WARNING: This chapter is very long. If you don't like long things, this may not be the best for you.
Robyn's Flame
1
It was a quiet Sunday evening, and the moon was behind a curtain of clouds, peeking out every once and a while. The golden lights from towering buildings and their apartment juniors were shining brighter than ever. This was the calmest New York had been.
I was walking along a bridge with a girl I've known since we were both in diapers: Robyn, my favorite cousin out of the many I have. She was a fun-loving young lady with a heart bigger than the One World Trade Center, and truly a force to be reckoned with. I loved to spend time with her because she was one-of-a-kind, unafraid to be stubborn sometimes.
We stopped at the side of the bridge to gaze over the dark, whispering sea. It tore and repaired itself very nicely among the thrashing waves.
Robyn's voice was the first to break the silence. “How are things going at the office?” She asked without turning. I told her what went on that day: about how some guy was caught stealing from small restaurant, about how a case for a missing dog was solved, and about how some kids thought it was wise to scatter inactivated mini-bombs all over the station. She gave a hearty laugh at the last one.
She quickly recovered herself. “Sorry, I just can't believe how stupid people can be,” she smiled. I nodded in agreement, chuckling along with her. When her hazel eyes met with my brown ones, it didn't take long before we started laughing together, drowning the whole borough with our chortles.
After a few moments, we stopped to catch our breath. “How's home?” I asked her. Her face sunk a little. “As you left it,” she replied quietly. I looked down, not wanting to face what she meant. We stood mute in the busying bridge.
“Why'd you leave?” She cracked, her eyes reflecting the blinding moonlight. I was dreading that question—it had been asked one too many times already, every time having the same answer:
“I've always wanted to be a detective.”
But that was never good enough for anyone. Being a detective could be someone else's job, someone else's dream, but never mine. Anyone who knew me knew that I wouldn't settle for anything else.
I thought Robyn knew that. I caught her eyes, which slightly changed into a darker color like it always did when she was upset. Her natural tell. I could tell my response wasn't enough for her, either.
She sighed, reaching into her coat's pocket and pulling out a lighter. She lightly smirked when I took some steps away from her, alarmed. “I'm not gonna use it on you,” she assured. She reached into her other pocket and pulled out a small tin container, flicking open the lid. She let the lid fall and ting on the sidewalk.
The container had wax in it, obviously a candle. “You just keep a lighter and a candle in your coat?” I asked her. She didn't reply and instead clicked the lighter's trigger, unfazed by the quick burst of flame. She smiled. “First try.”
I watched as she brought the lighter to the candle, sharing the blaze with its tiny stick heart. She looked up at me, her face now reflecting the warm orange light. “To answer your question, no, I don't keep a lighter and a candle.” Like a magician, she pulled from the air and chucked another small tin can at me, which I just barely caught. “I keep a lighter and two candles.”
I stood there with the other candle on my palm, shocked. “What are these for?” I asked.
“You light that one,” she said, throwing the lighter at me now. I caught it without any trouble.
I pried open the container's lid, throwing it into the ocean. I lit the candle and gave her back the lighter, still confused. “Will you please tell me now?” I pleaded, getting a little annoyed at her secretive smile as a response. “Just hold our candles together,” she told me. Puffing air out of my nose, I reluctantly extended the hand that held the candle. She did the same, only she slightly put her candle on top of mine. Her flame suddenly extinguished and mine grew significantly larger. She gazed into my eyes, and this time, I knew she was going to talk.
“This means that our flames will be intertwined, and even when we're apart, I will never leave you as long as this flame lasts.”
The flame's reflection danced in her eyes as she spoke.
We nodded in a silent agreement, me tipping my hat off to her and her smiling her comforting smile. She turned and walked off. “Tell Uncle Lenny I said hello,” I called to her. She rounded, still walking, and assured me that she would.
I shifted my eyes to the distracting candle. Its inferno flickered from short to tall, swaying in all different directions like the water under the bridge. It reminded me of the fireplace in my family's luxurious Renaissance Revival-style mansion. One would think that I lived quite the life of luxury, which I did, albeit short-lived. My father would read to me in front of the crackling fireplace, while my mother was in the kitchen, cooking and chatting with the other relatives. The kitchen was far, so you couldn't really hear what the adults were saying.
I didn't want to know what the adults were saying. All I wanted was to spend time with my father.
I was sent to bed before he could finish the story, which annoyed me. My mother kissed me goodnight, and my father rustled my hair and promised me that we would finish the story morrow's eve. I was still grumpy, but I knew that he always kept his promise. I went to sleep as soon as they shut the light off and closed the door.
...And then I smelled smoke.
It roused me, blazing me with hot confusion. I flicked my tired eyes to the orange light seeping under the door crack. Thinking that the hall light was on, I turned over in my bed. I vainly tried to go back to sleep, but the wreaking smell of burnt steak kept assaulting my nose. I finally got up, sighing but found it hard to breath. Tired and fearful, I crept over to the door, slightly turning the doorknob with my tiny, sweat-drenched hands. The knob was scorching hot, burning me as soon as it touched my palm.
I ignored the stabbing pain, determined to reach the other side. Ripping open the door, I was horrified to find—
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
Flash forward to the present, where I'm sitting in my Buick and staring off into the candle's flame as if I'm reading the daily newspaper. I flinched, glancing up to find a raggedy, middle-aged man with an ugly frown on his scarred face. His mahogany coat had off-color patches, matching well with the dirty black shirt under it. His thumb stuck out of his glove, and he looked like he'd just been rolling in mud.
He motioned for me to roll my window down. I did that, and he leaned forward, not losing the arched eyebrows. “This is my spot,” He said. I was confused, looking around him to see if he brought any friends of his.
“I didn't hear a question, bud,” I replied, knowing full well that he was going to get belligerent. I mentally scanned him for weapons, but he didn't look like he had any.
He exasperatedly threw his hands up, “I'm telling you to get out of my spot!” he shouted. I didn't want to poke the bear, but I was still lost on how this spot was his. He didn't look like the most patient guy in Manhattan, so I decided to leave it alone and pull down the gearshift. “Finally,” The guy muttered loud enough for me to hear. I scoffed, reversed, and made my way out of there with my foot smothering the pedal.
An unnerving feeling kept making its way back into my body. I felt like something was... off.
It could have been the fact that I was driving back home in the dead of night, or the fact that I still get flashbacks of a night like this from a ghostly memory. But maybe it's something that I try to stay away from... Something like my family.
There wasn't enough time to be my own therapist. It didn't take long before I arrived at the small apartment complex that I called my own little town, though I seldom interacted with any other tenants. It was a bit worn down, having vines from random places slowly slither their way around the building. Some bricks were a little frost-bitten from the cold, and you could tell by the rusty, mucky entrance that this was about as decent as you could get without getting a health code violation.
Nevertheless, it was what I called home. Ask me to leave, and I'd ask you if you had anything better to give me than a warm feeling of love and comfort in the small, imperfect things.
I stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind me. The cold wind immediately brushed my face, almost blowing my hat away. A part of me wondered where in the world that wind came from; it was as if a spirit had crossed by me in the most aggressive way possible. Even though I didn't believe in that stuff, it still gave me the creeps.
I didn't hesitate to hie up the cobblestone stairs. I promise, it was just because of the cold.
When I went to open the door, the knob was already turning itself, and the door revealed behind it a familiar face.
“Tony!” Shouted a jubilant Lawrence Rodney holding a bloody tissue to his nose. His rimless glasses were cracked on the left lens, corresponding with his violet-black eye. “I was looking for you!”
I nodded slowly, hopefully not looking too disgusted and confused at his appearance. He pulled me into the building with his free hand, kicking the door closed behind us. He lead me to the stairs, not saying a word but instead motioning for me to go up.
Being a detective for ten years, you get some sort of impulse or natural urge to question anything that's even remotely suspicious. I fought this urge, telling myself that there was nothing to question about Lawrence.
Besides, I always keep a weapon close if anything goes south.
I made it upstairs with him at my tail. So far, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No signs of resistance of a victim, or any type of altercation. I examined the walls, floors and ceilings as if this were a case, but all I saw were the same old brown, popcorn walls that hid barely decent rooms behind them.
I twisted back to Lawrence, “What happened?” I asked promptly. His eyes flicked around for a moment, something I took as a sign to say that the next few words out of his mouth would be lies. “I don't understand what you mean,” he stalled, “I saw you weren't home, so I went looking for you—“
“Quit acting oblivious!” I snapped. He had the audacity to lie straight to my face while his was hemorrhaging. His expression laid somewhere between shock, guilt and a tinge of fear.
He adjusted his broken glasses, gazing somewhere past me for a moment, then looking back. “If you won't let off it,” he began, his voice falling into a whisper. I leaned in closer to hear him.
“...I fell down the first flight of stairs.”
I was stuck in the leaning motion, waiting for any chance of this being a joke. But no, his nasally voice didn't reveal anything more than a stupid little mistake. I slowly lifted my eyes to look at his, not hiding my deadpan glare. “You fell down the stairs?” I asked. He nodded vigorously.
My teeth got to grinding. I wanted to shout, 'Where'd you get that black eye? Did the stairs sock you, too?', but I didn't want to cause a scene. Sucking my teeth, I turned around, walking away from Lawrence as he called after me.
Honestly, if I wanted to deal with a liar right now, what would be the point of my day off?
As soon as I got to my apartment, I slammed the door shut behind me and locked it. I could still hear Lawrence's hollering voice trailing down the hallway, probably interrupting someone's beauty sleep. Sighing, I walked over into the big closet that I made my office. I found myself lucky, seeing that my apartment was probably the nicest out of the complex.
I crashed down on my squeaky, worn-down chair, letting out a stressed-out sigh that felt like a thousand pounds were lifted off of my chest. I switched on the lamp beside me and slipped a piece of paper from the giant pile resting on my desk. I wondered why my daughter hadn't come barreling in ye—
“Daddy!” I heard a little voice cry, followed by footsteps growing louder and louder until I could finally see my little girl dashing in, arms wide and ready for an embrace. Seeing her was definitely the height of my day.
She jumped into my arms, squeezing hers very tightly around my neck. “I missed you!” Said her muffled voice in my shoulder. “Daddy missed you too, Olivia.”
I softly extended her out from me so that I could get a good look of her face. She beamed that really great, toothy smile that makes all your worries fall away. I couldn't help but mirror her—but never in a million years would my smile be as cute.
“Can we play now?” She asked. Her eyes sparkled, and I held back my words, thinking about them very carefully. The papers on the desk weren't going to work out themselves by the next morning, dinner wasn't going to get made without a cook, and taxes were going to kill me if I didn't do them...
But why should that matter to her?
I sighed, smiled, and nodded away all of my adult problems. What's a half an hour of playtime?
And if you could picture the most blissful grin you've ever seen in the entire world... Throw that picture aside. Olivia had no rival.
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I had to admit, playing with my daughter was the best thing I could've done.
We started by playing Tug O' War with a long blanket from the couch. It actually went on longer than expected, and I was very caught off by the strength of that little girl. As soon as we started, she yanked me from my stance and almost pulled me down.
I stood arched over for a few seconds, snapping to the conclusion that maybe... Maybe I really had to put some effort into this.
I rose my head and spotted her grinning face, her eyes filled with the shine of competition. The soft upturn smirk of her mouth, the slight crease between her eyebrows, the fire in her eyes... She looked like many of the women in my family.
By this time, I was up and putting a little more strength into my grip. It didn't take long before the blanket stopped moving no matter how hard Olivia tugged with her tiny hands. I could see the strain coloring her face a peachy red, guilting me into loosening just a little.
Next thing I know, my nose is one with the cold floor and my daughter is standing over me, giggling a storm. 'C:aught off guard' wouldn't even begin to describe my feelings at that time. 'Shocked' would strike close, but 'knock-down stupid' is all that raced through my head as I gathered myself off the floor. When I stood over her, she looked up at me with a smile that showed her toothless top front. “I won! I won!” She chanted, skipping circles around me.
“I shouldn't have underestimated you,” I admitted, hoisting her up into my arms.
We headed over to the fridge and ran through our dinner options. “Chicken?” I asked her, but she shook her head. I knew full well what she wanted from that fridge, and I stalled until the last option, suggesting sandwiches, pasta... Heck, I even went so far as to suggest waffles. All her answers were nos, and on the last one, she tilted her head and scrunched up her face as if to say I was the stupidest person on Earth. Now where did she learn how to do that?
I finally stopped messing with her and suggested her one and only favorite:
“Mac'n'cheese?”
Her face switched from heavily judgmental to sunshine within seconds, which brought a chuckle from me. I set her down and grabbed the mac'n'cheese container out of the freezer half. The frigid feel of the plastic sent shivers down my spine, catching me off guard. I was confused on why I was feeling extra sensitive to things today... It was like something was... off.
I shook off the feeling as I carefully put the mac in the microwave. I put the timer on for a few minutes, then waited, striking up a small conversation with Olivia. I asked how her day was, which she replied that it was an alright day. I honestly couldn't have related to her more when it came to that.
I leaned over on the counter. “Learn anything new?” I asked her. She seemed to rack her brain for a little while before doing her little goofy, happy face. “We learned about zebras!”
“Zebras are nice,” I replied as I took the creamy macaroni out of the microwave. Mac always tickled my nose in the most pleasant way possible, reminding me of easy Sundays and good memories. What, you thought I was going to say something related to actual food?
When I placed the mac on the table, Olivia stared deep into the creamy yellow delight with sparkling eyes. “Macaroni is nicer than zebras,” she said, claiming the first bite of her dinner. I nodded in agreement with that statement.
It wasn't long before it was time for bed. Olivia begged to stay up a little while longer, arguing that it was only 9:30. “You were supposed to be in bed by nine, chipmunk,” I told her, focusing on the coffee table behind her so that I could avoid her puppy eyes. As I stared at the table, a flashing memory reminded me about Robyn's candle, flickering its light inside my dusky car.
“Daddy, bedtime is for losers. Do you think I'm a loser?” She asked me, her head titled and eyes glistening. She liked to harmlessly manipulate me into giving her what she wanted, much like her mother. That's why being a detective comes in handy, because you always know how to respond to people like this.
“No, chipmunk,” I replied, “Bedtime is for winners who have won the right to rest. That's why you have to work hard: to get time for rest.” A smile overtook her face and she nodded, standing up from her stool and leisurely strode in the direction of her bedroom, going out of sight. “I'll be right there in a second,” I called, throwing my jacket on. I grabbed my hat and went straight out of the door with a mission to get that candle in the house. I chuckled at the thought of someone walking past my car and wondering why it was dimly lit by an out-of-place candle. They'd probably take a look around my car through the window or walk swiftly past to not get ambushed. Why did I mention that last part, you ask? All I'll say is this: anything can happen in Manhattan. Whether that be luring curious, unsuspecting people in with candles inside a car, or just snatch a person out in the open. There's a good chance no one will notice.
Once I got to my car, I fiddled with my pockets in search of my keys. Nothing ever got lost in my shallow pockets, except for the one thing I needed most. By the time it got to a few minutes of me fighting with my jacket, I was just about ready to rip it off and shake the **** out of it.
In this case, the **** would be my key, napkins, and snack-wrappers—oh, and my badge, of course. How could I forget the only thing that intimidates people about me? As soon as I flash my badge to a shady dealer, they act like they didn't just let me in on incriminating information. Average Tuesday.
I suddenly felt a tough shoulder bump into mine, knocking me over the side of my car. The man who did it kept walking, shooting me a side-glare from just under his shadowy hat. “Watch where you're going!” I shouted. There was a hesitation in his step, but he didn't stop. I watched as his figure disappeared behind the misty curtain at the end of the lamp-lit street.
That was the third time this night! Third time that I've gotten a spine-chilling feeling that something strange was going on under the stars. If I'm anything of a detective, I'll go follow that man down the street to wherever ghost town he disappeared to and get ambushed by the same people who might've hid in my candle-lit car...
I got the candle, headed back into the building, and waited for a few minutes. I didn't want to run into Lawrence again, this time telling me that he got a wound on his wrist from wrapping his watch too tight. He was a great guy, but he infuriated me with his lazy lies. If you're gonna spit fairies out of your mouth, make an effort.
Thankfully, the coast was clear of any bad liars. I dashed up the stairs and straight into my apartment, hastily taking off my jacket and hat. I hope Olivia didn't fall asleep without her bedtime story... I know it means a lot to her. This is one of the few times these days that I've been available to her.
Quietly, I crept over to her bedroom, peaking behind her door. Her eyes were half-closed and they gazed to nowhere in particular. She must have been dozing off waiting for my slow self to come read her a story. I chuckled softly, shaking my head and walking over to her bed. I sat down by her feet and watched as her little gleaming eyes flickered open, accompanying her tired, but smiling, mouth.
“I'm sorry I took so long,” I apologized. “You look really tired already... Maybe I should read to you tomorrow night.”
Olivia shook her head, “No, daddy,” she said firmly, “You promised to read it tonight. You say all the time that we can never promise tomorrow!” Our eyes locked for a moment, allowing me to see the soul of the maturest six-year-old I've ever met. A six-year-old that loved to use my words against me in a way that made me the proudest father on Earth. In a set decision's time, I immediately went in the tiny drawer next to her bed and pulled out her favorite bedtime story: The Very Hungry Caterpillar. She joyfully sat up in her bed.
“You know the rules, Pumpkin.”
She sighed, sliding back down so that her head was on her pillow.
I gave a nod, opening the book under the light of her table lamp. It was a little uncomfortable leaning in almost a zigzag-like manner, but the chair that was available was small and could only support the weight of a tiny plastic pony—and I don't think I'm a tiny plastic pony.
I began the story with the most soothing voice I could muster. “'One morning, the warm sun came up and — pop! — out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry caterpillar.'” I snuck a quick glance up, shocked to see that Olivia was already knocked out, drooling a river on her pillow. I smirked, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead. She slept so peacefully, like a leaf resting on top of calm waters in Autumn. Very poetic, I know. Maybe I should have gone into poetry. That way, my father's family wouldn't hate me.
Or maybe they would, I thought as I got up and turned off her lamp and walked out of her room. As I slowly closed the door behind me, I thought of how nice it would be to go to bed right now, maybe drool rivers on my pillow. I was honestly considering becoming a poet. Poet's don't have paperwork, and they're winners. Winners who've won the right to rest.
I headed back to my office, collapsing on my loud, hard-cushioned chair. Thank God I don't have back issues, otherwise I'd have to spend some tax money on replacing this soft brick disguised as a seat. I will admit that the chair felt extra comfortable this evening, especially the cushions that were hard any other night but as soft as a cloud right now.
I suddenly felt myself jolt to keep from drifting off, knowing that I couldn't blow off doing this paper... paperwork... Did the room get quieter? I don't remember it being this cozy, either. It was the perfect temperature between not too frigid and not too sweaty.
And the golden light shining off of the papers looked hazy now... It was as if I was being gently pulled through a bright misty field... Bringing me to a small wooden house. And the small wooden house on the mossy hill was getting closer, taking me back to when I visited my grandparents' house in Venice. Their house overlooked a grand, beautiful field of emerald.
Without another thought, I had surrendered to sleep. But I wasn't really surrendering. I had gone off to become a winner.
