Image; or Sorry, Charlie

 

Image; or Sorry, Charlie
by Rob Cottignies

 

            Myrtle had three cats. Their names are unimportant, but what is interesting is that her favorite one wasn’t even her own. According to his nametag, he lived four houses away and his name was Fluffy. According to Myrtle, her backyard was his home and his name was Charlie. He was orange with a white stripe that went from between his ears to halfway up his tail. He looked more like a Charlie than a Fluffy, thought Myrtle. She favored Charlie because her other cats were indoor animals. She loved the idea that he could roam wherever he wished, but always came back to her yard. The sweet old woman had gotten the three other cats two Winters earlier, after her husband, Charlie, had died. Charlie the cat gave her a daily reminder that Charlie the husband was still around, checking up on her.

             Malcolm had a genuine fondness for rap music. He didn’t like all of it, but he somehow related to inner-city struggles, though he was raised in a nice suburban home. His first month in high school was a tough and confusing one, as most are for adolescents. However, he quickly fell into a group of slightly older kids who liked the same music. They often called themselves gangsters, though most people would say they only pretended to play the part. They dressed the way many popular rappers do, with big flashy clothes. Malcolm’s favorite pants were big, but only because he’d lost thirty pounds over the past year. He held them up with suspenders, often over a flannel shirt. The gangster kids did not approve of his clothes, so to be a part of their group, Malcolm had to spend his newspaper route money on a new wardrobe.

             Myrtle’s morning ritual started with a cup of vanilla-flavored coffee, as it had since she was fifteen, sixty-two years ago. She always set a place at the table for her husband, and had only recently stopped preparing food for his space, which she did for over a year after his passing. Coffee always gave her a headache, but she loved the way it made her house smell. She’d pour milk into it and then prepare a bowl for Charlie the cat, who liked to wander around the nearby park before making his way to Myrtle’s backyard for the delicious treat. She’d leave it outside right before she left for school. Once there, she was in charge of preparing sandwiches for the three lunch periods. The routine of it all had become a great comfort to her, aside from being called “Myrtle The Turtle” by some boorish students. She’d grown immune to the name-calling by finding out the hard way that if she retaliated it would only get worse.

            Malcolm always woke up twenty minutes before school began. He lived on the same block as the school, so it didn’t take long to get there. Part of his morning routine had become dressing into his gangster clothes and staring at himself in the mirror. He hated what he saw, but went along with it for the sake of fitting in. Once at school, he spoke differently, acted differently, and even walked differently. Luckily, there were few mirrors in the hallways. His grades in middle school were excellent but had begun to slip in high school. He was acting up in class for the sake of a few cheap laughs and getting detention- something that had never happened before.

            One morning, Malcolm was asked to leave his Geography class after throwing paper balls at the teacher and various students. His gangster friend, Tripps- whose real name was Arnold- was impressed by the display. He told Malcolm that if he did it, he’d let him hang out with the rest of the crew on Friday night. This was a big step closer to becoming an official part of the gang. During the morning periods, the cafeteria doubled as the suspension room for students removed from class. A substitute teacher was in charge of the students, who mostly slept or caught up on homework. Malcolm promptly realized the substitute didn’t really care what went on, so he went to the lunch line to get a soda. He got Myrtle’s attention by shouting, “Hey, Turtle.” She stopped making her sandwich and looked up at him. “Give me a soda,” Malcolm demanded, only to find out he was not allowed to have one before lunch began. He knew the other mischievous students were watching, so he had to react in a big way, since it would definitely get back to his gangster pals. He reached over the counter, grabbed a half-made sandwich, and threw it across the cafeteria. “Get back in your shell,” he screamed and returned to his seat. The gangsters soon heard about Malcolm’s cafeteria antics and praised him.

            The next morning, Malcolm set his alarm to sound ten minutes earlier, so he could stare at his reflection longer.

            “We’re gonna get her back,” said Arnold. “Today, at lunch, Myrtle The Turtle’s getting soaked.”

            “I’ll get her right in the hunchback,” said P-Funk, whose actual name was Paul.

            Malcolm smiled. The gangsters were getting revenge for him, which had to mean he was that much closer to full acceptance.

            The three boys anxiously waited on the lunch line. Arnold was the decoy. Myrtle always gave him his low-sodium turkey sandwich and made some kind of light joke. “Don’t have the salty chips with this,” she’d often say and repeated again on this day. That was the cue for the other two.

            Splash! The first water balloon hit Myrtle directly in the face. She jumped back as fast as her feeble body would let her. Splash! Splash! She was hit with two more in the stomach. Of the fifteen balloons thrown, twelve hit her directly while two exploded behind her and one at her feet. That last one caused her to take a nasty fall on the hard, unforgiving floor.

            All three boys were suspended from school for the remaining two days of the week. They snuck out of their houses to meet in the park on their first “day off,” as they referred to it. Arnold and Paul were already deep in discussion when Malcolm arrived. “We’ve been talking,” began Arnold, “about our groundings. P-Funk got two weeks for getting suspended, and I got three, plus now I can’t go on the camping trip.”

            Malcolm tried to relate. “Yeah, I have to stay in for the next four weekends. This sucks.”

            Paul snapped back immediately. “What sucks is that we got punished because of you. Your beef with the Turtle made us do what we did. Now Tripps and I have to pay for what you started.”

            “But guys, I didn’t mean—” Malcolm’s apology was interrupted by Arnold’s fist hitting his stomach. Malcolm’s body begged for air but could find none to take in. Keeled over, he was struck repeatedly on his back while also being hit with accusations that didn’t really seem true. Once Malcolm regained his breath, he stood up only to be punched directly in the nose by Paul. Upon seeing blood, the two attackers fled the scene.

            Malcolm hobbled to a nearby road and sat on the curb. His tears of disgust washed some of the blood off his face. Just when Malcolm thought he couldn’t get any more confused, he heard a voice. “Are you OK?” it asked. He looked up and, though his vision was blurry, he immediately knew the question had come from the old woman he’d assaulted with water balloons just one day earlier. “My house is right over there. Do you want to come in and get cleaned up?” Myrtle cringed as the words left her mouth, but she knew it was the right thing to do.

            Bandaged and iced, Malcolm enjoyed the tomato soup that had been heated for him. Charlie the cat was not around, but Myrtle introduced her young guest to her three indoor pets. He stroked their fur while looking around the simple kitchen. “Who’s that?” asked the visitor of a man in a picture.

            “That’s Charlie,” said his widow. “He was my husband. He died two years ago when his kidneys stopped working.”

            “Oh,” said the boy, amazed she’d put it so delicately. “Sorry.”

            “Thank you. Are you also sorry for what you and your friends did to me?”

            “Yes. We really didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I don’t know what we meant to happen. It was stupid. I’m very sorry.”

            “I forgive you,” said Myrtle. “Just don’t let it happen again!”

            With an awkward but genuine smile, Malcolm thanked the lunch lady for helping him and went home before his parents got back from work. The reflection in his mirror, though bruised and bloody, was now hopeful. Tripps and P-Funk were done with him, and he was now free to create his own personality. He put on his favorite rap album and fell asleep.

            On the second day of his suspension, Malcolm awoke to his doorbell ringing. It repeated several times before he rose from bed. Arnold and Paul were on the other side of the door. Without a welcome, they entered the home.

            “What do you guys want?” asked the defiant Malcolm.

            “We want to let you know that we were just testing you yesterday,” said Arnold. “We saw this show about street gangs and how they beat up new recruits to see if the guy reports it.”

            “You passed,” Paul chimed. “You are one of us.”

            Malcolm certainly hadn’t forgotten the beating he took the day before. His heart said he shouldn’t forgive them, but they were awfully convincing.

            Arnold told him that the beating was his initiation, but he still had to make up for getting them suspended.

            Malcolm waited several moments before immaturely telling them, “I know where she lives.”

            Myrtle came home from her weekly Bingo outing that night. She’d won three rounds, so she was feeling rather high-on-life. She smiled as she put on the parking brake. She smiled as she unclasped her seatbelt. She smiled as she opened the door and smelled the cool night air.

Myrtle’s lovely smile was destroyed at her doorstep. Lying there, distastefully on her Welcome mat, was the lifeless body of Charlie the cat. Myrtle knew he was old, but the blood scattered about led her to also know this was not the result of Nature. In tears, she walked four houses down the block to tell the residents of Fluffy’s demise. Upon seeing him, they were shocked someone would do such a cruel thing to an animal, but didn’t seem overly concerned for their pet. Myrtle, alternately, was devastated. Gone was her outdoor playmate and greatest reminder of her husband’s lingering presence. She buried the animal during a tear-soaked ceremony in her backyard. His makeshift gravestone read, ‘RIP Charlie.’

            Malcolm had turned his mirror around so he could not see his reflection on Monday morning. He had a terrible weight on his shoulders, but also a new identity as an official part of Tripps and P-Funk’s gang. In accordance with this, he once again got kicked out of his Geography class. There were no other students in the cafeteria so he was able to approach the counter and say, “Excuse me, may I please have a soda?” Myrtle had applied more make-up than usual that morning to cover her sour face, which only backfired when her tears smeared it horribly. Though he already knew, Malcolm quietly asked what was wrong.

            “It’s my cat, Charlie. He’s dead. He was killed on Friday night.” She hesitated briefly before asking, “Do you know anything about this?”

            Malcolm was confused. He knew he hadn’t met a cat named Charlie at Myrtle’s house, but that her husband’s name was Charlie. In a concerned yet dismissive manner, he said, “I don’t remember any of their names being Charlie.”

            “He wasn’t really mine, but I adopted him from people who didn’t give a damn about him. They called him Fluffy but I named him Charlie since his fur reminded me of my husband’s beard.” Myrtle was sobbing. “WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM!?”

            The boy stood in a daze. Tears welled up in his own eyes as he watched the frail old woman gasp for air. He couldn’t take the sight anymore. “My friends did it,” he exclaimed. “I was there, but I didn’t hit the cat, I swear. They threw rocks at him until he stopped moving.”

            “Which one put him on my welcome mat?” demanded Myrtle.

            “Tripps. Arnold, I mean. He did it. We didn’t know he was your adopted cat. They were mad about getting suspended and—“

            Myrtle walked away. Malcolm knew he wouldn’t be forgiven this time.

            Before she went home for the day, the lunch lady grabbed the only low-sodium turkey sandwich from the refrigerator. She emptied a few capsules of her arthritis medicine into the bread. This was the best revenge she could think of.

            Had Arnold eaten his usual sandwich for lunch that day, he would have felt dizzy and had a mild stomach ache for about an hour. Had Malcolm’s mother not prepared peanut butter and jelly for her son, Arnold would have felt dizzy and had a mild stomach ache. Malcolm hated peanut butter and Arnold jumped at the chance to trade. Had Malcolm ever taken pain medication, it would have been known that he was allergic to acetaminophen. All of these factors contributed to Malcolm’s untimely death.

            Myrtle was overcome with grief when the news hit her home. She knew it would all get back to her eventually and could not stand the thought of prison, even though she knew she belonged there. The old woman, in disbelief of what she had done, took a bottle of pills from her bathroom and went into the backyard. She placed a picture of Charlie the husband on top of Charlie the cat’s grave. Staring at the scene she’d created, she swallowed as many pills as her body would allow. Her dying words were, “I’m sorry, Charlie.”