The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

  Mr. Vandroogenbroeck – who always insisted Lovan call him, simply, Daan – smiled empathetically, his caramel brown eyes softening as he shifted them from the computer screen back to Lovan. “You weren’t aware that a…” his eyes drifted back to the screen… “an Edward and Paloma Stuart, whom I believe you know, yes?”

  “Yes,” Lovan said, with a start.

  “Yes, they came and spent many hours with your father recently. And with good results once he was able to articulate his feelings in an appropriate manner. The first day, he came to me panicked afterward, but when they arrived again…”

  The counselor let his voice trail off.

  “I think the time of visitation and conversation put a few things in perspective for him. I am not at liberty to disclose what was discussed, but I wanted you to be aware, in the event that either your father, or the Stuarts, mention the event. And with your father up for parole in less than a month, I thought it would be best for you to know this.”

  Lovan shook his head, trying to take the information in.

  Edward and Paloma had traveled across the state, in the cold and ice, the snow and rain and sleet, to come speak with Quentin Quimby? Seriously?

  And things had gone well?

  “I, um…”

  What was there to say?

  “Thank you for letting me know. And, um… I don’t know if you’re allowed to tell me this or not, but where will he be released to,” he continued, still trying to take the news in.

  “That, you’ll have to ask your father. And if we hurry, you’ll have time,” the man said, glancing up at the clock. “You can still do in the first set of visiting hours. He had a class this morning, but it was cancelled.”

  “I, um…” Well, he’d already said that. “Thank you. I think I will. I appreciate….”

  “No problem, yes,” the man said with a smile. He stood, and Lovan followed suit, shaking his hand. Mr. Vandroogenbroeck escorted him back to the lobby, saw that he was added to the visitor’s list, and said his goodbye.

  “Hey, Kid,” his father said as father and son hugged, and moved to sit down in their respective rows. “Sho wasn’t ‘spectin’ you today.”

  Lovan smiled at his father, who looked like he had, indeed, been doing well. His eyes were brighter, and his hair recently rebraided, but several inches of it had been removed. The braids were no longer flat against his head, and small, but larger, and straighter, which added to his look of confidence.

  “Well, Daan called me yesterday and wanted to talk with me, so I figured, I’m here, I may as well say hello. He told me you’re being released soon, but said you’d have to tell me where to,” Lovan answered in greeting.

  “Well, I be stun, Son… I done aksed Mr. Whatshisname ta call ya last week, but I be glad he finely did,” his father told him. “And as for where I be goin’, Arthur’s sister, Pam’la an’ her husban’ Josh – you know them Anderson’s, ain’tcha? They ‘most never talk wit’ Arthur, but been writin’ me kinda reg’lar the las’ year. Well, since they ain’t got no kids, they says I can come stay wit’ them, ‘least ‘til I can get into housin’ of my own. I’m on a list fo’ a shelter, but Whatshisname won’t release me there.”

  Lovan clasped his hands together a moment before replying. How was it that Josh and Pam Anderson had crept into their lives? They were a wonderful couple, and he was thankful for this bit of news, though, why hadn’t his father told him earlier than this? Or why had the Andersons not contacted him directly?

  “That’s great, but… a shelter?”

  Lovan’s heart began to race, just at the thought, and he shivered. Memories of their time in California and New York rushed in on him, and he cringed.

  He remembered, in particular, the day they left, finally having enough money together to move from one state to the other, via Greyhound. The station had smelled of vomit, and they’d had to traverse gang territory to get there, stopping only at the McDonalds across the way to grab something to eat before loading their meager belongings up and waiting for their boarding call.

  Because of his father’s drug habit and resultant jail time, Lovan had had to stay, not for the first time, with people they barely knew; he wasn’t allowed alone in the shelter. Though they had tickets to go, his father had ended up overnight, their last night in Los Angeles, in the slammer. Something about being drunk in public.

  The man who ran the shelter they had been in at the time had been adamant that Lovan not stay alone, and so, one last time, he’d stayed on the streets with three men, a doberman, and a cocker spaniel, taking turns sleeping and keeping watch in a park, sometimes hearing the rapid sounds of gunfire.

  “Well, sometimes, them’s the breaks. I know you ain’t got no fond mem’ries o’ them from our California days, Son, but it ain’t gonna be that bad. The shelter just, sort of… a transition. Got me on a waiting list for an apartment, an’ my number’s ‘bout there, too. Might not even have to go to no shelter a’tall.”

  Still, Lovan shivered. The memories flooding in on him were too much, and he began to feel ill.

  “Well, at least there’s Pam and Josh’s,” he finally said. “Maybe, if you’re really good, they’ll let you stay. Maybe…” He let his words run out, as though he had no more. And at the moment, he didn’t.

  “Time will tell, Lovan,” his father said, attempting a smile as he leaned to put his elbows on his knees. “But, hey, at least I’ll be outta here. I gots until April Fool’s Day, and I’m gone, headin’ back to Portland. And in time, mebbe I’ll get up enough so we can be a fam’ly again. I gots a job lined up, and I’m clean now. Been clean,” he said quietly.

  “Doing what,” Lovan wanted to know.

  “Well, you ‘member when I done took them classes in California? Learnin’ ‘bout all sorts of things? Well, some of ‘em were cookin’ classes, and a buddy of mine got me a job helpin’ in a kitchen. Can’t be no cook at first, but with more classes, I could be,” his father told him, smiling, his eyes shining again.

  “Cooking?”

  “Yeah. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with cookin’, is there?”

  “No, but, I just thought….”

  “Well, listen, Mister I Just Thought, it’s a job, and it’ll help bring you an’ me ta be fam’ly again. I hope ya see I be tryin’ an’ not just foolin’ ‘roun’ with my life. I’s taken classes inside, too. Not just them outside, an’ iffen I gots ta, there are other things I c’ do for a secon’ job, or somethin’ differ’nt, but I likes cookin’… keeps my thoughts where they gotta be, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Lovan nodded.

  He was happy for his father, he was.

  But he’d just moved to be closer to him, and now he was leaving again, back to the other side of the state? It just wasn’t fair.

  He didn’t care about the cooking, it just surprised him. In fact, he thought it was pretty cool… at least it’ll keep his mind straight, Lovan thought. Or so he says.

  “So, what were Edward and Paloma doing here,” he asked, shifting the topic. “Your counselor said that-“

  “Well, what bus’ness is it of his to tell you who come to see me in here? Ain’t like everythin’ in my life gotta be broadcast back, is it,” his father said, sitting back up against the chair back, just a little too quickly, at the turn of conversation. “We just talked some to get a few understandins; that was it; surprise me, but nothin’ big.”

  “Um…”

  “What?”

  The tension between them rose, and Lovan moved to stand.

  “Oh, so now you leavin’? You can’t jus’ leave wit no esco’t,” his father said.

  “I’m getting candy.”

  Lovan moved away from his father, wishing he could just… run. Since he’d moved to Pendleton, he had taken jogging up as a way to alleviate frustration, but when he needed it most – while talking to his father – there was no hope for it. He was stuck, for now.

  He took some of the coins from his pocket; pressed them into the machin
e, and bought a Snickers. He pushed more through the slot, continuing until he also had two Reece’s Peanut Butter Cups, another Snickers, and then, at the next machine over, a 7-Up.

  If he was going to have to deal with his father when he was being difficult, he wasn’t going to do it without a boost.

  He tucked the Snickers bars and a Reece’s into his pocket, then slowly walked back toward his chair. When he got close, he glanced at the clock.

  Twenty more minutes.

  He sighed, slipping back into the little plastic chair he’d vacated, popped the soda top and took a long swig. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, but he no longer cared.

  If Quentin Quimby wasn’t talking, then neither was he… not as much. Sure, he’d play his father’s game, but not without a fight.

  “Actually,” the man said, clearing his throat. “For the most part, they came to say how prouda you they were. They said… they said you was kinda the one got them prayin’ fo’ me, an’ I ‘preciate that, Son. For real.”

  Lovan slowly unwrapped his first Reece’s and ate the contents of the first half of it before answering.

  “So, they came all the way over here to tell you they were praying for you because they were proud of me? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Come on, Lovan, ya know I meant differ’nt than that. Them are two differ’nt things. Though I c’ say I be proud of ya jus’ fo’ thinkin’ o’ your ol’ man to pray fo’ him… wish I’da been a better father fo’ you, but… I hope in the future we c’ work some things out.”

  Lovan took another swig of his 7-Up and finished the second round of his first Reece’s, then pulled a Snicker bar out of his pocket nonchalantly, trying to come up with the right thing to say. He shoved the first wrapper into his empty pocket.

  “Um, thanks. I… I guess we’ll have to see how things pan out, won’t we, Pops,” he asked.

  Quentin stared at him a minute, and Lovan tried not to smile.

  At least they were getting somewhere; maybe if he kept this up, his father would disclose a bit more.

  He unwrapped the Snickers, finished off his soda, walked it to the can, sat back down, and took a bite before smiling.

  If his father wanted a standoff, he would get one.

  “They said they forgive me, too. That it wasn’t fo’ them ta be judgin’ me an’ whatnot,” Quentin told him. “An’ then, they came back an’ they spoke wit’ me even mo’ after that, which surprise me… really did. I wasn’ sure what t’ say when I seen them comin’ back, not jus’ for second visit, but fo’ the nex’ day, an’ the nex’.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Lovan thought as he took another bite of his Snickers. He pulled the other two candies from his pocket and set them on the empty chair next to him to keep them from melting too badly.

  “Man, how much candy ya eat, Kid,” his father joked, moving his elbows to his knees again. “Been a long time since I had me half that much. I don’ buy no candy, but on my birthday and a’fore Christmas, usually, in here.”

  Lovan took another bite; waited until he was finished with it, and then another, before deciding to answer.

  “So what did you talk about for all that time,” he asked, refusing to be sidetracked from the topic. “You and the Stuarts.”

  He noticed a shiver make its way through his father’s body, and waited. Someone behind Quentin whispered a pssst to him, and he moved back to listen to what was being said a moment.

  Whatever it was, Lovan couldn’t hear it.

  So, he waited.

  “Sorry, tell ‘im I’ll discuss it wit’ ‘im later,” he heard his father whisper back to the guest who had contacted him. “I be spendin’ time wit’ my son now.”

  A surge went through Lovan. Was it hope?

  Or something entirely different?

  Part Three:

  Psalms

  Twenty Seven

  Perpignan, France… February 14, 1702

  Gaspar slid the chocolate he’d hidden for his wife out from behind the pianoforte and moved toward her, the sounds of the harp drawing him nearer. As she continued to play, he moved to sit near her, the still-wrapped box in his hands. A sudden urge to sing washed over him, and he blushed.

  Had anyone heard him sing, aside from in church?

  And what would he say?

  The poem he’d written her while he was away came to mind, and, setting the chocolates down, he moved to the desk and retrieved it from the bottom drawer, unfolding it as he walked back to his seat.

  He felt Galya’s eyes on him; looked up at her. They were curious, but her smile lit up his world.

  He was thankful she had suggested the children take a holiday from their tutoring for the day. It would give he and Galya more time alone, as the childrens’ mother and aunt decided to take then to the park for a picnic lunch.

  He moved his eyes across the page; yes, it was in French, but if he could just sing it with enough feeling…

  In silence, Gaspar picked the chocolates up; set the poem down. Quickly, he removed the paper and lid, and walked toward his wife as she moved her nimble fingers upon the strings. He broke the chocolate up and offered her a piece, placing it on her tongue, before he moved to sing the poetry to her.

  “I will...,” he began. “I would like to sing something to you. It is written… I wrote it in French, but I will attempt to translate it to English. It is something I wanted to share with you on this day.”

  Galya nodded and smiled, pausing her music to listen.

  Gaspar cleared his throat, his heart beating fast within him.

  Please, God, help me to do this well. I am not one for songs sung in haste, or without good reason. I wish to do this right, he prayed quickly.

  At first, he began with humming, trying to gain a good rhythm, and then, the words flowed from within:

  With adoration comes my love

  A love I never thought I'd know

  And time has made a way for us

  A way to share life as one

  This is the answer to my prayers

  That we are one...

  That God has made a way

  Through time, through space

  And brought us together

  Has brought my heart to joy

  I no longer can contain.

  As he sang, he looked his wife in the eye, gauging her response; her understanding. And when he was finished, both had tears in their eyes.

  He waited a few moments to move, not wanting to lose the gaze of love he saw in Galya’s eyes… the tenderness and passion he saw there. And then, before he could process it, she was moving toward him; her arms were wrapping around him, her lips pressing against his.

  And he dropped the paper to hold her tight; to return her kiss, to gently walk her toward the couch even as they continued to hold each other. They needed to talk, but right now, he just wanted to allow this moment of closeness; this moment of tenderness to meander and blossom.

  Not that he expected it to go further than where it was, but it was nice, knowing she was appreciative. He had sweat and bore tears over the writing, and put his heart into it… possibly more than into anything he had ever written before, and he was thankful.

  “Merci,” she finally said as they sat, clasping hands. “I… I do not know what to say. I’m… I’m humbled.”

  Galya’s cheeks flushed prettily, and she smiled, almost shyly, as though it was their first conversation again. And in some ways, it did feel that way.

  He had opened his heart to her in ways he never thought he’d ever be able to express…. He had written his first poem; sang it to her, when he had never before considered singing to another person.

  Gaspar glanced toward the chocolate, over on the other side of the room, and sighed.

  He should have brought it with him…

  Galya’s heart began to speed up as her husband sang to her; she could tell that they were words from his heart, and it made her glad. She had occasionally wondered at what he felt, as
he said so little about his internal world, and now, at least, she had a better understanding.

  And understanding was, indeed, a wonderful gift. As much as love and adoration, in her view of things.

  She waited for Gaspar to finish his song, barely able to contain herself from squealing in delight.

  Decorum told her not to, even though her heart cried out, and so, instead, she flung herself into his arms to kiss him. And, against decorum or not… against the social ideals and tide, or not… she knew she must show him how she felt, since she had no words to explain her gratitude. She needed more than “merci” on her tongue, but was lacking in the way to say it.

  She had tried to teach him Hebrew, even a few words, and he hadn’t been able to process a lot; certainly not enough for phrases and gushings.

  Shalom- hello, goodbye, peace, or complete wholeness. Also, a name of God Almighty, and therefore only to be said in the holy places in this sense.

  He had learned yom tov- good morning. Erev tov- good evening. Yoham- today. Mahar- tomorrow. Etmol- yesterday. Ba- come. Halach- go. And while there were others, they were just as simple; just as ineffective right now for him to understand the thoughts and feelings that coursed through her.

  Words such as these could not encompass what she felt; they would not suffice to show him her thanks. And so, she had kissed him, and he had understood.

  She had kissed him, and he knew her heart had echoed the thought.

  She had kissed him, and it made up for the words she did not have a way to string together.

  Twenty Eight

  Boston, Massachusetts… February 14, 1942

  Shannen Wishart-Laurent made her way up Boylston toward Steuben’s, careful to avoid the remnants of slush that continued to line the way from the last snowfall. As she passed other places she’d visited, she reminisced, until she found the door she was looking for.