Paper Animals

As Entrant #38267 left the small, gray cubicle, Oscar allowed himself to let out a long breath. He had one more Entrant to settle before he was able to take a break, and he was looking forward to loosening his belt and reading a few chapters from the new book he’d picked up yesterday. He could see it sitting on the small table next to his desk, a red paperback, the brightest spot of color in his otherwise muted office.

There was no rest for the weary in the Department of Emigration After Death, affectionally shortened to the “DEAD” by its employees, though management tried to discourage them from using the acronym in discussion with Entrants, no matter how appropriate it might be. When dealing with the recently departed, it was always best to keep it simple—have them fill out the right forms, check the relevant boxes, and send them on their way. Of course, some explanation was afforded to the Entrants, but the official “Welcome to the Afterlife!” came before Oscar stepped into the picture, allowing him to get down to business with the deceased.

The system wasn’t entirely perfect, though. Some Entrants, especially those who hadn’t quite been ready to die, had a difficult time digesting the news. There was usually some crying, a plea to be returned to their place among the living, and occasionally violence. It was no joke working with the deceased—Oscar thanked his lucky stars that his entrants were exclusively Division Five, those who fell into the category of seventy years or older. Though there were still some exceptions, Entrants in that category tended to take the news of their death with much more resignation. Oscar had even had a few who had been so excited that they were nearly jumping in their seats, relieved to be free from the pains of living. Undoubtedly, they would miss their grandkids, they said, but they sure wouldn’t miss the way their hips felt in the morning.

Really, most of them wouldn’t remember anything once they left Oscar’s cubicle. Those who wished to move on had to sign away the memories of the life they had led, leaving them a blank slate for the next stage of the process, whether that be reincarnation or permanent residence in the Afterlife. Entrants not ready to give it all up found temporary lodging in the In-Between, where they were given as much time as they needed to come to terms with their new existence. One might think that it’s hard to give up any scrap of the life you once lived, but they all sign eventually—most folks aren’t keen on staying in one spot for an eternity, reliving memories that naturally grow dimmer with time. 

Tearing his eyes from the book, he leaned forward to pick up the last manilla folder sitting on his metal desk. As he did so, a single sheet of paper slipped out of the file and drifted towards the floor, landing face down on the carpet. With considerable effort, Oscar bent down, retrieving the paper in one large hand. It was odd for him to have a file so slim; most of the Entrants assigned to him had pages on pages, full of the various forms required to sign away their previous life, as well as designate where they would be going next. Either this old bird had led a life full of nothing, or—

As he sat up, his train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of his next Entrant, who stood in the doorway of the cubicle, staring at him warily. Except she wasn’t one of the wrinkled, weathered sorts he was used to—this Entrant was a little girl, probably not much older than ten. Her brown hair was tied into two braids that rested on thin, bony shoulders. Sad gray eyes looked at him, seeming rather large in her round, pale face. Her powder blue dress was simple, but it hung on her body in a strange way, as if it were a few sizes too large. The girl’s small hands were clasped anxiously together in front of her, held so tightly that her knuckles were almost white. Oscar could do nothing for a moment but gape at her, open-mouthed. She didn’t make a sound, but he noticed her shifting nervously from foot to foot, her mouth squeezed into a tight, thin line.

“Sit down,” He said, finally returning to his senses and nodding towards the worn chair on the opposite side of his desk. He glanced down at the paper that had slipped from the file, thinking that there must have been some sort of mistake; had she simply wandered into the wrong set of cubicles? But as he quickly scanned the page, his eyes fell upon the section at the top that held the Entrants basic information. Sure enough, he found the number nine in the “Age” box.

“Rebecca?” He asked, looking up at her again. She hadn’t budged from the doorway of his cubicle, as if afraid of crossing the threshold into the unknown of his office. “You can go ahead and have a seat.”

The sound of her name did little to change the expression on her face, a mix of fear and confusion, but she at last came closer, planting herself on the very edge of the chair. Now, face-to-face with Oscar, her gaze fell to the stretch of the desk in front of her, only a few inches away from her small, pert nose.

Oscar tried giving her a small smile, the paper clutched helplessly in his hand, and sighed. There must have been some mistake; children were Division One, and that was a whole different ballpark. Adults typically had some idea of their mortality—even through the shock of it all, they eventually came to understand their new position, and all Oscar had to do was tell them where to sign. But the DEAD had determined that most kids didn’t quite have the tools to deal with the bureaucracy of the Afterlife, so those who handled Division One cases were specially trained.

In all his time working in the DEAD, Oscar had never received an Entrant outside his Division, not even from Division Three or Four, who handled other adults. He placed the piece of paper back into the folder and reached for his phone, dialing the code that would connect him to the Division Unit, who sorted the Entrants and got their files to the right people.

After a few rings, Oscar finally heard the nasally voice of the Division Unit receptionist, a woman named Sheila. “Division Unit Office, what can I do for you?” Oscar could hear the heavy sound of her smacking her gum through the receiver.

“Hi, Sheila,” Oscar started, but then felt self-conscious in front of the little girl. He turned away slightly, putting his hand up in front of his mouth. “It’s Oscar. I think there’s been a little mix-up with the files. It looks like I might have gotten a Division One—”

“Division One?” Sheila replied, followed by a short pause. “Are you sure she’s not just really small?”

Oscar resisted the urge to huff out a breath. “I don’t think so, Sheila. Her file says she’s only nine.” He snuck a glance at Rebecca, who still only stared at the desk.

“Oh, geez,” Sheila said, and Oscar could hear her shuffling through some papers. “Let me make a call to the head of Division One, and I’ll see if we can send someone to come get her. Hold please.” Her voice and the thrum of the office around her was replaced by the hold music, a soft, jazzy melody.

With the phone up to his ear, Oscar allowed himself to turn and regard the girl again. She looked so small in his chair. If he leaned forward slightly, he could still see her hands tangled together in her lap, as if they yearned for something to hold but had to settle for themselves. The silence stretched on between them, becoming less bearable the longer they sat there.

“I’m Oscar,” He said eventually, stretching out one of his hands hesitantly towards her. “It’s nice to meet you.” She jumped a bit when he spoke but lifted her head to look at him before her eyes fell to his hand. Slowly, like his fingers were snakes that might bite her if she made the wrong move, she lifted one hand and put it in his, shaking weakly.

“Rebecca, huh?” Oscar continued, glad to have gotten some reaction out of her. “That’s a nice name.” She nodded. He swallowed, wishing that the music would disappear and that he would hear Sheila’s voice again, telling him that someone was on the way right now to relieve him. But all he heard was the smooth melody of the jazz, which drowned out the quiet words uttered by Rebecca, only evidenced by the movement of her lips.

“What was that?” Oscar asked, pulling the phone away from his ear and leaning forward to catch what she’d said.

“I don’t know where Miss Regina went.” Rebecca repeated, her voice edged with panic.

“Miss Regina?” Oscar said uncertainly.

“My giraffe,” Rebecca replied, speaking a little louder. “I had her when I went to bed last night, but when I woke up here, I didn’t have her anymore.”

Oh, Oscar thought, glancing at her tightly woven fingers. “Like a stuffed animal—a stuffed giraffe? Named Miss Regina?”

She nodded, and he noticed her bottom lip begin to tremble while the rest of her face tightened, her small brows coming together in a look of distress. Oscar realized she was about to cry, and quickly searched his mind for something to distract her. What do kids like?

“How about this?” Oscar said quickly, setting down the receiver and opening one of his drawers. He pulled out a piece of blank, white paper and began to fold it, his hands finding a gentle rhythm as the paper began to take shape. There were a few times when the next step was fuzzy in his mind, and he feared that he wouldn’t be able to finish it—but each time he looked up to find Rebecca watching his movements, his fingers suddenly found the next fold.

Permanent residents in the Afterlife, like Oscar, didn’t remember anything about the life they’d held before they came to this place. However, there were certain things that stayed with them, things that couldn’t be forgotten—some still knew how to play the piano, others could make a perfect soufflé on the first try. In Oscar’s case, his hands had held onto the memory of folding, of the slide of the paper against his fingers and the ability to make a perfect, crisp line. His brain couldn’t recall where he’d learned to do it, like there was a hole in the space where the knowledge should have been, but his hands had never forgotten.

When his fingers stilled, he held out his creation to Rebecca, a small horse folded out of paper. She took it, holding it delicately, like it was a newborn animal. She didn’t smile, but Oscar could see the way her face began to soften, her fear replaced by curiosity as she turned the paper horse over in her small hands.

“It’s no giraffe.” Oscar said sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders as he drew his hands back. She glanced at him briefly before nodding and returning to examining her new toy. Another idea came to Oscar, and he began to rifle through the wide, shallow drawer built into the top of his desk. He pulled out a few different pens, black and blue and red, as well as some stray highlighters. He pushed them towards her, and her brow creased again in confusion.

“Do you want to color it in?” He asked, picking up a yellow highlighter. “I know it’s a horse, but I think I have an orange one around here somewhere…Ah, here it is. Giraffes are yellow and orange, right? Maybe it’s just a short-necked kind of giraffe.”

As Rebecca stared at him blankly, Oscar began to feel a bit foolish. Was he overwhelming her? What the heck was a “short-necked” giraffe? But after a moment she set the horse down and picked up one of the blue pens, uncapping it and beginning to gently draw upon the horse’s side. Relieved, Oscar watched her for a moment, but started to feel like maybe he shouldn’t—it felt rather odd and intrusive to watch her color the thing he’d made, like he was watching her conduct some kind of private ritual. He remembered the file in the manila folder on his desk and reached for it.

There wasn’t much to it. Rebecca was nine years old and had lived in the same place her entire life. She didn’t have much listed in the way of skills, but Oscar wasn’t sure if this was strange or not, given her age. He hadn’t seen many Division One files, and he hadn’t paid much attention to those he had. The box for “Religious Affiliation” was blank, as well as the one for “Afterlife Status”—he knew that the process for determining the next steps for kids was different, and often determined after going to the DEAD, rather than before, as with most of his Entrants. It was the following box that made Oscar pause.

Under “Cause of Death”, the words “Neglect (Starvation)” were typed in neat, black letters. Oscar had seen all kinds of deaths in his time, ranging from the normal to the absurd; some Entrants were bothered by their deaths, but most often they had accepted them by the time they arrived at the DEAD. The most common death for Division Five Entrants was “Natural Causes”, but for the first time, Oscar thought about Rebecca’s death, and that of every child who came through the Department—they didn’t die of “Natural Causes”.

He peered at her over the top of the page, an unfamiliar sadness washing over him. He hadn’t thought too much about how thin she was, or the dark circles under her eyes, but now they stuck out to him like sore thumbs. Oscar didn’t often linger over Entrants like this, thinking about the life they must have had. He had a new appreciation for the Division One specialists.

Rebecca held up the horse to him, and he was pleased to see the ghost of a smile on her narrow face. She’d drawn eyes and a mouth on the head of the horse, and the body was covered in all kinds of little shapes—hearts and stars, mostly, but there was the occasional smiley face hidden among them.

“Her name is Miss Charlotte.” Rebecca said, recapping the pens she had used and setting them back on the desk.

“That’s a great name,” Oscar replied, a smile beginning to split his face. “It suits her.”

Rebecca opened her mouth to say something else, but she was interrupted by the voice of someone behind her, who had appeared in the doorway of Oscar’s cubicle. It was a younger-looking man with short blond hair whom Oscar did not recognize, and he peered into the space uncertainly. The narrow gray nametag pinned to his shirt read “Dustin”.

“I’m here to pick up a misplaced Division One Entrant?” He said, glancing at the back of Rebecca’s head. Oscar almost grimaced at the word “misplaced”, but he instead nodded, picking up the receiver and listening to the other end. The line was dead—he must have gotten so distracted that he didn’t hear Sheila come back on to tell him that someone was coming to get her.

“Yes,” Oscar said, nodding to the little girl in his chair. Rebecca froze at the sound of the man’s voice, her body tensing as if preparing for a blow. She was clutching the little paper horse so tight that she was close to creasing it herself. “It’s okay, Miss Charlotte will go with you,” Oscar whispered to her, and he was surprised by the gentleness in his voice. She nodded once and stood from the chair, then walked in small steps towards the man, who smiled at Oscar.

“Sorry about that. Thanks for calling.” He said before reaching out to take Rebecca’s hand. She shied away from it, glancing over at Oscar with wide, panicked eyes. He gave her a small smile, and after a long moment in which Rebecca seemed to make a decision, her eyes switching between Oscar and Dustin, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her away.

 As the edge of her worn blue dress disappeared behind the edge of his cubicle wall, Oscar felt that his office was smaller and grayer than it had ever been. Even the red paperback seemed to look drabber. As he stared at the chair that had once held a nervous little girl, he hoped that perhaps someday he would see her again after having lived a better, longer life.