The Merchants of Zion

by William Stamp

  “How are you liking the museum?” I asked.

  “It's the best!” The butterfly lifted from her shoulder and flew to a dogwood. The tree was blossoming, and the butterfly drifted to an open flower and began to feed.

  “Cliff?” Elly asked bashfully.

  “What is it Ells Bells?”

  “Do you think Ryan would like the butterflies?”

  “Yes, I think he would.”

  “Me too.”

  We walked along, watching butterflies ranging from the size of my thumbnail to that of my open hand. Elly found a dying Monarch, its bright orange wings crumpled. It was unable to lift itself from the ground. She cupped it in her hands and set it in a nearby bush so no one would step on it. I didn't bother telling her it was too late.

  My phone vibrated. I didn't recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Yo. I'm in the museum.”

  “I thought you didn't have a phone.”

  “I borrowed one. So where are you? Yeah just another few seconds, thanks.”

  “We're in the butterfly atrium.”

  “See you soon,” he said, and hung up.

  “Is Ryan in Heaven now?” Elly asked.

  How long had she pondered that thought? Was the question spontaneous, or had she chewed it over for months before daring to utter it aloud? Her bright, worried eyes suggested the latter, the urgency of her fear brought to the forefront by the butterfly she couldn't save. It was unfair for someone so young to have to wrestle with feelings of such import.

  And what to tell her? That I didn't believe in God—that Ryan was an inanimate lump buried in a military cemetery? Helen was Jewish, but she wasn't religious, and I was sure she would've told her daughter, “Yes, Ryan is in Heaven and he's very happy.” Her father was a Catholic twice a year, on Christmas and Easter. What he might say I had no idea, but it would probably be a less measured variation of Helen's response. They might even believe it—their lack of external religiosity didn't mean they were atheists, or agnostic—I knew plenty of people who didn't toss out the idea of God and Heaven along with their synagogue or church.

  “No one in the world knows what happens after you die; we can only tell you our personal beliefs. I don't believe in Heaven. That means I don't think Ryan could be there. However, a lot of people do believe in Heaven. They would think Ryan is there. Look at it this way: if I disappeared, say I ran off with some girl,” Ruth flashed through my mind, and I willed her into Mary, “you and your parents would have no idea where I was. I could be anywhere in the whole world, and all they could do is guess. It's the same when a person dies.” I paused. I hoped I was making my point clearly without upsetting her. “Does that make sense?”

  “So you don't think Ryan is, um, down there?” She pointed at her feet.

  “In Hell? No, I don't think so.”

  “Even though he... he... killed people?”

  “Life's too complicated. It can't be boiled down to simplistic moral judgments.”

  “What's sim-plistic mean?”

  “It means having the quality of being simple.”

  “Hmm.” She left it at that, and I'd done it all without her breaking down into tears. If I ever became a parent I'd be the best one alive. My kids would love me and their friends would wish I was their dad. Although being responsible for another person's life sounded terrifying, I was certain I could handle it. I already took care of Elly and, to a lesser extent, James.

  During our discussion, the Heisenberg camera had snapped a photo of a butterfly resting on Elly's finger while more flew around her head, giving her a butterfly halo. They must have been attracted to the red bow in her hair.

  A retired couple from the entrance hall came into the garden. I wanted a picture for myself, and asked if they wouldn't mind taking one of us with my phone. The husband photographed us at the edge of the dome, butterflies and trees in front and the menacing storm in the background.

  I received a text from a different number I didn't recognize. James was waiting for us at the museum entrance. He didn't want to pay for a ticket.

  Elly and I backtracked to the main hall. James was by the metal detector, bullshitting with the security guard.

  “Did you see those prices? Fu—”

  “Elly, this is my roommate James. James, Elly,” I said, and mouthed, “no cursing.”

  “Oh, right. Hello Lady Elly, how do you do?” he said, taking her hand.

  After a brief discussion where I threatened to leave him behind he agreed to buy the ticket, complaining loudly how his entire budget—the entirety of his needs, wants, and dreams—was balanced so delicately that a single unforeseen purchase put his whole life's project at risk. Once inside he dawdled behind us like a dog on a long leash, taking his time to sniff everything and mark his territory on the choicest artifacts.

  Next on our itinerary: the earth sciences. Elly didn't like the exhibits as much as I'd thought she would. She told me her volcanic crush had been mean to her during recess and she hated him now. Her interest in geology had been collateral damage.

  “What'd he do?”

  “He pulled my hair,” she pouted.

  “That means he likes you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Boys are weird.”

  We were standing in front of a thirty-foot tall cross section of sedimentary rock pulled from a geological dig in Cambodia. The age of each layer was marked, progressing from a scant thirty-thousand years ago to six million. I pointed out to Elly that these stones were younger than the dinosaur fossils we'd seen earlier.

  Elly read the rocks' history aloud, and then went into an explanation about how igneous—that is volcanic, she added—rocks were formed, and how different types of volcanoes produced different kinds of igneous rock.

  My phone buzzed. Another unknown number. I answered. A man with a deep voice asked for James.

  “It's for you,” I said, cupping the phone. “Who did you give my number to?”

  “Don't worry about,” he said, taking the phone.

  “You're an asshole,” I whispered, and he waved me away. He wandered to an empty corner of the room and pulled out a notepad and pen, nodding his head as he wrote.

  I was watching James so intently, trying to figure out what he was up to, that for a second I forgot about Elly. By the time I remembered I was a nanny, not Philip Marlowe, she had disappeared. “James,” I said. He looked up. “Did you see where Elly went?” He shook his head. “Fuck. Text me when you're done.” I ran in a random direction, shouting her name.

  She wasn't anywhere in the entire earth sciences wing. Maybe the History of Financial Innovation? I prayed to see her bobbing red bow with every corner I turned. No luck on the first floor, up to the second. Astronomy wing? Nope. In the Avian Hall I saw a stuffed bird with a bright red breast and long green tail that proclaimed serenity as its beady black-glass eyes informed me my search was hopeless.

  I needed to give Mary a call.

  My heart was racing, and panic crept from the pit of my stomach up behind my eyes, making me light-headed. I leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths to help me calm down. When I was younger, before the Panic, there would have been museum employees all over, eager to help. Today the only official looking people I'd seen were the security guard and the insect girl. Tourism wasn't what it used to be, and Liberty Bell wasn't in the museum business for the good of humanity.

  Fear and uncertainty mushed into a thick, sticky ball at the back of my throat. I tried to suppress my lizard brain and consider the situation rationally. First: every time I'd been lost as a child I'd been recovered. Second: most lost children were in fact found, and most who weren't were abducted by adults they knew. Third: New York City was not a dangerous place, and Elly was city-savvy enough to get around on her own if she had to. Fourth: she had to be somewhere in the museum, and had been missing for less than five minutes.

  Those thoughts didn't dissolve the panic, but they reduce
d it from the size of a basketball to that of a tennis ball. The plan: go down to the first floor and alert a security guard. Then no one would be able to leave with her. Or I could just call her and ask her where she was. Feeling dumb for not doing so immediately, I reached for my phone and felt an unfamiliar contour. Right, I had her phone and James had mine—my lizard brain was smarter than me.

  The redhead and her class were on the far side of a giant tree stump, mounted on its side so observers could see its rings. I rushed to ask her for help and, at the back of the crowd, I spotted a red bow and bumblebee backpack.

  “Elly,” I yelled. She turned around.

  “Hi Cliff.”

  “What are you doing, running off like that?” I knelt down and squeezed her. “Don't ever do that again. Please. You'll kill me. You promise Ells Bells?”

  “I promise.” The class had lost interest in the tree and was staring at us. The redhead scrunched her nose as if an odor of negligence had wafted into the room. I took Elly's hand to lead her away, but before I could make my escape the teacher had come over, no doubt unwilling to allow an opportunity for a proper lecture to slide past.

  “Is this your daughter?” asked the redhead. She was wearing a sundress with patterns of fruit, and was the first woman I'd talked to in months with a natural hair color. Maybe they couldn't dye their hair, I thought stupidly.

  Her eyes were the same shade of dark blue as Mary's.

  I willed a witty remark, but my clever side had conceded the field. “No, uh...” I shrugged my shoulders. “I'm her tutor,” I said to my feet.

  Elly confirmed this statement.

  “What a relief. I was sickened at the thought of this poor girl having such an irresponsible parent. I didn't want to upset my class, but she's been following us around for a while now.”

  Her students watched in silence as she made me feel like a second-grader. Did everyone who got off on telling other people how to behave become an educator? The retired couple we met in the butterfly garden passed through a nearby entrance and waved to Elly and me. I smiled weakly.

  “Kids. You know...”

  “You only have one child to look after. I'm responsible for an entire class. Can you imagine having to explain to a mother you lost her?”

  “Look, ma'am. She slipped away. I'm just grateful she's safe.”

  “You wouldn't have to be grateful if you kept track of her,” she demurred. A delicate nose and light freckles betrayed an impishness no scowl could erase. Ranting had cooled her off, and I seized the opportunity.

  “Well Ms...”

  “Breider.”

  “Ms. Breider. Do you think Elly and I could tag along with you for a bit? Since she wandered off with your class, she must find it very interesting. We won't be a nuisance.”

  She hesitated. “No funny business,” she said.

  “None. I promise.”

  James texted Elly's phone. He had to jet. I told him where we were, and he came to give me my phone. We talked in hushed voices while Ms. Breider asked her class questions about the rainforest. Elly answered a question none of the other kids could and I flushed with pride.

  To my surprise, James apologized for giving away my number without telling me. He said he'd give me a call when he finished up with his business, and as he walked away I wished I had a better understanding of his true character, or at least more patience for his thoughtless eccentricity.

  I trailed behind the class, trying to talk to Ms. Breider between exhibits. After the third time she shushed me I gave up. An uneventful two hours passed for me, but Elly enjoyed every minute. She was well-behaved and watched Ms. Breider attentively while she talked—unlike the other kids, who picked their noses and fidgeted, or whispered to each other at the back of the crowd. Elly was, without a doubt, more mature, more curious, and more intelligent than any of her temporary classmates. However, the Expert's school stifled her in other ways, as she was awkward with the other children and unsure of how to interact with them. Too many computers and adults in her education and not enough socialization with her peers. Naturally shy eight year old or a social Frankenstein's monster? It could go either way.

  Ms. Breider encouraged questions and, without being patronizing, answered them in a way her class could easily understand. Observing her students, I came to the conclusion that I wasn't the only one with a crush. A tan mixed-race kid raised his hand and when she called on him he stammered and giggled, unable to continue. She smiled patiently until a girl standing next to him said, “Sammy wants to know...”

  The class ate lunch at the museum cafe. Elly insisted she wasn't hungry and wanted to go to the gift shop, so we said goodbye to Ms. Breider and her class. I hinted to her that we should get together sometime, but she either didn't pick up on it or chose to ignore my subtle advances.

  Elly picked out a model of the glass atrium that, when shaken, caused tiny butterflies to flutter around. She also wanted a dinosaur coloring book. I had strict instructions from Helen on this topic. She was not to be spoiled, and I made it clear she had to choose one or the other.

  When she realized I wouldn't be dissuaded she began to whine, then transitioned into a temper tantrum. She threw the book to the ground and stomped on it. Leaves of paper tore out, and a t-rex ripped in half. I was holding the model atrium and she grabbed for it, but I placed it on a shelf too high for her to reach. She screamed and cried, saying she was going to tell on me when we got back to her house and that her mommy and daddy would've bought her what she wanted. I believed her: the Felkins were themselves unable to marshal the minimal amount of resoluteness they expected of me.

  The handful of people in the gift shop turned their attention to me in the New York style—out of the corner of their eyes. I didn't want to make a scene in front of a crowd, and told Elly if she didn't behave she wouldn't get either one, and she told me they were both stupid anyway and that she hated me.

  “I'm not your parents. This shit doesn't work on me,” I snapped. “Now let's go.”

  She quit screaming, and said, “You're not my mommy or daddy. I don't have to listen to you.”

  “The hell you don't.” I left her in the aisle and paid for the butterfly garden and the ruined coloring book. She ran off as I was swiping my card.

  Unfortunately for Elly, one stride of mine was equal to three of hers. I caught up with her by the metal detector, threw her over my shoulder, and carried her out of the museum. Some stares were thrown in my direction, but no one said anything or tried to stop me.

  “Quit being a brat,” I said, as she pounded her hands against my back and kicked at my stomach.

  “Put me down. I hate you!”

  “You already said that.”

  “I hate you I hate you I hate you.”

  I set her on the ground, keeping one hand on her should so she wouldn't try to run away again. The rain hadn't let up, and I helped her retrieve the ladybug umbrella from a loop on her backpack.

  A police car stopped at the base of the museum stairs, lights flashing. The officer stepped out, and I really hoped his appearance had nothing to do with me. He looked my age. Our builds were similar—skinny teenagers whose bodies had filled out in their early twenties. While mine sheathed a brittle frame in a coat of flab, his extra mass had been put to good use and saw the inside of a gym several days a week. We even had the same meager, patchy facial hair, which broke in my favor. His puny mustache didn't cut it for a police officer, while mine lent me an unkempt, creative aura. He wore dark sunglasses so I couldn't see his eyes, and I wondered if beneath his cap his hair was going gray like mine.

  I didn't know if I should present my ID or hurry away.

  A prissy, balding man in a gray vest and white shirt—his gold-bar nametag read “Marcus”—emerged from the museum's revolving doors. His arms were crossed. I decided to saunter off nonchalantly.

  The priss nodded and the cop beelined for me. I regretted not pulling out my ID. It was too late now; I didn't want to get shot on account
of my gun-wallet.

  It happened so quickly, was so unexpected, that my nervous system never engaged its fight or flight response. The surprise knocked me right out of my body, and I observed/imagined the incident from an outside perspective, like a cameraman filming a movie scene. The officer climbed the steps to cuff me. I had the vacant expression of a meth-head and the museum employee watched with the oblivious, middle-class satisfaction of a person concerned more with order than justice. Elly was bawling on the steps, her umbrella discarded at her feet. The museum-gift shop canvas bag with its silhouette of a tyrannosaurus rex lay beside me. I must've dropped it, but couldn't remember doing so—hopefully Elly's trinket hadn't broken. The museum's overhang blocked the steady drizzle at the edge of the action, like it was all a scene on a stage.

  He pushed my shoulder, rotating me and pinning me against one of the stone columns lining the entrance. With surprising deftness, he pressed his knee into my back hard enough that I had difficulty breathing and squished my face against the stone. It felt cool against my cheek—a refreshing contrast to the muggy air.

  Graying out broke the illusion, and I focused on not fainting. I didn't want the situation to become any more embarrassing than it already was. He half-carried me to his car, not telling me I had the right to remain silent or any of that shit.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” he said calmly. “But first, you know, paperwork. It'll only take a minute.” He leashed me to the car like an unruly child. It was humiliating.

  “This is all a mistake,” I said. He ignored me, leaving me in the rain while he sat in the comfort of the car.

  The museum employee was on one knee, talking to Elly and trying to calm her down. He put a hand on her shoulder and she tried to bite him. She was holding the gift shop bag.

  Moving my arms just so, I managed to pull my pouch and lighter from my pocket. I had a cigarette already rolled, intended for the moment I reached the end of the Felkins' block. Elly didn't know about my bad habit—I was careful to hide it from her—but this was an emergency.