Storytellers

*Trigger Warning - Description of death*

It was cold for September. Charlotte pulled her hoodie over her baseball cap and adjusted the earbuds attached to her phone. It was lunch time, and the sidewalks were full. Barely audible through the sounds of Midtown Manhattan, Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries played as she made her way through the crowds to the subway station. Mercifully, it was empty except for the attendant at the booth. She scanned her metro card once, twice, three times – the new metro cards were awful, at least Charlotte’s was. She took out Alex’s card and magically, the kiosk let her pass.

            She stood against the wall closest to the attendant. Is this where Alex was standing? Charlotte closed her eyes and tried not to think about it. Alex alone on the platform. Alex alone. Alex dying alone. His mangled body on the tracks – unrecognizable – his backpack safely on the platform without him. Nothing was missing from it.

            Charlotte had held her grandmother’s hand, both of them huddled on a small vinyl couch in the hospital’s emergency room lobby waiting. They called for a Lola Guevara and Charlotte had to explain that Lola meant grandmother in Tagalog, and that her grandmother’s name was Josefa before the nurse would release any information about Alex.

The detective had walked in with Alex’s backpack – the black Jansport that he’d had since middle school. The brown leather bottom was cracked and faded. The zipper was held closed by a carabiner clipped to a flap of canvas material that their Lola had sewn onto the backpack. The green and yellow friendship bracelet that Charlotte had made when they were children was tied to the bottom of the shoulder strap.

            He extended his condolences. Lola fell to the ground on her knees. Charlotte let go of her grandmother’s hand and went numb. Her grandmother’s mouth was open in a scream, and the detective’s mouth was moving, but all she could hear was the sound of her beating heart. The fluorescent light above them flickered, then the room went dark.

            Charlotte had never passed out before. She woke to her grandmother stroking her hair as she lay in one of beds in the shared ER room, the kind they use for people who can’t pay.

The detective had asked so many questions.

            Did he drink?

            Did he do drugs?

            Who were his friends?

            Where did he work?

            Did he gamble?

            How was his relationship with his family?

            Was he depressed?

            Did they notice anything odd about his behavior?

            What was he doing that night?

            Was he meeting anyone?

It played like a broken record, all the way through until this very moment where it skipped and stayed. She closed her eyes tightly willing the sounds of the train to drown out the conversation that had taken permanent residence in her head, and that’s when she heard it. It was a whisper, faint and faraway, and all it said was, Até.

She opened her eyes and looked around. She was the only one in the car, except for a homeless person sound asleep on the handicap bench. Had he been there when she got on? She was still five stops away from her station. She turned up the volume on her phone. Symphonie Fantastique by Berlioz played. The lights of the tunnel flashed by like an old film reel. Had she really heard someone say, Até, or was it the remnants of a conversation she had long forgotten.

Atè means older sister in Tagalog and only Alex had called her that. It was an inside joke as Charlotte was the younger of the two. She was supposed to go with him the day he died. They were supposed to take the train home together.

            The first movement of the symphony was not yet over when the generic voice announced that her stop was next. The homeless man had not moved once. He lay with his back to her. She could see that his coat or whatever he was using as a coat was grungy and threadbare in spots. She wrapped a five-dollar bill around the spare granola bar she always kept in her backpack and placed it on the seat where the man was laying.

            The train came to a stop and when the doors opened, the homeless man grabbed Charlotte by the arm and said, “Thank you, Atè.”

            How long had he held her there? How many seconds between the train doors opening and closing because it is when they started to close that she came to her senses and ran. The closing doors caught her backpack then bounced open releasing her. As she stumbled forward, she did not look back. She ran through the crowded platform, around people, into people, up the stairs into the light, and straight into Noah.

            “Jesus, Ramos. You running from the devil or something?”

            “I,” Charlotte started to tell him what the homeless man had said but didn’t. “A homeless guy grabbed me when I was getting off the train.”

            “Are you hurt?” Noah held her by the arms looking around her as if to assure himself that she wasn’t injured.

            “I’m fine,” she said as she jerked out of his grasp.

            Clouds of her breath streamed steadily into the air. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her inhaler. This wasn’t an asthma attack. She knew this, but she didn’t know what else to do. She inhaled deeply and held it. When she finally exhaled, the metallic taste of albuterol still lingered in her mouth.

“I’m fine. He was just saying thank you because I gave him food and money. I guess I just freaked out.”

            Noah’s mouth said, ok, but his eyes asked, are you sure?

            Charlotte put her inhaler back in her pocket, looked at her watch and said, “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.”

            “Ah, Miss Ramos, and of course Mr. Murphy. So nice of you to join us.”

            Charlotte’s gaze did not leave the floor as she took the first open seat. Noah gave a sharp salute to Professor Owens and took the seat next to Charlotte.

            Professor Owens taught The History of Indigenous Peoples. The class was two hours long and today’s lecture covered the Philippine Islands. Professor Owens had the tendency to get off-track during his lectures. He went over the basics – how many islands there were, the main tribes, the effects of colonization, etc., but he also talked about the legends, and myths, and of course his own experiences during his travels. It made for a very long class. Today’s tangent was about the Duwende, the Philippine equivalent of a gnome or elf – small, with large features, resembling an old man. It could be either malevolent or benevolent depending on how it was treated.

At the end, with only five minutes left, he asked for questions. Charlotte did not raise her hand. She used to ask questions at the end of class but after the whispers of ass-kiss and are you fucking kidding me from her fellow classmates, Charlotte no longer asked questions, even if the Professor offered eagerly.

Professor Owens looked around the class. At one point he seemed to look directly at Charlotte before he said his standard, Bueller, Bueller? With no takers he released the class early.

            “How come you never ask questions anymore?” Noah asked.

Charlotte didn’t answer. She was still thinking about her encounter with the homeless man.

 “You know it would save you so much time.”

Why did the homeless man call her Atè.

“No more multiple google searches that require a long library research session just to verify sources.”

How did he know to call her Atè?

“You would actually have some free time.”

Was the homeless guy Filipino?

“We could go to that Sushi Burrito place you’re always talking about.”

What did he look like?

“Or watch one of those artsy, indie films at that rundown theater right off campus.”

Had she seen him before?

“Maybe shoplift.”

Maybe at the shelter where she volunteered?

“Or steal a car.”

Or at the soup kitchen?

“I’ve always wanted to mug someone.”

What if he always rode that train?

 “Or we could go to Mexico and elope?”

What if he saw what happened to Alex?

“Ramos?”

What were the chances she could find the same homeless person again?

“Charlotte?”

But she had to try.

“Atè!”

Charlotte came to an abrupt stop and Noah ran straight into her.

“I need to find the homeless guy.”

“Okay. May I ask why?”

“He called me Atè.”

“So?”

“How did he know to call me that?”

“I just called you that.”

“Yeah, but you knew Alex called me that. And you only knew because I told you. Alex never called me that in front of other people.” In fact, the first time Noah had seen the word Atè, he pronounced it the way it was spelled. Charlotte had to explain that it was pronounced, Ah-teh.

Noah’s face softened. He knew how much she missed her brother and regretted calling her Atè because that was her and Alex’s thing.

“What if he always rides that train? What if he saw something that night?”

“Ramos, the chances of that. The chances of finding him.”

Noah didn’t need to finish his sentence. She knew the odds.

“I need to try.”

Noah shook his head and said, “Alright Ramos. Let’s go.”

Charlotte’s heart sank a bit as Noah walked away. She turned towards the library, when Noah called out, “Hey, the train station is this way.”

            “Were you on the N or R?” Noah asked.

            “The R.”

            The platform was crowded. The amount of homeless people seemed to have tripled in the past few years. They were everywhere. On the streets. In the alleys. Under bridges. On park benches. In the subways, though how they got past the turnstiles without a city employee grabbing them, Charlotte was unsure. 

            “Is it any of these guys?”

            Charlotte scanned the area. A few homeless people were scattered about. Some were asleep on the bare pavement. Some sat against the wall staring blankly. A man played 80’s music on a violin. An old woman holding an equally old dog held up traffic as she ascended slowly up the staircase. A family, obviously tourist based on the confused look on their faces, blocked one of the turnstiles while they debated which train to take. The older of the two children with them kept pulling at the mother’s arm in an unsuccessful attempt to get her attention. People pushed past them and around them, until finally one angry looking finance bro, said, get out of the way, fucking tourists. The mother, a petite blonde woman, covered her youngest child’s ears, and looked as if she was going to scold the man who just cursed at them, but the child who had been trying to get her attention this entire time said, I told you we were in the way.

            The impeded flow of traffic both entering and exiting the station had caught the attention of one of the guards who walked over to the tourist family and told them, in a tone not much nicer than the finance bro, that the family needed to move as they were blocking the entryway. The mother started to ask the security guard a question, most likely directions, but he walked away muttering the word, tourists. Charlotte had never lived anywhere other than New York City and had never visited anywhere else, except the one elementary school field trip to Westchester which New Yorkers considered upstate even though it wasn’t. She had heard the term, clutching her pearls before, but until now had never seen it – the petite, blonde mother, an appalled look on her face, mouth partially open, her right hand held just below her collarbone as if she was ready to recite the pledge of allegiance, was unmistakably clutching her pearls.

            Charlotte had not realized she was staring at the family until the mother made eye contact with her and started walking towards her.

            “Excuse me, miss.”

            Charlotte did not answer.

            “Do you know which train we should take. We’re trying to get to Central Park.”

            “Oh, um, you can just take this one to 86^th.”

            “Thank you. Finally, someone nice. Everyone is so rude. How do you people live here?”

            Normally, Charlotte would let things go, but there was something about the woman’s entitled tone and her use of, you people, that broke the dam.

“If you don’t like it here, don’t visit. You were blocking the turnstiles. Your kid was trying to tell you because even though you are obviously self-absorbed, they aren’t.” 

Noah heard the yelling but it didn’t quite register that it was coming from Charlotte. Charlotte who would no longer asks questions in class after a few snide remarks from other students. Charlotte who barely spoke the first time they met. Charlotte, who took almost two years to relax and kind of be herself around Noah. Charlotte who was now screaming at some random woman who was backing away from her.

“People have places to go, like jobs, classes, doctors’ appointments. What’s wrong with you?”

“Shit,” Noah said as he made his way through the crowd. “Excuse me. Pardon me. Sorry.”

He was only a few steps from her when a small man, shorter than Charlotte, in thread bare clothes, and what appeared to be a straw hat, grabbed Charlotte by the arm. Though the platform was still crowded and the entitled mother’s mouth was moving, the world went silent. Charlotte could hear nothing except the beating of her heart and Alex’s voice saying one thing – Atè.

“No,” Charlotte whispered as she shook her head. “No, it’s not you. It can’t be you.”

Noah pulled the homeless man from Charlotte’s and as soon as he let go, the noise of the world returned. Startled and unsteady, Charlotte turned around to see Noah with a death grip on the homeless man’s shoulders. It was the man from the train.

               He lifted his head to look at Charlotte. He looked old, his leathered skin a dark tan. Whisps of white and gray hair covered his chin and upper lip. A black bandana covered his forehead. His eyebrows were thin and his eyes were an odd shade of gray, like the night sky when there is a thick fog.
               He reached his hand out to Charlotte.
               “Oh no you don’t,” Noah said as he pulled the homeless man back. “Is this your guy?”
               “Yeah.”
               He was quite short and standing in front of Noah exaggerated his small stature. He was the height of a child, around four feet tall. He was wearing a thin linen-like shirt. It was stained and roughly cut. His jacket looked like it was made from a brown burlap rice sack. His straw hat was unevenly woven and slightly askew on his head. It was pulled low and almost covered his eyes. On his feet were tsinelas, thin, house slippers made of colorful cloth with rubber soles, like the kind Lola bought at the Philippine mart. He wore one black sock and one gray sock. As Charlotte looked at him, she thought back to Professor Owen’s lecture – Duwende.
               “What’s your name?” Charlotte asked.
               He reached out to Charlotte.
               “Hands to yourself,” Noah said in a menacing tone.
               “Maybe if I ask in Tagalog. Ano ang pangalan mo?”
               The homeless man did not answer and once again held his hand out to try to touch Charlotte.
               “I swear to God buddy, I will duct tape you.” Noah tightened his hold on the homeless man and held him in an odd sort of bear hug.
               “Noah, let him go.”
               “Um, no.”
               “I don’t think he can talk.”
               “Ok?”
               “I think you need to let him touch me.”
               “What? Are you crazy?”
               “Just, trust me. Besides you’re right there.”
               “Alright buddy, no funny business and no running away.”
               The homeless man looked up at Noah and nodded. He took Charlotte’s hand in his and as the world around her went silent, the familiar sound of Alex’s voice came through loud and clear.
               “Please don’t freak out,” Alex said. “It’s me. It’s really me.”
               “But how?” Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. 
               “I don’t know. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone or how I got here or why, but I saw you get on the train and I had to try.”
               “A month. You’ve been gone a month.”
               Noah watched Charlotte worriedly as she continued her one-sided conversation with a strange homeless man under a Broadway poster for the musical, Wicked.
               “That means I only have ten more days,” Alex did not finish his sentence, but Charlotte did.
               “Or your soul is trapped forever.”
               Charlotte let go of the homeless man’s hands.
               “We have to help him,” Charlotte said as tears continued to stream down her face.
               “Help who?”
               “Alex. We have to help Alex.”
               “Alex? As in your,” Noah hesitated then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Your dead brother, Alex?”
               “Yes.”
               “Ramos, he’s gone,” Noah’s voice softened and he spoke slowly as he searched for the right words that would pull her back to reality without gutting her emotionally. “I know you miss him, but he’s gone, and…”
               Charlotte grabbed Noah’s arm and the homeless man’s hand and connected them. To a passerby, it looked like three people about to break after a football huddle, all hands in the center.
               In Noah’s head, Alex’s voice came through loud and clear, “Dude, it’s me, you privileged dick.”
               Alex’s good-natured laughter filled Noah’s head before the world went dark and he passed out.