Angel

by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

  The vision faded away, and I found myself in his darkened earthly bedroom once more.

  He hadn’t moved.

  Chapter Twelve

  Time Stopped

  ~~*~~

  I WAS raised in the country. Well, it wasn’t really the country, more like the leading edge of suburban Fort Collins, Colorado. Houses as new as our own bordered LeMay Street to the south, running well away in that direction and to the west. On that side of our fence were the Frayers. The father was a filthy-tempered math professor (go figure) at Colorado State University, his wife a busybody who loved to get in everybody’s business, including ours. They had two kids, Tommy and Kathy. Tommy was several years younger than me, and so I never really got to know him; Kathy was several years older, with the same outcome. Not long before I started my freshman year at the University of Hawaii, where I had earned an academic scholarship, Kathy was arrested as an accomplice in a murder. If memory served, she was convicted and would eventually spend fifteen years in the state penitentiary in Canon City.

  I avoided the Frayers. They frightened me. The father’s bellowing would erupt at random, terrifying moments, especially weekends; the mother was this flitting wide-eyed zombie on diet pills and suburban pop psychology, a perpetual plastic smile permafrosted to her makeup-caked face, her hair always perfect, her worldview mass-produced and planned for obsolescence. When I saw the kids, which wasn’t all that often, they looked like well-dressed war refugees.

  To the east was County Road 11 and endless fields of corn. That’s where I diverted my attention most days. Because a boy named Troy lived in a little house east of us, just across the road.

  He was my age. When we were eleven we discovered each other and became fast friends. We’d run around our respective yards playing every game we could think of, or, as happened far more often, dreamed up by us. Troy, like me, was being raised by a single mother whose father just up and moved out with no warning. His mother, unlike my own, was a religious fanatic, and so Troy didn’t go to public school, but to a private school affiliated with his church. His mother didn’t approve of our friendship, probably because I was one of the Unsaved, but eventually gave up trying to keep us apart.

  Troy’s father, like my own, was a drunken deadbeat dad who was rarely around. I met him once. He smelled of stale alcohol and had a face that hadn’t met a razor in several days. He barked at us to “stop fucking around,” at which point Troy gave me a scared look before running indoors.

  When I saw Troy again, that scared look had morphed into a broad smile. I was messing around under a bush in our front yard, as I recall, where we had built a fort of sorts. He pushed himself in. “Look,” he said breathlessly. He pulled in the object in his left hand.

  I stared.

  A rifle.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t a rifle, but a pellet gun. Troy’s father had bought it for him before taking off to resume his life of boozing and bedding barflies. Troy’s mother had apparently objected, but a brutal beating silenced her (I saw her bruised neck and arms a day or so later, and Troy told me when I asked). She had begged Troy’s father to show him how to use it, which the dickhead did before tearing up their driveway on his way out.

  I’ll never forget that pellet gun.

  One of the things that made Troy such a good friend was his sensitivity. The evil of his family’s circumstances did not numb him or make him behave like the bullies that routinely got in my face at school, and so we resolved never to shoot at living things, no matter how small or tempting they may be. Instead we shot at everything else: pop cans, old cans of spray paint (which were great, because they’d often spin away trailing blue or yellow or black paint), piles of twigs, piles of twigs stuffed with firecrackers (another treat whenever we got the chance), burned-out lightbulbs, and practically everything else made of glass or clay.

  My mother discovered what we were doing not long after and threw the expected conniption fit. She called Troy’s mother to discuss what the hell was going on, and for a while the gun disappeared. After a days-long siege of begging by both of us, along with a carefully choreographed demonstration that we understood and upheld all essential gun safety techniques, and after promising that we would never aim the weapon at neighboring homes or the Frayers (whom we couldn’t tell were living or inanimate), she allowed me to hang out with Troy when he was using it.

  When I look back on those days, I should have figured out that something was wrong with Mom, because had she been feeling better, she would have insisted on supervising us every minute we had that gun. I’m sure that was what she wanted Troy’s mother to do, but Troy’s mother was convinced the American government was going to come any day and take away everything from her home to her “God-given rights,” and so she wanted Troy to know how to fire a weapon in case the black helicopters showed up. Her initial objections with Troy having the weapon had more to do with the fact that his father had given it to him, not for any safety or common sense-related reasons. Eventually the parental hawking ceased entirely, and once again we were free to shoot at our favorite targets.

  We became increasingly good shots. We eventually tired of shooting at random things and took the time to paint a large, bright target on an old bit of particle board, which we hauled onto a makeshift A-frame found in the gloomy back recesses of the Lyons’ barn. We got permission to take it out to a bordering field, and there we took turns shooting at it. We developed a method of marking whose shot was whose, and practiced whenever we could, which was often. We came up with a point system, and from there it became a competition.

  We were very evenly matched. Rarely did I beat him by more than a point or two, and vice versa. Winning streaks were uncommon. As we got better, we increased the distance between us and the A-frame target.

  Like I said, Mom or Mrs. Lyons should have been supervising us at all times.

  One day we both got the same wild hair and decided to make the competition a long distance one. We took positions in the middle of my front yard. The target, half hidden by dead weeds across County Road 11, was a good hundred yards away, probably more. From that distance we would really have to pump the gun up to make sure the pellet got there and made a mark.

  It was my turn first. I vigorously pumped the gun and brought it up to my chin and aimed. I was determined to hit that particle board; nothing else mattered.

  I heard Troy say, “Ray, wait—” at the exact instant I pulled the trigger. The gun kicked just as the stationwagon whipped past.

  My tightly aimed pellet, pumped with extra velocity to get it to its target, flew through the open driver’s-side window and into the driver’s temple. The vehicle screeched horribly and fishtailed, then flew off the road into the bordering ditch after smashing through our mailbox.

  It was like a scene from a Hollywood movie. That was in fact the first thought that geysered up through my horror.

  The stationwagon’s hood was crumpled into the windshield, which had shattered. The man wasn’t moving. His head was turned away, his body resting limply against the steering wheel, which was spattered with blood. Dust swirled angrily around us, and the air smelled of hot gasoline.

  Time stopped. We stood there frozen to the spot.

  The front door to my house opened. It was Mom. She started for the stationwagon, shrieking, “What the Sam Hell just happened?”

  She rushed across the road and then down the ditch’s side to the driver’s-side door, Troy and I following. The vehicle’s engine was smoking. She turned to look at me, stupid, stupid me: I was still holding the gun. I never saw that look in her eyes before and never saw it after. She yelled, “The ambulance! Call the ambulance! Hurry!”

  Troy’s house was closer, so we tore into it looking for the phone book (9-1-1 didn’t exist back then). Troy’s mother wasn’t there; she was off doing who knows what, and I think her absence was the final nail in the coffin of my friendship with him. I know she and Mom “had a talk,” and I know it wasn’t pleasant, because Mom’s
red face upon returning from it, along with the week’s worth of shrieking lectures and the month-long ditching I received, told me so in no uncertain terms.

  (Troy was the one who made the call to the sheriff, by the way. I didn’t have the courage. I’ll never forget his words: “My friend Ray shot a man in a stationwagon … with a pellet gun! A pellet gun! He’s really sorry!”)

  The ambulance came with two fire trucks. It was the longest twenty minutes of my life waiting for them. They pulled the man out, who by that point was moaning incoherently. They got him in the ambulance and hurried away while the fire trucks took care of the stationwagon, which looked like it might catch fire any moment.

  It was the only time Mom ever physically punished me. Her hand slashed across my face, and then she screamed at Troy to “Go home, and stay home!” She grabbed me by my ear and dragged me indoors to my bedroom, where she returned seconds later with a flyswatter, which she took to my bare legs. She left me there bawling, the flesh of my legs red and raw and checkered. I stayed there the rest of the day.

  I spoke to the sheriff a day or so later. He interviewed me, then left. I was terrified that I was going to jail, but nothing came of it.

  The pellet had to be surgically removed from the man’s skull. I was told he had a serious concussion, but my colossal stupidity didn’t permanently damage him. He agreed not to sue provided that he got a chance to talk to me.

  The drive to the hospital and the long walk to his room were as awful as the events that put him there. We got to his room and knocked on the door and stepped in after he told us to come in. My knees were literally shaking. I felt like puking, and my heart pounded in my ears.

  We walked to his bedside. He was sitting up, his head wrapped in gauze, including his left eye. He took a long, unsmiling look at me as my mother took her place behind me.

  “What’s your name?” he asked quietly. His right eye was bloodshot and too much to look at.

  Swallowing back vomit, I croaked out barely above a whisper, “R-R-Ray.”

  “Ray, I’m Mister …”

  I don’t remember his name. I didn’t half a second after he told me. I remember very little else that he said to me that morning, only that he forgave me and always to respect any weapon in my possession, because if I didn’t “it’ll do far more damage.” I remember that.

  ~~*~~

  I stared at the .38 in my grip. Did I respect it? I wanted it to do as much damage as possible.

  I didn’t know how to load bullets in it, and so spent ten minutes on YouTube watching demonstration videos. I turned off my laptop and closed the top, then went back to the kitchen and loaded a single bullet into the chamber and turned the safety off.

  Without another thought I turned the gun into my chest and fired.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Trying On New Boots

  ~~*~~

  THE WEIRD thing was this: suicide really wasn’t something I’d given much thought to before then—before I pulled the trigger. Oh, it had always lurked just beneath the surface of my consciousness, admittedly; but it only came to the top during periods of serious depression, which, I suppose, had become more frequent the past few years. In any case, I refused to think of myself as anything but happy and well-adjusted.

  I had never really feared death through the course of my life. Dying, yes. Dying was scary as hell. But death itself? The cessation of life, of consciousness? What was there to fear? Death was unknowable and, I was absolutely certain, the absolute finish line. When I, Ray Wilms, died, I would not continue on in any way. There was no life after death, no pearly gates, no harps and angels and billowing clouds and eternal sunshine. That was a fantasy for children, which was how I viewed most of humanity.

  There was a sharp instant of unendurable pain: a white hot poker burrowing into my chest. But that wasn’t the last sensation I felt. I wish it had been. The very last thing I felt, infinitely worse, as awful as being immersed in “Oblivion,” was what I can only describe as a sharp cry of loneliness. It didn’t come from me, from my throat, from my brain, but from my heart. I heard it—no, I felt it—and then I felt nothing else.

  ~~*~~

  It was Calliel who saved me, of course. He had taken the bus to my stop, and outside my front door he waited, arms crossed, a very serious, very angry frown creasing his face.

  “Damnit, man,” I yelled, “if you knew something like this was going to happen, then why the holy fucking hell are you standing out here when you could just knock down the door and stop me before I pull the trigger? Why? Why?”

  As though he could still hear me, he answered. “Men have free will, Ray, even ones like you with your head jammed up your ass. I can’t violate that. I know you’re inside there, and I know you’re going to try to do yourself in. You very well may succeed. I’m praying right now that you’re as incompetent at offing yourself as you are at being a functioning human being, and that you give me another shot at saving that toxic landfill of a soul of yours. If you’re still there, and you’re angry that I’m just standing here, that’s the reason why. Frankly I’m inclined to knock this door down and help you along. You really piss me off.”

  I was certain yesterday that he had another big day of gore and death and horror waiting, and had done my best to prepare myself for it. Grumbling and moaning from what had to be a five-alarm hangover, he rose and fed himself bacon and eggs, then showered and dressed and left the house. He boarded the bus and off he went. He got on the trolley forty minutes later; forty minutes after that got off at Fifth Avenue in mid-town San Diego. He didn’t speak to anybody, didn’t do anything but stare out the window with a calm countenance.

  He walked six blocks under gray skies (it wasn’t drizzling here in town), stopping at an upscale clothier named Tyler Bros. He looked up at the sign and then walked in.

  I’d never stopped in. The mannequins in the display window were wearing my salary on their backs. Besides, the fashions were a bit too country and western for me: fine cowboy hats and boots and shirts and pants that seemed far more appropriate for Dallas oil billionaires than a Midwestern academic schlep like me.

  The shop smelled like ultra-fine leather and stacks of cash. The interior was narrow; most of the shirts and jeans were neatly folded and stacked on high shelves to the sides. The ceiling was twenty-five feet up and looked hauntingly like the one in the Blue Lead Inn in long-dead Bodie, California. A man halfway up a cherrywood ladder smiled in welcome. “Hello. What can I do for you this fine morning?”

  “Howdy,” returned Calliel. He pulled a boot off, held it up. There was a small hole below the ankle, and the heel on the left side looked like it was coming loose. “I’m lookin’ to replace these.”

  The man finished moving pants from one shelf to another and made his way down the ladder. He was older, maybe ten years my senior, with a neatly trimmed white beard and hair to match. He descended cautiously, then approached and gave a professional but warm smile. “May I?” he asked, reaching for the boot.

  Calliel handed it to him.

  The clerk dug into his suit pocket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses and put them on, then brought Calliel’s boot up for inspection. His brow furrowed, and then furrowed more. He turned the boot over, looked it up and down. Something had clearly caught his attention.

  “Where did you get these?”

  Calliel shook his head. “Couldn’t tell which shop. It’s been a while.”

  The man lowered the boot and brought his examining stare to bear on him. “I should think so. Would you mind if I look at the other one?”

  “Sure,” said Calliel, and removed the other boot.

  “Where are my manners?” said the clerk, taking it. “Please, sir, have a seat. Please.” He motioned towards one of two high-backed leather chairs near the counter. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I would,” said Calliel, taking his long coat off and draping it over his arm. “Black, please.”

  “Black,” repeated the man a
s he strolled towards the coffee maker on a table near the chairs. He put down the boots to pour coffee into a very expensive-looking porcelain cup, which he placed on a matching saucer. He lifted it to Calliel, who took it with a nod of thanks. “Please,” said the clerk, “let me take your coat.”

  Calliel handed it to him and sat. He took a sip of coffee. “That’s mighty fine.”

  The clerk hung up his coat and returned. He grabbed Calliel’s boots and sat in the facing chair and went back to his inspection. Calliel looked on quietly.

  “Is there something wrong?” asked Calliel after two minutes of complete silence.

  “Oh, no, sir, not at all,” said the man, who went to say something more but then held up. Instead he chuckled. “It’s just … It’s just been a dog’s age since I saw a pair of Dulcimer & Hayes.”

  “They’ve been superb,” said Calliel. “You got another pair lyin’ around? I think these have just about had it.”

  The clerk looked up from his inspection and chuckled again. “Would you mind sharing where you found these?”

  “Found?” said Calliel. “I bought those. Like I said, I don’t remember the name of the shop.”

  “Where was the shop?”

  “Let me see,” said Calliel, gazing up and rubbing his chin, “Reno? Yeah, I think it was Reno.”

  “Reno.”

  “Reno,” said Calliel more surely.

  “What year would that have been?”

  It was Calliel’s turn to smile. “A long time ago.”

  The boots had been forgotten. “You don’t look like you’re more than a century old, sir,” said the clerk. “I know my upcoming question is in poor taste, and I know it may cost me a sale, but did you steal these from a museum by chance?”

  “No, Mr. Hayes,” said Calliel, shaking his head slowly. “I bought them from your grandfather in 1915.” He put his cup back on the saucer, which was on a side table, and leaned forward. “And I would like to buy a new pair from you. You are Tyler Hayes, aren’t you?”