Chrysalis

            by Johan Philippine

 

                Alfred carefully placed the candle on the top of the cat food. He took some time to adjust it with his frail fingers, trying to get it straight. It was an awkwardly shaped candle; a big 16 carved out of wax with bright colors painted on the numbers. Alfred hadn’t been stingy when he got the candle; a sixteenth birthday was nothing to be cheap about. The cat food itself was also a treat – he had gotten Irene the expensive paté de canard that cost an extra ten dollars. It was going to be a perfect celebration for Irene.

            Alfred moved his hand around the table, feeling the surface in hopes of finding his box of matches. He had used the same box for a very long time, to light Irene’s birthday candles. Only Irene’s birthday candles.

            “Oh, where is it?” Alfred asked the air in his crackled, paced voice. “I know I took it out of the closet already.” He lifted the present off the table, and set it back down after seeing that the box wasn’t there. He slowly peered around the kitchen of his small apartment, squinting his eyes and adjusting his small, round spectacles as he searched every inch of the room.

            It was a small kitchen, but it had all the necessities of cooking Alfred thought he needed. He described it as “cozy”, like the rest of his apartment. Pots and pans hung over the sink and counter, neatly cleaned. In the cupboard lay many packaged items, the top shelf for him and the bottom for Irene. Next to the cupboard was the cabinet where the dishes were stored: Two plates, two bowls, two glasses. In the drawer by the sink were the utensils: Two forks, two knives, two spoons, and all his cooking tools, including scissors. Alfred’s mode of thought was “The less dishes you have, the less dishwashing you have to do”. The refrigerator was pretty empty: A pitcher of water, a bottle of white wine, some cat food, a carton of milk, and some yogurt. Across the room from the counter was a square table, up against the wall, with two old wooden chairs. A red and white checkered tablecloth rested on it. And there, on the counter, lay the matchbox, maybe five feet from where he was standing by the table. He let out a giggle of joy when he saw it.

            “Hee! There it is! Oh, I knew I’d find it Irene!” He exclaimed to the matchbox in front of him. “You know what they say Irene?” He looked around, trying to find Irene.

            “Irene? Irene? Where are you Irene?” His voice had a twinge of worry in it. Where could his beloved Irene be? She had been right behind him only a moment ago, looking at him with those big, green eyes.

            An old, wispy white cat dragged itself into the kitchen from the bathroom and turned her head to look at him. He gazed at her for a moment, blinked, then smiled.

            “Oh, there you are. You scared me for a second!” The cat looked away, toward the cat food. Alfred didn’t notice. “Well, as I was saying...” He trailed off. “Oh, right! It’s always in the last place you look!” He smiled at himself proudly, nodded his head, and inched his way to the counter. “It’s so true, it’s so true.” He picked up the match box, and inched his way back to the table as the cat eyed him, moving nothing but her head.

            “Sixteen years,” said Alfred. Irene looked at the food again. He sighed. “Sixteen years since you’ve arrived at a better place, Irene.” He sniffed, and fumbled with the box of matches, his fingers too jittery to slide the box out smoothly. The cat shifted her gaze back to Alfred and the box of matches that was suddenly making such captivating sounds. At last, he pushed the inner box out. He looked inside to find a few matches left.

            “Oh dear,” he said, “how the time goes by so fast.” He turned his gaze to an old picture of Irene. “There used to be one hundred matches in here you know. One hundred!” He looked back at the cat to find her staring at him impassively. “Now there are only twenty one left.” Sighing, he picked one out of the box, and closed it. Slowly, he brought the match’s tip to the side of the box, and held it all right in front of his face with quivering arms.

“Well Irene, it’s the moment of truth.” Suddenly, he chuckled, and looked at the cat. “How many times have I said that Irene? Must have been more times than the number of matches from this box, for sure. You’re probably tired of hearing me say that.” He looked back at the items in his hands, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed.

“Well, I guess it’s a tradition now. Here goes!” And with that, he struck the match. It flared up, the flame dancing playfully. Alfred smiled.

            “Ha-haa! An unbroken record!” He moved the burning match close to the candle with his trembling hand, but kept missing the wick. “Hoo, it’s a tricky candle Irene! You’d almost think it didn’t want to be lit!” He giggled, and in the process lit the candle. “Ha! I win! Did you see that Irene?” He looked at the doorway, but Irene wasn’t there anymore. There was a nudge at his feet, then a low-pitched meow. “Oh, listen to you! You sound so old now!” There was another nudge. Alfred grinned. “I told you we’d grow old together!” He picked her up and held her close to his face. He tried looking into her eyes, but couldn’t. She was staring at the food on the platter, and the wax that was beginning to drip all over her meal. “I got you something ni-”

            There was a knock at the door. Alfred looked away from Irene to the door and set her down on the table by the plate. He blinked. “Who could that be?” He walked to the door, taking small steps that skid his slippers across the floor noisily. There was another knock, louder and more deliberate. “Hold your horses, I’m coming!” Alfred said loudly, his brow furrowed and voice cracking. He reached the door, and peered through the peephole to see the grossly distorted image of his two friends, Connor and Shannon. He opened the door.

            “Hi Alfred!” said Shannon, smiling.

            “Why, hello there! Come in, come in!” Alfred said, scooting out of the way to let them by.

            “We tried to call you to tell you we were coming, but I think we have the wrong number,” said Connor as he walked in.

            “No dear, I’m sure it’s the right one,” said Shannon in a patronizing tone as she walked in behind Connor. “It was written down, right next to ‘Alfred and-’”

            “I’m telling you it wasn’t working!” Connor cut in. “Alfred, what’s your phone number?”

            Alfred stared blankly at the couple, then licked his lips. “Ah, yes, the phone. Well, we never used it much, so I thought ‘why pay for it?’” He chuckled.

            “Oh,” replied Connor, looking slightly surprised.

            “We wanted to drop by to make sure you weren’t too lonely,” said Shannon.

There was a pause, Connor and Shannon standing in the middle of the living room. They looked around as Alfred shuffled back in, closing the door behind him. Like the kitchen, the living room wasn’t very big. It had a large bookshelf on the side of the room, and a window across from the entrance. In the middle there were two armchairs, slightly at an angle from each other, and in front of them sat a coffee table with two books on it. There was a ball of yarn on one of the chairs, along with a layer of cat hair. And all over the room were pictures of Alfred and Irene, smiling.

            “Oh, where are my manners? I’ll get you some chairs.” Alfred scuffled into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Tea? A snack?”

            “No, thank you,” said Connor. There was an audible grunt from the kitchen. “We just had lunch...Do you need some help?”

            “No, no, I’m fine!” replied Alfred as he emerged from the kitchen, one chair held abreast. He set it down next to the coffee table, and stood for a second to catch his breath.

“It’s been so long since anyone has seen you! We were all out walking around the park, and we got worried about you,” said Shannon. “We’ve missed you on our weekly walks.”

“We drew strOOW!” Connor glanced at his wife angrily, who was suddenly standing on his foot.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” asked Alfred, on his way back to the kitchen.

“He said we decided to send someone check up on you to make sure you hadn’t forgotten about Strauss!” answered Shannon. Connor looked at her and mouthed “Strauss?” to which she shrugged. Alfred came back a few seconds later with the other chair.

“That was nice of you two to come...but why would I forget about Strauss? He was such a wonderful composer.” Alfred put down the chair. “Now sit! Please, sit. It’s a bit crowded I know, but we’re not used to hosting guests.” He sat down in the armchair without the cat hair, and his guests sat in the chairs he had brought.

“Sooo...” said Shannon, “what’ve you been up to since-”

A high-pitched squeal came from the kitchen.

            “Irene?” called Alfred worriedly. There was another scream, and a thud. “Irene! I’m coming Irene!” He hurried to the kitchen, stumbling and catching himself on the doorframe.

            It took a moment for him to realize what was going on. On the table, there lay the partially eaten food, with the candle still burning. There were tufts of hair lying around, a few strands stuck to the candle. And on the floor, twitching and furiously meowing, was Irene the cat.

            “What’s that smell?” asked Shannon, coming in behind Alfred.

            “IRENE!” cried Alfred.

            “Oh my god, she’s on fire!” shouted Connor, looking over his wife’s shoulder, who was standing in the doorway, eyes wide and filled with terror and her hands covering her mouth. “Put her out! Use the tablecloth or something!” Alfred grabbed the present from the table and ripped off the wrapping, revealing a long, green scarf. He wound it tightly around Irene, snuffing out the flames. She croaked feebly, and closed her eyes.

            “Irene...”

            “Alfred...” said Shannon gently, but Alfred didn’t hear her. He brought the limp cat to his chest, a tear making its way down his cheek.

            “I got her another scarf. A green one this time, to match her eyes.” Alfred said as he stroked the scarf around the cat.

            “Alfred...I’m so sorry,” said Shannon. Connor stepped beside her and put his arm around her.

            “She used to love wearing scarves. Not anymore though...That’s why we don’t go outside much anymore, you know. She never left the house without one. Always afraid of getting sick...” He trailed off, gazing at a picture of Irene.

            “...Alfred?”

            “I don’t think he’s listening, honey...”

            “But...there must be something we can do.”
            “He needs some time by himself, to realize what’s happened.” Connor said softly. Shannon looked at her husband.

            “Wouldn’t...wouldn’t it be easier for him to mourn with friends?” she asked him.

            “I don’t think he knows we’re here anymore,” replied Connor, looking at Alfred. He was crying softly, squeezing the lifeless bundle in his arms. “He was with Irene for a long time...”

            And without another word, they left him there, closing the door behind them.

            He stood there for a long time, holding the dead cat in his arms, staring out the window. Nothing moved save the sun on its journey across the sky. Right as it was setting, a small object on the window started moving, bringing Alfred back from his daze. He walked over to the window to get a better look, gently laying the cat’s body on her armchair.

“What is that?” he wondered aloud softly. He leaned in slowly, eyes squinting, his nose pressed against the glass. The object moved again, teetering back and forth. He put up his arm against the window in an attempt to block out the sun. Just at that moment, the sun vanished below the horizon, giving Alfred a clear view of a butterfly crawling out of its cocoon. “Ohh! Irene!” he called, turning around. “Come see...this...” As he looked back at his living room, he saw nothing but reminders that Irene was gone. A tear formed under his eye. “Why did you have to leave me?” he whispered. The butterfly flapped its wings and flew away.