The Caterpillar

The air was neither warm nor cool. The blue sky was beginning to fade into gray. The pink clouds became paler and lost their color until they were like shadows against the illuminated heavens. The child on the fence sat, motionless, silhouetted against the sky. One pinpoint of light, Venus, appeared above the western horizon and the already risen moon slowly became visible as the silver sky deepened its hue. The earth was quiet as though humanity held its breath for a space at this significant time in the cycle of day and night. The child thought of the secret she had found in the afternoon and shivered with happy anticipation. The pink melted into the gray and the shadows of clouds soon changed to wisps of light against the dark night sky. As if carefully lit by a steady hand, the stars, one by one, became visible.

A stir—and a breeze sprang to action as if suddenly awakened. Night had fallen. With a sigh, humanity returned to the business of life, soon forgetting the spell of twilight.

The child on the fence slipped down and strolled toward the house. She dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans, watching and feeling the clodded earth beneath her feet. Something came alive in the night and she felt it. She tipped her face up and brushed back her hair. For a moment she held her eyes closed, then opened them slowly, letting the vastness of the sky engulf her. Head back, eyes opened, she stood and felt the motion of the earth. Then she flung her arms out and flew like a sparrow, to the edge of the field.

Lights were on in the house, many lights in many windows. It was warm inside with the family. The child walked across the lawn toward the door. She thought of her caterpillar hidden under the porch, a furry secret in a bottle. She took the bottle from its place and held it to her. Swaying back and forth, she put her face close to the holes punched in the lid and hummed her tune. She finished the lullaby and pressed the glass against her nose. “Hello, there.” She couldn’t see him among the leaves. With one last soft whisper she tucked it back in its place. There were moths flitting against the porch light.

The breeze rushed through the big tree and she turned at the sound and ran to the tree. She stretched her arms as far around the trunk as they would reach and pressed her face against the rough bark. It smelled musty, alive and green. Green had a good smell. She put her hands and feet into the places she knew and pulled herself up into its arms.

Now she looked down onto the sidewalk, the street, the house. The old man was taking his walk. Tap, tap, and tap, tap, his cane was coming close. Tap, tap, it struck the pavement. The girl pressed closer to the tree. She could hear herself breathing, and the crickets, and the tap, tap, of the cane. The old man didn’t see her and she was glad. She would have had to say hello. The smell of old people rose up to her as he passed.

Voices of playing boys floated up from the street. She listened and longed. She wondered if they’d let her be a robber if she went to play. Probably not. She didn’t want to be a cop. She curled up in her place in the tree. Her feet were cold and so was the tree. She wondered if it could feel her hand and stroked the bark gently. Gently she placed her feet as she climbed down.

The sidewalk was still warm from the sun. She walked along the edge being careful not to step on any of the cracks. She knew where they were even in the dark. Cracks are poison, she thought. When she reached the edge of her yard she changed her step and hopped from square to square, where she knew the chalk hopscotch was drawn.

Something moved in the stillness. A shadow stepped closer from the house next door—her friend. She knew before she heard the voice.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Hands touched and clasped in the dark. “I have a secret.”

“What is it?” asked the friend.

“Cross your heart?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” She made a motion across her breast in the dark.

“The sidewalk is warm; a volcano might erupt.”

“That doesn’t happen here,” answered the friend. She was older.

“ You never can tell. Listen to the crickets playing their little fiddles.”

“They rub their legs together to make the noise.”

“Really?”

“We have crickets in our house.”

“Where you do you keep them?”

“Everywhere. They get into the bed.”

“Oh!”

“Silly, they don’t bite. They’re good luck.”

“Let’s sit on the grass.”

“It’s wet. We’ll get our clothes wet,” the friend said.

“There are little bugs in it.” The girl perched upon her feet. “I found a caterpillar today. Will he turn into a butterfly?” She spread her hands in the grass and parted the blades with her fingers.

“Is he green?”

“No, he’s black with orange stripes. He has fuzz on him.” She looked up at her friend.

“Then he’ll be a moth.”

“Moths are scary.”

“He’ll probably die anyway, but that kind turns into a moth. Green ones are butterflies.”

“I don’t like moths; they’re scary. I have to go now; I’m cold.”

“Me too. See ya tomorrow.” The friend hurried into her own house. The child stood up and thrust her hands into her pockets.

The sidewalk was cooler now. She looked up at her house. It was warm there. She heard the old man coming back from his walk. He scuffs on the cracks. Tap, tap, tap, tap. She felt terror and ran across the lawn and hid in the shadow of the porch until he passed. She knelt down and reached under the stair. Her stringy hair fell over her eyes. She drew out the dirty fruit jar. She couldn’t see him among the leaves in the dark. She opened the rusted lid, contorting her face with the effort, then shook the contents of the bottle out into the weeds.

She dropped the bottle and the rusted lid and jumped up and pulled open the screen door. Then she paused, caught a breath, and tipped her eyes again to the stars. For a moment she held them closed. Then she opened them, slowly gazing up into the endless sky.

The boys were still shouting up the street and the crickets…

She opened the door and stepped into the light. She blinked for a moment and then closed the door behind her.