"Calliel," said Calliel.
"Calliel," said the guard, who vacantly walked away. By the time he got to the woman in the next seat up to verify her ticket stub, his countenance had darkened back into stoic indifference, as though his encounter with him hadn't happened.
I never found out what that guard saw when he swiped Calliel's trolley pass, and I never got a good look at the card itself. The guard got off at the next stop, and I never saw him again.
At H Street in Chula Vista, Calliel got off.
H Street was (had been) my stop.
Early evening had fallen over the city. He gazed up at the leaden sky, then made his way through the drizzle towards the buses. Ten minutes later he boarded the 903. That was my bus. He extracted a bus stub from his pocket (why not the magical trolley pass? I wondered. After all, they were valid on the buses as well) and showed it to the driver, who responded with a blunt snort. Calliel marched to the back and sat. I was tugged along behind him, and came to a floating rest beside him.
I studied him.
He was a good-looking man (cherub, whatever), late 30s or early 40s, with short light-brown hair, hazel-green eyes, and a long nose set between high cheekbones. He had a strong chin and his face was clean-shaven.
He was tall and fit, broad-shouldered and slim-waisted. I wondered if all angels were in similar shape, and how they stayed that way. Was there an angel's fitness club in Heaven, a Gold's Gym-type outfit they all congregated at (pardon the pun) to keep toned? Or perhaps one of the rewards of getting into Heaven was a permanently cut physique?
I hadn't asked him these things, and now regretted it. It seemed a stupid thing to focus on—his physical traits. I hadn't done it, not once, while I knew him, in all the times we were (or were about to be) together.
My life on Earth was very quickly drawing to a close, and was, for all intents and purposes, over. Shouldn't I be thinking about God, or what lay ahead, what the future held for me, or if there was going to be a future at all? I was about to die—and yet here I was admiring an angel's physique!
(And no, he didn't have wings or a halo.)
I considered my soon-to-be-crushed physical form. I was no looker, but I wasn't ugly, either. I was a fairly plain-looking man, five-ten, with slowly graying and thinning brown hair and sharp blue eyes. I was a little soft in the middle, admittedly, but nothing you'd call fat. I had walked this Earth with a strong back and legs, but the choices I'd made the last thirty-plus years of the sixty-three I'd gotten had worn on me like acid rain, darkening my gaze and turning the corners of my mouth down. Aside from the odd cold or flu, I hadn’t been sick a day in my life. But those choices made it look like I was within walking distance of death's door, even though I never was: a pale countenance, sloped shoulders, and rigid hips. Students had long since labeled me "Dr. Death Ray" (my given name is Ray), not only because I had been an uncompromising hardass, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but also by my endlessly sullen demeanor, which is always, necessarily, a bad thing.
The true terminal disease of my life had been my outlook on it, my worldview: a malignant, grotesque, swelling tumor I displayed proudly for three decades.
I stared at Calliel, who had closed his eyes.
Was he praying, or was he merely tired?
He opened them when the driver pulled away from the curb. He was one of only two passengers aboard. The other was an old woman sitting halfway up. When the bus slowed to a stop at a light, he got up and sat across the aisle from her. She looked his way, and smiled warmly.
"I knew you'd come back," she said.
He put his hand on her shoulder. "How are you, Nora?"
"Oh, fine, just fine," she replied. "Just headin' home. I knew you'd come back. Always knew it."
"How long has it been?" he asked.
"Lord," she laughed quietly, "seventy years? I was only seventeen; now I'm eighty-seven. But look at you! It's like no time passed at all! You're just the same! No surprise there, I suppose ... and no surprise that you're back. I always knew you'd come back ..."
Her smile didn't fade as she said, "You're here for me, aren't'cha?"
"There's nothing to fear," he said, squeezing her shoulder gently.
"I'm not afraid," she said. "Not anymore, at least. Not about that. Not since the last time I saw you ..."
"That's my girl."
He looked ahead, then back at her. "Your stop is coming up, so I need you to listen very carefully to me, Nora, all right?"
The old woman nodded.
"I want you to keep walking even after you lose your cane, do you understand? Don't look for it, and no matter what, don't look behind yourself. Okay?"
He gazed briefly at the silver cane leaning against the empty window seat, then back at her.
She nodded. Her smile had vanished, replaced by what I could only call fierce resolve.
"You won't need the cane after you lose it, so don't worry about it. Let it go. You just keep walkin’, Nora. Keep lookin’ ahead and keep walkin’. When you get to the gates of your apartment complex, go on through. You'll feel real scared at those gates, and when you get to them you'll know why. But go on through anyway. Can you do that for me?"
She stared at him without blinking for a long time, then nodded.
"Will you be with me, Calliel?"
He shook his head sadly.
"Will God?"
"That's entirely up to you," he said. "Ask for Him, and He'll be there. I promise." He looked at the cane again, then back at her.
She caught the glance, gazed at the cane, then got it. Her face, like the trolley security guard's earlier, lit up.
The bus slowed, stopped. She got up to leave. The driver lowered the handicapped landing so she wouldn't have to use the stairs. Calliel stood to help her, and escorted her off. He opened her umbrella, handed it to her.
She grabbed his arm, then reached up and kissed his cheek.
"Will I see you again?" she asked. She seemed utterly without fear.
"Go through those gates, Nora, and you'll see me again. I believe in you. You’re very strong."
"Are you here to help someone else like you helped me all those years ago?"
He nodded.
That seemed to reassure her enormously, and she patted his arm and hobbled off.
He reboarded the bus. The driver waited for the handicapped access ramp to secure itself, then pulled away from the curb.
Calliel sat in the seat Nora had occupied. She waved at him as the bus accelerated away. He waved back, then closed his eyes again.
Chapter Two
Googled
~~*~~
THE 903 swung deep into Chula Vista before beginning its long trek back towards H Street. Calliel hopped off at a dark corner stop without street signs, well past my stop. He watched as the bus disappeared down the hill, then crossed the street.
The sidewalks here were new, and so were the homes, which stood like shadowy sentinels in a lonely half-circle in the middle of a field a quarter mile off. They appeared empty, the freshly laid and rain-glistening asphalt of the street leading to them ending abruptly just a hundred or so yards on in a dirt road that devolved into a weed-choked path. He marched along the road and then onto the path, his footfalls crunching, until he came to the leftmost house of the cul-de-sac. He crossed the porch and reached for the handle of the front door and twisted it. Certainly not to my surprise, it opened. He went in. I was tugged through just before he closed it behind him.
I didn't know what to expect. Did angels kick off their shoes and pour themselves a cold one and catch up on the news or their favorite TV show? The home was furnished, and there was power coming to it—he reached for a lamp and clicked it on—and then, indeed, he sat on the sofa after taking off his longcoat and pulling off his boots. He took a deep breath and leaned back and closed his eyes again. A few minutes later he rose and walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
There was food in there—leftovers! And beer! He opened a half-
empty bag of deli turkey and made himself a sandwich; with a bottle of what looked like a micro-brew he devoured the sandwich over the sink before moving back to the living room, bottle in hand, and sat back on the couch.
Was this some sort of halfway house for angels? Did other angels use it too? Would others show up later like dormmates in a college?
I glanced around for a Bible or other religious literature, for a cross, a rosary, an altar complete with a knife for sacrificing lambs, anything. But there was nothing.
It was a nicely furnished home. Television, cozy furniture, warm lighting. The art here and there wasn't religious in theme; instead it was tasteful with the feel of being original and perhaps even a little eccentric. A twisted driftwood piece sat on the TV; on the wall behind it was a painting of a young girl standing on the concrete remains of a pier, looking seaward.
He stood abruptly and downed the rest of the brew in two large chugs, set the empty bottle on the coffee table, then made his way into a little study adjacent to the master bedroom. On a nice roll-top desk was a laptop. He sat and pulled the cover up and logged in.
Angels—using computers? What was his log-in: "DivinePresence"? Was his password "NoHellforYou23" or something similar?
I looked. His log-in: Calliel. I have no idea what his password was, since it showed up as nothing but black dots in the entry bar. Soon he was on Google, where he typed my name in the search field: "Ray Wilms." He hit enter and waited as the results came back.
I stared, astonished.
There I was, link after link after link. The top of the page read: "About 4,600 results (0.16i seconds)."
"i"? As in "imaginary"? As in the set of complex numbers?
I peered at the links. Calliel took his time looking them over. I didn't know if that was significant or not.
The first one:
RAYMOND DOUGLAS WILMS—San Diego, California
The light-green text just beneath read: "Ray Wilms"
No period, no "http" or "https," no ".com" or ".net" or ".org" or even ".god."
Beneath that was text: "Professor of Mathematics at San Diego Cooperative College, 13 years. Sixty-two years old; birthdate: February 24, 1952. Projected deathdate: 2011—2015. Primary life habits ..."
But the text ended.
What did it say about my “primary life habits”? And what did it say after that?
How did Google know about my "primary life habits"? Was there some sort of heavenly Google, one that angels used? It sure as hell looked like it—pun intended!
Was Google run by cherubs? Was God the CEO? It seemed entirely unlikely, especially when I considered the company's many greed-driven policies and intrusions into users' privacy. Google's mantra of "Don't Be Evil" had more holes in it than a dartboard in an Irish pub.
No, this was a different Google, one that just happened to share the earthly one's name and knew a great deal more.
I gazed at the next two links, which was all I could see over Calliel's right shoulder. I tried getting closer; I turned and blew air as hard as I could, hoping the thrust would move me. No luck.
I turned around, stared. The second link read:
Ray Wilms—materialist
In green: "cynicism"; beneath that was an incomplete sentence: "The death of his mother (August 19, 1973), coupled with ..."
I gaped, speechless. The mention of Mom twisted something very unpleasant in my gut. And I knew what "coupled with ..." meant. I didn't want to think of it, and pushed it out of my head.
The third link read:
Ray Wilms—Candidate
The green writing beneath it: "Assignment: Calliel.” Beneath that: "Probability of success: less than two percent."
Calliel didn't seem to notice his name or the dim probability statement, but I sure as shit had. What "probability of success"? The probability that I would make it into Heaven? Two lousy percent?
"Click number three!" I shouted. "Number three!"
But he didn't. Instead he scrolled through several pages before finally settling on a link I couldn't see due to his body blocking the way. I tried to read what came up; the URL bar read only "history."
Cynic was a word I kept seeing over and over again. So was skeptic, atheist, bitter, angry, rude, overbearing, and arrogant. I spied the word victim shoot by several times, and involuntarily closed my eyes each time afterward.
The link he clicked next came up with a hi-res photo of me walking out of Lory Hall, one I didn't know existed. There were others beneath it: me on the trolley, me at the supermarket, me at home grading papers, even one of me emerging from the shower with a towel around my waist!
I tried reading the text (and the URL bar at the top), but received yet another surprise when it wasn't in English, but in a language that literally made my eyes water. Many of the letters began almost invisibly, darkened, then faded out (left to right). Others weren't in black text but in the entire spectrum of the rainbow. Still others seemed to move and shift about, which caused the fadey letters to change. I couldn't recognize anything like punctuation or structure. Calliel, however, didn't seem to struggle at all. He sat back in his chair and read, or did whatever one does with information presented in such a way.
(Was it even information as humans knew it? The researcher in me was fascinated. Did this "language" somehow make it possible to solve complex mathematics problems otherwise considered unsolvable?)
Here I was in all my glory, and I couldn't read what the hell was being said about me! I wondered aloud why some of the links and text were in English and not this uber-language, then shut up. It made no difference in any case; and in any case whatever that uber-language had to say about me couldn't have been all that complimentary. I was almost grateful I couldn't read it.
He closed that page, then opened several more. Again the language was indecipherable; more photos that I had no idea had been taken came up. I realized no such photos could have been taken. There was one of me sitting at my kitchen table, head in my hands, an open newspaper pinned beneath my elbows and a half-eaten bowl of cereal pushed out of the way. I remembered that day: it was less than a year ago, just before I met Calliel. No one was there with me. That was a large part of the reason I was in such a desperate, lonesome state!
Imagine my surprise when he called up YouTube!
Videos of me! Pages and pages of them!
He got up, and I received a third shock: I didn't get tugged along with him! Moments later I heard him peeing. I heard him zip up, and then ... wheee! Like a stretched rubber band I zoomed out of the study back over his shoulder while he fished in the fridge for another beer. He twisted the cap off and tossed it on the counter, then shuffled back into the study, where he sat once more and started looking over the videos.
While he was peeing, I'd gotten a good look at them, and hoped—hoped—he wouldn't click any of them. For they were, top to bottom, the most reprehensible moments of my sorry existence. A video Hall of Shame of Dr. Ray D. Wilms' pathetic life, titled with dates in bold.
He clicked on one anyway. My gut sinking, I looked away. But that didn't keep the sound from coming through. I knew what video he had selected and the moment in my life it highlighted. Or, rather, lowlighted.
"You don't have a clue, do you?" I heard myself say in stereo. I was speaking to a student, one whose face I will never forget.
"I ... I do ... just give me a chance, Dr. Wilms ..." offered the boy. My memory of his voice I must have diluted somehow, because he sounded even more intimidated and desperate than I remember.
"D-Y BY D-X," I shouted nonsensically. "Generalized to indefinite integrals given WHAT CONSTRAINTS?"
"Uh ... the ... the curve ... assuming the curve is ... is smooth in the n-neighbor—?"
"You have no idea what you're talking about, do you?" I heard myself demand. "Not a single clue."
"I do!" he protested. I shriveled inside myself to hear his voice again. I tried poking my spiritual fingers in my spiritual ears to block out the audio, but
heard him stutter, plain as day: "I ... I … I'm just nervous is all. I know this…. I ... It's only half a point, Dr. Wilms, half a point! I can't afford to take this class again—"
"It's done," I heard myself say with all the emotion of an executioner. "I've already submitted final grades. You got a D-plus, Mr. McMann, and will have to retake this class and obtain a passing grade in order to complete your major. Good day."
I didn’t watch the video, but I might as well have. The memory of that crestfallen kid walking out of my office was there, vivid as it was horrifying.
The video didn't end there, as I knew it wouldn't. I heard Calliel chuckle darkly when the worst part of it came, which was me erasing the boy's passing C-minus on my yet-to-be-submitted final grade ledger and changing it to a not-passing D-plus.
The video ended.
Eyes closed, I waited for him to click the follow-up video that had to be there, one that detailed the boy's suicide a week later. When I heard nothing but the quiet, steady clicking of the mouse's flywheel, I cautiously opened my eyes and looked.
He quit surfing and took a swig of beer. The video he chose next featured me dressing down a thoroughly overwhelmed customer service representative at the cable company I subscribed to for overcharging me $4.99 and who had no idea how to resolve the matter.
"You've got no education, do you?" I heard myself ask, poison in my voice. "You cuddled that worthless high-school diploma like it meant something, and then you went husband hunting while fantasizing about shitting out kids, and as a result the best you’ve ever managed in life is this, a minimum-wage food-stamp grind and mind-numbing ignorance that you’ll pass on to your progeny!”
I righteously pounded the counter with the last two words.
Like the first video, I couldn't watch. I heard the woman croak, "Ex-excuse me ..." and leave her post crying. I heard myself yell, "Now who the hell is gonna help me? CAN I PLEASE GET SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THE HELL THEY'RE DOING?"
It was an assistant manager, as I recall, and indeed the video revealed his calm voice after several suffocating moments weighed down with shamed silence.
"I can help you, Mr. Wilms ... If you'd just lower your voice, I'll take care of you ..."
Angel Page 2