Angel of the Underground

by David Andreas

  I run upstairs, with Dennis close behind, and rip open the front door. Barry, who’s just about to open it from the outer side, jumps back with angry fright. He nearly drops a bag of Chinese food that he’s cradling like a newborn. He settles into a happier state when he sees it’s me and says, “Hello to you too!”

  “I need to get to Sister Alice,” I say.

  He waves a pointer back and forth while shaking his head. “It’ll have to wait until after dinner. Lunch was a total bust. I sent out this kid—”

  I grab him by the wrist and pull him toward his car. When he sets down the bag to keep from dropping it, I let go expecting him to keep following. He remains in place and holds his hand out to me, as though eager for another tug. “This isn’t a joke, Barry! Let’s go!”

  I rush into the passenger seat of his SUV. Dennis hurries into the back. I keep firm eyes on Barry, who returns a stupefied stare. Though he takes his sweet time getting into the driver’s seat, his decision to follow my command keeps me from getting to the group home by bike.

  Barry couldn’t possibly make the drive more punishing. He never nears the speed limit, he brakes for yellow lights, he looks every direction several times at stop signs, and he whistles a slow dirge. I’d tell him the group home is on fire, but can’t bring myself to say it out loud. When noting a plume of smoke above a distant tree line, his look of disinterest turns to concern and he finally reaches the speed limit.

  Upon riding into my neighborhood, a burning odor sifts through the vents. Chunks of wet and dry ash land on the windshield. The wipers smear the debris into a translucent rainbow, but I can still make out a police car parked at the end of my street. An officer standing at the corner motions for us to continue moving with his switched-off flashlight. Barry pulls up beside the cop and opens his window. Vocal commotion sounds near the fire trucks and police cars. I press my hands flat on the dashboard to concentrate on breathing as my pounding heart seems to be clogging my throat.

  “Keep moving, sir,” the cop says. “We’ve got vehicles coming and going.”

  “Ask if there’s a casualty,” I say.

  “Is the nun dead?” Barry asks.

  “I wouldn’t know,” the cop replies. “I’ve been standing here since the medics went in.”

  Unable to wait on anyone for a genuine response, I jump out and race for the house. The cop yells for me to stop, but I cram myself between a thick set of hedges that lead to the backyard of a corner house and I immediately lose him. I climb over a chain link fence into another yard, and run as fast as I can until I reach a large oak tree at the side of my home. Out front, firemen are going about their duties. On the backyard grass, two police officers are having a conversation. With nobody’s eyes on me, I creep to the cellar door, manage to open the combination padlock, and slip inside.

  The basement is pitch black, since the windowsills are used as storage shelves and block out the light. A slim glow shines from beneath the door at the top of a six-step stairwell. Reaching out with wiggling fingers, I carefully maneuver around boxes and support poles. Once I find the railing, a noise resembling cracking knuckles sounds beneath the stairs. I look between two rungs to see if anyone is under them, but can’t make out anything but a half-body mannequin in an old nun’s habit.

  I bolt up the steps and into the kitchen. Trails of smoke drift near the ceiling, as though the ghosts of the dead children have returned to witness the chaos. I head to the living room staircase, where I can hear the movement of heavy bodies, and their muffled voices, near Sister Alice’s bedroom. The smoke up there is dense.

  I hold in a deep breath, dash up the stairs, and stop short in her door frame. Every ounce of blood plummets to my feet. Atop a scorched bed lie the charred remains of Sister Alice. Her blackened limbs are contorted at odd angles. Her nightgown has disintegrated. Her skin is black where not coated with yellow and white blisters. A missing patch on her forehead exposes her skull. Her mouth is locked in a scream.

  A hand lands on my shoulder and a fireman says, “You can’t be in here!” Unwilling to see more, I make my way down the stairs by sliding against the wall. I head straight outside to the police and public commotion. Barry is talking to an overzealous cop who’s making a lot of hand gestures. Dennis watches the house with a saddened gaze. Barry notices me approaching, blows off the cop, and opens his arms to me. I open my arms too, and walk directly into Dennis’s embrace.

  Dennis squeezes me tightly, kisses the top of my head, and says, “I’m so sorry, Robin.” Words can never lessen the shock, but the vibration of his voice soothes my frantic heart. I hug him back as hard as I can.

  Barry storms past us saying, “We’re in the way. Let’s go!”

  We follow him to the car, slowly, as I can’t feel my legs beneath my knees. I lean on Dennis the whole way, and will probably fall over if he loosens his hold. Before climbing into the backseat with him, I look at the group home one last time, knowing I’ll never have a reason to return.

  When back at the house, on the way to my bedroom, Jeremy jumps out into the hall when I pass his door. He grabs me by my shoulder sleeves, pins me against the wall and says, “Looks like that psycho moved past orphans! Just because Barry and his angry bitch were stupid enough to take you in doesn’t mean you get to put me in line for the slab!”

  Dennis grabs him by the throat and drives him hard against the opposite wall. Jeremy swats him away and points directly at my face. “I swear to God, if that asshole plans on coming here I’ll slit your fucking throat and leave you for dead on the front lawn!”

  I slip into my room and shut the door. The knob briefly turns. While Dennis and Jeremy scuffle in the hallway, I slide my desk against the lock jamb.

  “What the hell are you two doing?” Barry says. “She needs all the help we can give her, and you’re acting like animals?”

  “Like you’d be worried,” Jeremy says, “it’ll take forty years to burn through your fat ass!” A door bangs shut. Music starts to blare. A gentle knock sounds on my door.

  “Sweetheart? It’s Barry.” He tries coming in, but I kick my foot against the desk to keep the door secure. “Please let me in, hon.” I pick up my wooden crucifix and stare into Jesus, hoping he can sense my rage. “C’mon, babe, open up.” I squeeze the crucifix as though wringing a neck. The wood begins to crack.

  Where is your protection? I wonder. Where is your salvation? WHERE ARE YOU? I snap the cross in half and throw the pieces against the door.

  Barry walks away.

  I drop down on my bed and cover my head with my pillow. To lessen the ache of Sister Alice’s death, I try thinking of the times she was mean to me, but can only come up with one. She yelled at me three years ago, after I first arrived, for eating the last of the peanut butter before I asked if anyone else wanted any. I was used to fending for myself. That was the lowest she made me feel, yet it was my fault and I learned a valuable lesson. Consequently, I have no choice but to feel every ounce of pain and scream into my pillow as loud as I can.

  Around nine o’clock, I’m finally able to breathe in steady streams, and have managed to go a full minute without crying. When a tap sounds on my window, I immediately get the sense it’s Dennis, even though that area was recently visited by something evil. To remain on the safe side I ask, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” Dennis replies. “Can I come in?”

  I remove the curtain rod from its brackets, unlock the window, and lift it open for him. Dennis shifts his legs inside and wriggles through on his back. He lands awkwardly, but I grab him to keep him from falling down. Once he steadies himself, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch him as he paces. “Sorry for the dramatics, but if Jeremy heard me coming in here—”

  “She died screaming. I guess she wasn’t enough of a priority to protect.”

  Dennis stops short and closes his eyes. He sits beside me and takes my hand. “Why Sister Alice?”

  “So the rest of us have no safe haven to return to if he’s caugh
t? That’s my only guess.” I retrieve my hand from Dennis and fall back into my wet pillow. “Don’t come near me. I’ll only get you killed.”

  Dennis lies down beside me and nestles against my back. As I used to do with Sister Alice after having bad dreams, I wrap his arm around me and hold on tight to his hand. He pats my hair, which starts me crying again.

  CHAPTER VI

  I awaken in the morning to find my desk moved aside enough for Dennis to have slipped past. A note beside my pillow reads, “Hey, Robin, I’ll be out and about keeping Jeremy away from you. I’ll try to rent something for you and me for later. I hope you’re feeling better. Dennis.” Though I’d rather have his company, as the recollection of Sister Alice’s demise is already hammering my guts, I appreciate his running interference to make my day a little easier.

  When I climb out of bed I notice the crucifix I broke last night, but feel no remorse. Though the sharp edges could probably fit together evenly, I’d rather not mend them. If I have to live in a broken state, so too does my representation of Christ.

  With nothing to do but wallow alone, I go outside in my bikini and sit by the pool. The temperature has risen considerably, and the humidity has thickened. Though my fear of death has been amplified, I decide to go in the water on my own so I won’t perish without ever having done so. I step down the ladder one rung at a time, allowing each part of my body adjust to the cold, and I never let go of the handles. When submerged, I extend my legs so that I can float and feel as spirits must feel when they drift toward their ethereal destination.

  Once my fingertips begin to curl, I sit on the deck and stare into the water. The sun streaks on the surface resemble lightening overlaying a blue sky. While in this trance, distracted from the pain of humankind, I hear the back door squeak open. I stand to leave, assuming Jeremy and Dennis have returned, but it’s Barry who waddles toward the deck. He offers me a smile and says, “What are you up to?” When his eyes survey my near-naked body, I wrap myself in my towel. “What I mean to ask is, how are you feeling?”

  “Not great,” I reply. He waits for me to say more, but that’s all I can manage.

  “Well, I certainly can’t heal your pain, but I bet I can ease it a bit.” He removes two tickets from his vest pocket and holds them out to me. I instantly recognize the New York Mets logo. Although the sting of my mother figure’s loss doesn’t wane, the prospect of attending my first baseball game causes my heart to flutter.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’ll go get dressed.”

  After changing into a T-shirt and shorts, I go out front to meet Barry at his car. He’s wearing a Yankees hat and jersey, which irks me to no end. I hope he gets beer cups thrown at him by the more unruly Mets fans.

  The ride to Citi Field challenges my fear of dying at the hands of a silent murderer. Barry drives as though the other cars are motionless obstacles. He zigzags around slower vehicles so often that we never stay in one lane for more than a mile. If there’s no room to move over, he’ll ride magnetically close to other bumpers. He even uses the HOV lane without waiting for a legal entrance, and never seems to mind the barrage of honks and middle fingers that are directed his way. I can’t tell if he’s trying to beat traffic or the speed of light, but we do make it to Citi Field an hour before the first pitch.

  After Barry begrudgingly shells out twenty-three dollars for parking, he pulls into a spot near an exit. Barry hands me sunglasses and a Yankees cap, which I refuse to wear, so he harrumphs and rummages around the floor of the backseat, finding a beige fishing hat that is truly atrocious—but better than a Yankees cap.

  I step out, stretch my tensed back and legs, and marvel at a stadium I’ve only seen on TV. The enormous home of the Mets vaunts sectioned glass within brick pillars, and resembles a modern Roman arena. Small trees and photos of historic players line smooth concrete paths around the venue. The home run apple from Shea Stadium is situated on a circular garden where couples and families are taking photographs together. Fanwalk bricks, where names of individual fans and families claim their allegiance, reside in patches outside the entrance gates. Sister Alice always wanted to get one for us, but the church never had the money to spare.

  Barry keeps his hand on my back while I observe Citi Field’s wondrous exterior, and he doesn’t remove it until a security guard checks him for weapons with a metal rod. Once we walk through the turnstiles and into the crowded Jackie Robinson rotunda, his hand returns to my back and steers me toward an escalator. The Mets Hall of Fame is on the ground floor, and I’d love to go in, but I’m just as anxious to get to our seats and see the field.

  We ride the escalator up to field level, and walk among a slow-moving crowd toward the faraway bullpen expanse. Souvenir stores and food stands line the barriers on our left, while seats and open glimpses of the playing area rest on our right. Once we cross the Shea Bridge, we meet an usher in a maroon polo shirt who escorts us halfway down his section to our seats.

  Seeing the field in person for the first time makes my breath stammer. The group home TV isn’t very big, and it in no way prepared me for how refined and vibrant the expansive grass is, nor how the dampened infield dirt appears smooth as velvet. I’m also thrilled to find we’ll be sitting close to the newer home run apple, which is positioned upright for batting practice.

  Barry sits beside me and puts his arm over the back of my chair. He isn’t touching me, but just in case he decides to I lean forward to watch the visiting Dodgers stretch on the outfield grass. Some of their players are close enough to toss balls to the kids bent over the right field fence. The children who catch the balls seem overjoyed, even though their souvenirs have come from the opposition.

  When catching a whiff of nearby fast food vendors, Barry sniffs at the air like a famished dog and says, “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” I say, as the comfort of the stadium allows me to consider food. “I hear the Shake Shack burgers are really good.”

  “From who? The guy who owns Shake Shack?”

  “The announcers.”

  “Like they wouldn’t have anything invested.”

  “It’s right around the corner.”

  “Fine. Anything to drink?”

  “Sprite, please.”

  “Sit tight, and don’t leave for anything in the world. I have to crap like a goose, then I’ll grab us some food.”

  Lovely. As soon as he leaves, I sit back with my eyes closed and breathe in the air of a place I’m glad to see before I die. I lay a hand over my crucifix charm, which I still wear—not because I’m thrilled with God, but because Sister Alice gave it to me on my first Holy Communion and I haven’t taken it off since. Upon doing so, a warm and steady breeze sails across me. I can only hope it’s a sign that God is real, that Sister Alice made it to Heaven, and that she and I can spend time at Citi Field together.

  Barry returns forty minutes later with a cardboard box packed with four burgers, two hot dogs, and two drinks. He squeezes himself into his seat, hands me a cup of Sprite, and slides a dark cola into his own cup holder. He hands me a hot dog and burger and sets the box down at his feet, just as the announcer tells us to rise and remove our caps for the singing of the National Anthem. I put my food on my seat after I stand, but Barry is so intent on eating he ignores the directive. By the time the song ends, Barry has already eaten two hamburgers.

  “I hate to admit it,” he says, “but those announcers are right.” He unleashes a crackling burp that has people looking toward us in horrified amazement. “Those were friggin’ good!”

  I sit back down and take a bite of my own burger and, sure enough, the Shake Shack burgers live up to their hype.

  The Mets take the field by the time I finish eating. I stand and applaud, although everyone else around me remains seated. Watching the Mets run to their respective positions is an incomparable thrill. When the Mets pitcher throws his first warm up pitch, I slide to the edge of my seat. Barry’s hand lands between my shoulders. He leans into me and says, “I’ll bet
you five bucks the Mets lose by seven.”

  “You’re nuts,” I say. “The Dodgers’ pitcher has a high-four ERA on the road.” He sits back with a shrug and keeps his hand on me. When the lead off batter steps to the plate, Barry begins tracing my spine with his fingertips. I try guessing the pitch selection as a means to ignore him, but his fingers keep descending. When he reaches my tail bone, I lean back hard, whether I crush his bones or not. Barry yanks his hand away just in time, with a playful laugh, then drops his palm onto my knee. His fingers skate to the hip-line of my shorts, and slide forward again. I try not to shudder.

  “Please don’t do that,” I say, my voice tight and threatening. Barry gazes at me as if he has no idea what I’m talking about, but I know full well. My mother brought home plenty of men like him, and even though only one of them went too far, that one was enough.

  The Mets threaten to score in the bottom of the inning, helping me dismiss Barry’s persistent creepiness. With a runner on third and two out, their power batter steps to the plate. Three pitches later, he strikes out swinging on a breaking pitch in the dirt. I feel Sister Alice’s vigor flow through me and I shout, “For the love of Saint Lucia, lay off the sinkers!”

  An usher carrying a hot dog container looks at me confusedly. He clearly doesn’t know Saint Lucia is savior of the blind.

  Barry puts his hand on my thigh again and says, “I have to tell you: this place is a joke, but you’re much better company than my wife. I tried taking her to a Yankees game last year, but she just sulked the whole time.”

  Though I want to remain distracted from his every movement and breath, he’s broken my concentration with a problem I want rectified. “Why doesn’t she like me?”