Discretion

by David Balzarini

  After three weeks of worrying myself to death and being up at night, I gathered the courage to approach a member of the church who I knew from my mother. Mister Bruderer was his name. I confided to him in the lobby of the church after the last Mass of the weekend, which was at five P.M. on Sunday night. I had arrived at the church by myself, not with my parents as I would normally have come, but by bicycle, with the intention of approaching someone. When I saw a familiar face, I went to him, determined to get the story out before I ran scared with my tail between my legs. It worked. He listened intently to my whole story without interruption. Apparently, this was no surprise and he’d gotten word of such a problem with Father Damien before, but nothing concrete to go on.

  As luck would have it, Bruderer was a freelance writer who felt no such loyalties to keep his mouth shut or his typewriter idle. His article hit newspapers weeks later and my mother read them with astonishment and asked me repeatedly if anything had happened with me. For the first time in my life, I felt that my mother was worried more about me than herself.

  My mother chose another church, which was worse than the first. The senior pastor was caught stealing from the church a few years after we started attending. I never cared for the guy or the church for that matter, so it didn’t bother me. After that scam, she gave up on organized religion.

  I leave the comfort of the sofa for my computer desk in the study. I begin with a Google search of angels, in the hope of getting a better idea of what they do, their purpose, and perhaps their nature.

  The third link from the top provides some helpful, but rather general information I’ve come across before. The text states that angels are messengers, not formerly people, but created beings for specific purpose. Over two hundred seventy references to angels are in the Bible. According to passages in Job 38, God created angelic beings after he created Heaven, but before the creation of Earth. There are many angels, and no more are being created nor destroyed, as angels are immortal, but they have not existed for all of eternity as God has.

  Interesting, but so far, not helping much.

  I retreat to the kitchen to start some coffee. I’m exhausted, but this topic isn’t going to hold for the night. It’s time, I’ve decided, that I understood Christel—not accept her because she helps me. Obviously, not everyone else has divine aid, begging the question: why me? And why reveal the future to me? Sure, I make others, including charities, wealthy…but still. Hundreds of people in my line of work could use the same guidance, yet they are without.

  And why now, after all these years, am I now considering these questions instead of years past? But then, perhaps I considered them before, only to forget the research? Maybe the answer was presented—but I cannot recall it.

  The brewing is done and I pour a large cup, add a teaspoon of cream and a pinch of sugar. The moan from my happy mouth startles the dog. The coffee is that good, especially in contrast to the sludge the hospital serves to the unsuspecting and weary visitor.

  I return to the computer and continue the quest, with tired eyes and a headache.

  The text gets more into detail: angels are not flesh and bone, and can be only in one place at a time, and thus are not omnipresent, like God is. Interesting. So if Christel can only be one place at a time, perhaps that is why she doesn’t always answer my questions—she has pressing matters elsewhere.

  When angels do appear, they appear as normal men and not unique in any way, according to Genesis, chapter eighteen. One easily found exception exists, referenced in the book of Zachariah in the fifth chapter, where two presumed to be female angels appear.

  Hmm. Could Christel be a female angel? Isn’t that what I’ve always assumed is true?

  The end of the text draws more interest and is in line with what I’m searching for: Are all angels good?

  Joanna talked about Adam and Eve while we waited at the hospital, the presumed first people to enter the world and live in a perfect garden called Eden. The devil spoke to Eve as a snake, disguised to appear harmless and trustworthy. A fellow creature made by God. What is significant, she said, is how the enemy deceives: not with fiction, but with truth. His lies are mostly true while being completely deceptive. The snake entices Eve to try the fruit from the forbidden tree, appealing to her human nature and the pleasing appearance of the fruit, which after all, God gave them to eat. He also assured Eve that her eyes would be opened and she would know the difference between good and evil, like God does. So in a way, eating this fruit would make her more like God, which anyone would want to be. When she ate the fruit, she realized that the snake had told a partial truth, while deceiving her to disobey God’s law, which the Bible refers to as sin.

  What stood out to me is that the snake was once an angel. Like Christel? Satan wanted to be like God, so the first sin was pride. This enticed many to follow, to be cast out of Heaven, fallen from grace. Exiled. No pardon granted. No concession made for those who reconsidered their allegiance. As a result, they live to defy God any way possible.

  Not all angels are good…so what side is Christel on and how can I find out?

  I continue searching, sipping fantastic nectar.

  For the short duration of my life that I attended Mass, prayer to the saints—meaning dead people—was a commonly endorsed practice not shared by evangelicals. Apparently, the Bible condemns worship or prayer to anyone besides God. The debate, from the websites I found, ties around the meaning of Revelation, chapter five, verse eight.

  Could Christel be a saint? Someone who lived in the past, who has now returned to Earth to help me?

  Natalie was found because of Christel; to that, I owe a debt of gratitude. My career, she is responsible for also. She provides insight I couldn’t attain on my own. She is the reason I have my job. She is the reason I am with Marisa. Without question, she is my best friend—who I keep in secret. I’ve helped countless people in need who were placed in my path: widows, the fatherless, the sick, the homeless. Look at how much good Christel has done for me and for others in need.

  She must be here for a purpose. A messenger. She brings messages to me, and I take action—that’s the system. I do what she can’t physically accomplish.

  “Colin?” Marisa says, her voice carrying from behind me.

  Marisa emerges from the bedroom in the silk flowery pink and blue robe I bought her a year ago, loosely tied at her midsection. She’s her normal self. She stops at my side and with a playfulness, climbs on my lap and kisses me. She pulls at the tie of her robe, and then with a sly smile, lets the silk garment slide off and makes short work with my pants.

  The guilt I feel is immense and rises to the surface without permission. At the forefront of my mind, I contemplate telling her what happened with Natalie. Coming clean. To confess and accept the consequences. It was just a kiss, but it wasn’t. It means much more and Marisa will look beyond the physical contact and study the implied meaning—the competition. The conflict. Hard to say what she’s going to do when she finds out.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” I get out.

  “I want to finish what we started.”

  “Dear, the car is out in the garage.”

  “That’s too damn far away, now isn’t it?” she says, while forcing my boxers to my knees with her foot.

  “Yes, it’s a long walk.”

  She rides me hard and I enjoy it, but images of Natalie come to mind and distract me from complete fulfillment. I can’t help thinking…what if?

  “So where did all this stamina come from?” I say, as she’s climbing off.

  Marisa wipes a thin line of sweat from her forehead and pushes her hair back. She strains forward, reaching around me and returns with a bottle of water, which she promptly guzzles.

  “Needed that. Built up the appetite during dinner, then deflated after the car wreck…oh, how’s Jamal?”

  I shake my head. “It’s going to be touch and go for a while.”

  “Eek. Sorry. Hope the quickie helped.”

  “That was
n’t quick.”

  She laughs a little and her eyebrows work some magic. “Sorry, I had trouble with the angle. I’ll be faster next time.”

  How could I leave this beautiful woman? What if she can’t handle the kiss with Natalie?

  “Hon, you okay?” Marisa says.

  I realize I’m staring off into space. “Yeah. I guess.”

  “What’s wrong? I mean, I know about Jamal.” She ties the silk belt around her waist, watching me. “Is there something else?”

  Shit. Can she read me like I can read her? Does she suspect something happened? But then, she doesn’t know Natalie came to the hospital. Can I keep the kiss a secret, too? Just one more thing to take to my grave…

  “There’s lots of things,” is all I can muster. But I know I’m going to confess to her. Soon.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Marisa and I relocate to the bed and stretch out. It’s a feat to get vertical at the early hour and stay awake. Even Max shows up and joins us on the bed for the family get-together. He walks in a circle at the end and curls into a ball. Marisa tosses her robe on the catchall corner chair and slides under the covers. I elect to stay dressed for the moment and lie on the comforter.

  I tell Marisa about the email from Jackson, though she doesn’t want to hear about the time I spend on the abduction of my ex-girlfriend. And I can’t tell her I killed a man to get Natalie back, so the most important point—the pending FBI investigation that may lead to a serious problem for me—must remain a weight I bear alone. Nonetheless, I go into detail on the email, at least until she insists I stop, when I get to the pentagram tattoos—the link to Natalie’s abduction and possibly Jamal’s accident. The coincidence is disturbing. I want her opinion, even if all she will do is tell me I’m crazy. When something bothers me this much, I want to talk about it.

  “So…is Jackson going nuts, or already there?” Marisa says with an air of finality about the question.

  I can’t help laughing. Either it’s quite humorous or it’s just that late. Maybe both. “Who knows?”

  The whole thing started with Natalie.

  Marisa nods a little with her eyes closed. The feeling for me is weirdly euphoric: a walk down the trail that is her and me. The things we used to do together. The late nights. Drinking. Movies. Crazy games with friends.

  Is the relationship ending because of me? Have I thrown it in the wind to see which way it blows?

  I have to tell her. I can’t keep this secret from her. It will eat at me until it comes out, so I must confess and dispel the poison, even if it means I harm her by retching.

  Go to sleep. Your secret is safe.

  But I can’t live with this secret. How can I keep this from her?

  I say, half awake, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sounds like you’ve talked yourself out of this.”

  I sigh. Then shrug in frustration. “Yeah. Maybe. I hate the idea of going against a group this dangerous, but at the same time…someone has to do something about the problem. If I had a daughter…and she went missing, I’d go into a rage.”

  “You know I don’t get why you obsess over this.” Marisa’s eyes are closed.

  “I know. I know. When you’re in the thick of it for three days and nights, you see everything differently. When it happens to you, it’s not like reading about it in some newspaper. It’s real. Your life in black ink, not someone else’s friend who you’ve never met. Then strangers know who you are and they form opinions of you and it’s not fair.”

  Marisa sighs and looks over at me, her head nestled into the pillow. “You’re searching because you and your dad were accused of the whole thing, right?”

  “Not accused. People of interest. Or persons of interest. But we had to be, since we were there when she vanished.” I pause a moment, remembering those painful days. “The last to see her alive.”

  “You’re still trying to clear your name, in a way.”

  I ponder this thought a moment and consider its merit. This woman may be as smart as she is beautiful—yet she can’t realize the significance of her comment, with not knowing I killed Arocha. “Maybe. It’s a valid point, because this abduction was the beginning of bad blood between my father and me.” I pause several seconds, contemplate what I want to say next. “But before I lose my nerve, I have to tell you about something else. A confession.”

  She nods, watching me, as if she knows something significant is coming. Marisa appears to be waking up for this.

  I explain the story of being at the hospital when Natalie shows up and how, in a moment of bad judgment and tiredness…When I finish, Marisa doesn’t say anything. She just stares at me in disbelief a few moments, processing. She shows no emotion. No tears. No shock or anger.

  Then Max jumps off the bed and that’s when Marisa moves swiftly from under the covers. She storms around to my side of the bed and slugs me in the gut. I notice right away it’s the right hand, as I don’t feel her ring leaving a mark. I clamor to my feet, hoping I don’t have to defend myself, but it only gives Marisa a better target.

  “I’m…sorry,” I mutter, realizing my fiancée might have a future in boxing.

  Then her knee hits my groin and I find the floor as my only comfort. Max comes over to console me, while I lay on the carpet in the fetal position next to my bed.

  “I forgive you, but couldn’t you have waited until another time? I’m not going to get any sleep now. I’m mean, fuck, it’s after four in the morning.”

  “I know.”

  I lay there a few minutes in silence before I ask for some painkillers. I take them, lying still on the floor and I pass out next to the dog.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The alarm plays music. It’s in the distance, from the bedside table. I should get up, but the soft jazz soothes me and my dream, a journey from one side of the moon to another, for no reason known to me, suddenly has wonderful speakers along the path, playing the music to brighten my lunar hike.

  I become alert when Marisa provides a soft jab, yet firm enough, at the small of my back and my day is ready to begin. Sadly, it’s not long after the last one ended.

  “Move, Colin,” Marisa says. The bed shifts and she walks into the bathroom. Max visits me on the floor with a lick to my cheek, and then my lips.

  “Thanks,” I mutter and come to my feet. Marisa is singing in the shower to the song on the radio, like she’s gotten past last night already. I pick up my phone to check messages, and then set it aside, disappointed there’s no news of Jamal, and join her in the shower, watching my step like a newly convicted felon on the first day in prison.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.” And she smiles as if she’s still working through it. “I’m over it,” Marisa says.

  She lets a few moments of silence pass between us as we wash ourselves. The steam is intense, the water a tad toward scalding. “Sorry about your balls. Are you…functioning?”

  I grimace at the thought of last night’s closure. All for a kiss? “I’m sorry. Really. It was impulsive…with Jamal being in the hospital…”

  She cuts me off. “I know, I know. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I could have hurt you. And it’s not like…ah, fuck. I don’t know.” She throws the shower puff against the wall. She faces the wall, away from me, and says, “I know you and Natalie are tight—and you’ll always be.”

  “I know it’s going to be hard—”

  “Hard doesn’t describe it. You’ve always drawn attention. Women at work haven’t ceased to talk about you, like you’re some cougar’s boy toy to gossip about…and I’m standing right there to hear it!” She picks up the puff and holds it a moment, facing away from me. “And I’m…damn positive that getting married will not change a thing.”

  She can only admit that facing away from me.

  “It ought to,” I say.

  She cackles. “Yeah. Right. I know. The way things ought to be, right?” We finish the shower and I check my phone again. No messages about Jamal. No note from
Natalie and it bothers me that I’m concerned she didn’t send a text or email. She doesn’t have anyone to report the kiss to, but still.

  My gaze returns to my phone and the lock screen image is of Marisa and me, a pic from two weeks ago. She is wearing an airy maxi dress, a stiff breeze away from a wardrobe malfunction. I remember the dress and eventful evening quite well.

  “Did you just now put that on there?” she says, peering over my shoulder.

  “I can’t remember when I changed it, but that was one heck of a night.”

  She gives me a kiss, one that begs for a quickie. I should be thankful she has a short-term memory. She drops her towel and yanks at mine; her leg finds my side and begins to move like a river’s current—slow yet forceful.

  “Am I imagining this?” I ask.

  “If I am then I want it for real when I wake up.”

  Marisa gets her fill of makeup sex. We hurry through the morning routine.

  “Any update from the hospital?” Marisa asks from her closet.

  I check messages on my phone, yet again, just to be sure. “Yeah. Joanna sent a text message that Jamal is recovering and that I can see him possibly today. She seems reassured that he’s through the worst of it.”

  He’s not.

  Oh, the timing. That’s what I’m afraid of. Christel is hitting my fear that Jamal’s condition is not what the doctors are presenting—they are overly optimistic.

  Marisa says, “Great news. You must be relieved. What time is your first meeting?”

  “Seven thirty. I have the walk this morning, too, which is short but should be a real treat, then the presentation at nine thirty A.M.”

  “Uh huh. I’m glad my day is not so full.”

  Marisa fails to understand why I enjoy the charity work. The idea of giving back simply does not jibe with her. She sees the need and appreciates those who do the work, but she refuses to volunteer. This is a hard pill of reality to swallow with my fiancée.