Daddy would take the baby in, give him a better life. I know Mama took him straight away from Old Man, brought him home. Strange, but sometimes I can feel him and I know he alright. Someday I see him again. If mama still alive, I’ll find him.

______________________________

Snowin out, sittin in the Cave talkin to this street shrink named Dave. He and Butterball know each other from way back. Can’t see how they’d get along. Dave’s a musician, ain’t got no real job. Velvet beard and beautiful long, blonde hair. Volunteers for some Help the Homeless crusade.

When Butterball introduce us, Dave hand me a card with his address and phone number on it, says to call him if there’s trouble or if I need help.

And Baby, he say, give my number to anyone who needs to reach you. I’ll pass messages along without tellin where you are or what you’re doin.

Later on I ask Butterball why he like Dave so much.

He say, Dave ain’t the normal street shrink. He ain’t never tried to force us to no shelter, never pushed religion or rehab. He knows we all got our reasons for being here, knows there’s more to everybody’s story than what we let on. Mostly, you can trust him, and Baby, there ain’t much out here you can trust.

______________________________

Sunny mornin. Butterball takin me to the Battery to teach me the right way to work. Tell him I survive for three years, but he say whorin don’t count. Says I need clean work, too much shit goin around for whorin.

The park. Sittin on a bench, watch him take off his shirt and shoes and toss the woolen hat. Six-inch scar on his forehead, calls it his street life merit badge.

In his hand a piece of cardboard say: I’m homeless and I don’t drink. He take it over to the sidewalk and sit there with the sign in front of him, singin to himself and rockin back and forth like Buddah or Stevie Wonder. Folks pass by and everyone look at him, read his little sign. But nobody give him nothin. After awhile he come back to where I’m sittin.

You see, he say, this ain’t workin. Trick is, you gotta be current.

Reaches into his bag. Pulls out an old red suit and the black rubber boots the sewer guys wear. Jacket got cotton balls glued to the buttons and all around the hem. Pulls out a white beard, hat, silver bell and a little black pail.

I say, Where you find all this shit?

He say, When you been on the street as long as I have you know where to find anythin. Now shut up and watch.

Back to his spot, ringin his bell and singin Christmas songs loud as he can. Singin and singin about bells and snow and Jesus, and pretty soon people start to notice. Tourists eatin him up cause he’s probably the only black Santa they ever seen. They all want pictures with him and bring their kids over to shake his hand. Meanwhile, they throwin all this damn money in the box.

After awhile he come back, take the suit off and stuff it in the bag. Countin the money, and there maybe thirty dollar there.

That’s pretty good, I say, but you oughta work near Macy’s or somethin where there’s more people.

He say, Now see, that’s why you ain’t the Butterball. Think about it. Them midtown Salvation people got good costumes. Folks walk by, and who you think they gonna give the money to? The white fella with the real costume, or the old black bum who made his outfit from stuff he find in the garbage. Better to work down here where there ain’t so much competition.

Girl, he say, you gotta get some business sense if you gonna survive on the street.

______________________________

Cold day. Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and reach over to wake Butterball, but he ain’t there. Never wake up before and not see him there. He don’t like to leave me alone.

Everyone else still sleepin. Realize the sun just comin up, so I bundle my stuff, walk out of the Cave to Seventh Avenue and look downtown. Silent city, and I remember that it’s Christmas and all the regulars are inside with their families. Remember home, eatin till we couldn’t walk, gifts under the tree spillin out into the middle of the room. Thinkin about my son, hopin he enjoyin his day, wherever he is. Wonder what he’s doin.

don’t think about it, hurts

Down Seventh Avenue to pick up some coffee, and gettin to Twenty-Eighth Street, make a left and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Big stone church there where I like to sit, and when the church comes into my sight, think I see Butterball standin on the steps. In a suit and tie.

He don’t see me, so I walk a little closer to make sure my eyes ain’t pullin any funny shit. Believe it’s Butterball alright. Still ain’t shaved, but his hair all neat and slicked back. Decide to just sit and watch him.

Half an hour he just standin there, playin with the knot in his tie and lookin around all suspicious. Expensive cars pullin up, and one by one he open the car doors and escort the ladies up the steps. Beamin from ear to ear, wavin his arms like a traffic cop, directin drivers where to park. Everyone make it a point to shake his hand and talk to him. When the bells ring, Butterball look around one last time, go inside and shut the door.

I guess he got some scam goin on, but I never seen a suit in his bag of tricks. Nice fuckin suit too. The kind The Commuters wear when they got a deal goin on.

A little pissed off because I thought maybe we could go out scroungin for cash to buy ourselves a little Christmas feast, hit up the churches as the people leave. Hell with him so I go back to the cave. In about an hour he come around the corner whistlin “Hark the Herald Angles Sing” and walkin with a bounce in his step. No suit on. Hair all mussed up again.

I say, So where your suit?

What suit? he say.

The suit that you wore to that rich white man’s church. You know, I probably did the lollipop with half the men in there.

He say, What you doin leavin the Cave without me?

I was lookin for you while you in there lookin for God.

I was busy.

Shit, you oughta be busy findin food instead of findin the baby Jesus.

Listen, he say, why I gotta explain myself to you? I been goin there for twelve years now, and I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody. Why you?

waits for a minute, thinkin it over

He say, My first Christmas on the street I decide to sleep on the church steps, to keep outta the wind. Early next morning, this old man pats me on the back, askin me if I wanna clean up and eat a little somethin. I’m hungry, cold and broke, so I goes along. I don’t care what I have to do.

He unlock the door and take me inside the church. We go upstairs to this little bathroom where he leave me alone to wash up. When I finish, the old man come back with coffee and breakfast and that nice blue suit. He say all I gotta do is open car doors for people and escort them up the steps.

So every year since, every Christmas and Easter for twelve years I been goin there. Folks expect to see me, and every year I get cleaned up and my blue suit is hangin on the rack waitin. And I ain’t never had to explain it to nobody.

I say, So now your belly’s full, you done your good deed and it’s too late for the rest of us. All the churches empty, and we gonna eat the same old shit today. I just wanted today to be special, you know, Christmas and all.

He say, Don’t you worry, we gonna eat alright. The preacher give me fifty dollars from the collection plate, five dollars more than last year. We eat alright every other year, and I never had to explain it to nobody.

Later, Butterball come back to the Cave with a box full of food. Hot turkey sandwiches and french fries and some little apple pies, all fresh from the Korean deli. Plato and Mother Theresa ask him where he get the money for this every year, and he says it none of their business, says they should thank God for it directly. Butterball truly believe God gave it to him.

______________________________

Times Square this mornin, ball hangin up on the wire waitin to drop. Theresa say it do more good if it come crashin to the ground, knocking out a whole bunch of Commuters and such.

Butterball makin plans for us to work the streets tonight. He pick up a hundred bucks last year, so this year we all gonna do it. Good night to work because people come into the city just to wander around, the city bulgin up like it gonna explode. Everybody get real happy with all the drinkin goin on, and when folks get happy they start givin out money.

Every now and then somebody give you a bottle too. Butterball say we can drink one bottle we get, but not till after we done workin. Supposed to bring the others back to the Cave. Butterball know a store that will buy them all back.

Walkin back from Times Square, and when Theresa and Plato walk off in the other direction, Butterball pull me into this phone booth. Standin there, lookin at me with this stupid grin on his fat little face.

What we doin? I ask.

Gonna give you a little treat, he say.

What kinda treat?

Call your mama, he say.

I can’t, I say. Too expensive.

He give me a quarter and say, I’m the Butterball, and I say it ain’t too expensive. Dial the number.

Pick up the receiver and put the quarter in the slot, thinkin real hard about the number I have in my head, hopin that it right. Forgot alot of stuff since I been in the city.

Stupid recordin tells me to please deposit three dollar and fifty-five cent for the first three minutes. Hangin it up when Butterball grab the receiver and ask me how much.

I say, It three fifty-five! Shit, we can eat for two days on three fifty-five.

True, he say, but I’ll feel better if you make the call, so here the money.

I put the money in. Long silence till another recordin tell me that the number is disconnected. Butterball hear it and tell me to try again. I try it, get the same message. Butterball look away from me and I take the money and try it again.

and I try it again after that

I call the information in South Carolina and give my mama’s name. Operator say that number’s unlisted.

Screamin into the phone, But operator, this is an emergency!

Sorry, she say.

Try the old number again, tears wellin up in my eyes and hands shakin so as I can’t push the right buttons. Butterball stop me and hang up the phone.

You bastard, I say. Why you make me do this? Why the hell didn’t you just leave it alone?

He say, I’m sorry, Baby. Truly, truly sorry.

It too late for that now. It too late for everything, I say.

start to cry

Butterball take me in his arms and hold me there. It feel good when he hold me. Butterball say, It ain’t too late for everything. You got me now, Baby. I belongs to you now.

______________________________

Afternoon. People start pourin out of Penn Station. A parade of tuxedos and gowns, jeans and sweatshirts, heavy coats-all rushin uptown, eyes big and expecting. Butterball send Plato and Mother Theresa to their spots where they supposed to stay till three in the mornin. He tell Theresa she better not give no money away.

When they gone, Butterball say, Come with me, Baby. Got somethin to show ya.

Bringin me way downtown, keep askin him where we goin but he don’t say nothin, not even shut-up

An old squatters buildin. Butterball lookin both ways before liftin me through a busted window, crawlin through this mess of glass and shit. Inside, he take out some matches and light a candle. Far corner of the room, a little broken table and two chairs ready. Old mattress under newspapers and rat turds. Walkin closer, champagne on the table. Nothin too fancy I reckon, but champagne all the same.

Butterball say, Hope you don’t mind. I thought it might be nice to celebrate before we get to workin.

Think maybe he tryin to get in my pants or somethin. We never touch each other, though there been sometimes I want to. Don’t imagine he want anythin that been where I been. I owes him though, so I figure to shut my mouth and take what he decide to give me.

Chair pulled out, I sit down. Bottle ain’t even got a cork in it, so he twist off the top and pour into paper cups from Dunkin Donuts. Lookin at me pretty weird though, so I ask him, What’s wrong?

Nothin, he say. Just thinkin about home is all.

Now I been thinkin about it too, ever since this mornin’s phone call. Afraid to tell anybody, don’t want them to think they ain’t appreciated.

Butterball say, You know, it always this time of year that you start thinkin about home, wonderin bout what coulda been and tryin to forget what is. I wonder bout my mama all the time. Shit, she may not even be alive.

I say, Well, why don’t you call her? You seem to have enough money for this bottle of wine, you seem to have enough money to throw away on my life. Seems like you oughta have enough money to call your own mama.

He say, Course I do.

I say, So what’s the problem? You scared? Scared of your own mama?

He say, What if I am? Why shouldn’t I be? She’ll just hang up on me and make all the hurt come back. She don’t like me much now, don’t even care. Besides, she got Dave’s number. She know how to get hold of me if she want me. Course, she can’t call me if she dead.

Decide to let it rest for now. I get him to call her though. Soon.

Drinkin champagne, he talkin away bout growin up and playin around his mama’s general store. Like a little kid when he gets goin, talkin and grinnin and laughin at each little memory, face all lit up.

Sometimes I miss it, he say and he look right through my eyes and into my head. Starin at each other, not sayin nothin, not doin nothin. Just lookin into each other’s eyes for what seem like minutes, hours. Finally he move his head just a little bit to the right, and I take it to mean that he want me.

Move towards him, shut my eyes and give him what he want.

______________________________

Sky gettin lighter, crowds thinnin. Leave my spot at Penn Station eighty dollars richer and walk past the Cave where Plato and Mother Theresa are sleepin like children who been up too late. Sprawled everywhere, feet stickin out from blankets, arms overhead. Butterball ain’t back yet so I walk up Thirty-Third Street to see if the New Year has changed anythin.

All the way to the East River. Helicopters takin off, carryin the rich old men back home, mistresses arm-in-arm. Sun comin up as I watch the waves ripple against the pier. Wonder to myself if yesterday’s thing with Butterball was a one-timer or if there’s something more comin. Decide not to think about it too much, just let life lead me on. For now I got a nice place to sleep and people who care about me. Seems like enough. Layin down on a bench, fall asleep to helicopters whirlin, people laughin, waves splashin Happy New Year.

Later on when I walk in the Cave, Mother Theresa jump up at me with those wild eyes of hers, lookin like she ready to blame me for all the world’s problems.

Theresa say, Where Butterball at?

I say, I don’t know. He was workin near Times Square last thing I know.

Well, then we got a problem cause it almost sundown and he ain’t back yet.

Maybe he fell asleep someplace, I say.

Baby, it ain’t like that. That bastard took off with all the money he made, I can feel it. He did have the best spot, know what I’m sayin.

Hush up, girl. He ain’t never done nothin like that has he?

No, she say, lookin at the ground like a child that been yelled at. I guess I just worried, she say. He oughta be back by now.

Triggers a memory: stories bout gangs of kids waitin for street people to pass out and then bustin them up for a couple of dollars. Wonderin if Amahl find him.

hear that pipe hissin like a snake

Well, I say, What you wanna do? Wanna start lookin for him?

No, guess not. If he don’t come home, we go lookin tomorrow. He probably just with some woman, she say.

He ain’t with no woman, I whisper when she start walkin down into the subway. Stomach start turnin, go out to look for him.

______________________________

Ten days now and still no sign of Butterball. Every day we split up and walk around, checkin with Butterball’s friends and lookin in all the usual spots.

Temperature droppin quick since sun went down. Walkin home cross Thirty-Third Street, wind whippin off the river almost blows me off my feet. Pretend that if I just let myself go, the wind will blow me right to Butterball, all bundled up in someone’s doorway, waitin for me, singin Auld Lang Syne.

Now Theresa insist he gone for good, but I don’t believe it yet. Can’t believe it yet. Don’t wanna believe that I been tricked, that he’d run off with the stash, rippin off three people’s lives. Theresa never believe her man would do it either, but he did. Got no beans.

Back in the Cave, Theresa and Plato huddled under a stained blanket we stole from the laundry of the Penta Hotel. Theresa sleepin, and Plato sittin there singin to himself. He done askin me if I found Butterball. Knows just by lookin at me.

Plato stop singin. Sorry ass look on his face.

I say, Just shut up. I ain’t quittin yet.

He say, Come under the blanket, Baby. Gotta warm Theresa up. She ain’t so good tonight.

What wrong with her?

Mostly she’s old and tired, but right now she’s delirious and runnin a fever and talkin about dyin.

I climb in on the other side of Theresa. Sure look ugly, drool drippin down her mouth, freezin to the blanket under her chin. Soon they both snorin.

Lookin out at the snow, cause for me, it too damn cold to sleep.

______________________________

Feelin the concrete bumps this mornin, my hand touch someone’s head. Thinkin it might be Butterball, eyes pop open, disappointed. A new person sleepin next to me I never seen before. Wrong kind to have around, needle tracks up and down his arms and neck. Butterball would wake this dude up and beat the hell out of him. Ain’t worried about him stealin nothin though. Nothin left to steal.

Walk over and wake up Plato. Sees the dude sleepin there, and points me outside. Mother Theresa sittin on the curb drinkin someone’s left over Coke she found lyin in the gutter.

Theresa point towards the Cave and say, What you think about that? Butterball only been gone three weeks and we got roaches already.

Plato say, Maybe it’s time I found us a new Butterball. The old one’s gone for sure. Maybe Amahl caught up with him and left him dead on the street somewhere.

I say, He ain’t dead. He comin back soon. I know it.

Theresa say, Look Baby, you better face it now girl. He been gone far too long. We looked everywhere. He ain’t comin back.

Theresa, I say, you don’t know that. You don’t know nothin.

______________________________

Dave came round tonight because Plato tell him I’m losin my mind over Butterball bein gone. Plato say Dave a good man to talk to, so I listen.

Standin outside the Cave and Dave say, I hear you’re feelin pretty bad, huh? Butterball really liked you.

I say, I know. I had men leave me before, but they always say goodbye. I just wish he said goodbye. I ain’t used to street life. Don’t know if I can make it without Butterball showin me how.

Let’s take a walk, he say.

Down Thirty-Third Street to Fifth Avenue and over to the church steps. For awhile just sittin. Watchin traffic and listenin to the conversations people have as they walk by.

Dave look at me kind of funny and say, Baby, I know where Butterball is.

What? I yell, jumpin up, screamin. Where the hell he at?

Shhh, now hold on, Dave say, you gotta keep quiet about this.

Where the hell he at? I yell again. Tell me fore I bust you up.

Just listen, he say. Early in the mornin on New Year’s Eve, I got a call tellin me that Butterball’s mother is dyin of cancer. Evidently she didn’t have long to live and wanted to clear things up with Butterball before she died. I gave Butterball the message and he left a couple hours before the ball dropped.

Dave still talkin, but I’m thinkin that Butterball knowd all this when I let him have me in that old buildin. Screw me and leave me was the plan, I reckon.

I shout, So why didn’t he say somethin to me?

Dave say, This was somethin he had to do himself. He said you’d understand, said it was you who told him there was nothin to be afraid of.

starin across the street, our reflection in the store windows

I say, So why tell me at all?

Dave say, They buried his mother yesterday. Good news is, she owned a small general store up in New Hampshire and now it all belongs to Butterball. He called me this morning, he wants to come and get you, to bring you up there and help him run it. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. He said he’d understand.

Standin up, walkin around a bit, tryin to take it all in. Feels great that Butterball thinkin bout me, but I feel bad for the others.

Baby, says Dave, I know it’s a big decision, Think about it, OK? But don’t tell the others. I’ll do it when the time is right.

Dave, I say, Why is this happenin to me?

______________________________

Feel the bumps on the sidewalk and hop out of my blanket pretty quick, surprised how warm it is for a January mornin. Just excitement.

Theresa still sleepin, but Plato standin outside smokin some weed he found. Asks me what I’m doin, and I tell him I’m goin for a walk.

He say, I’m bringin a new Butterball around to meet you this afternoon. Just make sure you stop by.

I’ll try to remember, I say.

He say, Baby, I’m sorry. I know you liked Butterball, but we gotta get on with our lives. We have to accept that he’s gone.

I say, A person’s gotta do what he gotta do.

Crossin the street, walk inside Penn Station to the subway platform where Dave is waitin. Take the A-train to Canal Street where we get off and walk up West Broadway. At the Good Food Deli, Dave lead me up a stairway and into his apartment. Inside, all these instruments and microphones and stuff. Posters of Elvis.

Dave hand me a towel and say, Ready for a shower?

Hot water pours over me, black city tar rollin off my body and down the drain. Hear Dave playin this sad soundin song on the guitar and hummin to himself. Step out of the bathroom in my towel and ask where my clothes are.

Handin me this Macy’s bag. Dave say, Here, Butterball sent me some money to buy this stuff for you. He wants you to look nice when he sees you.

Open the bag. Sunshine. Bright yellow dress, new underwear, stockins and a pair of lemon yellow shoes. Go over and give Dave a hug. Good taste, I say. These are beautiful. Thank you.

After I get dressed Dave give me some of his girlfriend’s make-up to put on. Lookin in the mirror, scared of the woman I see starin back at me, the one who look like my Mama. Ain’t seen myself in awhile. Surprised. Still a woman after all.

Arm-in-arm we walk out to catch the subway.

______________________________

The bus terminal. Walk up one flight of stairs to the main level and into a little coffee shop. Dave say, Butterball is gonna stay out of sight because Plato likes to work the buses. Here’s your ticket, he’ll be waitin at the gate.

Dave come to me and wrap his arms around me. Looks uncomfortable.

He say, You keep in touch, OK? I wanna know how the two of you are doin.

scared

Inside my sunshine dress I’m burstin, explodin with guilt and sadness. Finally I say what’s on my mind.

I say, Dave, what about Theresa and Plato? Who gonna take care of them?

Dave laugh. Don’t worry about that, he say. They were here before you, and they’ll be here long after you’re gone. They love that life, it’s total freedom.

Pissed off at him. No, I say, that ain’t how it is.

No, say Dave, that ain’t how it is with you, and so you’re moving on. They’ve had their chances and decided to stay where they are. So let them live their lives and go live yours, OK? Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on them. That’s what I’m here for.

He reach over, wipe a tear from my cheek.

Take care, Baby. Smile, he say, and he walk off into the crowd, hands in pockets, not lookin back.

______________________________

time to go

Start to move, just like I practiced it. Walk quick, almost runnin, but still touchin heel and toe to the ground. Eyes don’t shift, starin at the floor and lookin up only to get a sense of direction.

The ticket booths. Two little girls come at me and ask me for money. Just look past them with that hard Commuter stare and keep goin. Seen it so many times I got real good at it, chin up, eyes locked straight ahead. Glance at the TV to see what gate the bus is on. Walk quickly to the escalators, tryin to blend in with all The Commuters who rush there with me. Lookin at my watch. Forgot I don’t have one.

Upstairs. Turn the corner that lead down the hall to the gates, and there sits Plato, cross-legged on the floor with his little cardboard sign, coffee cup for collectin change.

Rush to the other side and blend into a small crowd of people. Plato look over, feel his eyes on my legs. Wanna look at him, to let him know I’m sorry, but I know I can’t meet his eyes. If he know it’s me, he don’t say nothin and I keep goin.

Gate 14. The bus with the Boston sign on it, and as I’m about to get on, see Butterball smokin a cigarette waitin for me. Dressed all nice in a new black suit and a bright white shirt. Holdin his arms open as I run towards him, as quick as these stupid high heels will carry me.

Baby, he say, you lookin fine. Where you get all the fancy threads? Shit, and make-up too!

I say, Dave bought them with the money you sent.

I didn’t send him no money. I just called him to give you a message.

Butterball stops for a second. Cracks a little smile and says, Oh my, that boy better be careful. The city eat up the nice ones and spit them out.

On the bus. Butterball tellin me bout all the things he done since he been gone, talkin like a child that had too much sugar before bedtime. Says he been fixin up the house for me and buyin new things for the store.

He say, We gonna have a great time, I know it. And Baby, he say, grabbin my hands and lookin into my head, I’m glad you come along.

I smile. A few more hours of listenin to him ramble on, talks me right to sleep, cradlin me in his arms.

______________________________

Reach for the bumps on the sidewalk and feel the plastic armrest instead. Somewhere in Massachusetts, thinkin bout the others as the bus floats across the snowy hills and valleys, drivin me through postcards I’d never thought I’d see. Plato and Theresa. Never even said goodbye to them, know that right now they’re combin through every rotten street and subway station in the city, freezin their asses off lookin for me. Feel awful about this, so I ask Butterball what he think.

Dave will take care of them, he say. They survived before me, and they’ll survive after me. They’ll live forever, don’t you worry bout that.

Feel a little better, but I can’t help but wonder. It’ll be ten years from now and I’ll still wonder.

______________________________

New Hampshire, three weeks. Looks like business is just enough to keep us warm and fed. Whatever money Butterball’s mama left him is dwindlin, but the house and business are paid for and that’s enough. We’re still better off.

Butterball gave me grandma’s bracelet back, and I wear it all the time. Two weeks ago we sent Dave a letter and included the stash for Mother Theresa, Plato and the new Butterball. Stuffed an extra hundred dollars into it. Lord knows we could use it, but they’ll do more with it than we will.

Sent a few letters to South Carolina but never hear nothin back. Tryin to save enough money to go there, to find my mama and my little boy. Mama may not want much to do with me, and it’s fine if she don’t, but one day I hope I can take my boy back. Every night I dream of bringin him up here to live with us, but that’s just a dream. For now, I just need to know he’s alright. Need to know he’s growin up OK.

Local folks are pretty good people. They know us as Mr. and Mrs. Dexter Robinson. Can you believe that’s his real name? Dexter?

We’ve made some friends here too, but haven’t said anythin about our past. They all laugh when he calls me Baby or I call him Butterball. They think it’s cute, but we know it’s much more than that.

For the next few days, Elaine threw herself into tattoo research as if it were a financial proposition, where critical precision and a strong measure of gut reaction would produce the desired return. She wanted just one small design, something pretty that would help contrast her boyish torso and dark masculine features, something that would make her feel, if not look, more feminine. As a prominent local executive, she did not want to go to one of the nearby parlors where she would be recognized, nor did she want to reveal her pelvis or breasts to someone she might later meet at a local bar. At work, she closed her door and abandoned the financial and news service reports in order to Google tattoos, to read about their history, the pigments, the machine, the hygiene, the pain. By all accounts, the best place to go would be the tattoo festival at the South Dakota state fair, 1200 miles away and populated for two weeks by the finest tattoo artists in the country.

____________________________________

Later that month, Elaine drank a warm lemonade on the midway, eavesdropping on those around her, enveloped in carnival rides and screaming children bemoaning puddles of melting ice cream. She saw some tattoos she admired and began asking about the various artists at the festival. One name kept coming up, the best artist at the festival, a Viet Nam vet named Sarge Lazuli. He didn’t have a regular base, didn’t work in one of the parlors among the bait shops and bike repair garages, but everyone seemed to know of him. He worked from a small travelling studio which he towed behind his camping van to fairs and carnivals around the country. He only did butterflies, and his mostly female clientele always wanted their designs on an intimate area, somewhere seductive like the top of the breast, the small of the back, the ass, the ankle, or sometimes, just below the panty line.

At this festival, amid thousands of inked bodies, the line for Sarge’s trailer never receded. Hundreds of women lined up, but only several each day would be chosen to pay $500 for the privilege of a Lazuli butterfly. Elaine decided she would make it worth his time.

She approached him at the end of the first day, just as he began packing up. Dressed in army fatigues with a black bandana around his head to retain his mass of grayish black hair, he commanded quite a presence. Elaine tried not to be intimidated by his large figure, his muscles stuffing his long sleeves like sausages, and his face, scarred and stubbled, in perpetual anger. His hands, the largest she had ever seen, were stained blue-black nearly everywhere. The Doors played on the stereo behind him, and black POW/MIA flags decorated the tent walls.

“Closing up for now,” he grumbled.

“Your talent is amazing,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“Can I ask why you only do butterflies?”

“You can ask, but I’m not likely to tell you.”

“Sorry,” she said, indignant. “I’m thinking of getting one.”

“Well, you sort of missed your chance this year. I only do repeaters. No first-timers.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Money’s just as good.”

“Actually, that’s not true. Newbies ask too many questions, fidget too much, cry too often, and when it’s all over, they look at you unforgiving. No one likes their first tattoo, which is why people will either get another one or hide the one they have.”

“Well, it’s not like this is new to me. I’ve spent years thinking about it and four weeks getting up the nerve. Everyone says you’re the best, so I’d rather not go elsewhere. I can pay you double,” she said.

“Not really about the money,” he said. “Go have one done somewhere else and then come back.”

“I don’t want a gallery,” she said.” I just want one tattoo. A butterfly. I’ll pay you triple.”

“Sorry,” he said.” But rules are rules. Just get a small one, and then come back. A little rose or something. Maybe honeysuckle. It attracts butterflies.”

____________________________________

Elaine returned the next afternoon with a sprig of honeysuckle drifting from under her shirt towards her cleavage, the design small and vivid behind the glossy sheen of therapeutic ointment. The night before she argued with herself for nearly an hour about whether to just leave with her newly acquired tattoo, or to stay and pursue a Lazuli butterfly. Clearly an executive at her level could not be covered in ink, but there was something about having a tattoo that many women could only dream about, like a pair of Prada shoes or an Armani blazer. Besides, Sarge’s behavior had challenged her and the thrill of competition made her want to come back the next day. Now he would have to surrender. She walked past the long line of bodies to where Sarge was working on a woman’s enormous, naked breast. He held the tattoo gun in his hand, steadily maneuvering its needle over the woman’s tanned skin.

“I did it,” she announced, quickly pulling back her halter for him to see. “Should I just wait over here?”

He said nothing, coloring in the wing of a bright yellow swallowtail. “The swallowtail are large butterflies that form the family Papiliondae. There are over 550 species that reside mostly in the tropical areas of…”

“Excuse me,” she said. “What time do you want me to come back?”

“…each continent except, of course, Antarctica. The life cycle generally begins…”

“Hello! What time?”

He turned off the gun. “No one talks to me while I’m working, and I only address the one I’m working on, so please go now, or stay and shut up.”

She dropped her hands to her hips and sneered. The bare breasted woman reclining in front of him looked at her mockingly, as if everyone knew this.

Elaine left and wandered the fairgrounds the rest of the afternoon. The dry heat and sporadic gusts of wind caused little funnel clouds of dirt to swirl about. Concerned for hew new tattoo, she loosely covered it with a satin scarf. She waited until closing time and approached his trailer again.

“OK I’m back. Now, can I make an appointment or will you make me wait in line all day tomorrow for the privilege of paying you money to beautify my body by inflicting pain on me?”

“Listen, I don’t have to paint you. I can refuse for any number of reasons, not the least of which is because you are untested and probably intoxicated. Plus, you annoy me.”

“I am not intoxicated and I am tested. I got the small tattoo last night. I tried to show you before.”

Sarge looked at the small blooms curling from under her halter top. “Hmm,” he said. “Not very original. How did it feel?”

“A little uncomfortable, to tell the truth.”

“Well, multiply that by ten, because a butterfly will be far worse. I will not paint you unless I am 100% certain you can be still and silent under the circumstances.”

“Look, I’m sure I can take it. If not, just stop and I’ll walk away, no further obligation on your part.”

“Impossible. I will not have a half-formed specimen running around. You will have to stick it out, unconscious if need be, until I’m through. You have given me no indication that you can handle that sort of commitment.”

She rolled her eyes at the word and brushed her hand across her arm. “So we seem to be at an impasse. What exactly do you want me to do? What sort of pain management threshold do you want me to have? How can I possibly prove it to you?”

“Get another tattoo. You did the top of the breast. That’s fine, virtually painless. Do something else, like the ankle or the small of your back. Look, there’s a lot of women here. Many more than I can possibly do in a single week. Some of them will follow me to the next fair to try again, and all of them have enough tattoos that I know they can handle it. So skip a few degrees of discomfort and go for the ankle. Just don’t get a butterfly. I won’t do one if you already have one done by someone else.”

She wasn’t accustomed to this kind of defiance. She never let a man talk to her that way or dismiss her unproven. Screw him, she thought. There are other artists who will do what I want and be thrilled to do it. I don’t need a Lazuli.

____________________________________

She returned the next morning and went to the first booth she saw, looking at the catalogs of butterflies and the samples painted on sheets of cloth on the walls. The artist was helpful with suggestions, offering a small butterfly in the cleft of her butt. “I’ll bet you got a fine ass under there,” he said.

His booth was a mess of clippings from tattoo magazines, all his work, or so he claimed. Most were complex geometric designs, but some portrayed a full-scale panorama of fantasy images like dragons and sharp-breasted heroines with swords aloft. She looked at the butterflies from his portfolio as well, but decided not to settle for second rate work. During the night, Elaine had carefully weighed the options. Either she could get a butterfly elsewhere and be done with it, or she could get something else and then press for the Lazuli. She decided that the goal was to get what she wanted, and for her, this meant the best butterfly on the planet. In the end, the satisfaction of having the best outweighed her impulse to gloat in front of Sarge with the work of someone else. This guy’s butterflies seemed different somehow, the same images, perhaps, but lacking something indescribable. Less real, perhaps. Elaine saw an Indian henna design around the wrist of one woman and thought she might get the same around her ankle.

“Can do,” he said. “Do you have a specific design in mind or should I just choose one?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Aren’t they all the same?”

He stepped back and eyed her up and down, the spittle oozing from the corners of his mouth and drawing her attention to the bite marks scarring his lower lip. “No, honey. Different designs mean different things, but unless you’re into foreign men no one will really know.”

“Well that’s none of your fuckin business, right?” She glared at him.

“OK, OK, so maybe you like girls.” he said, looking at her for confirmation. “You know, what about a snake coiled around the ankle, ready to strike? Thwap! You seem like an independent woman, right?”

“Right, but I work in a rather stuffy place. An ankle tattoo is bad enough, but a snake wrapping halfway up my leg definitely won’t do at all.”

“Well, how about a small one on the wrist instead? You could wear long sleeves or a watch or bracelet to hide it when you feel the need.”

“Hmmm. Will it hurt more?”

“Only if you want it to, honey,” he said. “Ha ha. Just kidding. It won’t hurt no more than the ankle would. If you’re concerned about it, maybe I’ll only go around once. Keep it simple, but I’m not sure how good a snake will look, without all the detail, I mean.”

 ”Try it,” she said.

After applying the stencil, he placed her wrist on the table as she reclined in the chair, trying to relax. The minute the gun hit the skin atop her wrist bone, Elaine flinched. He touched her again, as if holding a feather, but Elaine shook again, nearly causing him to throw the gun in the air.

“Look,” he said, “this isn’t working. There’s no way I’m going to get a snake and all the detail around here. Maybe you should choose something else. We’re not too far along that I can’t make this line into something else.”

Her mind raced to find an adequate solution, but she was thinking more of the butterfly, knowing that this was just a small step on her way to the ultimate goal. She had to be tougher than this. “Caterpillar,” she muttered.

“Hmm? I never did a caterpillar before. Let me see what I can find.”

He reached toward the shelf and pulled down a field guide with insect drawings, the spider pages dog-eared from prior use. Sweeping through the pages, he found a photo of a butterfly in various stages of development. He pointed to lone orange-spotted specimen on a branch. “How about this?” he asked.

“Fine, but just the caterpillar. And make it good.”

“Honey, everything I do for you will be better than good.”

“Say,” Elaine asked, “do you have any whiskey?”

____________________________________

The next day, Sarge’s line was the longest yet, and though Elaine arrived at dawn, she didn’t expect to see women asleep outside his booth, as if waiting for concert tickets. Her wrist hurt terribly. When she awoke that morning she found it stuck to the blanket, the cream and ooze from her skin adhering to the fuzzy white velour. After gently pulling them apart, she spent her first moments at the sink, picking away the white fuzz from the caterpillar’s back.

She did not rush to the front of the line this time, nor did she try to approach him on his breaks as many did. She was beginning to get angry at herself for letting this tattoo artist manipulate her like no man had ever done before. The tattoo was supposed to symbolize her independence, her ability to simultaneously break from conservative convention while also playing it for all the salary she could earn. It was to be a symbol of her control, and now, having done what Sarge had ordered, she should be storming to the front of the line, waving a fistful of hundreds in his face and demanding her goddamn butterfly. But instead she stood patiently, reading a book to keep her distracted from the pain in her wrist and the itch of the freshly-peeling skin on her breast. The women around her admired her other tattoos, commenting on her bravery and her choice of images. With a flower and a caterpillar, said one, nothing else could go on her body except a butterfly. Might as well be a Lazulli.

At dusk she was still a dozen people away from him, and she knew she would not reach him before he closed up shop. The fair in its final day, she began to wonder if she would have to come back next year, to be first in line, to see him again and to allow him to work on her. Would he remember her? She thought of going to the head of the line and insisting that she be next, reminding him of his promise and showing him the battle scars on her wrist, but she didn’t want to make him angry.

She was just two customers away when he announced that he was closing. She stayed in her place in line, leaned up against his trailer until all the others had gone away. The day’s dust settling in her eyes made them tear up slightly. She couldn’t decide whether to speak to him or not. “So, all this for nothing,” she said. “I’m a dumbass.”

Sarge stopped packing his equipment and peered around the corner of the tent. “Well well,” he said. “I thought you’d finally given up. If I had known you were in line, I might have snuck you in.”

“Nope. Didn’t want to bother you. I did everything you said, just like you said. A flower on the tit, a caterpillar on the wrist…”

“Let me see the wrist.” She held out her arm to him. He held it gently, like a kitten.

“This is really nice. Not entirely accurate from an etymological perspective, but close. It’s a monarch larva, I think. I don’t do monarchs.”

“Why not?”

“They’re a western species found in the tropics of this hemisphere, not in southeast Asia. They’re the wrong color for the jungles there; they’d be easy prey,” he said.

 ”It doesn’t have to be a monarch,” she begged. “It can be whatever you want, just please! I went through so much for you. To leave without a butterfly, without your butterfly, would be a failure. What a joke! This flower, not even a rose. This caterpillar, so obviously not a snake. They look stupid alone.”

He looked at her pleading with him. She seemed broken down, as if she had transformed from one self to another, weaker somehow, incomplete. He tried to cheer her up. “To complete the lifecycle you’ll need a chrysalis,” he said.

Elaine smiled. “I already have one of those, if you know what I mean. A warm close cocoon, a blanket of wisps to envelop it, a place from which new life springs. I just need the butterfly to emerge.”

He chuckled, admiring her reasoning. “So you want a butterfly to emerge from between your legs? One large enough to have come from that cocoon of yours? OK, here’s the deal, a Delias pastihoe Pieridae resting atop your public hair, wings outstretched like a mounted specimen, with just the tip of the wing visible from above the waist of your pants. Do you want to see what I mean?”

He lifted his shift above his head to reveal a torso covered in butterflies. Like a mosaic, their wings aligned tip-to-tip with each other, with only a small space between them. The colors were not as vibrant as she expected, but the variety was dazzling. A ring of a dozen different species encircled his navel, each one brighter than the next as they spiraled out from the center. Covering his ribs, some butterflies in flight, others alighting on branches that soared to his shoulders. Under his arms, two mating moths, bottom-to-bottom, their wings looking like owl’s eyes.

“This one here,” he said, pointing to a black one spotted in white and yellow, with a sunburst of orange at its body. “This one saved my life in Nam. They all helped, but this one was the most important. That’s why he was the first one I did. I wish I had done a better job, but I was just a beginner then.”

“They’re all so beautiful,” she said. “How can you do them on yourself like that?”

“It’s tricky because you have to hold your breath so your chest and abdomen don’t move. That’s another thing I learned in Nam, to breathe deeply and not allow yourself to move even an inch, not allow a sound to be heard. You have to learn to lie there as if you’re dead or invisible. Shall we? You’ll have to lower your pants and underwear to below your knees. Whiskey?”

She unsnapped her jeans and stepped out of them. Standing in her bikini panties, she rolled down the waistband revealing just the top of her trimmed hairs. Sarge grabbed a blanket from the shelf, and Elaine lay down in the chair, removing her panties, and lowering the blanket enough to let him survey the field on which he would do his work. He began to draw the outline, making a few small adjustments before getting the inks and gun prepared.

“Now remember, don’t talk. Try to hold your breath each time I come to touch your skin. I’ll work in short segments so you’ll have time to catch your breath.”

She nodded and finished the glass of whiskey.

“I’ll tell you a story,” he said. “You asked me why I only do butterflies, and I told you I’d never tell, but there is something about you. I’ve never told this story before, but I’ve never done this specimen on anyone else either, so I suppose you should know what it is and why it matters to me. Maybe it’s because you come off as so self-assured, but no ordinary woman would have searched me out for their first tattoo. It’s the designer threads that tell me you’ve got some money. Usually your kind won’t come near a parlor. Fear of needles, the same fear that kept you away from hard drugs. Fear of disease, the same fear that kept you from having unprotected sex. Fear of regret, of wanting something so badly that you know you’ll wish to reverse the irreversible. But for all that talk, you’re not afraid now. You’ve had the other tattoos. They’re discreet, but not completely hidden, not like an ordinary corporate woman would have. So if you’re not afraid, neither am I.”

The first sting of the needle penetrated Elaine like a kick in the gut. The pain centering in her groin reminding her of the sharp sting of defloration, or feeling, she imagined, like giving birth. Sarge pulled back and Elaine nodded to him, taking a breath and closing her eyes.

He continued, “I didn’t ask to go to Nam. The draft is what did me in. Back then, as a kid, I was very afraid. Afraid to go to war, sure, but more afraid to run away. My father was a military man, see, retired by then, but when the draft notice came in, I think it was what he wanted for me. Not being college bound, it was my only option.”

Elaine tightened her abdomen. “Do you feel that?” he said. “Yes?  OK, let’s slow down. Another glass of whiskey?”

“Can I just have the bottle?” she asked.

“Not a problem,” he said, passing it to her. “So off I went to boot camp where my fear of failure overcame my fear of fighting. Then off to the Philippines for transport to Nam, and by that time, my fear had hardened into a shell, a blind, stupid bravery that eclipsed everything else when I was in the jungle. So beautiful it was, the jungle, teeming with so much life that all the killing didn’t bother me. It all spilled out of me until the day I saw my friend Willy get decapitated by a VC who took great pleasure in severing each limb from his body.”

Sarge stopped, resting the gun for a moment and looking off into the night sky. In the sudden silence, Elaine heard the sounds of other vendors packing up their wares, the spraying of water hoses, the tossing of trash into the dumpster. The curses of manual labor.

Sarge continued in silence for awhile, working the outline to completion. Elaine felt comfortable, the fear of the pain having subsided leaving only the fear of expectation. “Were you nearby?” she finally asked.

“Just ten feet away,” he replied, “buried under a pile of vines with insects crawling on my face, stinging me. The pain was ferocious, but I didn’t move, and do you know why? No, it wasn’t fear, and besides, your mind can’t always control the movements of the body. It was this butterfly that I’m coloring right now. It landed not eight inches from my face sitting in a pool of blood where Willy’s shoulder used to be. I’d never seen a butterfly as beautiful as that before, and I stared at the way its wings opened and closed, opened and closed, noticing how the bright markings on the body disappeared when it brought its wings together. The gook didn’t even notice it… or me, thank God. Eventually they all cleared out, but it was hours before I felt safe enough to move.”

Sarge stopped again, resting for a moment before starting to shade in the open wings with color. Elaine lay there lulled by the whiskey and the story. It seemed like hours had passed before Sarge began talking again. “No moon that night, the jungle was so dark I felt it was strangling me as I began to walk back in a direction I thought was east. I was wrong. I spent two days wandering in the jungle before I saw my platoon again, and I noticed every butterfly and moth those two days. I can still see them as vivid today. That first night back in my tent, stoned on hash and numb with hunger, the memory of Willy came rolling back in my mind. I don’t know why, but I began to carve his initials in my arm, see, right here? Only I messed up and they turned into what became the first tattoo I ever did. The W became the wings on this Zemeros flegyas here.

“Oh sure, the shrinks had fun with that. Mutilating myself, they said, feeling responsible for his death in some way. But I didn’t feel any blame, it wasn’t my fault he twitched like that. I think I just wanted to acknowledge the dangers of hating something so much that you are willing to die for it. So I made the decision that for the rest of my life I would show people that it is possible to trade pain for beauty. Like you’re doing, now. Like we’re doing together.”

Elaine looked up at him, his face betraying the strange paradox of joyous sadness, the delight in his work and the pain of recollection which had gone unexpressed perhaps for decades. She envisioned herself in that jungle, inches away from being discovered and shot, the smell of death, the smell of fear from his body, her body. She could not tell where it came from. But she was not afraid now. She closed her eyes.

____________________________________

When she awoke, the fairground was silent and ready to embark with the first light of dawn. She felt his finger rubbing gently on her skin, first tracing the outline of the butterfly, and then painting wide swatches of its wings with ointment. She liked the way it felt, cool and gentle. The butterfly was beautiful, strikingly colored and almost quivering with life.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s exquisite.”

“You should see them in person,” he said. “They’re stunning in their simplicity and beauty. And they’re persistent, like you.”

She smiled, attracted to him perhaps, but laughing at the improbability of what their relationship might hold. “I guess I’ll go now,” she said, reaching for her pants.

“Wait,” he said, “you really shouldn’t put those on. Keep that blanket wrapped loosely around you like a skirt. I’ll walk you to your car. It’s really late, and drunk carnies can be a little frightening.”

They walked through the darkened midway, the rides ready for transport, the trailers darkened, and the scent of beer and fried dough absent in the crisp night air. When they arrived at her car, she slipped out of the blanket and stood before him dressed only in her t-shirt. The butterfly in full flight, on full display

“I haven’t paid you,” she said, not sure what she might be offering.

Sarge averted his eyes and started to walk away. “I told you it’s not about the money, but please take care of that specimen. It’s the last of its kind,” he said, and he turned his back to her and floated off into the night.

To demonstrate, he stripped several feet of line from his reel and hastily cast out his fly. Ordinarily he had an awesome delivery, a choreographed, back-and-forth motion that bred momentum, accuracy and pure, geometric beauty. After releasing the line that morning, however, the fly swirled uncontrollably in the air, the stubborn wind grasping the line on the cast and tossing it back at him. The fly refused to land in line with the boulder. Dad tried again and again, factoring the strength and direction of the wind into each successive cast until finally the fly settled on current and sped downstream.

Now even at that age I knew it was important for the fly to float naturally, that for the best presentation it should appear completely untethered. But this time, Dad’s sudden success took him by surprise. He wasn’t ready. The supply of free, floating line dwindled, and upon realizing this Dad frantically began to strip more from his reel. The current raced, draining all the slack from his line. He couldn’t strip it out fast enough, couldn’t keep pace with the current, and when the fly jerked to a halt just before the great stone, the startled trout swam off in a flash of silver light.

_____________________________

I pull into the parking deck where there are plenty of empty spaces. Visiting hours are long over, but because I work rotating shifts I made special arrangements with the hospital to be allowed in at odd hours. My father is comatose after all, and the administrator granted me this privilege with only minor reluctance. He said I couldn’t possibly disturb the patient, as if to suggest that to the contrary, it would be a miracle if I could wake him.

My father is in a renovated wing on the first floor. “Just before the morgue,” the receptionist instructed on my first visit. “You’ll see it. Sign says ICU, intensive care unit. He’s resting comfortably.”

Stepping softly down the corridor to my father’s room, I see the night nurse who has just gone on duty. There’s usually only one, and generally they’re too busy to notice me much. This one winks at me as I pass, cracking her gum.

“How you doing, hon?” she asks.

“Fine,” I say, still walking.

“He’s better today,” she offers.

At the end of the hall I see the great steel door to his room. It opens with a hydraulic whisper. The air is sterile, antiseptic, like sticking your nose into a freshly opened box of gauze pads. My eyes adjust to the dim lights of the life-support system that cast a subtle, neon glow on his face. His tattered skin cascades off his bones like fabric.

“How you doing, Pop?” I ask, though I’m certain he can’t hear me.

The steady beep of his heart rate monitor answers me, saying

ready…

son…

thanks.

In the window I see my reflection, and below, just as dim, my comatose father’s body. His soul is gone, his brain dead, and his body, aided by the latest in electronic life-support, is just an idling vessel. No forward, no reverse. Just standing still with the engine running. I sigh for the millionth time, wishing God would just take him.

“Hey Pop,” I say, “nurse says you’re doin better today. Says this contraption is operating more efficiently than ever. I thought you’d like to know.” I chuckle to myself, knowing that he’d be laughing too.

I’ve heard him condemn these fancy machines before, saying what a waste of time, money, and space they all were. Telling me over and over again that when his time comes, he won’t have a machine keeping him alive. He also told me he wouldn’t be caught dead in a Catholic hospital. On this point it seems he’s half right.

After the first month I asked the doctors to switch the thing off, but I knew they wouldn’t. The diocese will not play the role of God, or so I’ve been told. I explained to the doctors how unexpected this was, how healthy Dad had always been. “It doesn’t matter,” they said. “We’re not in the business of ending lives.”

They sent a chaplain to talk to me about it. He told me I’m allowed to move Dad to another hospital, one that would consider removing the life support. But of course these machines are too big to transport, so they would need to disconnect him first, which they refuse to do. I could tell he felt bad for me. He tried to console me, suggesting that it’s not our place to challenge the will of God. I asked him, “Why not? Did God think inventing life-prolonging machines was challenge enough?”

He offered to pray with me. “God answers prayer, my son.”

“Amen,” I replied.

_____________________________

The morning of his stroke was the first time I fished with him in over five years. I had just started to miss him again and thought a trip to the stream would be a suitable reunion. We awoke at five in the morning and were waist-high in water by five-thirty. Neither of us had a bite all morning, until just before lunch.

Dad said, “Hey guess where I’m going.” He waded through the mud to that same damn rock, and on this windless day he landed the fly straight on current, right on the first cast. It floated leisurely up to the boulder, swirled for an instant and ultimately swerved to the right side where it disappeared from the surface in a sudden splash of light. Dad’s line grew tight and jerked from one side of the stream to the other, the force of the pull almost dragging him down in the muddy bottom. The trout shot to the rocky bank and then back to the other side. Dad dug in with his heels and heaved the rod tip skyward. The rod arched, and the line-capturing the sun’s light in tiny beads of water-glowed as if electrified.

Dad froze there, innocently enjoying himself and glancing back for approval. I reminded him about the rocks. If you play the trout too fast it will rip the hook out; if you play it too slow, the fish can entangle the line in the rocks, and perhaps, break free.

He told me this himself many times before, but in this-his moment of glory-Dad lost focus, and the line soon grew still. After the initial panic, the trout had remained calm and saved himself, looping the line around that boulder two or three times. Dad stood there and waited, hoping the fish would forget he was hooked and swim back out into the current, but he never did.

Minutes passed. “Dad,” I said. “Do you want me to go over there and net him for you?”

“No, son,” he said.

“But Dad, I’ll just untwist your line. He’s still hooked. That’s some fish!”

“Nope, wouldn’t be right. The fish has got to go on his own terms. He beat me, fair and square.”

Dad stood silent amidst the rustling grass and churning water, like he was thinking it over. He always told me there was honor in surrender, but I never understood that. Who was surrendering here? I figured it was the fish, but Dad must have thought otherwise. He snapped the line between his teeth and let the loose end float downstream where it disappeared from sight.

At my house, later that afternoon, I teased him about it. He was in good spirits, laughing it off by that time. After lunch Dad lay down for a nap. When I couldn’t wake him I called the ambulance. They rushed him to the hospital. I thought he was dead when they drove away. It wasn’t what I had planned. It wasn’t what I expected.

_____________________________

I’ve given this considerable thought. In my daydreams it goes like this:

I hear the nurse’s call alarm go off down the hall and peer out the door to see which way she’s heading. I spy her running toward the elevators, away from me, so I shut the door and return to my father’s side. Trying to find it, I glance under the bed, then dart behind it, but it’s too dark.

I could turn the lights on-it’s not like he would notice-but I can’t bear to see him more clearly, can’t bear to be seen. I tell myself to stop, to just slow down and relax. I shut my eyes. When I open them and regain focus, I see the switch.

I thought there wouldn’t be one, so I’ve been looking for a plug, but the switch is right there on the front of the machine. It says POWER. I interpret the word and its siblings-strength, authority, control-not as a state of being, but as an instruction, a command.

So I shut it off.

The great machine beside him releases a long, thankful hiss of air pressure. It’s a few seconds before the heart-rate monitor responds, its slowing chirp answering on my father’s behalf,

tired…

some………..

fish.

The digital peaks of the readout become irregular and the unit abruptly shrieks a high-pitched whine. I glance out the door and observe the still-vacant nurses’ station. My father’s alarm rings steadily but quietly, much more softly than I had expected.

I drift to his side and look down at him. There’s no reaction, his face no different in approaching death than in clinging to life. “Goodnight Dad,” I say, leaving the room behind me awash in stuttering red lights and needless alarms. The great steel door whispers, shhhh.

Softly I move down the hall again, past the station where the nurse has yet to return. I continue walking, leisurely, untethered. In a room near the elevator, I see her trying to soothe an old woman wailing in her sleep.

I figure I should say something to her-small talk feels right here. I glance in and say, “I’m going now. It seems you got your hands full.”

“Sure do,” she says. “This one’s feisty, but she’ll wear herself out. Is everything quiet out there?”

“Yup,” I reply, “just the usual beeps and chirps.”

“Good, good. How’s your dad doin?”

“You were right,” I say calmly. “He’s much better today. Goodnight now.”

“Good-bye,” she replies.

Sitting along the stream, staring into the moonlight, I decide to do this for him, for me.

_____________________________

I pull into the parking deck where there are plenty of empty spaces. It’s just past midnight and the hospital is strangely silent. Stepping softly down the corridor to my father’s room, I see the nurse’s station is empty. Conditions couldn’t be better; they won’t even know I’ve been here. My heartbeat quickens; a nervous sweat sprinkles my brow. With a great breath of determination, I open the whispering door and see the bedsheet pulled over my father’s head. The nurse stands behind him, disconnecting wires and tubes, cracking her gum. The POWER switch is dark.

She walks towards me and puts her hand on my shoulder. She offers a sympathetic grin and says, “I’ll leave you alone with him for a little while.”

“No, that’s OK,” I reply, and I walk over to him and touch his cool hand, and tell him how proud I am. And with a mix of relief and regret, I tell him, “That was some fish.”