An Angel On Her Shoulder

by Dan Alatorre

  An oncoming rest that God would agree was well deserved. Her eyes were closed, and there was a small smile on her lips. She was ready.

  I didn't think it would be disrespectful to talk to my mother that way. I thought it would be disrespectful to talk to her any other way.

  I think when you're at the end of your time, people owe it to you to be themselves. The masks, the show, the façades, are all done now. They owe it to you to just to be who they had always been to you their whole life.

  So I stood before my mother, holding her hand, leaning over her as she lay on what would be her death bed, and I acted the way I had always acted my whole life. I wanted to be funny and sarcastic for her. At that time, I thought she’d like to see her son the way she always knew him. Not acting some other way in her time of finality.

  I think it was a smile of appreciation, but it was certainly a smile of somebody who worked hard, who was tired, and who was ready to rest.

  I made her smile. That was my farewell gift to her.

  She was too weak to open her bright eyes, but I got to see the round face and the dimples. That smiling face, and the one in the photo years before, are the ones I would be able to carry forward with me for the rest of my days.

  That was her farewell gift to me.

  Chapter 28

  “Okay, okay, slow down.” Tyree had touched a nerve, and he knew it. “Calm down. Back up.”

  The heat drained out of my cheeks.

  “Set that conversation aside for a moment and let’s talk about something else. Let’s shift gears. Okay?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep talking at all. “Okay.”

  “You ever play a game when you were a kid, and somebody got hurt?”

  I grumbled. “Sure.”

  “Tell me about it. Tell me a time when you played and somebody got hurt—and you felt bad about it.”

  “Just, what? Anything?”

  “Tell me about the first thing that comes to your mind.”

  “Okay . . . First thing. I wasn’t even a kid. I was wrestling with the neighbor’s kid.” I didn’t know where we were going with all this. Maybe it was his method of figuring out which of his customers were bonkers and which ones weren’t.

  I decided to go along. He had earned my trust back at the parking lot, but he was on thin ice.

  “What happened with that?”

  “He was probably about ten years old. My wife’s best friend’s kid. Called me Uncle Doug, and all. I was chasing him around the house, and he slipped on the tile in the foyer and I caught him. I decided to tickle him instead of wrestle him. But when I did, he twisted to get away from me and I grabbed his hand, dislocating his finger and snapping a tendon. It ruined his chance to play basketball that season. He couldn’t shoot.”

  Tyree nodded. “Now, you said it was an accident, but you felt bad afterwards. Why?”

  “He was only a kid.” I shrugged. “It was my fault. You know those old guys who can’t straighten out their fingers because of a farm accident or something? He could have ended up like that at age ten. I felt pretty bad about that.”

  “How did things end up?”

  “Uh, he was okay,” I said. “It only messed up part of his season and his finger healed fully. He played the next year.”

  “He was able to straighten out his finger?”

  “Yeah, thank God.”

  Tyree say back in his chair, cradling his giant coffee mug in his lap. “Okay, so you could have mentioned anything, any example from your whole life. Why did you pick that one?”

  I huffed. “Gee, Doctor Freud, you said to take the first thing that came to mind. I guess it was the most recent.”

  “Really? You never played a game with your daughter that turned out wrong? Not even when she was a baby?”

  “Oh, sure, I guess so.” I pulled my soda a little closer but didn’t take a drink. “But nothing comes to mind. I mean, we had other things happen that we felt guilty about, like when she fell off the couch and hit her head . . .”

  “You didn’t feel bad about that?”

  “Sure I did. But it was an accident.”

  “The thing with your nephew wasn’t an accident?”

  “It was! But it was different. I felt bad because I caused it.” I thought for a moment. “And because I should have known better. He was just a poor innocent kid who got hurt by an adult who was acting like an idiot. From somebody who should have been watching out for him.”

  Tyree nodded again. “You didn’t feel bad about your daughter falling off the couch and hitting her head? What’s more innocent than a baby?”

  My cheeks grew hot. I looked down. “I felt terrible about that, but it was different.”

  “How so?”

  “It was an accident, but I didn’t cause it.”

  “You make that distinction?” Tyree asked. “Between causing it and letting it happen?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. It sounded accusatory.

  “I didn’t let it happen.” I shifted on my seat. “She was sitting near me, then she leaned back and rolled off the couch. Nobody expected that. It was an accident, but it was different . . .”

  “Okay. I agree.” His tone was flat, his posture upright and rigid. In command. “Now, back to your nephew. You said that you felt bad afterwards because you should have known better . . .”

  “Right. I felt guilty.”

  “Okay, right. Guilty.” He narrowed his eyes. “What if you hadn’t felt guilty?” If you couldn’t feel guilt. What would you have felt?”

  Nothing came to mind. It was the opposite of when somebody says, ‘Don’t think of an elephant’—an elephant is what leaps to mind. Here, the question vacated my reasoning ability. “I don’t know.”

  “Anger?”

  “Anger? No.” I thought about it. “Embarrassed.”

  Tyree dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Embarrassment is part of feeling guilty. What if you couldn’t feel guilty? If you could not feel guilt, what would you have felt?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe empathy.”

  “That’s still part of guilt.”

  “Well, if I couldn’t feel guilt—if I couldn’t feel guilt at all—then I guess I don’t have an answer.” I was confused. “I wouldn’t feel anything about what happened.”

  “Not the way we understand feelings, anyway,” Tyree said. “Who would not feel guilty over hurting an innocent person?”

  “Nobody . . .” I began. “I mean, you know, a psychopath maybe. But not a human being with normal feelings.”

  Tyree raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe just not a human being.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you even heard the saying about angels and innocents?”

  “I don’t know.” I raised my shoulders and turned the Coke cup again. “Maybe. Sounds familiar.”

  “C’mon!” Tyree snorted. “You know this. You went to catholic school for ten years.”

  “Twelve.”

  “Twelve years!” Tyree sat back and clapped his hands to his knees. “You remember what they said in a stupid personal security training seminar for work, and you don’t remember this?”

  “The one about the angels playing?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I knew you knew it, don’t BS me.” He leaned forward in his chair, nearly spilling his coffee. “You know it. Tell it to me.”

  “Playing angels, angels at play . . .” I paused. “I don’t know. I don’t remember how it goes.”

  “Think. It’ll come to you.”

  Those stupid nuns taught us a million things in school. I couldn’t be expected to remember them all. But Tyree was right. It was coming back to me in bits. I gave it some thought.

  “When angels play . . .” I squinted at the ceiling, reaching back to Sister Helen in seventh grade. “ ‘When angels play, innocents suffer.’ Is that it?”

  “Almost. That’s close.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago. Close is pretty good.” I picked
up my Coke, lifting it to my lips. “Besides, you’re the clergyman. Help me out.”

  “Are you forgetting it on purpose?”

  “What? No. I—”

  He stared at me.

  I stopped, my soda frozen in midair. “What?”

  “It’s not angels,” he said. “It’s dark angels.”

  “It is? Are you sure?”

  Tyree smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure. And it makes all the difference.”

  I recited it now, recalling it fully. “When dark angels play, innocents suffer.”

  A twinge of fear shot through me. My mouth hanging open, the soda drifted away from my lips.

  And who’s more innocent than a baby?

  Chapter 29

  I slipped into the house and eased the door shut behind me, peering around the corner at the breakfast nook. Mallory sat reading the newspaper with Sophie perched on her lap. Empty cereal bowls rested on the table, a few bits floating in the residual milk. I crept into the room and slid the box of donuts on the counter.

  “Daddy!” Sophie jumped up and sprinted to me, wrapping her arms around my thighs.

  As she lowered the newspaper, a smile crept over Mallory’s face. She let out a sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath since last night.

  Sophie peeled herself off me and ran back to the table. “This is what we want you to make for us.” She held up a section of the paper. “Chocolate bread!”

  The title under the image of marbled bread read Babka. It looked like a big, twisted pretzel.

  “Chocolate bread?” I made an exaggerated frown. “Yuck. I don’t want to eat chocolate bread.”

  Mallory set aside the section she had been reading and folded her arms, resting her elbows on the table. “It's not for you to eat. It's for us to eat.”

  “I don't want to make chocolate bread if I'm not going to eat chocolate bread.”

  “We want to eat chocolate bread.”

  “I don’t want to eat chocolate bread. So I’m not making chocolate bread.”

  Mallory frowned at Sophie. “Daddy says ‘no’.”

  Sophie frowned.

  I was dead tired and hadn’t figured out if I was in trouble for being out all night. I hadn’t been partying, and Mallory knew that, but I probably looked like I had.

  “I can make chocolate cake.” I put my hands on my knees and turned to Sophie. “Would you like cupcakes?”

  Sophie’s eyes lit up. “I would like cupcakes.”

  “I can make chocolate cupcakes,” I told her.

  Mallory grumbled. “I want chocolate bread.”

  I shrugged my shoulders at our daughter in an exaggerated manner, and frowned. “Mommy says ‘no’.”

  Sophie frowned.

  I got a glass out of the cupboard and pulled a jug of tea out of the fridge. Maybe I should make the chocolate bread to smooth things over. I poured a tall glass as Sophie scampered over to the TV to watch cartoons.

  “How did everything go last night?”

  If Mallory was angry, she was masking it well. That was nice in front of our daughter.

  “Good.” I rubbed my eyes. “We may have found our man.”

  She laid down the paper. “Really?”

  I leaned on the counter and gulped my tea. “I got lucky. This guy is smart. He knows the Church and their limitations and he seems to know the law. He was a good find.”

  “Did you guys talk all night?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Mallory could be patient when the time called for it. She was exerting that strength now, probably wanting to leap out of her chair and ask for all the details, but holding back so as not to worry our daughter. As curious as my wife might be, though, I knew she was still afraid of hearing truthful answers to disturbing questions.

  “I think you’ll be happy with what I learned last night,” I said. “I think you’ll feel better after you hear it.”

  “Good.”

  “In fact, I should probably have him come over here and talk to both of us. He can meet you and Sophie. That might be helpful to him.”

  “Have him come here?” Mallory bit her lip. “Do you trust him?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Why?”

  I drained my glass. “A couple of reasons.” I stepped to the table and sat down next to her, closing my eyes and laying my head on her shoulder. “I’ll go over all that with you, I promise. But not now. I need some sleep.” I made a loud, cartoonish snoring noise.

  “Daddy!” Sophie giggled, bouncing up and down on the couch.

  Mallory smiled, shoving my head off her shoulder. She wanted more, but she would wait. Opening the newspaper with a rustle, she held it high in front of her face.

  I pushed it down and kissed her. “Thanks, darling.” With a grunt, I put both hands on the table and forced myself to a standing position, then headed to the stairs to go to bed.

  “When should we have him meet with us?”

  “Soon.”

  “Tonight?”

  I stopped and turned. “I have another appointment tonight. Another late meeting.” I left it ambiguous on purpose. I didn’t know how many meetings I would need.

  “Another?” Mallory covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed hard, turning her eyes to our beautiful bouncing girl.

  Chapter 30

  Tyree yawned and slid the pot under his coffee maker. The foldout couch in the corner would be his bed and his office would be his home for a few days—if his prospective client was worth the effort. Doug Kenner seemed like a guy in need, but lots of people had problems. Tyree liked to prioritize his efforts, and wanted to see where the Kenner family placed in the lineup.

  He dropped into the chair in front of his computer. Sleep would wait.

  A quick search showed Doug as a freelancer for The Tampa Tribute. A few clicks brought up a contribution that had run several weeks ago. The other articles were older, with four weeks or more between them, but there were a lot.

  Tyree leaned forward and rubbed his chin. Doug wasn’t an employee at the Trib. Was that his choice or theirs? He browsed some of his private subscription data bases. The family appeared pretty normal.

  Scrolling through to an essay in the Tribute’s Lifestyles section, Tyree took a big drink of coffee and glanced at Doug’s published work. One was called “I Caught Your Kiss,” another was entitled “Pretend Sisters And My Daughter’s Other Imaginary Friends.” A third was “A Tomato Grabbed Our Car.”

  As the coffee pot gurgled, Tyree rubbed his eyes and settled in. “Let’s see what you’re all about, Mr. Doug.”

  I Caught Your Kiss by Doug Kenner, Tribute contributor

  On Thursdays, I drop my daughter Sophie off at her grandmother’s house. That’s been the routine ever since Sophie started swim classes. It makes for an easier day for me, and Grandma Jenny gets to play with her granddaughter all day once a week. If you love your grandma the way Sophie loves Grandma Jenny, that’s a big time treat. I’m not sure my daughter has ever eaten a vegetable over there. Certainly not on a Thursday.

  Tyree smiled. This definitely sounded like the man he’d just met.

  Her latest thing, when it’s time to say goodbye, is to blow kisses at you and ask you to catch them. This requires you to make a move like you are catching a baseball with both hands, and then clasp them to your heart. Then she will expect you to blow kisses back at her, and she will clasp her hands to her heart, shouting, “I caught your kiss!”

  The essay went on—long enough for a second cup of coffee. The lack of sleep never got to the essay’s current reader.

  So my wife roars on down the driveway and gets ready to pull into the street, with my daughter waving frantically at her. ‘Goodbye! Goodbye!” Tears were welling up in her eyes. “Why isn’t she waving goodbye to me?”

  “She—she has to keep her hands on the steering wheel, sweetie. Safety first, you know?” That wasn’t going to cut it. Then, a brainstorm. “Mommy will flash the car’s red ta
il lights, to wave to you. She’ll do that to let you know that she saw you waving. Watch.” It was the best I could think of on short notice. Then I held my breath.

  As my wife slowed down to pull from our driveway into the street, she applied the brakes and the tail lights lit up.

  “There you go!” I announced in triumphant relief. “See? Mommy saw you and waved with the tail lights!”

  My daughter smiled up at me, blinking back tears. “She saw me!”

  “Of course she saw you! She turned on the red lights, didn’t she?”

  Tyree wiped his eye.

  Because I realized I have to set an example for our daughter, okay? But also because it’s worth it. People don’t last forever, and you never know when the last time you hug or kiss somebody goodbye is going to be the last time that you ever hug or kiss them goodbye. So you have to keep that in mind.

  And it's kind of the same thing with this “I caught your kiss” thing. Don’t worry about stopping too soon, because it’s going to stop one day, and on that day, I may wish that I had this day back. That day may be six months from now, or six years from now, or that day may never come. But I have a feeling that, like most things with my daughter, the day something stops always comes a little sooner than I want it to.

  -Doug Kenner is a freelance writer and independent contractor for a local wine distributor

  Setting down his coffee, Tyree rubbed his eyes and sniffled.

  “Yeah,” he said to the office walls. “I have to help this family.”

  He stood up and took one last sip of coffee before collapsing onto the foldout couch.

  Chapter 31

  This was the kind of weather that helped put all those ships on the ocean floor.

  The big rains from the hurricane were going to come soon, and they were going to come in force when they did, but right now it was beautiful out. A little lull before the storm—because a nice, calm evening could fool anyone into thinking that all hell wasn’t about to break loose in a few days.

  I got into my car and headed south on the interstate.