River Angel

by A. Manette Ansay

  “Thanks, I’ll just call Joe.” But she hated to do it. He’d been sick off and on since spring: colds, flu, now this stubborn bout of bronchitis. Ironic, considering all the vitamins he’d been taking, the special supplements and powders he bought at the health food store at the mall. Beeswax. Shark cartilage. Ginseng. She suspected he’d carry a charm against the evil eye if he knew where to find one. This morning, once again, she’d left him flushed and feverish in front of the TV.

  “Don’t you find,” Janey said, “that sometimes things happen for a reason? Like, maybe you’re meant to listen to me, whether you want to or not?”

  And at that moment, the sniveling sky opened up and released an all-out downpouring rain. What could Lucy do except follow Janey to her car? “You wanted a minute, you got it,” she said, and then, steeling herself to hear about Christ’s infinite love, she checked her watch. “Go.”

  “Big Roly Schmitt’s buying Ruthie Mader’s farm, and I’ll tell you what—he’s planning condominiums bigger than the Taj Mahal.” Janey spit it all out in one breath, like a child.

  Lucy stared. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “She’s double mortgaged and she owes back taxes and now Cherish has turned herself around and plans to go to college and Ruthie doesn’t even have a savings account—she just doesn’t know what else to do. He says he’ll pay her moving expenses and handle everything for her, even give her a break on one of his apartments in Solomon.”

  No wonder Big Roly had been so concerned about rezoning. Lucy could imagine those condos already, three-story brick monstrosities with circular driveways, towering glass windows glaring at the town like demonic eyes. And all that river frontage built up with boat docks, fenced off and privatized. And all those people wanting their conveniences. And the Fair Mile Crossroads just down the road. Within two years, it would be another Solomon strip, the fields sown with golden arches and giant doughnuts, video stores and liquor stores, grocery stores and banks.

  “Has she signed anything?”

  “Not yet,” Janey said. “You’re on the City Council, and I know Ruthie would never ask herself, but I just thought maybe you could do something…”

  “Well…” Lucy was already thinking in that direction.

  “Maya Paluski says the city can control anything within a mile of its limits.”

  “A mile and a half. It’s called eminent domain. The council can legally block development if it will adversely affect the city. That’s certainly one possibility.”

  “It isn’t, though, not really,” Janey said. “Because if Big Roly doesn’t buy it, the bank will foreclose.”

  “Then why deal with a big developer like Schmitt? Get an honest broker to find some city couple who want a twenty-acre parcel for a single-family home. Ruthie could pay down her debts, keep the land around the house and…barn.” She could not bring herself to say shrine.

  “The house sits on the high ground. Big Roly says anybody wanting to build closer to the river wouldn’t get a mortgage because it’s in the floodplain.”

  He was probably right.

  Janey said, “I can’t accept it’s God’s will for Ruthie to lose that farm—not now, after everything that’s happened. One lady from Prairie du Chien, they thought she had this tumor in her brain? And when she got back home from the shrine, the doctor couldn’t find any trace—”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Lucy said quickly.

  “Just don’t tell Ruthie I told you, OK?” She clutched at the gold cross all the Faith members wore. “We’re not supposed to repeat anything we talk about at the Faith house.” She looked at Lucy with such anguish that Lucy wanted to smooth back her hair, the way she would have done with an overwrought child. And yet Janey was a grown woman. An engagement ring sparkled on her finger, and not for the first time. She’d had female troubles, or so the story went, until the day she’d rescued Gabriel Carpenter from a group of taunting boys. Lucy herself had rescued Gabriel once, but he’d seemed like an ordinary kid to her, grubby the way her own sons had been grubby, alternately friendly and shy. He said he’d been saved, but so did half the kids in Ambient. The only thing remarkable about him had been his appetite. And now, of course, the fact that he was gone. It was likely that no one would ever know what had really happened on the highway bridge, how he’d reached the barn despite the cold. It was one of those things. A mystery. Perhaps, if one needed an explanation, the river angel story was a good as any.

  “You did the right thing,” Lucy assured her. “Now I’d sure appreciate that ride home before Joe starts to worry.”

  “Let’s try your van one more time,” Janey said. “Maybe it was flooded.”

  “I didn’t smell gas.”

  “Give me your key,” Janey said, and Lucy followed her back across the parking lot. Janey turned the ignition key, then depressed the accelerator, held it to the floor. “Don’t wear down my starter,” Lucy said anxiously, but even as she spoke, the van roared to life.

  “Burns off the gas,” Janey said. “I guess I could have showed you that trick a little sooner.” She grinned so sheepishly that Lucy had to smile back.

  It was well after six by the time she pulled into her driveway. Sunday nights, she and Joe watched 60 Minutes together, pretending they weren’t remembering a time when the kids would be sprawled on the floor between them, wriggling like eels in their striped pajamas. Now Mike was in southern Illinois; Charles was in Indiana; Preston was in New York City. If there was one thing that Lucy could not forgive the Big Rolys of the world for, it was this: Her children had had no choice but to move away. What else could they do? Lucy had a brand-new baby granddaughter she still hadn’t seen; she’d met Charles’s wife only twice. Perhaps it was this sense of isolation that was weighing on Joe lately. Nights, she smelled his worry like a film of perspiration, salty and strong; in the morning, the odor lingered in the bedsheets, clung to his clothing, his favorite chair. He double-checked doors and windows to make sure they were locked. More than once, on their way to work in the morning, they’d had to turn around because Joe was convinced a burner was on. He’d point at a freckle on his arm, a mole on his chest—had it always looked this way? Was she certain? He watched her as she moved around the café, and if she happened to slip a bit, his caught breath whistled between his teeth.

  “That leg bothering you?” he’d say. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, Joe,” she’d say, even though the honest truth was that she was, well, tired. Perhaps they should just sell the restaurant, move down to Florida like so many of their friends seemed to be doing. Perhaps she should leave Big Roly in peace—after all, who could be certain that Ruthie wouldn’t be better off in Solomon? Let the shrine and all its hysteria die down, let people get on with their lives. Let the Circle of Faith return to its clothing drives and fund-raisers, its oh-so-secret meetings at the Crossroads. But what would happen to the downtown without the lure of the shrine? What would make Ambient stand out from every other little town on the Onion River, jostling for exposure in the state’s tourist brochures, desperate for outside money?

  There were those who said the shrine was deeply moving. Stan Pranke visited it nearly every morning, often stopping by the café afterward to hand out Angels Everywhere business cards. He was only one of many who claimed to have felt the presence of the angel at the shrine from time to time. Others had been granted special favors: an easy labor, a message from a lost loved one, recovery from an illness. Smokers left cigarettes wrapped in dollar bills; those who kicked the habit took out personal ads in the Ambient Weekly, crediting the shrine and leaving instructions for others who wanted to quit. Letters to the editor from out-of-town guests praised its rustic beauty. Of course, there were plenty who claimed it was the tackiest thing they’d ever seen—a mile of white Christmas lights wrapped around a barn that still stank of sheep, a three-foot white stone angel beneath a rough white wooden cross. Still, a Church investigation was in progress. Church buses
representing various denominations groaned into town on weekends, coughing black clouds of exhaust. A sociologist from some Florida university was interviewing everyone who had seen or heard or experienced something unusual on the night of Gabriel’s fall. A New England woman writing a book on angels had taken a room at the newly remodeled Moonwink-Best Western, and she could be seen in the railroad museum, squinting at old letters and newspaper clippings.

  Lucy let herself into the house, hung up her jacket and purse. Joe had made a split-pea soup, and she ladled some into a bowl, cut herself a slice of bread to go with it, all the while thinking, thinking. What if the council could establish the city’s interest in the shrine’s preservation? The farm would be kept from development, yes; still, that wouldn’t solve the problem of Ruthie’s debt. Selling off acreage was clearly the solution, but a specialized buyer would be required, someone who wanted that river frontage for fishing, for boating—

  —for a new city park! Lucy closed the bread drawer with a gleeful slam, imagining the look on Big Roly’s face as the city snatched that land out from under him. It would take some fancy footwork, sure, but they’d been having the same discussions regarding recreational space since she’d first been elected. Cradle Park was jammed all summer long, and there were no bike trails or walking paths, no public boat ramp anywhere along the river aside from the one by the Killsnake Dam—where there were less than a dozen parking spots, thanks to the millpond crowd. Everyone wanted another park. Of course, no one, least of all the taxpayers, wanted to foot the bill. But in order to save the house and barn, Ruthie might be convinced to set a price the city couldn’t afford to refuse. And as for the rest of the land—it would almost be like she still owned it. The only significant development would be along the water, and that would be—what?—a boat ramp, picnic tables, rest rooms, some parking. Swings for the kiddies. Maybe sand for a beach.

  “Lucy, that you?” Joe called from the living room, and she hollered back, as she always did, “It better be.” He was on the couch, watching Ed Bradley, the bedroom comforter pulled up to his chin. Wadded-up tissues littered the coffee table, and the air smelled of cherry cough syrup. “I was starting to worry,” he said as Lucy sat down beside him with her soup.

  “You always worry,” she said. “Guess what?”

  “Narrow the topic.”

  “Big Roly Schmitt.”

  Joe groaned. “What now?”

  “He’s made Ruthie Mader an offer on her property.”

  “The shrine? What would he do, charge admission?”

  “Better still,” Lucy said. “Build monster condos on top of it.”

  Joe shook his head. “She would never sell that property.”

  “She’s in debt, Joe. She may not have a choice.”

  He looked at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “I would hope,” he said, his voice shaking a little, “that the city will do what it can to protect the shrine from development.”

  It surprised her to see that he was upset; she was the one who despised Big Roly. “I’m looking into it, Joe,” she said. “Soon as I finish this soup, in fact.” But when she stood up, her foot landed shy of where she wanted it, catching the leg of the coffee table. She crashed back down into the sofa cushions. The soup bowl rolled across the carpet.

  “Lucy!”

  “I just tripped, Joe, for Pete’s sake.”

  “You don’t think that leg’s getting worse?”

  “Maybe you’d get better if you quit worrying over every little damn thing.”

  “You’re not a little damn thing. You’re a big damn thing.”

  Lucy didn’t smile.

  “I’m sorry,” Joe said, and he rested his hot, hot forehead against her cheek. “I just wish I could lay my hands on you and make everything right.”

  There was something about that that Lucy didn’t like. God will straighten your spine like a ribbon. The earnest pity in Janey’s face.

  “Make yourself right, Joe,” Lucy said. “You’re the one who’s sick.” And she got up without mishap and walked briskly to the kitchen to phone Jeep Curry for his opinion, and then Leland Kramer, the city planner.

  The next morning, first thing, Leland stopped by the restaurant. The survey looked promising; he wanted to take a personal look. “Let me talk to Ruthie first,” Lucy said. “In the meantime, keep this under your hat.”

  “Gee, Lucy, I was planning to drop in on Big Roly as soon as I left here.” He laughed wickedly. “This sure’ll get him huffing and puffing, won’t it?”

  “I do hope so,” Lucy said.

  Joe was still out sick, so late that afternoon she turned the restaurant over to her wait staff and headed toward Ruthie’s by way of the River Road, which was prettier than County C. After days of rain, the sun had warmed the temperature to a breezy seventy. The corn and wheat and soybeans were up; the River Road Apple Orchard was in full bloom, humming with bees. Perhaps the good weather would give her some pep. Perhaps she and Joe would get out a little more, drive to Madison for a nice dinner, see a movie at the mall. At the J road, she headed east, crossing over the highway bridge. A white memorial cross had been erected there, along with a small wooden sign in the shape of an arrow, which said SHRINE. There were plastic wreaths, small American flags; even—good heavens!—a picture of the Pope, sealed inside a plastic bag. Different strokes, Lucy reminded herself, but the older she got, the less patience she had with this kind of thing. Joe was just the opposite. He’d started going to Mass again; nights he couldn’t sleep, he prayed the Rosary. He’d even mentioned once or twice that they ought to take a ride out to the shrine, see what the fuss was about. Lucy just laughed and said that with all the talk around the café, she felt as if she’d already seen it.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Joe had said. “It’s not every day somebody sees an angel.”

  “Jeez, Joe, not you too!”

  “All I’m saying is there are things in the world that can’t be explained. Things beyond our five senses.”

  “That’s why we each have a sixth sense,” Lucy said. “Common sense. And in case you haven’t noticed, Ruthie Mader doesn’t seem to have too much of that one. I swear, every time she comes into the café, she’s back two hours later, looking for her purse.”

  Lucy hadn’t been out to the Mader farm since last fall, when she and Joe had picked out Halloween pumpkins at Ruthie’s unattended crop stand. You selected whatever you wanted from the piles of pumpkins and gourds, the various squashes laid out in rows, jars of preserves and strings of dried fruit. Then you paid on the honor system. There wasn’t even a lock on the cash box. Joe had thought it was sweet and old-fashioned.

  “More like ridiculous,” Lucy said.

  Now the crop stand looked as if someone had backed into it, and she was shocked by how run-down the whole place looked in general. The concrete birdbath in the apple orchard had tipped, cracked in two, and the tall pole that once held a purple-martin house was stretched out on its side. Scraps of aluminum foil, paper napkins, fast-food wrappers, and soda cans littered the courtyard, which was fenced in by a string of bright-yellow plastic flags; a new-looking wooden sign hammered to the side of the shed read PLEASE PARK ON GRAVEL SURFACES ONLY. No one was parked anywhere right now, but clearly people had been parking wherever they pleased: beneath the apple trees, carving ruts that exposed the tender roots; on what was left of the sloping front lawn; even beside the barn itself, gouging the wood with their bumpers. A second, more weathered-looking sign beneath the first read RIVER ANGEL SHRINE, with an arrow beneath it pointing to the barn. A third sign, mounted beside the sidewalk leading up to the house, read PRIVATE RESIDENCE. NO PUBLIC RESTROOMS. A yellow angel was painted on each of the signs, and all the O’s had tiny halos—Lucy recognized Maya Paluski’s artistic hand.

  She parked, fished her crutch from the back seat. The sun was crawling to the edge of the horizon, pulling the day’s warmth along with it. Swallows and nigh
thawks wheeled above the barn; a yellow star blinked over the door. Ruthie emerged from beneath it, carrying a garbage bag in one hand.

  “Hello?” Lucy called.

  Ruthie squinted, didn’t answer. Behind her, the fields sloped black and wet until they reached the diamond sparkle of the river. Lucy took a step forward and saw the precise moment Ruthie recognized her—not by her face. By her crutch.

  “Lucy! I’m sorry, I just get so many visitors—”

  “So it seems,” Lucy said, gesturing at the signs. “I can’t believe what they’ve done to the place.”

  “We set out trash cans just last week, and look—they’ve already disappeared. It’s amazing what people will take as souvenirs. They’ve picked all my flowers by the house.” Lucy could see the bald iris bed, the blind peonies and tiger lilies. “There’s a rumor they’re good for the sick.”

  “And the price is right, besides.”

  Ruthie laughed. “I suppose that’s part of it,” she said. “So. You’ve finally come to see the shrine.”

  “Actually…” Lucy said—but then she paused. It wouldn’t do to offend Ruthie now. “Well, yes. But I came to see you too.”

  “We’ll go in together, then,” Ruthie said. “I need to finish cleaning up.”

  At first, it was exactly what Lucy had expected. Nailed to the door was a basket filled with tiny gold angel pendants; the sturdy wooden box just below was marked DONATIONS. Lucy noted that, this time, the cash was protected by a padlock. But stepping inside the barn was like entering another world. Christmas lights outlined the beams, creating a box of light into which she felt her way blindly, unable to see the dark floor. On the wall behind the white stone angel, a rough cross opened its arms in a way that made Lucy think of a woman down on one knee to embrace a child. Half-burned votive candles were lined up at the statue’s base, a dozen flames flickering sleepily on a flat sheet of aluminum, which was enclosed by a rough brick firewall. As Ruthie bent to replace the burned-out candles, Lucy noticed—with relief—a fire extinguisher mounted in a case. The walls were covered with signatures, and some people had even carved their initials into the wood. Others had pinned up photographs, mementos, cigarettes wrapped in dollar bills. Lucy plucked one down, unrolled the dollar, and read the note inside: Please help my dad quit smoking, it is killing him, I promise twenty dollars if he quit. There were two sets of shelves built into the walls, and these were filled with dried Band of Angels bouquets, plastic flowers, wildflowers in cloudy jars of water, dolls and toys and lockets of hair tied with ribbon, letters, small china statues. A child’s mitten. A man’s dapper hat. A glass paperweight filled with snow.