The Halfway Dead

It usually takes about five hours to get to New York from D.C. during the day. But today, it took me two to get to the outskirts of the city. But two hours is still a long time for me to think. And I had a lot to think about on my way over here. I knew that I wanted to hurt something or cry or do something drastic, but those weren’t things that Mary would want. I needed to honor Mary’s memory if nothing else. And at the same time I needed to get away from her, away from the memories I made with her, away from my home.
When I had past it, the traffic going into the city looked tighter than a pack of wolves; it must be the early morning traffic. I briefly debated my options; wait another hour, try to find a space for another hour, and then pay a ridiculous sum in parking fees, or get out here. Cars honked as I pulled out of the incoming traffic and into a mostly empty lot with a “public parking” sign. Another sign declares to the world that parking is free here, definitely better than city parking. And safe-looking…I didn’t want my car to be stolen or anything. Wherever I decided on going, I knew that I would be taking a long time. So I pulled my camera out and took a picture of my Honda Accord and the cracking cement around it. This way I would remember where to look for my car when I came back. Plus it made a really good photo; the camera was good enough to pick up the tiny cracks in the cement against the reflection of the rising sun on my car.
I had a big day ahead of me, and I still hadn’t decided on what to do. I could blow some of the money in my bag, I did have a few hundred dollars, but if I was going to spend any amount of time here, I didn’t want to waste a single cent of it. So as the thoughts start racing through my head, I figure I can get in some distance and I start to walk towards the city. Perhaps I should visit one of the museums or window shop. But it really just came down to what Mary would want me to do, and that would be to paint.
I set up my easel in the middle of central park where a swarm of butterflies were darting in and out of a cluster of bushes. I might have painted half a dozen potential creations on the way over here, but I was saving my creative energy for something special. When I saw the butterflies, I knew it would have been what Mary would have wanted me to paint.
It was strange. I hadn’t let Mary’s whims influence me to much when she was alive, but now that she was gone…well anything that Mary would have liked is what I seem to be doing.
I painted swirls and clusters of butterflies from every variety the deep recesses of my mind could fathom, although the butterflies in the bushed ahead were only monarchs. Behind the butterflies, the background was black. I was adding splotches of color to it when I noticed I was attracting a small crowd. Five or six people stood behind me as I was attacking the canvas. Big, small, and of any variety, the spectators were just like the butterflies I had drawn. A man stepped forward as I turned around, he reminded me of the Texan Crescent that I had just finished giving wings.
“Why the butterflies?” he asked me, enthralled.
“The only thing I have left from my mother is a butterfly pin. I’ve always had a fascination for them.” I don’t usually talk about my mother to anyone, but I didn’t see the harm of a complete stranger knowing. He would never know anything more about my mother. He would probably forget about her entirely in the next few minutes. I suddenly wished that he would leave me alone, and thankfully his girlfriend wrapped her arms around him in that moment, and lead him away.
I had never known my mother. And it was true what I had said to the boy, the butterfly pin was the only possession I had of hers. I had been left on my father’s doorstep wrapped in a thick wool baby blanket. The butterfly pin was what held the blanket together, without it the blanket would have fallen around me and I would have been exposed to the chilly night.
When my father took me inside the door that first time, he had no idea who my mother had been…or even if I was his daughter. But apparently, when he first saw me, I changed something inside of him or something. I guess dads can be kind of corny sometimes. In any case, he stopped leading a life of mischief and one night stands and raised me. Turns out I am his daughter though; we look a lot alike and my step mother says we have the same expressions.
I turn my attention back to the butterflies and sigh. The swirls of butterflies need a leader and a focal point, so I draw a proud monarch that looks like it could have been flying out of the page. The other butterflies look as if they have congregated around him and are flapping at him in reverence. As soon as the monarch is done, the painting seems to come to life with its brilliance, and I knew that the paining was complete.
A little boy, tucked under his father’s arms reaches for the butterflies, but his miniature arms are too short his father stands too far away. Presumably the one he had been reaching for was the monarch, the others fanned out behind him, their tiny heads hidden in the rush of the still glistening wings. Each of the butterflies looked as lovely as the real deal, and I almost wished that the real butterflies, gathered as they were by the bush, would swirl and dance like the ones on the canvas.
I signed Klay on the bottom of the canvas just as a single monarch landed on the top. A huge man to my right laughed, “I’ll bet he just thinks it’s one of ‘em.”
I regarded him with sad eyes, “sometimes I wish I could just reach in and pull them out.” I was thinking about Mary now, about the picture I had drawn of her. The man probably thought I was crazy.
My stomach rumbled, and I only waited around at the park long enough for the paint to dry on the canvas. It was around four or five by the time I was done and ready to go, by which time I was starving. An artsy café caught my eye. It was probably the coolest place I had ever seen, with decoupage manikins in the windows holding platters and paint all over the place. When I got inside, the walls were painted all different colors, and art hung from every vantage point.
The hostess saw my awe as she lead me to a table in the back, “are you here to buy or to sell?” she asks me, “excuse me,” she cheerfully adds as a gawky teenager with paint all over his face trips over his feet. The place was packed, mostly with artistic types, but also with people that had the air of buyers, and it wasn’t even dinner time yet.
“I guess I just came here to eat.” I told her. And admire. I added silently.
She harrumphed and handed me the menu, “either way, I can tell you are an artist,” she looked me dead in the eye, and just waited.
“I am. I guess that’s what drew me to this place, but—”
“Then let’s see it then, I’ve got other consumers too you know.”
It didn’t take a genius to see that. I took the butterfly painting out of my bag and handed it to her. “This is the piece I did today,” I told her.
She stared at it in wonder. “The butterflies just come to life, I’ve never seen anything like it.” It was a huge complement coming from her, “how much?”
“What?” selling it? That was something I hadn’t even considered.
“I’ll come back after you eat,” she told me and took off. I stared after her.
A waitress came and took my order. I asked for a blueberry muffin and chocolate milk, what I got in return was heaven. Hands down the best food I had ever eaten. When I was done, the hostess came back to talk to me.
She looked at the painting again, “I can give you eight thousand for it, but nothing more.”
My eyes widened, that was a lot of moolah, “that’s fine.”
She hands me a check for eight thousand. “A bit of advice, Hun. Next time paint in oil, I can double the starting price.”
I stared at the check for a minute before leaving the café behind. Next time, huh.