Guardian Angel

by Adam Carpenter

  Jimmy conjured images of his past loves, of Remy who nearly destroyed him, of Frisano who nearly consumed him, of Steven Wang, not exactly a love but a man who invited him to be a part of his life. He had eventually shunned them all and for various reasons, or was it for the same fear of being happy? Was there another man out there, ready to shake Jimmy to his foundation?

  He decided it wasn’t fair to think of the future today. He thought of Kellan.

  He remembered his vow.

  Jimmy said “Good-bye” to his father and turned, hearing the crunch of his footsteps in the snow.

  He was surrounded by cold but also by the warmth of family. He rejoined them, heading back to Grandmother Hester’s cottage for drinks, for food, for remembrances, and for stories of an impulsive, youthful Kellan. That day belonged to Kellan. The next day held its own expectations, its own promises waiting to be fulfilled.

  Before leaving the cemetery, Jimmy stole a look at the bare, stark branches of the trees. A few birds remained. Perhaps hope overrode instinct, surety that the next day wouldn’t bring deeper cold, that the spring of redemption might arrive sooner than they thought. Jimmy knew time wasn’t their friend right then. December might be fast advancing, but in truth, according to the calendar, winter was still looming. He then rejoined the family, who drove back to his grandmother’s cottage, a small spread of lunch awaiting them. Jimmy stood at the edge of the driveway, looking at the small community of houses that made up the enclave of Peach Lake. How peaceful it was, far removed from the dark violence of Manhattan, as though the wooded forest acted as a cocoon, protecting them. Jimmy also felt calm, when he visited.

  “Jimmy, you coming inside?” Maggie asked from the front porch.

  “Not yet, Ma. Need some air.”

  “Don’t be long. Lunch will be ready soon.”

  Food was the last thing on his mind, but he also knew he had to be strong for his family. He set off on foot, walking along the narrow, curving roads, past a pavilion where people gathered in summer for picnics. Swings and slides were empty, quiet. There was no wind that day, but he detected a light falling snow, gentle flakes in the sky making little impression on the ground. Peach Lake was more of a summer haven, many of the cottages closed up. Grandmother Hester opted to live there year round. She’d said “Good-bye” to the city years before. Sometimes Jimmy envied her, nature surrounding her rather than the concrete and steel that defined his world.

  But return to that world he would, a man on a mission.

  He ventured out toward the lake, finding a boat dock that he’d visited before. He stepped onto its wooden planks and heard a creak, the sound of neglect. It had been months since the dock had seen use, summer having given way to fall and onward toward winter. Jimmy walked to the edge of the dock, and in his mind he was reeling back to the past, to summers when he, Taran, and Kellan jumped off that very spot, diving into soothing waters, swimming out to the floating deck two hundred feet out into the lake, their adolescent screams the soundtrack of summer. At that moment, it was all different. They were grown, and one of them was dead.

  “Jimmy?”

  Jimmy turned around to find his uncle coming up behind him.

  “Hey, Uncle Paddy.” He didn’t offer to ask if he was okay. Of course he wasn’t.

  “Makes you think, those bare branches. Few months from now, they’ll have buds on them.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Nature is always in control of this world, the way it bounces back. We are mere visitors. Rebirth for us is not an option.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’ll do?”

  “Continue living,” he said, “Even if my life is suddenly a bit darker.”

  Paddy stood beside him, the two of them at the edge of the dock, at the edge of their worlds. Jimmy wished he had magic words to heal the man who’d always been there for him, a surrogate father, always with words of wisdom, and usually a beer to accompany them. It was a combination which had served both Jimmy and Paddy well over the years. Now they had a deeper connection: a son who had lost his father, a father who had lost his son.

  “You know I’ll find the truth,” Jimmy said.

  “I never had my doubts. I knew I never had to ask.” He paused. “You have suspicions.”

  “You know I do. I know who. I don’t know why.”

  “Mickey Dean.”

  “Beating up Kellan was an opening shot, a battle. He’s begun a war he won’t win.”

  “Be careful, Jim. We don’t need to come back up here…”

  For his own funeral, he got that. “Let’s get back. Ma and Grandmother might be worried. Let’s raise a glass in Kellan’s honor.”

  “Oh, I’ll be doing such a thing nightly.”

  Jimmy thought of his own tradition, Monday dinners at home, the glass of beer he always poured for his father.

  Paddy turned around and started back. Jimmy watched for a moment, noticed how his aging uncle moved more slowly suddenly, his shoulders hunched. He was a man shaken by the tenuous nature of life. Jimmy felt a breeze whip up over the lake, and more snow began to fall. In his dark suit, he wasn’t dressed for winter. Warmth awaited him back at the cottage in the form of food, family, the familiar things that brought comfort and light in times of darkness.

  § § § §

  “Priority” was a cagey word, one not easily qualified. Did the dead deserve it, because they had been wronged, or did the living get earmarked for attention as a result of their present suffering? It was a dilemma that faced Jimmy the next morning as he unlocked the door to his office and entered the small studio. He had two cases, both of which demanded his time, and he had a short period of time to figure out which would get his attention. It was seeing the darkened front of Paddy’s Pub that pushed him in a certain direction.

  Closing the door behind him, he set down the coffee and bagel he’d picked up on the way over. It felt strange to be back there, remembering the night he’d returned to find his cousin beaten, bloodied on his sofa, and being tended to by his father and brother. So much had happened since that night, not just in the McSwain/Byrne household but with Serena Carson and the murder case of Henderson Carlyle. That day represented a fresh start for both situations, a newfound determination settling invading Jimmy. He wouldn’t rest until he’d solved them both and maybe, hope always in the back of his mind, the final solution. Closure could only begin when one found the entrance of its path.

  Jimmy considered what his first step of the day would be. He knew he had to hit the streets. The Internet could only tell him so much. Even Google had its limits. He knew answers awaited him out in the real world. He just needed to know whom to talk to and where to start. It was thinking back to his conversation with Robbie that led Jimmy to the start of a what he hoped was a busy day of investigating.

  First stop was Maureen Dean or, as most of the neighborhood knew her: Madame Mo.

  Back when they were all kids, Maureen Dean was the quintessential neighborhood mother. She had lemonade in the summer, hot cocoa in the winter, and always had sweets around, cookies and candy bars, whatever you wanted. Going to the Deans was like going to the local soda fountain, fun treats at the ready and a laugh-filled atmosphere.

  One fateful day it all changed, and Mickey and Larry stopped inviting friends over. Jimmy recalled how empty life felt for a few weeks, having to get used to not going over there. When once he saw Mrs. Dean on the street, she had changed so much, and her frame had grown, the fat under her chin more pronounced. Since then Jimmy had seen her only on rare occasions, usually because he happened to be going down 46th Street near 10th Avenue. It was where the Deans had grown up; they had since moved to the one of the new high-rises on 10th, but they still maintained a street-level studio apartment, a storefront operation known as “Madame Mo.”

  Maureen Dean had decided one day she had psychic abilities. The cynic in Jimmy liked to think she should have known that even before she hung her shingle.

  It was noon by the time h
e joined civilization, leaving behind the sanctity and safety of his own office. He turned the corner, going past the old gay bar, Gaslight, a place he’d frequent when his love life was lacking. It had been months since he’d been there. It was closed at that hour, not that he had any intention of grabbing a drink or meeting a guy. Life was complicated enough. So down 46th Street he went, finally coming upon the stoop near the end of the northeast corner. Red neon lights called to him, and the words “Madame Mo” were written out in script. He could see her sitting in the window, gazing out as though she were waiting for someone, perhaps even him. Perhaps she was psychic.

  Jimmy climbed the few steps and opened up the door. A jangling of bells sounded, stirring Madame Mo from her chair. It took great effort for her to stand, a wooden cane doing its best to support her. At that point, she was probably near three-hundred pounds, a hefty amount considering she stood only five foot four. Her hair, long and braided, was completely gray. Lines creased the side of her eyes like a road map. Her lips were downturned, as though she hadn’t smiled in so long, her mouth muscles had lost all definition.

  “Madame Mo…”

  “Shush you, Jimmy McSwain. To you, I’m Mrs. Dean.”

  He smiled, mostly from a sense of history over how they had all been friends once upon an innocent time, their families linked by the truth of the neighborhood: going to church, sharing picnics in Clinton Park, celebrating summer holidays, holiday gatherings, or just a random passing on the street. Somewhere along the line, lives changed, and the chain that bound them broke.

  “Mrs. Dean, I wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time?”

  “As you can see, it is slow right now. Please sit.”

  Indeed the interior of her store was devoid of people but not of accoutrements. He passed through a wall of hanging, colored beads and sat down on a stool before a round table. A deck of tarot cards was at the ready, a crystal ball at its center. Hokey and old school, Jimmy nearly commented, but as he watched Madame Mo take up her seat opposite him, he saw the comfort her surroundings gave her. Some might mock fortune telling, but it was clear she took it very seriously. Perhaps it lessened the darkness inside her emerald eyes. Madame Mo had been a staple of the neighborhood for as long as Jimmy could remember.

  “My condolences, first of all,” she said. “I heard about Kellan Byrne.”

  “Thank you. It was a shock. We’re still trying to process it.”

  “Violence often offers no understanding. That’s what my Lawrence says.”

  She meant not her son but her husband, the esteemed Lieutenant Lawrence Dean, Senior, part of the commissioner’s office down at One Police Plaza. Jimmy shifted in his seat, unsure how to broach the subject he wished to discuss. The last thing he wanted was to upset her. Even if she found safety within the spiritual arts, she was still a mother and a wounded one for too long. If violence offered no explanation, death only exacerbated the mystery. The victim could never provide wanted answers.

  “Now, Jimmy, what is it I can do for you, a palm reading, to see what the tarot says?”

  “No, I’m not here for guidance. This is more of a personal matter…”

  She closed her eyes, as though by doing so she was separating her person from her persona.

  “Something is troubling you,” Madame Mo said.

  “Your son,” Jimmy said. Might as well jump into the deep end.

  “Larry and you once were good friends, when the worst that happened was a skinned knee.”

  “That’s a long time ago, and yes, we were. But I don’t mean Larry.”

  Now it was Madame Mo’s turn to show discomfort. She rose from her seat, pain visible on her face. Her knees were weak, no doubt from supporting all the weight she carried. Jimmy waited her out, curious what she was doing. He watched as she lit a few candles, smelled fragrant incense swirl about. Perhaps to discuss Mickey she needed a calmer atmosphere, a counterbalance to the violent world he lived in. She returned a moment later, two cups of tea in her hands. She set one before Jimmy.

  “An herbal recipe of mine. I hope you enjoy it. I find it helps clear my mind.”

  “I’m sorry, if I upset you.”

  “The topic of Michael never goes down easy,” she said. She sipped at her tea and sighed.

  Jimmy did the same, if only to play along. Tea wasn’t his thing, but he agreed the beverage did have an immediate calming effect on him. He eased back before saying, “Mickey disappeared for a while, but now he’s back in the neighborhood. Can you shed any light on why?”

  “I always hated that nickname, ‘Mickey,’ like a boy who won’t grow up. I suppose it fits.”

  “He has a lot of anger in him,” Jimmy said.

  “He always did, even as a child. The dark moon must have been out the night he was born.”

  “He left town, what, five, six years ago?”

  “He ran into a bit of trouble with the law. If word had gotten out, the shame it would have brought to my Lawrence…his career, it was easier to send Michael away. We first sent him to a rehabilitation center; he had allowed alcohol to consume him, literally. Most mornings I would see him with a bottle of vodka, whiskey…didn’t matter. He needed to dry out. When he was released he went to live upstate with my sister’s family. He worked. He seemed to have straightened himself out.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Michael is a sly boy,” she said, “Always working an angle.”

  “And what’s his angle now?”

  “Jimmy, may I show you something?”

  “Of course,” Jimmy said, unsure where this was going and wishing they could keep talking. They were side-stepping the central question: why Mickey was back then, but instead he got up from his seat and followed Madame Mo to a back room, one even more dimly lit. What she revealed was a shrine, surrounded by a series of framed photographs on the walls. Jimmy could see they were family pictures, mostly of a young, smiling girl of brown hair and green eyes, not unlike the ones that gazed lovingly upon them then. Jimmy watched the tortured mix of emotions on Maureen Dean’s face: forlorn loss, fond memories.

  A small, high-top table sat in the corner, and on it stood a ceramic bust. It was an angelic figure, complete with wings, and spread before it were laminated cards, perhaps a dozen or so, all displaying the same sweet, child-like image of an angel. Maureen—no longer Madame Mo, no longer a woman who sought answer in the stars—beckoned Jimmy forward. She encouraged him to pick up one of the remembrance cards. He turned it over, saw the name Cassiopeia Dean and the dates of her birth and death, which occurred on the same day of differing year. Jimmy hadn’t realized that Cassie Dean had died on her birthday, her fourteenth. Jimmy counted the cards and found that’s exactly how many of these cards were fanned out on the round table. One for each year of her life, forever remembered and cherished.

  Words did not come to him. He held the card for as long as he thought he should before setting it back down. He felt he’d left a sweaty fingerprint.

  “Cassie was my angel,” Maureen said. “She still is. When answers evade me in the crystal and the cards, I come back here. I sense a magic that’s impossible to fathom.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all Jimmy could say.

  “Oh, no, rather the contrary, Jimmy. Inside this room is a celebration of her, one I rarely share. My Lawrence, he stepped foot here once, when I first opened my doors. He shuns such talk of the spiritual. He’s too practical of a man. He thinks what I do is silly, but he leaves me alone, unlike Cassie, who breathes beside me. She’s never truly gone from me, not here. My Cassie lives within me and within these walls. She speaks to me, guides me as others come to me for help. With answers to the questions that plague their lives. She is the angel we all need.” She paused. “So tell me, Jimmy, what are your troubles? How can Cassie help you?”

  “Can Cassie tell me why Mickey…Michael has returned to the neighborhood and what he wants?”

  “Come, Jimmy, let’s take our seats again. Let’s see wha
t Cassie knows.”

  As they returned to the outer room, Jimmy chanced another look back, where he made eye contact with the ceramic angel standing guard, wondering if its stony silence could really hold any concrete evidence of the afterlife aiding the present one. Was Maureen Dean obsessed with her daughter’s memory or just her death? Jimmy realized it was no different than his own feeling toward his father, no doubt what Paddy was dealing with after the shocking loss of Kellan. All around them swirled demons, but he had to take heart as well that even in the face of loss Maureen Dean believed there were angels among them, holding the world in its embrace. It was a lesson he could take and absorb.

  He resumed his seat. The tea had grown cold, and he pushed it aside.

  “Mickey is on the straight and narrow now, Jimmy. If he didn’t have…the track record he did, he might have joined the academy, followed in the footsteps of his father and his brother. He’s a good boy, misguided because of his own choices, some he consciously made, others he felt forced into.”

  “Mrs. Dean, Mickey is a thug,” Jimmy said. “He had Kellan beat up only last week.”

  “Oh, no, not Michael. He might say hateful things. He would never act on them.”

  “Again, Mrs. Dean, why now? What brought Mickey home?”

  “Cassie, she would have been thirty-two two weeks ago. I never let a year pass without the family gathering to honor her memory. This is the first year Michael could return home, so nice it was to have all of us gathered, to remember the shining star of our family. My Lawrence lives in such a dark world and Larry too, both of them dealing with crime and death every day. Michael has known his troubles too, but he’s worked through them. He is finding a new path. Cassie is guiding him.”

  Jimmy didn’t believe her words for a second. Mickey Dean was a career criminal. It was the only path he knew.

  “Mrs. Dean, was the truth ever known about Cassie’s death?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Back then, rumors swirled that she killed herself, jumped out of the window.”

  She blinked, her hefty body visibly shaking. “Jimmy McSwain, you should know better than to believe the gossip that spreads through this neighborhood. My Cassie’s death was a tragic accident. She was on the fire escape, where she kept a few plants. The time of year, it was getting cold, late November. She went to bring her plants in, and she just lost her footing…and she fell.” She paused again, lingering in her own world of closed eyes, as though the memory was unspooling for her eyes only. At last she opened her eyes and said, “How your father tried everything to save her.”