The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven

by Harmony L. Courtney

Brice looked from Fritjof to Randall, and then from Randall to Tim. “Well, what say you,” he asked them as he moved to grasp his sack lunch from underneath the table. “Should we respect the man’s boundary and let him go to hell, or violate it out of love for God and pray he will forgive us later on?”

  He spoke to them as though the man had left the room, hoping he would understand their motives were not to bully him into anything, but to help him see what was before him: a choice of life or death. A choice of discovering light or continuing in the dark, unaware. A choice of belief in the true, or belief in the feelings and thoughts that roiled around in his head because of painful memories.

  Didn’t he understand they all had painful memories? Did he think that Brice and the others simply strolled into a church one day and, without qualm, accepted Jesus Christ, no questions asked?

  And that’s when it hit him.

  “I say we speak truth because of love,” Randall told him, “not because we want to disrespect him, but because his soul is worth more than a few minutes or hours or days of his anger at us.”

  “Agreed,” Tim said before taking another bite of his sandwich as Brice pulled the contents from his own lunch bag: an apple, a granola bar, a turkey on sourdough with mayo and cheddar, and a bottle of water.

  Fritjof grabbed a glass from the cabinet to the right of the sink, filled it with water, and drank it quickly; two more times, filling it and drinking it before setting the glass aside, turning the water off, and bending down to find, what Brice assumed, was something in the refrigerator.

  In the silence, the men ate and Fritjof futzed until, finally, he came back to the table with a leftovers box from the local Chinese food joint, and, with a sigh, plopped down in the chair he’d vacated. “Fine, when we’re done eating…,” he began, letting his words trail off.

  And until everyone had finished their lunch, no more words were spoken. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but neither was it a welcome one, in Brice’s opinion. It just sort of… was.

  As he swept up the crumbs from his sandwich in his hands, he considered trying yet a different tack.

  Best I can do is pray for wisdom at this point, he thought. I sure do need it… we all do.

  Thirty

  Damascus, Oregon… May 30, 2025

  “Still dunno why dey won’ lemme get ma license right yet,” Arthur grumbled to himself as he waited for the bus in the rain. “Stupid couns’lor, prolly, be my guess.”

  He hated the rain, and he hated taking the bus. So many people!

  It was like being out in the yard, but you could leave at any time. Thing was, if you wanted to get where you were going, you had to tolerate it; act like it didn’t drive you batty and make you want to run screaming off the thing.

  He hadn’t liked busses before his first stint, and these past several days since he’d been out were even worse! Too many people stank, and the crowding on some busses – awful!

  Arthur shuddered, even thinking about it as his bus pulled to a stop. He paid the fare and moved toward the back, where there was a free spot on both sides of one of the seats, and threw his backpack into the outside one while he took the window side.

  At least he could look outside today. The day before, he’d had to stand, and for nearly forty five minutes, the crowd hadn’t dissipated. Every time someone got off the bus, it seemed three more got on, until he was being elbowed and hit with book bags and it took all his might not to shove people back or scream at them.

  How dare they touch him? He was Arthur Reynolds the Third; he was the grandson of sports royalty and by definition, didn’t that entitle him to at least some respect?

  He was thankful that he didn’t swap for very many tattoos. Most of them could be hidden away in the event of interviews, like the one he was headed to today.

  Not that he relished getting a job, but it was part of his counselor’s plan for his success.

  Arthur sneered at the thought of working in a pizza parlor.

  Sure, he liked to cook, but a pizza parlor? With people milling about, and orders to be finished within certain timeframes, and angry customers who didn’t get exactly what they thought they would, and kids running all over making noise?

  He shuddered, just thinking about it.

  Best to try to clear his mind and figure out what he’d say to the guy interviewing him. He prolly isn’t as fo’givin’ an’ open as – a picture of the Andrea at the bus stop, and those three little girls with her, flooded his mind, and he began to sweat – as some people, he thought, refusing to let the thoughts continue.

  But it was too late. The young woman and her charges – it turned out, she’d adopted them from her sister, for some reason, she’d told him on the bus ride into downtown Salem – had earned a place in his heart and mind before they’d parted ways.

  Andrea had even given him an e-mail address in order to keep in touch.

  Just the thought of it made him smile for a moment before he realized his counselor probably wouldn’t approve. And neither, he guessed, would his parole officer, Percival Kennewick.

  And who had a name like Percival, anyway? Couldn’t he just go by Perry or something?

  “Mind if I sit,” he heard someone ask all of a sudden, four more stops down the road.

  He glanced over to see if the man in question was talking to him, and, indeed, he was; only, Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to make of him.

  He had on a full face of makeup, like one of the old gothers Arthur’d gone to school with and detested. Wearing a pair of bright teal and black plaid leggings underneath very holey jeans and a Needtobreathe tee-shirt, the man stood there, waiting.

  Finally, grumbling to himself, Arthur picked the bag up, as protocol dictated and allowed the young man – could he even be considered a man yet? – a seat. “Go ‘head.”

  “Thanks,” the man said. “I appreciate it. I know not just anyone would let someone like me sit next to them; too scared I might hurt them, when I’m nothing but a big ol’ puddytat, as the saying goes,” he continued, obviously not taking the hint that Arthur didn’t really want to talk. “I’m Justin.”

  He stretched out a hand covered in spider web tattooing, and Arthur looked at it a moment before deciding to shake it like a civilized human being.

  “Arthur,” he said. “No pro’lem.”

  What you mean, no pro’lem, he told himself. ‘Course it be a pro’lem!

  “Well, Arthur, it’s nice to meet you. Hope you’ve been having a great day,” Justin said quite cordially, which startled Arthur.

  How was this man so polite and in sync with decorum, and yet dressed like some sort of freak?

  “Yeah,” he said, then returned his gaze out the window, hoping Justin would get the drift this time.

  The pair fell into silence on the bus that was quickly filling to standing room only, with people on their phones and listening to music and talking loudly in groups and pairs all around them.

  Arthur was relieved when his stop came, and he dinged the bell just in time to make it, making sure to grab his backpack on the way.

  “See you around,” Justin called after him. “So nice to meet you.”

  Arthur didn’t reply as he pushed his way through the standing people, for the second time in a week, elbowing someone in order to get their attention so he could get out before the driver pulled away from the curb again. He walked across to stand at his next stop, in front of an old Plaid Pantry.

  Here, the bus shelter was already full, and he stood under the eave of the store in order to try not to get soaked in the downpour that was now going to most assuredly ruin his jacket before he made it to the pizza place three more miles down the road.

  At least, if he got turned down for it because of the weather, he wouldn’t have to put up with all the things he didn’t like about working at someplace like that.

  He’d rather work at a Hilton in the dining room, or maybe even something like a restaurant a bit downgrade from there. But a pizza shop? No way
!

  Not if he had anything to do with it, without purposely messing it all up.

  He well couldn’t afford to have a report going back to Kennewick or his new post-prison counselor, Morgan T. Meriwether.

  The man was a bear, and not just because he was big and hairy.

  The bus pulled to a stop, splashing water up against those closest to the curb, to their consternation. The man in line in front of Arthur flipped his hands around, splashing him and nearly hitting him in the belly. It was all Arthur could do not to pummel the guy.

  Can’t be doin’ nothin’ gonna get me back where I been, he reminded himself at the last second. He unclenched the fist holding his ticket and showed the driver – an elderly little black man with big, sparkling grey eyes and a snowy bush of hair – before stepping further into the bus, only to find that, as usual, it was crowded.

  It’s da Powell – a’course it be a crowd, he thought. Had been as long as he remembered, but at least the driver stopped. Sometimes, in the past, he recalled when they didn’t if it reached a specific capacity. With these longer busses, there was room for six more seats and as many more could stand on them, too.

  More stinking bodies; more perfumes and colognes mixing together; more gas; more people talking on their phones – causing the people around them to have holographic images stacked on top of them, which did Lord knows what sort of cellular damage; more teenagers talking smack, and adults, also.

  Arthur pushed his way outside when he arrived at his stop and walked a third of a block to the pizza parlor, which he’d not even heard of until a few days prior. One of those fancy new restaurants that made themselves look like they’d been there forever, Paulie’s Pizza Palace was far from what he expected.

  Instead of the everyday pizza joint of his youth, Paulie’s was nearly immaculate. There were no children running around to play video games because there weren’t any. Only twelve tables and six booths, well-spaced.

  And there wasn’t a jukebox, though he could spy some sort of radio playing fifties music in the background near the restrooms, the doors of which had shadow portraits underneath which were the designation for each, men and women.

  He knew there was a fancy word for those portraits, but couldn’t for the life of him think of what it was. Not that he’d ever been able to pronounce it.

  “I be lookin’ for a Ben’dict Shiloh,” he said when he’d walked back to the counter. “Guy name Kennewick sent me come meet wit’ ‘im,” he explained to the thin dark-haired teenager behind the counter bearing the nametag Rosa Grace.

  She smiled shyly at him a moment before turning away and calmly walking toward where he could see the ovens were. She whispered in the ear of a guy who couldn’t be more than twenty-two, tops. He was blonde, with dark eyes and a round frame, Arthur could tell from where he stood that his black and white striped apron was sullied by flour – and who knew what else – as the man approached him.

  He wiped his hands off on a black and white checkered towel just before stopping in front of Arthur.

  “Mr. Reynolds,” the man said jovially, sticking out a hand. “So glad you could make it. Mr. Kennewick assured me you’d be perfect for the position, so I held it open an extra day in order to talk with you before I made a final decision.”

  Arthur looked at him askance a moment before taking the pasty-looking hand, still covered a bit in flour, in his darker one to shake.

  Had he seriously waited just to speak with him, or was he putting Arthur on?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Rosa Grace move to turn the radio off, and then, other than the quiet conversations of a few couples and trios, it was silent. But it only made things more difficult because the music in his head grew to where he could hear it, causing a distraction he hadn’t prepared for.

  It had begun as he’d waited for the second bus, but because of all the noise, he wasn’t so sure until just now, and it worried him.

  Would Mr. Shiloh think he was crazy, like most of the people who had worked at the prison had, or would he not even care one way or the other.

  Realizing suddenly that he had yet to reply, he thanked the man for his time and followed him to the furthest booth on the north side of the building.

  “I be hones’,” he told Mr. Shiloh. “All Kennewick tole me was its cookin’ up in da back of a pizza parlor. Can you temme more ‘bout it?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Reynolds, I’d be glad to,” the man began. “And then I can tell you about the benefits and why your parole officer thought this would be a good fit,” he continued, smiling.

  Well, dis gotta be good, Arthur thought as he settled in to listen, trying his best to ignore the music in his head. A‘cause I got no clue on dat, neither.

  Thirty One

  Gloucester, Massachusetts… May 30, 1942

  Peter sighed as he made his way toward the old house, where Warren still lived, hoping to find him on dry land for once.

  The last three times he’d visited, he’d had to wait a day or two before Warren’s boat came back in, and once, he’d had to leave without saying hello at all, in order to not miss any work. But that’s about what he expected; he knew better than many the life of a fisherman, even if he’d never stepped into the role himself.

  He glanced at the Gafrils’ and Schwartzes old places, and memories came flooding back. As he passed Roisin Mac Bradaigh’s old place – later, old Mrs. Moira McKinney’s – a grief he usually kept in check washed over him like waves in a storm.

  He held out hope every single day for Rose and Roisin, he did… but he tried not to think too hard on the circumstances of their separation from him and his brothers; from their father.

  With the thoughts of Roisin and Rose, of course, came more focused reflection on how they’d both gone through Gram-Papa’s mirror – one by accident, and one on purpose. And to add to it, thoughts of the day they’d found poor Miss Moira frozen to death swallowed him whole, and by the time he reached the house, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  He stopped a few moments, trying to get them under control, wiping them away with the backs of his hands as he stood a few feet from the back door of the house. The light rain that had been falling since his arrival now came down harder as he approached the door, quickly turning into the kind of rain that could plaster your clothes to your back in twenty seconds flat.

  Warren had repainted the old place since he’d last visited, nearly a year ago. A fresh coat of white, with blue trim.

  Peter wondered how long it would last, given he’d painted it – on average – every five years just because he needed a change. But then refused to move away from the last place their sister stepped foot in, too, because the change would be too much for him.

  At least, stepped foot around here, Peter corrected himself. She’s out there somewhere. I know she is!

  With a solid fist, he knocked, praying Warren would answer and he wouldn’t have to go retrieve the key from underneath the third rock from the corner. The dirt would be mud before he could even get to it, if that were the case.

  “Coming,” he heard from inside, to his relief.

  But who was it? This was a female voice; a voice he was unfamiliar with.

  An older woman with dark curling hair just turning white around the perimeter – and enough lines to make a street map covering her face – greeted him.

  “Can I help you,” she asked him, her dove grey eyes measuring him up quickly.

  Peter gawked a moment before remembering his manners. “I’m looking to talk with Warren, if he’s in, Ma’am. I’m his brother, Peter. And you are…?”

  There was a long pause as he watched a myriad of emotions flitter across her face. “I’m Mrs. January Carmichael, wife of the late Reverend James Carmichael the second. I’m…” She paused, looked down, then into his eyes. “Won’t you come in?”

  Peter looked down at his dripping suit, shrugged, and moved into the room.

  Why, the whole place had been re-done, and not just
repainted! Since when had Warren the time or the money to do that?

  Of course, he didn’t have rent expenses like the rest of them, but still. Times were hard more often than not, and this must have cost several hundred dollars to re-make.

  Mrs. Carmichael ushered him into the kitchen and directed him to a chair, which she quickly protected with a towel to avoid getting too wet.

  Peter glanced around; even the kitchen looked different. And since when did Warren like oak? He’d always said he preferred darker woods and pine.

  The woman pulled a chair up toward him, ever so slowly, and then, angled her ample person into it. She looked him in the eyes a moment, looked back down, and finally took his hands in hers, startling him.

  “I knew a day would come when I’d have to say this,” she told him, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.

  Dread spread through Peter like wildfire.

  “No!”

  “I’ve had to give people bad news hundreds of times,” she stated. Her voice shook, not only with age but emotion now. “And it never gets any easier.”

  “No! Where’s Warren? I need to talk to him. There are things to discuss concerning the family. I can wait somewhere else until he’s back, if you’ll just tell me what day….”

  The words choked in his throat and he could no longer speak. He shook his head violently.

  “Your brother has been dead for nearly five months, Peter. Or, so the townsfolk told me when I started renting this place. A Mr. Thomas Hilliard at the bank has been holding the income to be divided between you and… you and your siblings and children. Mr. Hilliard explained that your brother’s will clearly stated it be rented out and the funds collected for five years before anything else happens to the property. Something about a woman named Rose?”

  She gave him a quizzical look as she grew silent.

  Did she really think that because she told him that Warren was dead, he’d just… believe her automatically? And did she think he’d tell her about Rose, simply to satisfy her curiosity?

  He shook his head again, glanced down at her hands on his, and shook them off, standing quickly.