Angel Landing

by Alice Hoffman

  Finn did not go back to his apartment; and although he drove past his parents’ house in Harbor Heights, it was just to make certain that his father’s Buick was in the driveway. Finally, he wound up at a Burger King on Route 18, where he ordered a hamburger; but he found he could not eat, he couldn’t even chew. He wished that he had somewhere to drive to, or that something special would happen, so that the feeling he had when the purple smoke filled the sky wouldn’t go away. But he had nowhere to go, so he drove his Camaro to the service road alongside the Long Island Expressway. Because he had no one to race, he drove alone at seventy miles an hour, at eighty; the tires screamed when he made a fast U-turn and dust covered his windshield. And even though the heater in the car was broken, Finn slept in the Camaro that night. He pulled off the road, parked in the dirt, and covered himself with the blanket he kept in the truck to put under the tires whenever the car got stuck in snow or mud.

  He rested in the back scat, a gypsy, a thief. Although the traffic on the expressway was like a moving lullaby, Finn hardly closed his eyes. In the morning, he drove to Harbor Heights. He drove there every Thursday, giving his father a lift to work, so that his mother could have the car one day each week. It was the same as any Thursday morning. The only difference, when Finn pulled up to his parents’ house that morning, was a patrol car in the driveway parked next to his father’s Buick.

  Finn didn’t think twice, he didn’t even imagine an escape. He parked on the street and got out of the Camaro. He walked up the gravel driveway, past the patrol car, past the Buick. Pieces of old engines Danny Finn had taken apart but never put back together again were scattered over the brown lawn like vines. The walk to the front door had never seemed so long, Finn’s steps never sounded so quiet. And, if he had thought faster, Finn could have run then. He could have slipped behind the wheel of the Camaro and taken off to New Jersey; he might have gotten as far as Canada. He could have let his beard grow, and changed his name. But Finn did not think that way; his thoughts were too hazy and too slow.

  Danny Finn was waiting for him when Michael Finn walked up the porch steps and opened the glass door. When Finn looked past his father, he could see his mother and two uniformed officers drinking mugs of coffee at the Formica table. Still he did not panic. He felt nothing at all, except for the tightness he often had inside his chest, as if something pulled at his heart.

  “Now you’re going to get it,” Danny Finn said, and he kept a cigarette between his lips, so that when he spoke his breath was hot. “I don’t know what you’ve done, but if you’ve done anything at all, if you’ve fucked up, I’m going to let you have it.”

  Finn didn’t answer; he couldn’t. He wondered if he was slowly disappearing.

  “I’m going to make you sorry that you ever lived,” Danny Finn said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

  But Finn saw his father’s arm move. He knew Danny Finn’s punch, and he had picked up his timing from the beatings he had had as a boy. And so, Michael Finn was able to sidestep out of his father’s aim, and Danny Finn put his fist right through the door. The crash surprised both men; they stood watching as bits of glass fell on their shoes. Danny Finn’s cut hand spilled blood onto the pile carpeting and both men watched the blood as if it were an intruder. Neither of them moved; not even when one of the officers ran over and tied his handkerchief around Danny Finn’s hand.

  “We just want to ask your son a few questions,” the officer said as he kicked away pieces of glass. “That’s all. Nothing to get excited about. We’ll be questioning every welder sooner or later.”

  Neither man answered; neither moved. The sky was gray and pink, and down by the harbor, where the gates of the power plant stood, two construction workers were absent. And as if they had made a pact, these men did not look at each other, not even as Michael Finn was taken away.

  FIVE

  “THE POLICE QUESTIONED me for half an hour, then they let me go. But they know it was me,” Finn whispered. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Be positive,” I suggested. “A lot may depend on your attitude. If you would try and think of yourself as innocent, other people might also believe it.”

  Finn shook his head. “They’ll go over the power plant inch by inch. All the welders have been laid off for two weeks, but the company could have the plant cleaned up in two days. If they wanted to, if they didn’t need more time. They know it’s someone from the inside. They know it’s me.”

  “It could have been an accident,” I insisted. “How can they know?”

  “They’ll find the exact spot in the pipe that triggered the explosion. They’ll find my initials. Then they’ll know.”

  We sipped coffee; like passengers aboard a ship, we discussed the weather: storms and bombings and seas. Finn seemed without hope, totally lost in the aftershocks of his own explosion.

  “What you should do right away,” I said, “is get yourself an attorney.”

  “An attorney?” Finn smiled. “And how am I supposed to pay him?”

  “Or her,” I said. “It could be a woman.”

  “Well I couldn’t pay her either,” Finn said. “After they arrest me I’ll get a court-appointed lawyer.”

  “But you need someone special,” I said. “Someone who can handle your case; someone who can win.”

  “I could never afford someone who could win,” Finn sighed.

  Now I thought of Carter: he could still command a fortune with one telephone call, he could hire an office full of New York attorneys by selling off one small bit of Sugarland stock.

  “Soft Skies can afford an attorney,” I told Finn.

  “No dice,” Finn said. “Uh uh. I’m not getting mixed up with a group like Soft Skies. I don’t want people to think what I did was political. It wasn’t; it had nothing to do with Soft Skies.”

  “What does that matter?” I asked. “Do you want a good attorney or don’t you?” Finn shrugged. “Do you want to go to jail?” I then asked.

  “All right,” Finn said. “But how am I supposed to get in touch with Soft Skies? What makes you think they’ll be interested in me?”

  “It’s not a they. It’s a he. Carter Sugarland. And he’ll be very interested; he’ll probably be willing to pay for the entire defense.”

  Finn eyed me suspiciously. “How do you know?”

  “Carter’s a friend,” I admitted.

  “Oh,” Finn nodded. “A good friend?”

  “Yes.” I shrugged.

  “I see,” Finn said. “What do you get out of all this?” Finn now asked me.

  “I really don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “You don’t even know me. I could be a liar, I could be insane. Why are you willing to help me?”

  “Your case is one in a million,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Finn nodded.

  “Of course you’re more than just a ‘case.’ I’m interested in you, as a person.”

  “As a person, huh?” Finn smiled.

  “All right,” I said. “Having you as a client would be great for my professional reputation.”

  “Reputation,” Finn repeated.

  “I might get a promotion at Outreach,” I said. “There could be some journal articles, maybe a book—of course, only if you agreed.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Michael Finn said. He stood and stretched his legs.

  Now I was worried that I might never see him again. “If you come to my office on Tuesday I can arrange for you to meet Carter.”

  Finn ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he said. He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear. I concentrated on Finn alone; Fishers Cove might have been miles away, the field we were in could have been moving slowly in space. “I never even thought of being afraid when I installed the valve,” Finn whispered. “Never.”

  When he spoke that softly, I grew confused, I nearly forgot why I had come to meet him. I nearly forgot the articles and books; I couldn’t quite remember the importance of succeeding
at Outreach. It now seemed to me that I was there in the field because I wanted to be there; I needed to be comforted. I needed to talk just as much as if I’d been wanted for a crime, just as much as Finn.

  Finn had gathered the coffee cups together. Now he shook his head, and as he did he seemed to shake off his sadness as well. He turned to me and said, “It’s late.”

  “It is,” I agreed. I wanted time to move backward so that the night could be just beginning, so that there was nowhere else I would have to be. I had gotten lost in Finn’s sorrow, in every word he had said; I wondered how it could be possible for me to ever find my way back.

  “Do you want me to walk you home?” Finn asked.

  “Better not,” I said. “A therapist and a client are supposed to meet only in the office.”

  Finn nodded. “All right.”

  “Don’t forget Tuesday,” I said as Finn walked away so quickly that he seemed to disappear before his shadows had passed over the beer bottles and the fallen leaves. “Good night,” I called, not knowing whether he could hear.

  I walked through town, past the shuttered library, past Ruby’s Café. When I reached Minnie’s the porch light was still on. Even though the wind was strong, I stayed out on the porch for a while. Finn might have gone home to his apartment, or he might have decided to park his Camaro on some deserted beach, he might be looking at the same stars that I looked at. From where I stood on the porch, I could see through the lace curtains into the parlor; it was nearly midnight, but Minnie was still awake.

  She sat in the easy chair, her feet stretched out in front of the fire in the wood stove. She was waiting up for me the way she had done ten years before. That was the last summer I spent at Minnie’s, I was eighteen, far too old for the curfew Minnie imposed on all her nieces and nephews.

  “You’re home,” she would say when I sneaked in the door at one or two in the morning. “Finally,” Minnie would say with a sniff.

  I turned the key in the lock and walked inside, expecting an argument. Minnie would ask me where I’d been; I would inform my aunt that I simply refused to be treated as I had been ten years earlier. I paid eighty dollars a month for my room; not a fortune, still, I expected some privacy. But when I stood in the hallway and hung up my coat, Minnie didn’t rush from her chair to accuse me for my late hours. There wasn’t a sound from the parlor; Minnie must not have heard me come in.

  I went to the parlor doorway and looked in. The fire in the stove had burned down low; Minnie’s shoulders were hunched over, tears ran down her face. Immediately, I retreated to the entrance hallway; I had walked in on too private a time, I had seen too much—much more than Minnie would have ever allowed. I went to the door, opened it, then slammed it shut. I wanted to give my aunt time to collect herself; I would come in again, I would avoid her tears.

  “Minnie,” I said after I had slammed the door shut. I thought I could hear her moving. “I’m home,” I said loud.

  “That’s nice,” Minnie called from the parlor. “That’s fine.”

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” I asked as I threw my coat around, creating as much noise as I possibly could, arranging it so that my aunt and I would not have to meet face to face. “How about some tea?” I called. I had never before seen Minnie cry; I had not imagined that she could. Even when Uncle Alex died, she had stood stoically at the gravesite.

  “I don’t want anything,” Minnie said from the parlor. “I’m reading a novel. Historical. About the Greeks.”

  My aunt was lying; there had been no book on her lap, only a white linen handkerchief. And Minnie never read novels, historical or not. “All right,” I called to my aunt. “I’m going upstairs.”

  I put my hand on the banister and then stopped; I could see Minnie’s profile, she looked like any one of the old women I had seen earlier, at the Mercy Home.

  “Good night,” I said. I didn’t want to leave her alone, but I didn’t want to force Minnie to explain her tears any more than I would want to explain the confusion which had been growing from the moment Michael Finn appeared behind the bleachers. “Good night,” I called again.

  “Yes, yes,” Minnie answered, her voice urging me to hurry, to get up the stairs before any questions arose, before we had to confront each other. “Very good. I’ll see you in the morning.” Minnie sounded as if she could not wait to be alone once more, then she would hold the linen handkerchief to her cheek, she would return to whatever thoughts kept her awake at such a late hour.

  I went right to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Between the sheets, beneath the quilt Minnie had stuffed with goose feathers, I tossed and turned; I could hear the waves in the harbor as clearly as if water were rising right outside my door. Somewhere Michael Finn slept uneasily; and here, in our tall house at the end of Main Street, something was happening, to Minnie and to me. That may have been the time I should have rushed back downstairs; I could have returned to the parlor, thrown my arms around Minnie and wept with her, I might have borrowed her handkerchief and asked for some comfort. If I had gone back, Minnie might have confessed some bad dream, and when her new tears washed over me I could have dried them.

  There was nothing I wanted more than sleep; I would not have even minded dreams. But I couldn’t seem to erase Minnie’s tears, or the sadness that had lined Michael Finn’s face. If I could have drifted off beneath the heavy feathered quilt Minnie had sewn years before I had ever come to Fishers Cove, I might not have been overtaken by a terrible feeling of being alone. There was no point counting sheep, and not even warm milk and honey would have helped; what was to happen had already begun.

  ON ICE

  ONE

  THE NEXT WEEK THE HARBOR froze solid. Sailboats and sloops were caught until the spring thaw, the ferry to Connecticut would not sail again until April. Winter settled, the tulips and orange day lilies seemed buried forever beneath the soil. Slowly the temperature began to drop; and on the day I told Carter I knew who had bombed Angel Landing III, there was the threat of the first snow.

  Carter was recuperating from the demonstration he had organized; protesters had been forced back by barbed wire and mace, and Carter had been one of a dozen members of Soft Skies who had been arrested. The protesters had been released after forty-eight hours, on bail posted by one of Carter’s attorneys. When the other Soft Skies workers had gone home, to New Hampshire and Manhattan, Carter stayed on, planning the next attack on the power plant and nursing the wounds barbed wire had left on his skin. That morning I arrived at the Soft Skies office at eight-thirty; I unlocked the door with my key and found Carter still asleep on the mattress on the floor. He had slept in his clothes, and because the radiator in the office was faulty he had wrapped himself in two army blankets. When I sat down next to Carter on the mattress I noticed that he had forgotten to remove his glasses.

  “Carter,” I whispered, “wake up.”

  Carter opened one eye; his glasses were smudged, he smiled slightly. “Waffles,” he guessed. “You brought me waffles.”

  “When did you eat last?” I asked. The office had no refrigerator or stove, and Carter usually ate potato chips and cottage cheese. Occasionally he heated a can of soup or beans over the flame of a cigarette lighter.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Carter said, pulling me toward him.

  “It’s eight-thirty,” I said. “I have to be at work in fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s enough time,” Carter nodded. “Come into bed.”

  “Listen to me,” I whispered. “I know who the bomber is.”

  “Did you bring your diaphragm with you?” Carter asked.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I’ve set up a meeting for you with the man who bombed the power plant.”

  Carter sat up and adjusted his glasses. “You know who the bomber is?” he asked.

  “I do,” I confessed, embarrassed that I had known for a week without telling Carter. But something had kept me from sharing Finn with anyone, including other workers at Outreach, and Minn
ie, and most of all, Carter.

  “The bomber just happened to come to you?” Carter asked. “He just walked into Outreach and said, ‘I have to talk to someone’?”

  “That’s right,” I nodded.

  “Holy shit,” Carter said. “I’d better hurry.” He jumped up and started looking for his shoes.

  ‘You can’t meet him until four-thirty,” I said.

  “But that’s not for hours,” Carter said.

  “I can’t help it,” I explained. “That’s the time Finn and I agreed on last week.”

  Carter stared at me. “Last week?” he said. “Last week?”

  I cleared my throat, I shifted my position on the mattress. “That’s when I first met him,” I admitted.

  “You’ve known all this time?” Carter said.

  “Listen to me,” I said, “we’re talking about an extreme paranoiac. I worked hard to convince him to meet with you.”

  “All right, all right,” Carter said. He sat down on the mattress and put his arm around me. “I know you wouldn’t intentionally keep anything from me.”

  I looked the other way; the truth was I didn’t want to share Finn with Carter.

  “Where can we meet?” Carter asked.

  “Outreach,” I suggested.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Carter said. “We’ve got to find a place where nobody knows us. Down by the harbor?”

  “Not there,” I said. Our words would get lost beneath the gulls’ cries and the waves; there was too much open space there, Michael Finn could run away.

  “The Cove Theater,” Carter smiled. “That’s it. Perfect.”

  “A theater?” I asked.

  Carter got up and leafed through an issue of the Fishers Cove Herald. “The early show,” he said. “It begins at four-thirty-five.” He came back to me and held both my hands. “I can’t believe this,” he said. “You’re wonderful. I don’t know how you set this all up.”

  “I just want to warn you,” I said, “before you get too excited. He’s not political.”