by Tanya Huff
“Hey,” he said as he folded himself into the middle seat and fumbled for the seat belt. “My name’s Samuel, and I’m an angel. I’m here…”
“’Cause Mommy said to Daddy you can distract us,” announced Selinka.
“So Daddy can drive more safely,” added Celeste.
“Mommy doesn’t really believe you’re an angel. She’s desperate.”
“She said she’s ready to ’cept help from the devil himself.”
“Really?”
Up front, Linda’s shoulders stiffened, lending credence to the comment.
Samuel found his own shoulders stiffening in response. “You shouldn’t, you know, repeat that.”
“Why?” Celeste demanded, eyes narrowing.
“Because if an angel can be here, then so can a devil.”
“You’re stupid,” sniffed Selinka. “And your hair looks dumb. Why do you smell like cotton candy?”
“He smells like strawberry ice cream.”
“Does not!”
“Does too!”
“Why can’t I smell like both?”
Celeste leaned around him. “You’re right,” she told her sister. “He is stupid.”
Then they started singing.
“There was a farmer had a dog…”
At first it was cute.
“Let’s all sing,” Samuel suggested, leaning forward as far as the seat belt allowed. Singing was a good thing; he had a vague idea that angels did a lot of it. “The family that sings together…uh…” Wings together? Pings together? Then he realized that no once could hear him over the high-pitched little voices filling the enclosed vehicle with sound.
“B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O, ;B ;I ;N ;G ;O…”
It went on and on and on, just below the threshold of pain.
“Make it stop,” moaned their father, beating his forehead against the steering wheel as the SUV began to pick up speed.
Short of gagging them, Samuel couldn’t figure out how to stop them. Nothing he said from well reasoned argument to childish pleas made any impression. After the fourth verse, gagging them was beginning to seem like a valid option. Finally, ears ringing in the sudden silence, he forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile and swept it over both girls. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we do something that doesn’t make any noise?”
They exchanged a suspicious glance.
“Like what?” asked Selinka.
“It had better be fun,” added Celeste.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could number the hairs on both girls’ heads (three billion two hundred and twelve and three billion two hundred and fourteen) but when it came down to it, that wasn’t even remotely useful. Unless…“I don’t suppose you’d want to count each other’s hair?”
Which was about when he discovered that a nonviolent, geared to age level, designed to promote social development electronic game could raise one heck of a bump when thrown at close range.
“I’m feeling guilty about this,” Brian Pearson murmured to his wife. “Are you sure he’s going to be all right?”
“He offered to help.”
“Actually, hon, he said he had a message for us.”
“Same thing.”
“Not quite.”
“Well, it’s a moving car,” she pointed out philosophically, gnawing on her last fingernail. “He can’t get out.”
“We’re going to London to see our Granny,” announced Selinka.
“Do you have a Granny?” asked Celeste.
Good question. He ran through the order of angels above him; archangels, principalities, powers, dominions, thrones, cherubim, seraphim…“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I guess it’s because I’m an angel.”
The twin on the right narrowed her eyes and stared up at him. “Lemme see your wings.”
“What?”
“If you’re supposed to be an angel, lemme see your wings.”
Samuel spread his hands and tried an ingratiating smile. “I don’t have wings.”
“Why?”
“I’m not that kind of an angel.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the kind of angel that doesn’t have wings.”
“Why?”
“If you’re an angel, you’re supposed to have wings.” Her voice began to rise in both volume and pitch. “Big, white, fluffy wings!”
The smile slipped. “Well, I don’t.”
“Why?”
Why? He had no idea. But going back for that long talk with Lena was beginning to seem like a plan. “I have running shoes,” he offered.
Small heads bent forward to have a look.
“They’re not brand name,” said the twin who seemed to be running this part of the interrogation. “No swatches.”
“Does that matter?” Was he wearing the wrong stuff? “What’s a swatch?”
She folded her arms. “Dork.”
“Wouldn’t you girls like to have a nap?” Over the sound of their laughter, he thought he heard their mother whimper. “You know, if you were quiet, your parents would be really happy.”
“They would?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The twin on the left, taking her turn, poked him imperiously in the side. “Light up your head.”
“What?”
“Light up your head! Like on TV.”
“I don’t…”
“Then you’re not an angel.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” Just barely resisting the urge to grab her and shake her, he let a little of the light show.
“Ha, ha, made you light!”
An ethnically diverse, anatomically correct baby doll swung in from the other side by one foot, the molded plastic head completing its downswing in just the wrong spot.
The light went out.
His eyes were still watering when the SUV stopped at the corner of York and Talbot Streets and he stumbled out into a snowbank. Maybe Brian Pearson did need to know his kids weren’t deliberately driving him crazy, but as the twins had survived for seven whole years, he could only conclude that both parents already had the patience of a saint. Each. He’d been with the twins for just over an hour and against all predisposition, he wanted to strangle them. He couldn’t imagine what seven years would be like. And he was no longer entirely certain that Brian Pearson wasn’t right.
The girls, not at all upset by the yelling he’d done, crowded to the window, and blew him kisses.
“Aren’t they angelic,” sighed their mother without much conviction.
“Not exactly,” Samuel told her, clinging to the door until he could get his balance. “But if it helps, I don’t think they’re actually demonic.”
She turned her head enough to meet his gaze. “You’re not sure?”
“Uh.” He took another look and heard the voice of memory say, Because if an angel can be here, then so can a devil. Or two. “No. Sorry.”
“Well, you’ve been a lot of help.”
He’d have been more reassured if she hadn’t sounded so sarcastic. Shoving his hands in his pockets as the SUV drove away, he sighed and muttered, “That could’ve gone better.”
Pushing through the narrow break in the knee-high snowbank that bracketed the street, he stumbled onto the sidewalk and took a moment to try and dig snow out of his shoes with his finger. Apparently, it was a well-known fact that angels left no footprints. Twisting around, he checked and, sure enough, he’d left no mark in the snow. Although there had to be a reason for it, he’d have happily traded footprints for dry feet. Were angels even supposed to have wet feet? At least he wasn’t cold. At least that was working.
Nothing else seemed to be.
Maybe he just needed practice.
Straightening, he looked around. So this was London. Fotown. The Forest City. The Jungle City. Georgiana on the Ditch. Apparently, the 340,000 people who lived here had the
most cars per capita in Canada. So? Where was everybody? All he could see were snow-covered, empty streets.
Looking east, a sign outside the deserted Convention Center wished everyone a Merry Christmas. A gust of wind whistling down the tracks blew a fan of snow off the top of the bank that nearly hid the train station.
Behind him, a car door slammed.
He turned in time to see a taxi drive away and an elderly woman struggling to drag a brown vinyl suitcase toward the bus station. Her name was Edna Grey, she had a weak heart, and she was on her way to Windsor to spend Christmas Day with her daughter. Maybe he didn’t have a message because he was the message. Maybe he was supposed to show, not tell. Hurrying over, he lifted the suitcase easily out of the elderly woman’s grasp.
“Stop! Thief! Stop!”
“Hey! Ow! I’m just trying to help!”
Edna Grey glared out at him from under the edge of a red knit hat, the strap of her purse clutched in both mittened hands. “Help yourself to my stuff!”
“No, help you carry your stuff.” As she lifted the purse again, he dropped the suitcase and backed out of range, rubbing his elbow. “What’ve you got in that thing, bricks?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”
“Could you chill, Mrs. Grey. I’m just trying to do something nice for you.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. And he had no idea why he wanted her to lower her body temperature.
“How did you know my name? You’ve been stalking me, haven’t you?”
Stalking. The following and observing of another person, usually with the intent to do harm.
“No!” He stepped forward then retreated again as the purse came up. “I can’t do harm. I’m an angel.”
“You look like a punk.” A vehement exhalation through her nose, sprayed the immediate area with a fine patina of moisture.
“I do?”
“Well, you sure don’t look like no angel.”
He didn’t? “I don’t?”
“You look,” she repeated, “like a punk.”
Frank Giorno had called him a punk as well. He couldn’t understand why since punk had pretty much ended with the ’80s. A quick check found nose and ears still free of safety pins. “I could light up my head.” That seemed to be what angels did.
“You could set your shorts on fire for all I care. Now get out of my way, I gotta catch a bus.”
“But…”
“Move!”
His feet moved before the barked command actually made it to his brain. He stood and watched as she dragged her suitcase the remaining twenty-two feet, six and three-quarter inches to the bus station door. Nothing else moved for as far as he could see and the only sound he could hear was the rasp of cheap vinyl against concrete.
At the door, she paused, and turned. “Well?” she demanded.
Higher knowledge seemed at a loss.
“Get over here and open the door.”
“But I thought…”
“And while you were thinking, did you think about how a woman of my age could manage a big heavy suitcase and a door?”
“Uh…”
“No. You didn’t. The world has gone to hell in a handcart since they canceled Bowling for Dollars.”
Propelled by her glare, he ran for the door and hauled it open. Then, a bit at a loss, he followed her inside.
She shifted her grip on her purse. “Now where are you going?”
He didn’t know. “With you?”
“Try again.” She squinted up at the board. “Only other bus leaving this morning’s going to Toronto.”
“I should go to Toronto?”
“Why should I care where you go?” Grabbing her suitcase, she began backing across the room, keeping him locked in a suspicious glare.
“Fine.” Edna Grey might not need his help, but in a city of three million, someone would. He’d go there and he’d help people and he’d finally figure out just what he was supposed to be doing, and when he’d done it he’d go back to the light and demand to know just what they thought they were doing sending him into the world without instructions. Well, maybe not demand. Ask.
Politely.
But for now…
The bus station flickered twice, then came back into focus.
Why wasn’t he in Toronto? Wanting to be in Toronto should have put him there, but something seemed to be holding him in place. It felt as though he was trying to drag an enormous weight…
And then he realized.
“Oh, come on, that’s a couple of ounces, tops!” A little embarrassed by the way his voice echoed against six different types of tile, Samuel looked up to see Edna Grey staring at him, wide-eyed, one mittened hand clutching her chest. While he watched, she toppled slowly to the ground.
“Mrs. Grey?” He landed on his knees beside her. “Mrs. Grey, what’s wrong?”
“Heart…” Her voice sounded like crinkling tissue paper.
“Hey, don’t do this, you’re not supposed to die now!” Reaching out, he spread the fingers of his right hand an inch above the apex of her bosom, spent a moment stopping his mind from repeating the word bosom over and over for no good reason, then asked himself just what exactly he thought he was doing.
I’m helping. It’s her heart.
Were hearts supposed to flutter like a gas pump straining at an empty tank?
He laid his left hand against his own chest.
Apparently not.
So?
Was this the message he was here to deliver?
A pulse of light moved from his hand to her heart and he felt an inexplicable urge to yell, “Clear!” Somehow, he resisted. Her heart stopped fluttering, paused, found a new rhythm, and began beating strongly once again.
“Mrs. Grey?” Feeling a little dizzy, Samuel leaned forward and peered into her face. “Can you hear me?”
“What? I’m old, so I’m deaf?”
“Uh, no.” Maybe he should loosen her clothing.
She smacked his hand away. “What happened?”
“You had a heart attack.”
Planting both palms against the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position. “Well, are you surprised? You were there, then you weren’t there, then you were there again.”
“You saw that?”
“What? I’m old, so I’m blind?”
“Uh, no.”
“And why does the whole room smell of pine?”
“I think that’s the stuff they use on the floor.”
“Or some cat’s been pissing in the corner.” Spotting the startled face of the bus station attendant peering over the ticket counter, her eyes narrowed. “And just what are you looking at, Missy? Good thing I didn’t have to wait for her help,” she muttered, “I’d be lying here until New Year’s.”
“Mrs. Grey? Do you want to stand up?”
“No. I’d rather sit here in a puddle of slush.”
About to take her hand, Samuel sat back on his heels. “Uh, okay.”
Muttering under her breath, she grabbed his shoulder and hauled herself to her feet. “So, what were you doing?” she demanded as he stood. “Here you are, here you aren’t—I have a weak heart, you know.”
“Had,” he corrected helpfully. “I fixed it.”
“You fixed it all right. Now answer the question: What were you doing?”
“I was trying to go to Toronto. But nothing happened.” His shoulders slumped.
“You really are an angel?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So, what’s the message?”
“Well, uh, you see, it’s like this, I uh…”
One foot tapped impatiently. “Angels are the messengers of God. So, what’s the message? Is it Armageddon?”
He checked his pockets. Still no messages. “I’m pretty sure it’s not Armageddon.”
“Pretty sure?” She seemed disappointed.
“Actually, I’m beginning to think I’m, you know, not that kind of an angel.”
&n
bsp; “Oh. Then what kind of an angel are you?”
“Just, uh, the kind that…”
“The kind that pops in and out any where they want? Giving poor, helpless grandmothers heart attacks?”
“I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man. You can show a little respect for my age.”
“What? You’re old, so I should respect you?” It slipped out before he could stop it. For some weird reason his mouth seemed to have functioned without his brain being involved.
But Edna Grey only straightened her hat. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it exactly. So why couldn’t you pop?”
“It’s this form. It has…” Mouth open to explain about the genitalia, Samuel met a rheumy gaze, looked deep, and decided he didn’t want to go there. Or anywhere near there actually. “It’s not…I mean, it doesn’t…It’s sort of defining me. It’s keeping me from doing things, and I can’t get rid of it.”
“Tell me about it.”
His constant low level of confusion geared up a notch. “About what?”
“Be old, boy, if you want to be defined by your form.” She sighed, a short, sharp, angry sound. “Old bones, old blood, old body, they keep you from doing most things, and you sure as hell can’t get rid of them. But you know what’s worse?” A mittened finger poked his chest. “The way other people think you can’t do what you’ve always done ’cause you’re old—whether you can or not.” Her hand dropped back to her side. “Don’t get old, boy. And don’t let other people tell you what you can or cannot do.”
“I can’t get old,” he told her. “And I can’t get to Toronto either.”
“Oh, yeah, can’t get old, can’t get to Toronto; that’s a real similar comparison, that is.” Bending, she scooped her purse up off the floor. “Apples and oranges as my sainted mother used to say.”
“Actually she wasn’t.”
Edna Grey shot him an irritated glare as she straightened. “Wasn’t what?”
“Sainted.”
“I certainly hope not.”