"Rebeckah," I said looking up. Without invitation, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her stiff shoulders. "Thank God you're okay."
Over my shoulder, she said to Michael, "It's been a long time, Malach."
"Rebeckah, I ..." Michael started.
"Lots of people lose the faith. I understand. It's never easy to decide to die for a cause." Rebeckah's jaw muscle twitched. "Deidre, I have a lot to do, you understand. This memorial ... it's for Daniel, as well. I hope you'll stay."
"I will. I can never repay you. Thanks."
"We knew the risks," Rebeckah said. I could see a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
My mouth opened, but I wasn't sure what to say. I intended to start talking anyway, to try to bridge the gulf between us with nonsense, babble – anything was better than the nothing that hung in the air. Michael put his hand on my shoulder, and the half-formed words evaporated. Rebeckah turned and walked away.
"Was all this pain and death part of the plan, Michael?" My voice was hoarse from all the unspoken words. I turned to glare at him, anger rising in me. "I mean, is the end going to justify all of this?"
Michael looked me in the eye, his gaze steady. "I pray it does."
I shook my head. "But you don't know, do you?"
"No." Squinting at me, he looked as though he expected an explosion.
I dropped a bomb of a different kind. "Michael, am I pregnant?"
His mouth hung open. He looked stunned.
"You can't be surprised. You can't be." My eyes narrowed. I looked him up and down, searching for some clue that he was faking his astonishment. He just stood there in the hallway, looking stupid. "You set everything up. Morningstar implied that he could ruin your plan by killing me, remember? He meant us, in the bell tower. The dream. The lily. Are you with me, Mike?"
"You're pregnant?" Michael asked, a stupid grin forming at the edges of his mouth. "Really?"
I stared at him, my mouth twisted in something combining a grimace and slack-jawed confusion. I couldn't believe he didn't have anything to do with the dream I'd had or the vision Eion had seen.
"Well," I muttered, "all the 'signs' seem to indicate I am."
Michael nodded appreciatively, not getting my reference.
"Hey," I offered sarcastically, "we could name him Emmanuel."
"What if it's a girl?" Michael looked genuinely hopeful.
It was my turn to gape stupidly into his face. "What do you mean, 'What if it's a girl?' "
"You already know its gender?" Michael shook his head in disbelief. "People certainly move fast these days. So, you've been to the doctor?"
"No, I haven't been to a doctor," I found myself shouting. "I had a fucking vision!"
The Malachim stopped to stare at us. The far-off banging of construction was the only sound in the hallway. When I looked to Michael to make our excuses, I noticed all the blood had drained from his face. When our eyes met, I saw sudden realization dawning there. I nodded my head. "Yes," I said. "Eion had the same vision."
"Oh." His voice was nearly a whisper. "Oh."
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out of the middle of the hallway. Blindly pushing the nearest door open, I all but shoved Michael into the room. It was a control booth for a theater. I could see a glass-sheathed stage through the window.
Ages ago, someone had converted this warehouse to a small theater. Rows and rows of empty seats glittered like ice-covered headstones. Fortunately, there had been no audience when the bomb hit. The stage was empty, the set only half-started or half-struck. I imagined somewhere in the cavernous backstage there was a frozen body of the technical director, caught working overtime to finish scenery for a play that, now, would never see opening curtain.
"I don't think we need worry," Michael said. "It might not be what it seems."
At first I thought Michael was talking about the theater; it took me a second to regroup. "Oh, yeah? And what makes you say that?"
"This is not the usual route ..." Michael cleared his throat noisily. "Um, Jibril is the usual herald for these things."
" 'Herald'?" I laughed. "Is that an euphemism?"
"Yes ... No. Messiahs are complicated. Some are born, but most are made."
I nodded, agreeing to myself that I didn't really want to know how messiahs worked – not right now, anyway. I had more pressing concerns. "I don't want this baby, messiah or not."
Michael chewed his lip. Noticing the Malachim working in the theater, Michael walked over to the control panel and looked out over my shoulder at them. "Okay," he said.
His hands rested on the edge of the board, and he peered intently into the theater. Hunched over the panel like that, he looked like a director – anxious, but controlled – watching every move of the actors on opening night.
My peripheral vision caught movement in the theater. Malachim in armored suits were hauling flat cardboard boxes to center stage. Though I couldn't see their faces, they moved with a sad, slow precision. Watching their work, I suddenly knew that the theater would be where the memorial service would be held.
Michael was close enough to touch. The smell of him drifted in the space between us. I breathed in deeply the aroma of leather, and something else, like heavy incense, frankincense, perhaps. The smell reminded me of church ... and sex.
"Michael, what about the baby?"
His gray eyes stayed riveted to the action on the stage, as if he were afraid to look at me as he spoke. – "I love you."
"You're an angel Michael. You have to love everybody."
"No, I don't." He grimaced at the Malachim in the theater. Then, he swung his gaze to mine. Our faces were inches apart, close enough to kiss. "I'm not talking about godly love, platonic love, or anything like that. I love you in the romantic sexual sense, Deidre, like a man loves a woman."
"You love me; I see." Despite my earlier talk, I had to keep reminding myself that Michael was an angel. When I wasn't touching him, there was nothing about him that seemed supernatural – no nimbus of light or billowing wings. Instead, he stood there in his leather and denim like any man. The light from the theater fell across the lines of his face, illuminating shapes and contours. Yet, his solidity was an illusion, and I had no idea what really lay beneath the airy shell he carried with him: was it something I could love, or was it a monster with six feathered limbs and a voice like thunder?
"Michael," I said, "show me your real face."
His gaze, which had been focused ahead, dropped to his chest. "I can't."
I nodded. "Because I couldn't handle it?"
"Because I don't have one."
"I don't understand."
"When I'm not here, I'm nothing ... everything. I'm in stasis, yet not. I'm not even a distinct me, but part of a bigger thing." As he searched for words, he scratched the back of his neck. The gesture seemed distinctly human. "It's hard to explain because it's nothing like here: there's no physical body to anchor the spirit to place and time."
"And yet you think you could love me like 'a man loves a woman'? Michael, we can't. We're not even the same species."
His eyes found mine. His dark eyebrows twitched as he searched for the right words. Finally, he said, "I haven't been back."
"Back where? Heaven?" He nodded. Though I didn't understand what he meant, the ashen cast to his face told me he was confessing to something serious. "Why not?"
"I'm afraid."
"Of what?" I tightened my grip on his arm. "Of God?"
He looked back over my shoulder at the Malachim. "I'm afraid of losing what I've gained here: a sense of self, apartness – and all that worldly life entails: having friends, enemies, lovers ... a family."
I let go of his arm, and backed away. " 'A family'?"
He smiled. "It was just a thought."
"Well, forget it. Michael, you're an angel. I'm not."
"Deidre" – his eyes pleaded with mine – "I could stay."
"Stay? What does that mean 'stay'? For me? That's a sweet sentimen
t, Michael. Really." I patted his arm gently. "But, I'm not sure I want to go down in history as the woman that Saint Michael the Archangel, Defender of the Catholic Faith, Host of Heaven, and God Incarnate quit his job for."
"I'm not God. Others can take my place."
I shook my head. "But you're the best."
He frowned, turning back to watch the Malachim preparing the theater. "That gives me less solace than it once did. The best; the best at what? Vengeance? Now you tell me I may have helped create life. Creation ... 'Who is like God?' indeed."
Michael's gaze returned to mine, and his eye glowed like a proud papa. My stomach soured. "Michael, I don't want this baby."
"You're not ready to be a mother?"
I hugged my knees. "I don't want to be the mother of a new messiah."
Michael turned around and propped himself up on the control booth. He watched me with concern, as I rocked back and forth. Finally, he said, "Okay."
"Okay? You said that before: okay what?" I stopped the rhythmical movement and unfurled my legs.
"I told you, messiahs are tricky things. My parentage doesn't guarantee anything."
"Uh-huh. I see." I tugged at the short hairs at my forehead in exasperation. "Michael, doesn't it seem a tad coincidental that I should become pregnant now, when Letourneau is claiming to be the Second Coming?" I hopped off the control panel and started pacing. My stomach felt like a spring unwinding. "When you first came into my office, you said you had proof Letourneau wasn't the new messiah, but I've never seen of heard a word of it. That's because this baby is the proof, isn't it? You said I would be revered for my role in all this when things were done. No wonder you could promise me that: I'm going to be worshiped as the holy mother."
"Sex was your idea, Deidre."
His voice was calm and almost emotionless, but the impact of his words burned me like a sword of flame. I stopped pacing to stare at him. The whole thing was my fault, just like with Daniel. When I could speak, my voice sounded like a little girl's. "I thought you said sex wasn't a sin."
"It's not." Michael leaned back against the console. "I'm just saying, it's impossible for me to have planned this pregnancy. I never intended to go to bed with you."
He smiled up at me. "I don't regret it ... I just never intended it."
"You really believe this is just a happy accident?"
He shrugged. "Deus volent."
I let out a short, exasperated huff. " 'God willing,' Michael?" My head hurt. "Shit."
Michael stared innocently at me. I couldn't even begin to formulate words for my feeling. So, I resorted to my favorite trick during emotional crises – I turned on my heels and fled.
The wood door made a satisfying slam against its frame. I could almost pretend my action had solved everything. I started walking. It felt good to be moving, doing something. I didn't really care where my feet took me, as long as it was away. I focused on movement. The feeling of my weight shifting from foot to foot, the hardwood floors under my boots, my breath coming and going – all served to center me.
"Deidre, wait!" Michael's voice followed me down the hallway.
I stopped and let him catch up. As Michael continually proved, I couldn't run away from an angel of God.
"I'm sorry," he said. To my surprise, Michael took my hand in his. It was an intimate, loving gesture, and the first touch between us that I remembered him initiating. "I'm still learning how to ... be with people."
I stared at his cool, dry hand. Squeezing firmly, I wondered if I could alter the sense of emptiness that surrounded my palms. The feeling was like clutching a hollowed-out eggshell – tough yet fragile.
"I need more than this," I said, as I let go of his hand.
"Michael?" A young man in uniform had approached us. He stood just close enough to be seen, but far enough away not to intrude. "Is that you?"
Michael clearly wanted to continue our conversation. His eyes danced back and forth between us, then finally settled on the Malach. "Matthew. Good to see you again."
Matthew looked me up and down, measuring. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Actually ..." Michael started.
"No," I finished. I reached out my hand. "I'm Deidre McMannus."
"Matthew Mahaffry." Two pumps. It was a strong, confident handshake.
"Mahaffry?" I smiled, "Irish and Jewish?"
He returned my smile with a dimpled one of his own. "It happens, but I'm not. I've got a different kind of 'family' connection to the Malachim, if you get my meaning."
I shook my head.
"Girlfriend."
He smiled.
"I'm gay."
"Oh." It was rumored that Rebeckah sheltered gays, lesbians, and other sexual deviants unwilling to renounce their lifestyles, but I'd always thought the rumors false, a smear campaign to destroy the Malachim reputation further.
"How have you been, Michael?" Matthew asked politely. "Maxine told me you'd left in the middle of the night. What happened?"
"I ran afoul of Rabbi Feinstein."
"Theologically?"
Michael nodded.
"I guess I did hear about that. Your little display was quite the talk." Matthew shrugged. "I'm surprised you left ... without saying good-bye."
As they continued to renew their friendship, I found myself staring, searching for clues. I'd never met an admittedly gay man before. If Matthew hadn't told me, I doubted I could have guessed. There was nothing about him that seemed feminine in the least. He held himself arrow-straight, none of the "warning signs" of unmanly posture. His body was slender, but not unmuscular. Matthew wore his uniform well, and I wondered if he did any actual soldiering. Most likely he did, as I doubted Rebeckah would allow anyone to tarnish the Israeli insignia by not doing their part for the Malachim cause. Rebeckah had an interesting sense of irony.
A ban of gays in the military was the first battle cry of the New Right's campaign against the Queer Nation.
The New Right claimed that the mass destruction of the war came down to a secular president's leniency toward gays during the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" years. If we hadn't left the protection of the country in the hands of a bunch of fruitcakes, they claimed, none of this would have happened – "this" meaning the Medusa bomb. And here stood Matthew in the center of the glass city wearing a uniform.
"So, Michael," Matthew was saying, "maybe I'll see you later tonight? We could go dancing like we used to."
Michael's eyes slid over to mine, which were wide in surprise. "Like we used to?" I mouthed.
Michael blushed and turned back to Matthew. "Uhm ..."
"You're welcome to come too, Deidre," Matthew said. Then, he added, "As long as you're willing to share." With a wink to Michael, Matthew waved goodbye. Over his shoulder, he said, "I've go to run ... guard duty. It was nice meeting you, Deidre."
As Matthew moved off, Michael said, "Your mouth is still hanging open."
"What?" I hadn't realized I was still staring. I tried to stop my analysis of Matthew's walk before Michael noticed, but when I pulled my eyes away, I knew it was too late. Michael grinned at me. I blinked innocently up at him. "What?"
"You're terrible." Michael shook his head, still smiling.
"Me?" I said, still reeling from the shock of Matthew's parting shot. "You're a flirt."
Michael shrugged. "Matthew appeals to me. He's very funny and sharp. He was one of the most interesting people I used to hang out with when I was here before."
"Were you lovers?"
"No," he said quietly, almost regretfully.
"Are you bisexual?"
Michael grimaced. "You say that like it's a dirty word."
"Are you?"
"Gender is a human notion. Flesh is a costume I wear. My insides are male and female – in God's image."
I looked at Michael's broad, masculine form, and said, "So ... God is okay with ... It's not a sin?" I could still see Matthew moving through the hallway. "What about, what is it, Deuteronomy? 'Two men shall not l
ie down together.' "
"There are hundreds of laws in that book. Do you follow them all?"
"No, but Rebeckah's people do."
"Yes, and Rebeckah has no trouble reconciling it."
"What are you saying?" I asked, even though I knew. Rebeckah was a lesbian. I'd suspected for a long time. She was discreet; I never saw a lover. Since she had never confirmed or denied it, I'd figured it was none of my business. Mostly, I tried not to think about her sexual preference, because politically it was a liability, and a doozie at that.
"You're the detective, Deidre. Have you missed all the clues, or just ignored them?"
"Rebeckah is smarter than to be obvious."
"So then, you knew," Michael said. "Why do you do it? What's the point of denying the truth about people?"
"To protect myself from entanglements ... and pain."
"More like just delay it." Michael grimaced.
"What would you know about it? Your life is pretty simple, Michael."
"Not anymore," Michael snarled.
It was true, so I held my tongue. Michael started strolling down the hallway, toward where a crowd was gathering. I followed to what looked like the main entrance. I could see the box office jutting out of the center of the wall, framed on either side by two double doors. Cracked projection squares, filled with holographic stills of actors in costume, spotted the walls.
The crowd of mourners snuffled quietly, waiting for the doors to open. Though a couple of people waved at Michael in greeting, he made no move to join them. We stayed in the back near a wall of holo-photos. In the dim light, the holographs flickered solemnly. Shielding my eyes from the pulsing light, I turned to face Michael.
More people had gathered, and the sound of soft sobs drifted through the hallway. "What's death like?"
He shrugged. "I wish I knew. I don't know what happens to you. I was born of pure spirit; you were forged between, a mingling of heaven and Earth. You are something less than me, yet something far greater. You are who They made in Their image. That's something I'll never comprehend, as my existence is a shadow of your own, a half of the whole."
Though his body seemed like a shell to me, it meant more to him. His body was his connection to godhood. I could see the desire in his eyes. "That's what you don't want to give up."
Archangel Protocol Page 25