River Angel

by A. Manette Ansay

  “It’s a story,” Lisa Marie said. “It’s not supposed to be, like, literal or anything.” She finished setting the table, then began slapping dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. Cherish couldn’t remember the first time she’d heard the Little Timmy story, but as a child she’d loved it, begged her mother to tell it over and over. She’d sit in her mother’s lap, her forehead tucked into the notch of Ruthie’s neck and shoulder, feeling the soothing vibrations of her mother’s voice. Then, she could not have imagined a time when she wouldn’t believe that story, any more than she could have imagined a time she wouldn’t be close to her mother. Mornings, she’d linger in bed just to hear the happy music of Ruthie making breakfast in her breezy kitchen, the bacon’s sizzle and spat, the sound of the back door opening as Ruthie let the cats in and the whining dogs out. Next came the sound of toast being made, the slap of the jelly jar on the table. The crack of eggs stolen from the quarreling hens. The splash of milk from the nanny goats, thick with butterfat, stored in wide-mouthed jars.

  Eventually, she’d get up and wash her face, coming down the stairs with her hair parted neatly and tucked behind her ears, her face still wet and smelling of Ivory and already lifted to receive her mother’s kiss. Outside, the dogs barked and scuffled to get in. The cats leaped onto the counters, got shooed down again, tangled underfoot. Toast popped up, eggs shimmied in the pan. Suddenly Dad was there to make wet fart noises against the top of Cherish’s head. “Daddy!” she groaned, but he was already letting the dogs back in, and the dogs were nosing the cats’ rear ends and chasing them round and round, and her mother was filling Dad’s plate, then Cherish’s, then her own. After breakfast, there were beds to be made, and Ruthie and Cherish made them together, Cherish playing parachute with the sheets. There were dishes to be washed, dust bunnies to be corralled with the handmade broom, more dust to be wiped from the windowsills. And then it was time for chores, the dogs dashing ahead of them to the barn, doubling back to greet them as if there were no greater happiness than their company. Inside, the nanny goats were already waiting, and as soon as Ruthie shoved the heavy door aside, they’d clamor up onto the milking platform, bleating, blinking their strange gold eyes. Winters, the air was thick with dust and the stinging smell of urine, the odor so intense Cherish had to climb into the sheep pen and pull down her snow pants to pee. There was such pleasure in that. The sheep crowding close and closer, sniffing wetly at the air. The hens clucking tenderly from their roosts. Even now, as Lisa Marie twisted in front of the mirror, Cherish could feel the first warm, brown egg taking shape in her hand. It was enough to bring tears to her eyes, except that Cherish never cried anymore, couldn’t have, now, if she’d wanted to. It’s selfish to be sad when Dad’s so happy in heaven. The egg shattered, the yellow yolk popped, the sharp shell stung Cherish’s palm. She and Lisa Marie had been best friends ever since second grade. She wanted to apologize for what had happened. Wanted to, but couldn’t.

  The timer went off like an accusation.

  “You want me to get that?” Cherish said, and Lisa Marie said, “I got it,” which meant she’d decided she wasn’t going to stay mad. They ate pizza and drank Diet Dr Pepper as if everything were just fine between them, talking about what they were going to do after graduation. Lisa Marie planned to continue working at the Wal-Mart, at least for now; she’d been promised a promotion, and her employee stock was doing well. Cherish had been accepted at both UW-Eau Claire and Stevens Point, and Maya Paluski had Ruthie convinced that Cherish should major in art education. But the thought of teaching art to grade schoolers made Cherish want to slit her wrists. The truth was, she didn’t even care for drawing and painting anymore. Secretly, she’d decided she wasn’t going to college. People were always saying she should be a model; maybe she’d go to New York City, the same way her grandmother had done. Or maybe she’d marry Randy—it was something they’d discussed, though always in a teasing kind of way. “Did you know Randy got another scholarship?” she said. “Some big wrestling university in Texas.”

  At the mention of Randy’s name, Lisa Marie got up and folded her plate into the trash can under the sink.

  “Would you lighten up?” Cherish said. “It’s not like we hurt that girl. It was just a joke.”

  Lisa Marie came back with a dishcloth. “The movies are in the living room,” she said, and she began wiping off the table, even though Cherish wasn’t finished. “There’s three of them. You choose.”

  Cherish took her pizza with her, selected a movie without looking at the title, and shoved it into the VCR. By the time Lisa Marie joined her on the couch, the credits were over, and she could see that this was going to be one of those heartwarming movies about a family that sticks together to overcome its problems.

  “You want popcorn?” Lisa Marie said.

  “Gee, that would be awesome! And maybe we can put on our pajamas and pierce each other’s ears!”

  “Fine,” Lisa Marie said, and she turned up the volume. “Nobody’s forcing you to be here. You’re the one who showed up at my door, remember?”

  “I was worried about you,” Cherish said. “I am worried about you. I’m really sorry about what happened. And so is Randy.”

  “I don’t know what you see in that guy.”

  “He’s fun,” Cherish said.

  “Fun for you,” Lisa Marie said. “Look. I’m tired of pretending I’m having a good time with you guys when I’m not. You’re the one who has the good time. You’re the one they’re both attracted to.” She sighed. “The only reason you’re here is because you’re afraid I’m going to tell someone what happened. Well, I’m not.”

  Cherish said. “My mom got a call from your mom.”

  Lisa Marie gnawed on a fingernail. “I didn’t tell her anything about you. Only stuff about me. It’s part of what you do when you get saved.”

  They watched the movie for a while. One of the sisters was crying now. The others tried to comfort her, which only made everything worse.

  “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this,” Lisa Marie said.

  “That means you’re going to tell me, right?”

  Lisa Marie picked at a spot on her sweatshirt. “You probably know about it already.”

  “What?”

  “You probably know the reason why the Circle of Faith is meeting tonight.”

  Cherish shook her head.

  “I heard my mom on the phone with Mrs. Pranke. Unless there’s, like, a miracle or something, your mom is selling your farm to that Big Roly guy.”

  Cherish almost laughed. “No way,” she said. “Mom would never do that.” Big Roly Schmitt was an asshole. He would come by the Faith house to collect his rent, then eat all the cookies or butter horns or doughnuts that Mrs. Pranke brought to share. Cherish thought he’d seen her trespassing behind the McDonald’s once, but if he had, he wasn’t saying anything about it.

  “She doesn’t have a choice,” Lisa Marie said. “She’s totally in debt. She’s planning to move to Solomon after you graduate, use the money from the farm for your college tuition. Not that you care.”

  Cherish didn’t say anything.

  “Me, if that were my mother, if that were the house I’d grown up in, I’d be down on my knees asking for God’s help, but I guess you’re above all that.”

  “Shut up,” Cherish said.

  For the first time that evening, Lisa Marie looked happy. “Maybe God’s trying to teach you a lesson,” she said. “People bring hardship on themselves, you know?”

  Cherish walked to the front window, looked out at the cold, quiet night. The farm had belonged to her father’s parents; her father had grown up there, married there, lived out his whole life. Perhaps that was why the house and barn and the surrounding fields remembered her father far better than Cherish ever could. Sometimes she still heard him outside the kitchen window, playing fetch with the dogs. She smelled his Saturday-night breath whenever she poked her fingers into the pickled-egg jar in the pantry. He took shape in th
e hall closet, where his winter coat still hung, his smell trapped in the sleeves, and in the welcoming posture of his favorite chair, which, even now, remained in its spot by the window. She still stepped past his rubber barn shoes whenever she went into the milk house, and sometimes, in the mudroom, she’d stare at the bottom of the hamper and, for a split second, see his balled-up athletic socks, bulldog-faced, stiff with dried sweat. Or she’d trace an imaginary necklace of whiskers, delicate as lace, around the bathroom sink. Or, falling asleep, she’d hear him whispering to her mother as they came up the stairs together, and then would come the sunny, silly sound a man makes when it’s late and he’s tired and he starts to giggle foolishly.

  But now even that was being taken from her. And if it happened, when it happened, her mother would quote the Bible, saying they should give thanks in all circumstances, for whatever came to pass was His will. Cherish tried to picture Ruthie in an apartment in Solomon. She tried to imagine how it would be to wake up in the morning without the sounds of the animals, to fall asleep without being rocked in the cradle of the fields. Outside, it was snowing lightly. It was already April, yet it seemed to Cherish that this winter would never end.

  “You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?” Lisa Marie said. “I’m glad to see something still matters to you.”

  And Cherish understood that the two of them would never be friends again, that they hadn’t been friends for a long, long time. In fact, they hated each other. The only thing holding them together had been habit. And like any habit, once you’d stepped away enough to look at it objectively, you had to wonder why you’d ever been drawn to it in the first place.

  Lisa Marie stood up. She said, “I wouldn’t have told you if I’d known you’d be this upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” Cherish said. But she wanted to throw Lisa Marie to the floor, pull her ugly, frizzy hair out by the fistful.

  The doorbell rang. Lisa Marie didn’t move.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Cherish said.

  “I’m not expecting anybody.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cherish gave her a thin, cold smile. “Maybe I happened to mention to Randy and Paul that I would be here.”

  “Cherish!”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “You know they won’t give up till you answer it,” Cherish said, and with that, Randy and Paul walked into the house just like they used to, just as if nothing had ever happened. “Hi, honey, we’re home!” they yelled in unison, crashing down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room, all clomping boots and swinging shoulders and bulky letter jackets.

  “Please, come in,” Lisa Marie said, sarcastically.

  Paul sat down on the couch. “Hey, Lisa Marie, how goes it?”

  “The only word you need to remember is go,” she said, but Randy had already ducked back into the kitchen; they could hear him rummaging through the refrigerator.

  “I’ve missed you,” Paul said. “Really. Here, I brought you something.” He pulled several bags of Easter candy out of his jacket—bite-size chocolate bunnies, marshmallow chicks, coconut eggs.

  “You didn’t steal those,” Lisa Marie said.

  “I paid, don’t worry about it,” Paul said, looking hurt. “Go on, you can have some.”

  Randy came back into the room with his mouth full of pizza. He threw an arm about Cherish. “What are we doing tonight?”

  “Watching a movie,” Lisa Marie said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Cherish said.

  “I’ve got money for a six-pack,” Paul said. “If we can find someone with ID.”

  But Cherish shook her head, glared at Lisa Marie defiantly. She said, “Let’s visit the blind house instead.”

  “The blind house,” Randy said, and he pulled away to stare at her with frank admiration. “Are we up for it?”

  “Risky,” Paul said, but his tone said he’d consider it.

  “Count me out,” Lisa Marie said. “I’m not doing any stealing.”

  “What’s wrong with stealing?” Randy said.

  “I’m serious,” Lisa Marie said. “I’m done with all that.”

  “Yeah,” Cherish said. “She’d rather blab to her mommy.”

  “I told you,” Lisa Marie said. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

  “Not yet anyway,” Randy said.

  “I swear,” Lisa Marie said, and her voice rose nervously. “I won’t tell anybody anything, OK?”

  “We believe you,” Randy said. He was walking around the living room. He paused in front of the window, wiped his pizza fingers on the curtains. There were bookshelves on either side, and he plucked out a leather-bound volume, dropped it on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Lisa Marie said, and she looked at Cherish pleadingly. “Make him stop.”

  Cherish shrugged. “Maybe God’s trying to teach you a lesson.”

  “Because if you do tell anybody…” Randy continued. He picked up a framed picture of Lisa Marie and her mother, hefted it, considering. “We’ll all just say it was your idea. Get it?” He dropped the picture. An intricate spiderweb spread over their faces. He picked up a crystal paperweight.

  “Please,” Lisa Marie said. “Just leave me alone.”

  Paul said, “You could still come with us. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cherish said, and she took the paperweight away from Randy. “She’s history. But, Leese, don’t forget what you told me.”

  “What was that?” Randy said.

  Cherish smiled. She put her face close to Lisa Marie’s. “People bring hardship on themselves.”

  The snow was falling harder as they fishtailed out of the driveway and shot onto County D, the shortcut to the strip. The perfect fullness of the moon flooded the fields with white, and when Randy’s hand cupped the back of her head, Cherish leaned into it like a kiss. She tried to feel bad about Lisa Marie but couldn’t, not really. Maybe God’s trying to teach you a lesson. It was something Ruthie might have said. It was something that, once, Cherish might have believed. But that was like saying to someone who was sick: God must be punishing you for something. Or saying to someone who’d just gotten well: God must be rewarding you. Things happened or they didn’t happen, and God had nothing to do with it. If Dad had arrived at the Neumillers’ mailbox one minute later, he’d be alive today. If Cherish had gone with him that day, maybe she’d be dead.

  “What’s up with Lisa Marie?” Paul said.

  “She got saved,” Cherish said. “You didn’t hear?”

  “Saved?” Paul said.

  “She’s a certified warrior for Christ,” Randy said.

  Paul didn’t smile. “I’ve been saved,” he said.

  “Yeah, you’re a real saint,” Cherish said. “Saint Zuggenhagen.”

  “No, really,” Paul said. “I mean, I know I’m not perfect. But I believe that Christ is my savior, don’t you?”

  They drove along in silence.

  Randy said, “No.”

  Paul said, “But you believe in God, don’t you?”

  Pink Floyd was playing on the radio; Randy turned it down. “I believe in something. I’m not sure I’d call it God.”

  “What would you call it, then?” Paul said.

  “Lighten up,” Cherish interrupted. “If I wanted to listen to this, I’d have stayed with Lisa Marie.”

  “Well, you believe in God, don’t you?” Randy said. “What with your mother and all.”

  “I don’t believe in anything.” She’d said it just to shock them, but the moment the words left her mouth, she realized they were true. And she felt as if she’d suddenly forgotten the name of the town where she’d lived her whole life. She felt the way she’d felt as a child, saying her name over and over until it lost all meaning. Panicking. Scrambling to find her way back to what was familiar. Cherish.

  “Nothing at all?” Paul said.

  “That’s ri
ght,” Cherish said.

  “So what do you think happens when you die?”

  “You die,” she said. She swallowed hard. “You rot.”

  “That’s harsh,” Randy said.

  “You don’t mean it,” Paul said. “Because if you did, then what would you think about your father? I mean, you believe he’s more than worm bait, right? You believe he’s in heaven or something.”

  Cherish thought of her father’s grave. She thought of his absent body. She thought of how it was harder and harder to remember him, how lately what she remembered always seemed to be borrowed from a photograph. She thought about how she no longer remembered feelings so much as recalled what she had felt: She’d loved him, admired him, missed him. Valiant, empty words. And it was as if the farm were already sold, the animals auctioned, the house and barn bulldozed, the fields subdivided and developed. Soon not only her father but everything he’d ever worked for would be gone.

  “Shut up about her father,” Randy said. “Hey, Cherry, you ready for a drink?”

  The blind house wasn’t really a house; it was a trailer in a park called Shady Acres, which sat behind the Solomon strip, less than a mile from the fertilizer plant. And the couple who lived there weren’t blind; they were just old and slept very soundly. Most nights, they were in bed by eight, and they left both their back door and their well-stocked liquor cabinet unlocked, facts leaked by a teenage grandchild. A great cross blossomed in the center of their lawn; it was painted red, white, and blue, and a cloth flag hanging from the lamppost beside it read SALUTE THE FLAG AND KNEEL BEFORE THE CROSS. Though the couple did not go to any local church, they never missed the tent revival that traveled north from Indiana and set up along the banks of the Onion River for a week each August. People spoke in tongues and played tambourines. Cherish had gone with the Circle of Faith when she was young, and it embarrassed her now to remember how she’d clapped and sang too, caught up in the music and the miracles: the crippled man who got up and walked, the woman who felt the cancer leave her lungs forever, the orphans in Africa who would be saved by donations people made as they approached the altar. Faith too was a habit, something you could step away from. But once you did, what path did you follow? How did you choose your steps?