A Cry of Angels

by Jeff Fields

  It seemed the Reverend Pritchard was working with a stone-age tribe that hadn't the foggiest notion of any kind of civilization, and were the stubbornest lot, he believed, to whom anyone had ever tried to bring the Lord. And the Reverend was up to his elbows. They hadn't any more care for religion than a bunch of hogs, he said, and thought services at chapel nothing more than a grand time for settling intervillage squabbles. A man couldn't shut his eyes in prayer for fear of getting brained by his neighbor. He was at his wit's end. His wife had made some progress in curtailing fornication in the schoolhouse this year, but for his part, he could see little hope for elevating this lot to salvation while they were still killing one another at vespers. He closed with a request for the congregation's prayers, and a couple more gross of brassieres. It seemed the men of the village, in a childish display of jealousy, wouldn't let their wives wear them unless they had them too. The Reverend also needed another shipment of Testaments and toilet paper, but asked that they be packed separately this time, as the savages still hadn't learned the difference.

  "Huh!" rumbled a voice through the quiet. "Seems to me your Reverend needs to get off his knees and spray that crowd with bird shot!" Everyone looked up as Em Jojohn loped in and hung his bulk on the mantel. "Forgo your Testaments and send him a good twelve-gauge, that's what's needed to fetch that bunch."

  Gwen looked about frantically. Her eyes fell on me. I shrugged and waggled my water glass, disclaiming any responsibility. "This is Mr. Jojohn," she said uncomfortably, "he's helping my husband in the yard."

  "Funny thing about religion, Reverend." Em studied his cigarette and flicked an ash in the vase. "It don't seem worthwhile to transplant it when it springs up so natural by itself. Take the case of Waldo Payne."

  "I—I'm afraid I don't see your point," said the minister.

  "The point? Why, the point is simple." Em paced the hearth, warming to his talk, a rambling monologue that I knew would lead nowhere and accomplish nothing but to get him out of the sun for a few minutes. "There was this fellow named Waldo Payne I used to tie steel with. Wild'un, they called him. He was a wild'un too. Come out of Cumberland Gap. A real scrapper, I mean into sump'n all the time! Seems like it didn't come a Monday the job super wasn't down at the jail bailin' Waldo out of one scrape or another. But a worker? You never seen the beat. Come hot weather or cold, there wasn't a rod buster on the job could come anywhere near him for layin' in steel. Take a day it's a hundred in the shade and everybody else is eatin' salt tablets and suckin' the water can, old Wild'un's in the steel pile hollerin', 'Where's them number elebens!' Put him on a sewage tank with two other guys and big horizontals going up, and you never see Waldo on the lighter end. No sir, he's in the middle with the curve and the weight, and workin' the others to keep up with him too. He'd lay them big bars acrost his knees and climb that tank like a monkey, with the others just a scramblin', 'cause you see, once the middle got higher than the ends, the weight was throwed on them! Then before they got their wall belts hitched good, old Waldo'd have his saddle ties on and was back down at the steel pile, hollerin', 'Gimme them number elebens.'"

  Em shook his head and chuckled and drained somebody's coffee cup, and continued before Gwen could interrupt. "One day, up in Virginia, we was pouring this dam. Waldo was handling the concrete bucket. They was pouring through a chute in the river and lettin' the concrete set up under water. Well, nobody knows how it happened; wasn't carelessness 'cause Jimmy Leggett was the crane operator, and Jimmy Leggett could take a drag line and pick your hat off the ground, but somehow Waldo got bumped with the concrete bucket, and down the chute he went."

  "Oh." Sissy Davis put a hand to her mouth. "How awful!"

  Em lit a cigarette and took his time. Gwen sat staring at the floor.

  "Well?" said another lady. "Did they get him out?"

  "Get him out? From under forty foot of water with three yards of concrete on him? How were they gonna get him out of that?"

  "Then what did they do?"

  "Why, the only thing they could do—they started pouring concrete again."

  "On top of him?" asked the minister incredulously.

  Em grimaced and rubbed his neck impatiently. "Well, there wasn't no way to pour around him, was there? 'Sides, if they stopped, and let the concrete set up, there'd be a seam, a weak place. Naw, when the super come running and was told what happened, he just told 'em to get on with it, and went for the sheriff."

  "What a terrible tragedy," said Sissy Davis.

  "Not altogether," said Em. "Waldo's wife was compensated, and folks said she seemed a lot happier with the insurance money than she'd ever been with Wild'un. As for him, well, he lived like he wanted and got buried in style. What more could any man want? Think about it, the whole Emalette River dam for a vault! Ain't a pharaoh or emperor ever had a tomb that'd stand up to Waldo Payne's."

  Something was worrying the preacher. He just couldn't leave it alone. "I still fail to see the relevance of that to our discussion of religion."

  "Coming to that, Reverend." Em pointed to Gwen's coffee cup. "You through with that?" She nodded without lifting her head, and he picked it up and drained it. "Well, when the dam was near completion the super had a big stone vase fitted into the side, just below the guard rail, to put flowers in. Some of Wild'un's pals requested it, in a kind of memorial. And when the job was finished one of the local churches took it up, and put in flowers for Wild'un regular. Then, as time went on, strangers got to dropping in change to help pay for the flowers, thinking it was some kind of shrine or something. Then young folks got to courting up there, and throwing in pennies to make wishes and stuff. Well, before long word got around among the hill people that the dam had healing powers, and a faith healer got to holding revivals up there, and before you knew it, it got to be such a hazard with the crowds holding up traffic and the faithful falling in the river that the law stepped in and had the vase knocked off. They even had to put up a watchman's booth to keep traffic moving until things quieted down again; which it did even'chally, though some said the watchman took money from hard believers for a long time after. But, as I said, it did quiet down even'chally and things got back to normal."

  The preacher waited, but it became obvious the Indian was through. He pressed his thumbs to his temples. "I'm afraid, Mr.—ah, Jojohn, I still don't see your point."

  "You don't." Em shrugged his shoulders in exasperation. "Well, that's all for me, then," he said, heading for the hall, "for I can't make it no plainer."

  I shook my head. He had done it again. His purpose accomplished, cool, refreshed, leaving behind confusion. On another occasion, for another crowd, he might have delivered up his story on sweet Sally Flagg who took on Fort Bragg.

  Later, I kind of wished he'd done it that time.

  Because, as I said, the whole thing backfired anyway. When the guests had gone Gwen came out to where we were screeding cement and told Jayell in no uncertain terms she didn't want us back there anymore.

  "Aw, honey, come on . . ."

  "I mean it, Jayell!" she said, tossing her hair in fury. "That is absolutely the last straw!"

  Jayell stood meekly, caught in a moment of Jayell weakness and confusion, looking for a way out.

  "I didn't mean no harm . . ." Em began, and she whirled on him.

  "Shut up, you—you filthy animal! You are undoubtedly the most—grotesque excuse for a human being I have ever met. Why don't you take that trashy kid and stay in that slimy Ape Yard where you belong!"

  Jayell dropped his screed board. "Gwen, for pete's sake!"

  "Jayell," said Em, "if you don't slap hell out'n her now, I might just do it for you."

  "Come on, Em," I said, "let's go." I took his arm, but he wouldn't budge. He stood staring at her.

  Jayell came between them, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Look fellas, she's upset. She'll cool off and . . ."

  Em, trembling, turned down to me. "Well, trash, what we goin' to do now? Can't neither one of us hit her
'cause she's a woman. I reckon', Jayell, that don't leave nobody but you." And he swung a fist under Jayell's chin that lifted him off the ground. Gwen screamed and ran to him.

  Jayell sat dazed, looking around, more puzzled than anything.

  "You're a damn fool, Jay," Em said, "and fools are entitled to make mistakes. But anybody that makes a mistake and thinks he's got to live with it is a bigger fool than I care to be associated with."

  "Heyyy . . ." Jayell pulled himself up and stood leaning on Gwen. "Hey look, fellas, we'll—get together later, huh?"

  Em stopped and turned around. "You better see about gettin' yourself together," he said.

  We returned to the Ape Yard, and to hunting for odd jobs again, as Em would no longer even tolerate the mention of Jayell's name.

  I didn't see Jayell again for more than a month, until the night I thought the devil was trying to run me down on a motorcycle.

  28

  Fall had dried fast into a rattling, brown October. It was Halloween night. The streets were filled with little trick-or-treaters in dime-store masks, pouring past the store—where Mr. Teague and Tio had laid in an extra supply of candy for them—and on up the hill to the boardinghouse. The boarders had pushed Ruby Lampham's bed against the upstairs window and gathered round to watch Mr. Burroughs and Mr. Rampey, in sheets and horrible "dough-faces," leap out of the hedges and scare hell out of the kids.

  It was freezing cold, and I was coming home from the picture show at a brisk half-trot, hands pocketed and shoulders hunched against the wind. It had been a triple horror feature, with two free passes to everyone who could sit through all three shows, and I couldn't pass that up. Em could. He sat home with the footlocker leaned against the door and the lamp turned up full wick.

  Passing the courthouse, I heard a cherrybomb go off, and two boys came across the square with a policeman hot behind them, holding his flapping holster and hollering for them to stop. There would be the usual vandalism: broken windows and sugared gas tanks. A few roughnecks to be claimed at the police station in the morning. A warning editorial.

  I stopped at Bullard's bicycle shop to read the signatures on his window. Old man Bullard's plate-glass window had survived generations of Halloweens through an unspoken agreement with the town's youngsters. While other merchants grumbled and swore at the graffiti they found on their windows, Mr. Bullard provided soap chips on his sill, and left the scribblings up, the clean ones anyway, until the next rain washed them away. Gradually the slogans were replaced by signatures, and it became a ritual; kids came from across town, from the Ape Yard, to sign Mr. Bullard's window. The names changed as generations grew up and moved away, most never to be heard from again, nor have their names appear in public again; but for that one brief time between Halloween and rain they stood on Bullard's window in downtown Quarrytown for all the world to see. I scribbled my name in a small space in the lower corner and stood back to look at it, wondering how long it would be before the next rain.

  Then, with a curious sensation building inside me, I reached down my sleeve and rubbed it out. I wouldn't leave myself at the whim of any rain, and my name, after all, belonged to me. I puzzled over it for a moment, surprised at my own reaction, then decided I didn't really care why I had done it. I had done a lot of things lately that I couldn't really explain; I was acting more from feeling now than from thought, and was more comfortable than I had been in a long time. I shrugged and turned away, then came back and pocketed a few soap chips from the ledge. We were running low.

  Crossing over the railroad ramp to start down into the Ape Yard, I thought I heard something, and stopped and turned my ear to the wind. There was nothing. The yellow lights glowed along the hollow. Perhaps it was the wind blowing out of the Ape Yard.

  Then I heard it again. Sirens. From the rear, far off beyond the warehouses. Then another sound came to me, a ripping motor, behind the warehouses and closing fast. It grew louder and louder until suddenly a motorcycle burst from between the buildings. It turned hard onto Railroad Street with skidding wheels and came blasting straight up the ramp. I dived and rolled down the embankment as it shot by me, bucketed over the railroad tracks, and went dipping down into the Ape Yard. I scrambled to my feet to catch sight of it, to be sure of what I had seen. Sure enough, the driver was dressed head to foot in a glowing red devil's costume!

  The sirens came howling out of the buildings and police cars roared over the railroad tracks and went after him, their red lights whipping the darkness. But I knew they would never catch him. The devil was already out of sight, running without lights, and the Ape Yard paths led a dozen ways up into the hills.

  I continued on my way, and as I drew close to Twig Creek I could see they had already lost him. The patrol cars were cruising, red lights topping a rise and descending, the sirens still. At the iron bridge at the bottom of the hollow a police car pulled up beside me and stopped.

  "What you doing down here, boy?"

  "Going home—I'm taking a short cut."

  "Where you been?"

  "To the picture show."

  "You see a motorcycle come by here?"

  "One passed me up at the railroad, but I ain't seen him since."

  The policeman turned and repeated it for his partner. "Well, you get on home. Got no business down here this time of night."

  "Yes, sir."

  They drove off, and I stood stock still. I was looking straight at the devil.

  He was lying in the shallow creek, pinned on his back under his motorcycle and struggling to keep his head above water.

  I jumped off the bridge and splashed through the freezing current. The rider was clutching a rock and trying to kick off the bike, gasping and sucking for breath in the clinging hood. I ripped it off, and when I saw the face, the devil himself would have been less of a shock.

  "Phaedra Boggs!"

  "The rear wheel, damnit, try and lift it up!"

  I tried. It wouldn't budge. It was the largest motorcycle I had ever seen, and it was jammed solid. She put a foot against it and we both strained. I knelt in the water and tried to dig under it, and felt it wedged so tightly in the rocks I knew we would never get it off. "I've got to get help," I said. "Can you hold on?"

  "Hurry," she said, "hurry."

  I splashed up the bank, my mind racing. The nearest place was Dirsey's. I ran down the hill and crossed over two streets to the back road that led to the river. I burst in, and the first person I saw, morosely draped on the bar, was Jayell Crooms.

  "Jayell! Come quick, it's Phaedra!"

  "What?" He blinked at me. "What is it, boy?"

  "Phaedra Boggs, she's going to drown!"

  The truck screeched to a halt on the bridge and Jayell and I hit the water together. Phaedra was almost under, but fighting, throwing her head, cursing and spewing water and holding on like a demon. Jayell dived under and wrapped his arms around the rear wheel and groaned with the effort and the pain he must have felt in his leg. Still he strained, backing and digging in the bottom. I grabbed on and tried to help him twist it, still to no avail. Roaring with frustration, Jayell heaved and struggled, then suddenly slipped and fell, but the weight and twisting motion loosened it from its bind. We grabbed it again, and with Phaedra off the bike pushing hard with her free foot, we finally wrenched it away. Jayell got an arm under her back and lifted her up, and they stood clinging to each other.

  Shivering, Phaedra said, "Damned pot-holedy bridge."

  "Can you walk?"

  "Yeah, but take it slow."

  We made our way to the bank. They were both limping so badly I had to pull them out. Jayell sat Phaedra on the running board and painfully knelt to feel her ankle. "I don't think it's broke," she said. "Probably just sprained." He ripped open the satiny pants leg and exposed a gaping cut across her calf. He tore a bandage off his shirt and tied it up. "We'd better get you to a doctor," he said.

  "For a little cut? Naw, just get me home." She hugged herself, her whole body was shaking.


  I saw a red light cruising along the ridge. "You better take that costume off," I said.

  "Never mind that, let's get out of here."

  We drove along the creek road past the last row of houses and the smelly Poncini quarry, then Jayell turned up through the pine thicket toward the cemetery. At the edge of the sedgefield Phaedra ordered him to stop. "I can make it the rest of the way on foot. Don't want to risk waking Mama."

  But she was limping so bad she had to stop and rest on the first tombstone. Jayell got out and went to help her, but he was in as bad shape as she was. "If you two come rustling and scraping out of the cemetery that way you're just going to get yourselves shot," I said.

  I got between them and Jayell clapped me on the head. "Early boy, where'd we be without you?"

  The Boggs house was dark except for the light from the living-room shade. "What about your old man?" said Jayell.

  Phaedra gritted her teeth. "No worry, tonight's his night with his woman in Little Holland. Just go slow and don't make noise."

  The back door was unlocked. Phaedra eased it open and listened, and the three of us, trembling and breathing heavily from near exhaustion, felt our way painfully down the hall to Phaedra's bedroom.

  Once inside, Phaedra's grip loosened, and she slid unconscious to the floor.

  "Wouldn't you know," gasped Jayell, "she'd pull a stunt like that. Give me a hand."

  Together we lifted her onto the bed. I straightened her legs and got her shoes off. Jayell unzipped the clammy costume, and when I looked around I saw why she had been reluctant to take it off at the creek. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Jayell pulled it off and she lay glistening in the moonlight.

  She was a gloriously beautiful girl.

  He found some dry clothing and began drying her off, dabbing the wadded clothing over her body and gently wiping the creek mud from her hair. Her eyes came open and she lay watching him, an amused expression on her face. "Having a good time, Jack?"