Back to Yesterday

by Pamela Sparkman

  “Don’t say it,” I urged. “Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t tell me.”

  I had no idea who was holding who at that point. His entire body shook violently, and mine quaked and wobbled as though the ground beneath us was unstable.

  “God, please tell me it’s not real!” he cried.

  The funeral was exactly one week ago, but Charlie asked me to come with him today, and so I did. I remained silent while he spoke to Tank’s headstone, speaking to him as if he was still alive. There was even one point when I felt I was eavesdropping on a private conversation.

  “Tell your brother he still owes me his guitar from when I beat him at poker. Just because he died doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.” He chuckled halfheartedly. “I should have told you while you were here to get it for me but…” His voice wobbled and I could tell he was trying to keep it together. Clearing his throat he said, “I don’t know how to play it anyway so...”

  I wandered off to give Charlie some privacy. The weather was pleasant so I strolled to a field beyond the cemetery and listened to the songbirds off in the distance. The life that was abundant all around me made it easy to forget that death was only a few feet away. I must have stood there for a half-hour, perhaps longer, thinking, absorbing, and contemplating life’s biggest questions when I heard Charlie’s voice.

  “Male birds,” he said coming up behind me.

  “What?”

  He pointed to the trees that outlined the field and said, “The birds, they’re male.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Female birds typically use shorter, simpler calls, while male birds have a longer and more complex sound, like a song. The male birds sing to the females.” He chuckled. “That’s how they get the girl.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that right? And where did you stumble upon that bit of knowledge?”

  “My mother told me. I’d like to think she was brilliant so I never questioned it. I just accepted it as fact.”

  My mouth twitched. “That’s probably wise.” Curious now, I asked him, “What else did she teach you?”

  He looked at me, his eyes holding wistful memories, and a smile formed. Then his eyes traveled across the field. “Do you know the legend of the monarch butterfly?”

  “No.”

  He moved in closer, took my hand, and walked me to the center of the field. “Legend has it that monarch butterflies are messengers who travel great distances. If one appears and it touches you it’s supposed to be a sign from a loved one that they are okay. Messengers of peace,” he said, angling his head towards the sky, watching a single engine plane flying overhead. I couldn’t help noticing the wistful look on Charlie’s face.

  “Your mom told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been touched by one?”

  Charlie’s eyes followed the plane until it disappeared beyond the tree line. He squeezed my hand. “You’re my peace.”

  Giving him a side-eye glance, I said, “Are you saying I’m your butterfly?”

  “Sent from Heaven.” He moved in closer, close enough that his breath tickled my cheek. “Thank you for coming with me today.”

  I didn’t speak. I simply leaned into his touch.

  He pulled me down until we were both sitting on the soft ground. I nestled into him.

  “Meeting you, Sophie, was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  I listened to the sincere cadence in his voice and the pitter-patter of his heart while my heart played the familiar melody I knew so well. His mouth found mine, once, twice, and then retreated. With a tilt of his head, he leaned in once more and hovered, purposely timing the moment his lips would seal over mine. The demons that haunted me, the ones that told me I was unlovable, lingered on the edges of my periphery. I could barely make them out, but they were there, waiting to swoop in and steal this moment away from me.

  Sensing my unease, Charlie whispered, “I never even knew to hope for someone like you, Sophie.” His hands found my hair while his lips found my ear. “You,” he breathed, “were completely unexpected.”

  The dark shadows of my childhood tiptoed away and Charlie’s words took their place.

  “I never loved surprises until I met you.” His lips reclaimed mine and the melody inside my chest sounded more like crashing cymbals.

  And then I remembered where we were and why we were there and I felt overpowered by fear, caged by anxiety. Tank died. He left us. Although I hardly knew him, I missed him, and I was angry at him for leaving us.

  My lungs felt burdened and my eyes burned. I had no right to be mad, and yet I was, so I resorted to the method I knew so well. Lock the anger up and throw away the key.

  Perhaps Charlie could feel me slipping back into myself because he pulled back and stared down at me. “Do we need to leave? Is this too much?”

  Steadying my breathing, I decided I just needed a minute to get a handle on my hyper-sensitive thoughts.

  I can do this.

  One inhale and exhale at a time. Breathe in, breathe out.

  I can do this.

  On each exhale little pieces of fear and anger fell away until breathing was less of a struggle.

  “Better?” Charlie asked.

  I nodded and blew out a final bit of anxiety.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” I offered a smile, but it was weighed down by my embarrassment.

  “Hey,” he said, cupping my cheeks. “It’s okay.”

  I buried my face in his chest. It was my favorite place to be in the whole world.

  “I’m never letting go of you,” he said, stroking my hair. “Understand? I’m never letting you go. So don’t let go of me. Okay? You and I, we’re in this together.”

  I closed my eyes and let his words soothe and heal my tortured heart. “I won’t let go,” I whispered. “I won’t let go.”

  He eased me down until I was lying on my back. His hands traced the lines of my body, dipping into my curves. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, his hands continuing their sketch, drawing me like an artist.

  I kissed him the way he kissed me and met each touch, each caress, with the same patience, the same reverence as he administered. He made me forget who I was and reminded me of the person I wanted to be.

  We stayed like that, wrapped around one another until the light turned to dusk.

  When he left me on my doorstep that night with the promise of tomorrow, I felt older, wiser. I wasn’t sure why. I guess I like to think Charlie was brilliant so I didn’t question how he made me feel. I just accepted it. And later, when I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of songbirds serenading butterflies.

  It was the most beautiful song I’d ever dreamed.

  The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn’t it be? —it is the same the angels breathe.

  ~ Mark Twain

  Sophie skillfully moved the brush across the canvas. Each stroke was purposeful, each line precise. She created something out of nothing and what she created was beautiful.

  Her back was to me, not knowing that I was watching her or that I was even there I’m sure. She had set up her easel outside on the front porch and when I walked up and saw what she was doing I was afraid to interrupt. She appeared to be lost to her art, wrapped up in a world she conceived from her mind, and I was awestruck. Sophie had never mentioned she was an artist.

  I waited until I thought she was finished and then I spoke. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

  She angled her head to the side, giving me a half of a smile like she knew I had been there all along. “I can’t fly a plane.”

  “I could teach you,” I said, stepping onto the porch.

  “And I could teach you how to paint.”

  “Not possible. I can’t even draw a straight line.”

  She turned back to the painting. “Why does the line need to be straight?”

  I sat in the rocker acros
s from her and stared at her while she stared at the canvas. “I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t.”

  “I prefer lines that curve,” she said. “Even light bends and warps its own path, Charlie. Art is subjective, so it can be whatever you want it to be.”

  “Then teach me to draw you.”

  Her eyes flickered up and found me staring. “Me?”

  I couldn’t get the image out of my head from when I had outlined her delicate frame with my hands. I’d made a map of her that day, memorized it, studied it, and tucked it away for safekeeping.

  “Yes. You have beautiful lines and I agree with you, curves are definitely better.” I grinned.

  Dipping her brush in a cup of water beside her, she said, “You’re a terrible flirt.”

  “Maybe. It’s still true, though.”

  She dabbed the brush on a cloth. “Well, like I said, art is subjective.”

  I chuckled and rocked back in the chair.

  She raised a brow. “What’s so funny?”

  “I managed to get you to admit that you are a work of art.”

  “You did no such thing.”

  “I did. I said you had beautiful lines and you said art was subjective.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m right and so were you. We both win.”

  “I – you – I…” Flustered, she stood. “You are impossible sometimes, Charlie.”

  My grin only grew larger. “You’re probably right. There, you’ve been right twice since I sat down.”

  She shook her head, mumbling a curse word, and fished around for lids to her paints.

  I stood and walked around to admire her work. She had painted a sunset over a lake. The water looked like it was moving. The ripples she created were so lifelike I felt like I could reach into the painting, dip my hand into it, and feel the coolness on my skin.

  “Teach me,” I said. “I want to know how to breathe life onto a blank canvas like this.”

  She studied me for a moment, probably to gauge whether I was serious or not. “All right. If you could paint something what would it be?”

  My eyes moved from the painting and focused overhead. “The sky.”

  “That’s it? Just the sky?”

  “It’s not just the sky to me,” I said, and then looked at her. “It was my second home for a long time.”

  She tilted her head, her eyes examining me. “Go on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said the sky was like your second home. So, invite me in. Describe it to me, only without colors.”

  How could I describe the sky without colors?

  I was at a loss for words. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  I scratched my head. “Honestly, I can’t. I don’t have the faintest idea–”

  “Close your eyes,” she said. When I stared at her in confusion an imperceptible smile took a leisurely stroll over her red lips. “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’ve lost my mind. Now trust me and close your eyes. Grab that chair over there and bring it over.”

  I did and took a seat beside her.

  “Close your eyes,” she said again.

  I wanted to put up resistance and refuse for fun of it, but I also wanted to know where she was going with this. I closed my eyes, though I couldn’t help grinning at her. “You’re not gonna do anything weird are you?”

  I could hear the sing-song of her smile when she said, “I can’t make any promises.”

  I laughed. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Eh,” she said. “Po-ta-to… po-tah-to.”

  “There’s a difference betw–”

  She touched my mouth with her finger. “Shhh.” My lips froze and an electrical current moved down my spine. She moved in closer. “I’m teaching this class and I need you to be studious and obey my requests. Okay?”

  I nodded instead of speaking because her finger still covered my lips and I liked her finger right where it was.

  “Good,” she said. “Now, keep your eyes closed.” She moved away and I heard her shuffling things around and then she went still. The only sounds between us were heartbeats and breaths. “Charlie,” she said softly.

  She was close again – so close. I could feel her, I could smell her shampoo. A part of me wanted to forget about art and paintings and skies and lakes because all I wanted was for her to kiss me. I wanted her to lean in and sweep her lips against mine. I wanted to touch her and hold her. I wanted—

  “Charlie.”

  I swallowed. “Yes?”

  “You asked me to teach you how to bring life to a blank canvas…”

  Her voice was whisper soft, quieting my racing thoughts. I absorbed her words, even feeling them on my skin.

  “Art is about interpretation. It’s a communication of thoughts and experiences. Sometimes you have to close your eyes to see. I want you to picture the sky in your mind’s eye…everything that it is to you. I want you to really see it – feel it. If the sky is your second home, then invite me in and show me around. Let me see what you see.”

  I took in a breath, mostly to regain control of my heart, and also because I didn’t want to disappoint her. If Sophie was showing this much interest I wanted to take the time to really invite her into my home, as she put it.

  I brought up a memory of flight school when I was first learning how to fly and recalled what that first experience was like. After that, I let my mind sort through all the other times I’d flown and my reactions to all of those experiences.

  She leaned in, her mouth brushing my ear and said, “Now, without using colors show me your sky.”

  Taking in another breath, I let it out and described it the best way I could.

  “The sky is deceptive, mysterious, and moody. It is a master of disguise. It can be beautiful one minute and deadly the next. It can set you free or trap you in invisible barriers. The strands of wispy clouds can either hug you or suffocate you. It can be violent and unforgiving today and tomorrow it can whisper hope with its soft rays of light. There were times when I was flying that the sky felt too vast, too predatory, like the sky itself wanted to nip at my toes. Other times the sky hid me behind her wall of clouds, shielded me from my enemy, and acted as my protector. It is my Heaven and my Hell, and sometimes both at the same time.”

  Breaking Sophie’s rule, I opened my eyes. She was staring at me, trying to read me I think, and I didn’t want her reading too much so I cleared my throat, stood, and walked over to the porch railing and leaned against it. “So, you think you could paint my sky?”

  She sat motionlessly. “I don’t know if I could do it justice.”

  “Sure you can,” I said, encouraging her. “You could paint anything you wanted.”

  I was trying to keep my mouth moving and my mind silent because, in truth, I missed banding together with my brothers, side by side, eradicating evil from the Earth and celebrating our victories. I missed the brotherhood. I missed knowing that the guy flying next to me had my back and I had his. And yeah, I missed the connection I had with the sky because it was familiar; it was a part of me. I also knew that I would miss Sophie more than all of it combined.

  Sophie walked up behind me and once again I felt her close proximity. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “Talk about what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re not talking about.”

  “No, Sophie,” I said, turning around. “I don’t want to talk about anything. I want to do exactly this.” I leaned in and pressed my lips to hers. The warmth of her mouth rejuvenated me. I felt the air snap and pop all around us. I kissed her deeper, longer. I held her stronger, tighter. I could do this for the rest of my life and it would never be enough.

  “Hudson! Is that you?”

  I peeled myself from Sophie’s lips long enough to see who was calling out to me. A man was standing on the curb in front of Sophie’s house wearin
g a United States Air Corp uniform, same as mine.

  “Hot damn! It is you!”

  I moved towards him, bringing Sophie with me. When I got closer I couldn’t believe he was here. Peterson and I flew together in Europe many times. I held out my hand.

  “Damn, Peterson, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Furlough, man. Been here for three weeks. Can’t believe I hadn’t run into you before now.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I forgot you were from here. How long until you have to go back?”

  “Head out next week. Say, who’s this?” Peterson’s eyes were on Sophie.

  I let go of her hand and pulled her towards me by her waist. “This is Sophie McCormick. My girl,” I said proudly.

  Peterson extended his hand and Sophie reciprocated. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Likewise,” Sophie said.

  “Say, you wanna grab a beer or something? Do some catching up?”

  I did and I didn’t. I wanted to hear how the guys were doing. However, since I wouldn’t be going back I also didn’t want to hear how the guys were doing.

  “Maybe some other time. Sophie and I have a date.”

  “She can come too. Come on, what do you say?”

  “Why don’t you go ahead, Charlie,” Sophie said. “We can go out tomorrow. Go catch up with your friend.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes of course. I’ve got to clean up here anyway,” she said, waving towards the art supplies scattered all over the porch.

  “Tell you what,” I said to Peterson. “Meet me at the bar on the corner. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Sure thing.” He tipped his hat to Sophie. “Ma’am.”

  I waited for Peterson to leave before addressing Sophie again. “You didn’t have to do that. I could have met up with him tomorrow.”

  “No, I want you to have a beer with your friend.” She patted my chest. “It’s okay, really.”