Catalina

“You’re ready to go on stage, Mr. Timberg,” the lady whose name I can’t remember said, as I prepared to speak my mind in front of a bunch of snotty eight-year-olds. “Remember…they’re only third graders. I know you can be quite abrasive…please, keep that in mind.”

The way I saw it, heading onto the stage that evening, I had two stories prepared to tell. One is quite the tale. The other one is about a hippopotamus falling in love with a swan. Figure that one out yourself. “So if you don’t want me to tell that story…?”

The arrogant, long-legged teacher smiled. “Tell that story instead.”

I didn’t want to tell them that story, I wanted to tell them that story – and who was this lady to stop me? She disappeared onto the stage as the crowd full of pregnant mothers and bored fathers started to clap and cheer for her, stopping when she held up the microphone. “Alright, students and teachers! We have a very special guest for you this evening! As you know, the best-selling children’s author Michael C. Timberg is here with us tonight!”

They love me, I thought to myself as they cheered and applauded at the sound of my name. They’re about to love me even more.

The teacher waited for the crowd to calm down before continuing. “He’s been writing since he was your age, which shows that it’s never too early to start a promising career in the literary arts. He took time out of his busy schedule to tell you all about his up and coming story, A Hippo's Love. So please, give a warm welcome to Michael Timberg!”

As the audience erupted once again, I began to wonder just how many lies this woman was going to pump out – swear to god, if it wasn’t against my moral code to hit women, I would have smacked her then and there. My book in my left hand, I carried my old bones onto the stage, taking the microphone from the lady as she walked backstage.

I took my seat, grabbed the microphone as the roaring, snorting crowd calmed down once again. “Alright, first things first, I was paid to be here by your principal. There is no way I would come into an elementary school cafeteria to talk my rear-end off in front of a bunch of brats and moody pregnant women for no reason,” I said. “Secondly, no, I’m not at all busy; I hardly go anywhere unless it’s to take my walks up to the mailbox to collect my royalty checks. Thirdly, no, I was not a writer all my life and I hate writing. I don’t despise anything more in this world than writing.”

Just then, I heard scattering, clattering footsteps. The schoolteacher who I will now be referring to as Prissy Missy marched up to me. “What are you doing!?” she screeched into my ear, her saliva dripping off the back of my bald head.

My lips slightly stuttered. “Telling them the truth,” I said into the microphone before slamming my copy of A Hippo’s Love onto the stage floor. “I was not always a writer. I used to be a cop. It was my dream job. I loved doing it and wanted to do it the rest of my life, ‘til my bones turned to dust and I couldn’t walk anymore.”

“This isn’t anything graphic, is it?” Prissy Missy screeched into my ear, filling my nose with her onion-flavored breath.

“Oh yeah, it’s graphic alright,” I sarcastically responded into the microphone, not turning my head from the crowd.

My guard down, Ol’ Prissy managed to slither the microphone into her fingers. “Alright, third graders, I apologize, but Mr. Timberg is going to have to-”

I snatched the microphone right back from her and rose to my feet, kicking A Hippo’s Love across the stage. “I bet you all are wanting to hear about how I went from being one of the best officers in the state to writing stupid children’s stories. Well, let me back this up a bit. 1980. The country just elected a movie star into office named Ronald Reagan. You kids know him? Died a few years back. Anyway, I was on a call to this woman’s home. I kept asking my partner about her name because it ran a few light bulbs in my head. Anyway, it was a domestic dispute. We knocked three times, finally, someone opened. We showed our badges to this brown-haired woman and it was clear to both me and my partner that this woman…well, she was piss drunk.”

“Don’t curse please,” Ol’ Prissy said, not even bothering to whisper this time.

“Since when is piss a swear word?” I asked back, removing the microphone from my lips and rolling my head towards her.

“It’s just not a nice word,” she whispered, slowly smiling and nodding her head, as if I were one of those kids in the crowd.

After a brief pause, I nodded and swiftly turned my head back towards the crowd, putting my mouth up to the microphone. “Alright, where was I?” I asked the crowd, straightening my brown jacket. “Oh yeah, that’s right. The woman was piss drunk. Now there’s another woman with her, a beach-blonde babe wearing nothing but a-”

“Mr. Timberg!” Ol’ Prissy screeched.

“So she’s dressed in non-revealing attire, having worried all day long about whether or not she was following the school dress code, because you know, that’s what people do. They’re both drunk as hell…sorry, I mean, drunk as heck, and they start arguing again. What were they arguing about? I don’t know, I can’t even remember. But we had some words with them, they started shoving each other and we threatened them. We told them they’d better stop or I’d throw them in the jail cell. So they listened, started apologizing and making amends. Now everything seemed fine by me. Couldn’t arrest two people for being drunk inside their own home, right? So…I…I…we went outside…and…”

All of a sudden, the forty degree day turned into a thirty degree day.

The woman put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?” she asked, seeming concerned over my state of mind. I guess liars can still feel sympathy for others - funny, huh?

I grabbed her cold palm and threw it off me, ready to continue my story. “We only stepped outside for about two seconds when we heard a bunch of loud booms. We grabbed our pistols and headed inside. Dead. Her blood and guts and brains all over the floor, and the smell...oh, the smell. As my partner detained the brunette, that’s when it gets interesting. I gazed over the shot up body and I realized, I knew who this woma-”

I tapped my microphone with the palm of my hand three times – no noise came out. I stared blankly at Prissy Missy who stared back at me, silent as a mime. All of a sudden, a pasty teenager came from backstage and handed her a microphone. “Everyone, give a round of applause for Michael Timberg!” she said with a wide smile, the two of them beginning to clap me off the stage.

***

So I wasn’t at all surprised when two days later, I got a letter in the mail saying I was banned for life from New Passion Elementary School. What surprised me was when two weeks later, while I was comfy on my recliner brainstorming some ideas to write about, someone started a’ knock, knock, knocking on my front door. I put my pencil and notepad aside and reluctantly got up to open it.  “…The hell do you want?” I asked the brown-haired murderer.

“I’m Ellen Bordinos. I’m a woman who you arres-”

“I know who you are. I don’t like you.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” the dark-eyed demon meekly said. “Can I come in?”

I rolled my eyes and motioned for her to come in. “Take a seat, but not on my recliner,” I said as she walked inside, closing the door behind her. “So…why are you here?”

“This is a nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks for dodging my question, but this ain’t a presidential debate. At least I hope not.”

“You know, you can learn a lot about a man from his home,” she said, eerily gazing around my living room. “You strike me as a…Jamie Foxx sort of man.”

“Alright. Now you’re gonna tell me why you’re here, and you’re gonna tell me who the hell that is. You wanna keep racking up questions?”

“I wanted you to accept my apology for my actions.”

“…Did I hear that, right? You killed a woman, Ellie.”

“I know I did. And that’s why I’m here. For you to accept my apology.”

I snickered. “Oh, and I accept your apology for murdering someone. I forgive you for costing me my dream job. Obviously, this is just some movie or television show where we can murder innocent people and everything is peachy, right?”

Ellie’s eyes glowed with a fierce surprise. “Michael! I was drunk! I loved Sophie and you know that I love Sophie! I would never, ever want to hurt her!”

“Well that’s just what you did, isn’t it? You killed her! Put some lead in her, real good, didn’t you?”

Ellie crossed her arms defiantly. “A brute as cold-hearted as you upset over some…some stranger? No…no, that isn’t right.”

“This isn’t about her, you cost me my dream job! I took the blame for Sophie dying, I did! I was the one who got fired! I was the one who took the blame for you.”

“…No…no…you’re lying. I was there at the cafeteria when you got pulled away like a child…I was in the crowd. Before they cut your mic…you said something…you knew this woman. Who was she? Who was Sophie to you?”

I underestimated this woman, I’ll admit that much. “…Sophia was my first girlfriend back in high school,” I admitted after a long pause, taking a deep breath and clenching my fists. “Hadn’t seen or spoken to her since graduation. I was the one who broke up with her. Alright? That’s it. Now you can leave.”

Ellie shook her head, her cheeks flaring up all pink. “Michael, I am not leaving until you forgive me for what I did. I’ve spent the past five years since I got out getting everyone involved to forgive me. All of Sophie’s relatives, your ex-partner, and…and even the judge who threw me in jail!”

I snickered, wiping the sweat off my forehead and crossing my arms. “Well, maybe the judge should apologize for not giving you life. You killed a woman who deep down, I may have cared about. You ruined my career, you ruined my life, you ended Sophia’s life and you ruined her family’s life! Don’t you feel even the least bit guilty? You kill one person and all of a sudden, it’s a domino effect. You’ve got ten, twenty, maybe even thirty people around her who are all hurtin’ because of what you did. I left that house for two seconds. Two seconds! That’s all it took for you to shoot her in the heart! To kill her, to murder her like the monster that you are. I think you’re lying to me. Do you know why? You said you got my ex-partner to forgive you, but she died of cancer in ’85! You want my forgiveness? Ha! Yeah, right – go jump off a bridge.”

I was too upset at the time to see how upset she had become. Her whole body trembling like a fissure, she ran out of my home before I could see her cry. I got what I wanted, and then some.

Feeling a cramp in my stomach that served as a reminder that I wasn’t getting any younger, I sighed and returned to my writing.

***

The next evening, I got a call to the police station from an old friend of mine from the force, Bert Colene. Lanky guy who proves that all young people aren't idiots. They assigned me to mentor during my last days on the job. His defining characteristic? The one thing he cannot stand for the life of him, more than anything else is murder. Both his parents were shot dead in front of him when he was just eleven-years-old. That memory still grips him like a cancer each and every day.

I walked inside and he shook my hand, the expression on his face showing signs of obvious inner-turmoil and frustration. “How you holding up, Mike?” he asked me with a long sigh.

I shrugged. “So and so. Getting banned from elementary schools. Past keeps coming up to me. Do you know that yester-”

“Mike, Ellie Bordinos is dead,” he suddenly said. “She killed herself…she jumped off a bridge this morning, apparently.”

“…Dead. Ellie Bordinos. The woman who shot Sophie. Dead.”

“Yeah…are you alright?” All of a sudden, the thirty degree day turned into a twenty degree day. It all felt so surreal…I became overwhelmed by a whirlpool of raging, caging emotions. I clutched my head and shut my eyes in the asinine disbelief of it all. “You know…she had a fifteen-year-old daughter.”

I opened my eyes, staring at Bert in confusion. “So what, she had a baby in prison?”

Bert nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “Yep. Her name is Catalina Burgess.”
“Catalina. Where is she now?”

“She’s living with her father.”

I scrunched my face, my eyes twitching in my attempt to contemplate the idea. “Her father…I thought you sai-”

Bert grinned, taking his hands back out of his pockets and crunching them up together. “That’s where it gets good. Her father is a former prison guard.”

I stared blankly at him, before ducking and shaking my head in disbelief. “Bert…you’ve gotta be-”

“Come on,” he said, patting my shoulder and starting down the hallway. “We’ve gotta go check on her. I’ll tell you more in the car.”

***

Bert took me into his police cruiser and drove me up to a small white house that looked like it had fallen into disarray. “This is…” I started, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“This is Catalina’s father’s home. Ellie and him were never married,” he said, killing the motor and unbuckling his seatbelt.

“You already told me that.”

“I think it was just a one night thing.”
“Told me that too.”

I could sense Bert’s annoyance with me, even without him saying anything about it. I suppose he is a lot more proficient in hiding his emotions than I am. “…Are you ready to do this?” he asked, stretching out his arms.

I shook my head in defiance. “Nah, I wanna do this myself.”

Bert looked at me, then out the windshield, then back at me in a weld of confusion. “Oh…okay. Erm…why?”
“Because, you’re a cop. I’m not. It’ll work better that way. Plus…they know me.”

Bert scoffed. “They know me too,” he said.
I looked at him bewildered, scrunching up my face. “What?”

“Nothing. Go ahead.”

We sat there in silence for several moments, as I stared at him staring out into the distance. “Now I know there’s something you’re not telling me,” I told him as I exited the car, slamming the door shut.

I walked right up to the home and started a’ knock knock knocking on the front door. A bald, muscular black man in his early forties opened the door. “What the hell do you want?” he asked in a voice far from friendly.

“My name is Michael Timberg. I’m a police officer. I was the one who was there when Ellie was arrested.”
“I know who you are. I don’t like you. I don’t like cops. I don’t trust cops.”

I scratched my bald scalp and sighed. “Well, I’m not a cop anymore, actually. Ellie made sure of that.”

“You talk a lot of trash about Ellie. You know she’s-”

“Dead. I know. That’s why I’m here, but believe it or not, I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to Catalina Burgess.

“Well, I’m her father, Tyrone Burgess. And she’s locked herself up in her room.”

“May I come in and talk to her?”

“Let me tell you something. Ellie wanted people to forgive her. She told me that you were the last one. She goes after you; tries to get you to accept her apology so she can finally find her peace, and the next thing I know, she’s jumping off a bridge.”

“Sir, if you are accusing me of-”

“You know what I think? I think you killed Ellie. I think it’s your fault that she’s dead, and I think you’d best get out of here before I…who is this?”

I turned around to see Bert fast approaching us, his badge in his left hand. “Police officer,” he said, holding up the tan piece of metal. “I’d like to check on your daughter’s wefare. I understand her mother took her own life recently, an-”

Tyrone crossed his arms and smirked. “Do you have a warrant or something?”

“No. It’s just called being a decent human being,” Bert said, sheathing his badge and crossing his arms.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what he told me on the way here,” I said. “Three separate times, 9-1-1 calls have been made for suicide attempts by your daughter. We want to make sure that she’s alright. No funny business or anything like that.”

A single drop of sweat gushed down from Tyrone’s forehead. “You know what? I was here thinking you’re just stupid. Yeah. That’s what I’m scared of, man. I think she might be trying to kill herself. But I don’t trust cops and I…I’m too scared to check on her myself man.”

“Then let us check on her,” Bert suggested. “Come on. We’ll be in and out.”

After we stood there in the silence of the cold autumn day for the longest of whiles, Tyrone finally nodded his head.

***

“Still know how to jimmy locks, Mike?” Bert asked as he twisted the knob to Catalina’s bedroom door.

“Come on! Open up, Catalina!” Tyrone yelled, knocking on the door to no avail. He scoffed before stomping his foot on the ground.

“A cop never forgets the tricks of the trade,” I reminded Bert. The lock was fairly simple to undo, and I managed to get the door ready to open in just a few seconds.

With the sight I saw next, I wish I hadn’t.

On the bed lie an adorable young girl with long red hair, wearing a white t-shirt and a blue skirt. Blood dripped out of her drooping lips; her eyes rolled to the back of her head. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled as Tyrone rushed to look for a phone. Bert went to check for a pulse.

“This isn’t good, come on, Catalina!” he said, beginning CPR. “Don’t die on me, goddamnit!”

All of a sudden, the twenty degree day turned into a negative five degree day.

***

So, yesterday was Ellie’s funeral. After a few heartbreaking eulogies, I folded up a letter and placed it in her casket. Tyrone approached me seemingly out of nowhere, a depressing scowl under his nose. “Look, Michael, there was someth-”

“Save it,” I told him.

“I know you’re going to blame yourself,” he said. “I want you to kno-”

“Look. Tyrone. Ellie and Catalina…” I took a deep sigh, clenched my fists and swallowed a wad of saliva. “…I’m going away for a while. I’m not sure where to. I think I just need time to think. You won’t see me anytime soon.”

This whole time, I was so angry with Ellie that I had never stopped to really think. Sophie dying was on me leaving that house, but my foolish pride wouldn’t let me reach that conclusion. I needed someone to blame, and that someone was Ellie. Instead of admitting my guilt, I attempted to tell my story to a bunch of eight-year-olds, hoping they would see nothing wrong with what I did and that I could in turn, see nothing wrong with what I did. The reason I couldn’t forgive Ellie was because I couldn’t forgive myself. I finally realized that Ellie wasn’t the monster – I was.

I almost left the sanctuary, before I twisted my head and saw Tyrone reading the letter I had left in Ellie’s casket. The note had just three words written in large font.