Gabriel and the Devil

by Robert P. Rowe

  “Oh.”

  “That’s right, my dear little altar boy. You know how the Church feels about birth control, and Father Bramble threatened me with the fires of hell. I don’t know why I listened to him at the time. I knew better. Anyway, that’s how you came along.”

  I opened my mouth, but Mom put her hand up to silence me.

  “As I said, I don’t regret having you. It was a little hard on the rest, but I think it was good for them too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for starters Matt and Luke had to share a room. Luke had been staying in the room we gave to you. That was supposed to be a parents’ retreat. That’s why it connects to our bathroom. But it put you nearby me at night, so it seemed logical to everyone but the boys. They had to get used to sharing a room, and despite their constant battles, they became closer.

  “The other bit of good that came from it was a lesson in planned parenthood for all of your siblings. They all knew the facts of life by the time you came along—and the results of unprotected sex. I’d learned my lesson too. I was handing out condoms to every one of them as soon as they started dating.”

  “Why not me?”

  “Have you started dating?”

  My face got hot. Suddenly I was very interested in finishing up the sandwich Mom had made me. She sat patiently and watched me eat. That wasn’t a good sign. Once the sandwich was gone—and my milk was drained—she was still waiting for an answer that I wasn’t going to give her.

  She broke the silence by stating, “Marcello seems like a nice boy. He doesn’t have any problem speaking his mind, does he?”

  I told myself to answer only the question she’d asked. “He has some interesting ideas.”

  “I’ll bet that he has you questioning your faith too.”

  “Some.”

  She thought for a moment before she went on, “Your original question was if you were too trusting. Before I turn it back on you, I want to say that you can’t trust everyone because there are too many contradictions in the world. Not everyone can be right.”

  “So how do I know who to trust?”

  She smiled. “That’s easy. Just do everything your mother says and you can’t go wrong.” Then she really laughed. “That’s what Grandma told me. Thank God I didn’t listen to her, or none of you would be here and I’d have never married your father.” She laughed again. She wasn’t taking me very seriously.

  “Mom,” I groaned.

  “I’m sorry, Angel. It’s not for me to say that you are or aren’t too trusting. You have to go with your heart and do what seems right for you. Let the rest of the world be damned. They have their own lives to worry about.”

  “God will judge them in heaven,” I paraphrased.

  “While they’re busy judging you on Earth. But I won’t judge you—no one in this family will. You’re free to make up your own mind and do what feels right for you.”

  “What feels right in my heart?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s what Father Christopher told me.”

  Mom looked me clearly in the eyes. “Did he know what you felt in your heart?”

  I looked down before answering. “Yes.”

  “I always liked Father Christopher.” Mom gave me a big kiss on the cheek. “Bless you, my child.”

  MOM GAVE me a ride back to campus. Saint Francis was about halfway between our house and school. Walking uphill home had already been the hard part, but I needed to think before I talked to Mom. Downhill wouldn’t have been a bad walk, but a ride was better because I’d neglected a lot of homework and classes started again on Monday.

  As hard as it had seemed beforehand, talking to Father Christopher and Mom had been the easy part. I still wasn’t sure I could face Marcello. I still wasn’t sure what I really felt in my heart—except for maybe emptiness. I was afraid that I had actually given Marcello my eternal soul because I didn’t feel like I had it anymore.

  School dragged on Monday, and the homework was piled on. I worked in the library until they closed, and I still hadn’t finished my homework. When it was time to walk back to my dorm, I told myself I had every right to take the shortcut past Marcello’s apartment. If he happened to see me, well, he could talk to me if he wanted. But he wasn’t around. He didn’t magically appear out of nowhere.

  Back on campus I took the long way around to my dorm building, through the quad and right past the big olive tree. There was no one hiding up there.

  I’d finally figured out that I had to see Marcello again, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face him. Then inspiration hit. I picked up my phone and made the call.

  “Dad.”

  “It’s late, Gabriel. Is something the matter?”

  “Oh no, nothing.” My acting was terrible. “Can’t a guy just call his dad just to say hi?”

  “Luke and Matt have no problem calling at a quarter to ten asking for something—but not you. So, what do you want?”

  “Um.” Dad wasn’t making this easy. “I was wondering if you could send me the link to Marcello’s channel. I must have lost it.” There’s a lie I’d be confessing.

  “He told me he’d never shared his work with you, so you must have lost it recently. Did you check your browser history?”

  “Listen, Dad, I just need—”

  “It’s kinda late too. I’ve already shut down my computer.”

  I knew Dad was just messing with me now.

  “Dad,” I groaned.

  He laughed. “Check your inbox. It should be there by now.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I love you too, son.”

  Sure enough the link was there, and when I opened it I found a channel for Marcello Mancini—I didn’t even know his last name. It never occurred to me that a devil would have a last name. Whenever he used a credit card, I just thought it was more of his devil magic.

  I had to let go of my stupid misunderstanding and find out who the real Marcello Mancini was. He had more than thirty films posted to his channel. Some were just a few minutes long, but quite a few were short films ranging from fifteen to forty-five minutes. I had my night’s viewing to work on, but where to start? That’s when I noticed a familiar thumbnail image. It was the woman from the pictures in his apartment—his mother. The film was simply titled: A Tribute to Rachel Mancini 1973-2016. She was only forty-four.

  The film faded in from black to black-and-white home movies of a younger version of his mother chasing around the front yard of a California ranch house. The film was grainy with lines running up and down like it was some old-time movie. But then I saw who she was chasing. It was the chubby little boy from the photos. It looked like he was a toddler who’d just learned how to run. If Marcello was my age, he was born in the mid-nineties. We didn’t use film back then. All the movies of me at that age were on video, in color—with sound. As I watched her chasing and playing with her little boy, I realized there had been music playing all along, but it was getting louder. It was a simple guitar melody with just a few piano notes. The music was hauntingly beautiful. Later a man joined the woman. I’d often wondered what Marcello would look like without his goatee. Now I knew. This had to be his dad. The three of them looked like a happy family. The scene changed. The boy was older and tossing a football to his dad. The film was tinted in color now, but nearly black-and-white still. Marcello was a chubby adolescent boy. He made another toss to his dad and the camera cut to the ball in the air. Then it cut to his dad, who faded away. Then the shot was of the ball landing in the grass.

  There was a shot of the ranch house as it blended into a shot of the apartment building. The construction fence wasn’t up yet, and the old stores below were obviously open. The film still had a tinted look that slowly got crisper until it looked like modern video. There was a shot of his mother driving in a car, smiling and waving as she drove away—still no sound. Then there was a shot of a huge SUV. The way the camera moved, all you could see was the front of the SUV c
oming forward as the camera tilted and turned until the SUV covered the screen in black.

  The music stopped and there was a moment of silence. Then the pictures from the apartment slowly faded onto the screen. This was her whole life captured in still photographs that faded in and out slowly but then went faster and faster. I’m not sure when the music had started up again, but it was building until the photo that Marcello had first shown me of the woman who’d once live in that apartment filled the screen. A white halo formed around the picture, and the camera pulled back. A nearly white glowing nude man was standing behind with the white glow, the image of his mother strategically covering him. The man was looking down on the photo, and all you could see was the top of his, possibly blond, head. That’s when I noticed that the actor was wearing the same wings I’d worn to the bar that night. The camera panned up and in, keeping the image of his mother in the center until the picture covered the angel’s chest, right over his heart, still radiating a glow. Then the angel wrapped his arms around the image, and her face was hidden from view with only the glow emanating from behind the angel’s tight embrace. Finally, the glow filled the screen. The music climaxed and faded as the screen went black. Crisp white letters faded in: Rachel Mancini 1973-2016.

  Chapter Ten

  I MUST have watched the film about Marcello’s mother at least ten times, and every time I cried. Sometimes I’d start crying before the film was even over. But I watched many of his other films too. There was a real eclectic blend. Some were documentaries, some were dramas, some were funny, and yet each one was unique and showed me another facet of Marcello. The man was an artist—a talented artist. If I didn’t think I knew everything I needed to know about this devil, I’d have been asking him about what he did, what his life was about. But I’d preconceived a foolish notion, and when he simply corrected me, I decided that he’d lied.

  His funny films showed what a wonderful sense of humor he had. Why didn’t I get the joke? Don’t I have any sense of humor?

  I was glad to see him acting in his films too. None showed him with his goatee or longish hair. He looked just like any other guy on campus. That especially helped when he was clearly just trying to be an extra in one of his films to fill in the background for his main characters. I wished he had starred in one of his films. The only film that really focused on him was a documentary-style film about the life of a film student at CSG. He talked directly to the camera and took viewers through every step of filmmaking. He explained that the eclectic mix of films were all assignments intended to stretch young filmmaker’s skills. He showed the technical process of editing and explained that more time is spent editing a film than shooting it in the first place.

  By the time I’d finished watching the tribute to his mom one last time—and crying again—I realized it was morning. I hadn’t had any sleep, and I had a class to get to. I went straight to my first class, but I might just as well have stayed in my room watching videos. They played an endless loop in my mind.

  After my first class, I needed coffee desperately and I went to the student union. I looked around at every table hoping to find Marcello, but he wasn’t around. I wished I had his gift for knowing exactly where he’d be and popping in out of nowhere.

  But I did know where he’d be. He’d told me.

  I hadn’t been to this side of campus before, but I found the film lab easily enough. The room was filled with monitors and other equipment set up in bays facing the walls. Most of the students wore headphones, no doubt so they could edit the soundtrack along with the rest of the film. A few students stood around talking and gave me weird looks when I came through the door. I smiled and walked in like I knew where I was going—even if I didn’t have a clue.

  I scanned the room until I saw a full head of dark brown wavy hair turning back and forth between two monitors. There was a close-up of one actor on the first screen and a two-shot of the same actor with another on the second. He must have been trying to decide when to go to the two-shot and when to cut to the close-up. He reran the same bit over and over while I watched from behind. A girl in the bay next to him packed up her stuff and left. I looked around and no one else seemed to be waiting for the station, so I casually dumped my backpack next to the chair and sat down. Marcello never took his eyes off his screen.

  I had no clue how to look like I knew what I was doing. At least the monitor was still on. I noticed that we had an internet connection—probably so students could upload their work to their channels. I pulled out my phone and checked the link, and then I typed it in. Marcello hadn’t realized that I was sitting next to him yet.

  I clicked on the tribute video, but I didn’t have any headphones to plug in. I didn’t realize the girl ahead of me was deaf. The sound blasted out of the speakers playing the haunting guitar and piano.

  Everyone turned to look—including Marcello. He reached over and hit the Mute key on the keyboard. My face was hot, and it had to be red. He looked at me. His face was unreadable. Did he want to see me, or was he angry with me?

  He turned to look at my screen. I’m sure he’d seen it many more times than I had while he sat in this editing bay. But he watched quietly as it played. Even without the soundtrack, the video was riveting and I had to watch it again myself. I only made it as far as the football landing on the ground before my tears began to flow. Marcello put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. When the video ended, I saw that he was crying silent tears too.

  He gave me another squeeze on my shoulder before he started packing up his stuff. I stood when he stood, and he took my hand as we walked out together. We walked silently until we’d reached the quad nearby the old olive tree. Marcello dumped his bag on a stone bench and sat down. I did the same.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriel.”

  “No, Marcello. I’m the one who’s sorry. I was stupid and—”

  “Trusting and loving. You gave me more than I ever deserved. And I let you keep giving without really sharing myself. I was afraid that if you really knew me, you wouldn’t love me.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I may not be a devil, but I’m still not the guy you think I am.”

  I gave him a questioning stare.

  He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you, and I didn’t even know what love really was at the time.”

  “I don’t under—”

  He silenced me with a finger to my lips.

  “There was this beautiful altar boy at my church. He looked like an angel. I was just another little kid in the pews along with my parents. We never missed a mass. I never missed seeing my angel. After my parents divorced, money got tight and my mom and I had to live in a little apartment above some old stores. We went to church every Sunday, not just for the services, but also for the free donuts and juice afterward in the Parish Hall. That was our Sunday breakfast. And while I stuffed as many donuts into my mouth as I could, I watched my angel with his perfect family. They were always happy. Who wouldn’t be happy to have an angel in their very own family?

  “I don’t remember why, but my mom got sick and we had to miss mass two weeks in a row. Anyway, I confessed my sin to Father Bramble. He told me I should have come to church. I told him I had to take care of my mother. He told me that my father should have taken care of her. I told him they were divorced. I don’t remember much of the rest, only that I came out to where my mom knelt while she was doing her penance and told her that I’d been excommunicated. I didn’t even know what it meant. But my mother did. As soon as someone came out of Father Bramble’s confessional, she cut the line and went in. The confessionals were supposed to be soundproofed. Well, they’re not. Everyone in the church could hear my mother giving Bramble hell. When she was done, she walked out and came to me. She’d no sooner taken my hand than Bramble walked out too. He glared at us both and left with a line still outside his door.”

  “Shit!” I couldn’t believe that word came ou
t of my mouth.

  “No shit. I was terrified that we’d never go back to church again and I’d never see my angel again. But my mom was not about to let him get the best of her. We never missed a mass after that. In fact, we always sat right about where you like to sit—in a perfect place to be seen by the priest during his sermon. I still preferred Father Christopher’s sermons, but Mom was never disappointed when she could spend the whole sermon glaring at Bramble.”

  “How is it that I never knew you?” I asked.

  “We went to different schools I guess. Despite tossing the football with my dad, I was a chubby klutz picked on at school. I’m glad we didn’t go to the same school because you wouldn’t have given me a second look. By the time I figured out that my love for my angel really meant I was gay, my angel had stopped being an altar boy. I quit going to church, but I’d already learned all that I could about my angel, Gabriel Turner, the youngest child of five. In the Parish Hall, I’d overheard your entire family’s names and plenty of stories about all of you growing up. The stories about Gabriel were the only stories that mattered to me. The stories that told me you were way too smart and way out of my league.

  “Somehow, once I got into high school, my metabolism just turned on high. My weight turned into muscles that I hadn’t earned. But I still had my klutz reputation, and once I started to look better, the guys decided I was gay. And of course, I was. That didn’t make me any friends. So I spent my time watching movies and dreaming about my angel. My dad bought me my first camera when I became a senior in high school. I had two half sisters and he wanted me to come live with them. I think he wanted to try to make a man out of me while he still thought he had a chance.”

  “Did he know that you were gay?” I asked.

  “Not officially. Neither did my mom then. I didn’t come out until I was in college.” Marcello laughed. “The day that I spotted you on campus.”