A Guardian Angel

by Williams, Phoenix

  “Sixty-one,” the rancher replied with an equal amount of hesitation.

  “Okay, well here's my card,” the agent started, handing him the identified object. “I'm gonna worry about you, and as a 'paranoid individual,' I can help you out when no one else will.”

  He started walking to his Volvo, opening up the door as Tim looked over the card with confusion. He looked up at the claims agent just as he waved and climbed in.

  “Call me if you need anything,” Barney said, then shut the door and drove off.

  A couple of days had passed on the Simacean Ranch. With the exception of a hurried visit to a highway side liquor store, Tim had isolated himself in his house, as drunk as he could be and still watched the television in the mornings. He started to doze on this particular morning, two days after Barney's visit. A young woman was on the TV screen in a digitized news studio.

  “Today, the Decree trials focused on the crime of hired assassination, an issue that had until this point seemed almost nonexistent,” she spoke. The footage showed some prerecorded images of the trial, in which Haley Flynn was speaking. Her words were silent as the news lady continued. “Haley Flynn described her encounters with the infamous assassin known as Andrew Winter. The hired gun had apparently turned over quite a few pieces of incriminating evidence, revealing his contracts for over ten different assassinations. Winter himself has not been placed in custody and remains at large.”

  The image of a lanky looking man in a designer suit appeared to the left of the reporter. He was bald and sported shaded spectacles.

  “Two hours after resigning from his leading position, the company's former president Sampson Miles, was arrested in Los Angeles this morning, facing the brunt of the homicide charges,” the lady on the screen explained. “It is believed that he will reveal a large network of conspirators during questioning.”

  The phone's old fashioned loud ring sounded and Tim turned down the television to answer. “Hello?” he said into the receiver.

  “Hello, Mr. Simacean?” an excited female voice said from the other line. She did not wait for a response. “My name is Nora Blaunette and I'm calling because I was told by a local about your tragedy. I'll be perfectly honest, I didn't know whether or not to believe it, but old Barn swore on his life that it was true. I am terribly sorry to hear about your loss,” she offered.

  “Thank you very much,” Tim said, hanging onto the words so he had more time to think of actual responses. He didn't have much time before she took the wheel again. He didn't mind that so much.

  “Getting down to why I called you, I lead an organization of similar minded business owners who like to do things like donate to homeless shelters and hold fundraisers,” she continued. She spoke as if she was being charged per millisecond to do so. “We're all very active members of our First Church of Christ, and as terrible as what happened to you is, we believe there is a purpose to everything. That God has a plan for you and your ranch, and we want to do what we can to help. What would you say to me and two other members coming and taking a look at the angel?”

  “You want to see it?” Tim asked, proving not to be a man of conversation.

  “Yes, sir,” Nora replied. “I could not be more interested in it.”

  “When were you thinking?” Tim asked with as much effort as he could muster, keeping his tired voice from sounding ungrateful or annoyed. He succeeded barely.

  “Four?” the woman asked.

  “Four it is,” the rancher replied.

  Again the rancher sat in front of his home as he found himself doing whenever company was expected, smoking his hand rolled cigarettes. He didn't have to wait long before a minivan pulled off of the highway and onto his bumpy driveway. Something inside him cringed when he saw the women in the vehicle. They were tight-faced, short-haired, clown-makeup wearing women clearly in denial of their age and so out of touch with their social tendencies that they group together with other horrifying women because their affection for Christ rivaled each others'. The sort of women who call for Avon or knock for Jehovah and any other interest that allows them to pester people on their own doorsteps about things that Tim wasn't convinced they could care so much about. They seemed over excited as they collected their purses and climbed out of the minivan.

  “Mr. Simacean?” the woman with short, permed brown hair asked. “I'm Nora. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Yes, Nora,” Tim said, trying not to roll his eyes as he offered a handshake. She accepted it but cut him off short, making him have a sub par grip.

  The bubbly woman turned and indicated the others. One was older with very short, almost buzzed silver hair. She had a tight and displeased look in her eye. The other was much younger, much larger, and much shyer. She seemed to wince every time Tim stopped to focus his gaze on her for just a moment, turning away. “This is Glenda,” the elder, “and Maude,” the child.

  “Collectively, you are...” Tim offered.

  “The Pray Away The Storm group,” the sociable one replied.

  “PATS,” the young one mumbled, trying to provide information without seeming like she had. Strange, Tim mused.

  “PATS,” Tim echoed.

  Nora lit up. “What we really specialize in is helping people who have been left less than fortunate by natural disasters,” she explained. “We've contributed quite a bit to Katrina and Haiti, and are still sending bits over for Sandy.”

  “Remarkable,” Tim commented.

  They all had been throwing intimidated looks at the looming metal structure. “Now Tim, tell us about the angel,” Nora demanded.

  “Well,” the rancher said, taking a look back at the thing himself, “there's not a whole lot to tell. Gigantic metal angel fell straight out of the sky and killed all my livestock.”

  “Fell from the sky?” Nora echoed.

  “That's incredible,” Glenda said.

  “Do you want to take a look at it?” Tim offered. “Just be careful, I don't know if it's safe to touch.”

  Nora chimed in. “That would be lovely!” as if he had offered to feed them or something. He turned and gestured for the three of them to follow him as he sauntered off to the angel.

  “Oh my,” the women sighed when they came around to the full scene of the crash. The sun was in such a position in the southern mountains that it gleamed just at the top of the angel's head. Like a halo. This mesmerized them. Even Tim.

  “And you lost how many cows?” Glenda asked, eyes glued to the metallic shape.

  “All twenty-seven,” Tim said, adding in an extra dash of grief to his voice and saw that it was used to good effect.

  “There must be a greater purpose,” the quiet younger girl said. “Some reason for God's will.” She smiled subtly, but with warmth.

  “Yeah,” the rancher sighed in response. “Thank you.”

  Nora put her hand on Tim's shoulder, a strange contorted look of sympathy on the front of her head. “You know, I would really like to get in touch with our local TV news station,” she began, “and see if we couldn't get a good spot for you and a fund raising account. So that way, you can come close to having back what was so strangely taken from you. What do you say?”

  “Oh,” Tim said with modesty, “television? I'm not sure.”

  “It could only help,” Glenda said.

  “Yes, Tim,” Nora explained. “Not only must we get your plight known so you can get some help, but we must tell others about this – this – ” she stuttered. “This miracle. It is so much bigger than us. It must be shared.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Yes.”

  After a week, Tim started sweating as he looked over his bank statements. He was starting to tap into his personal retirement savings to feed himself. This was the source of his anxiety as he paced around his living room, now disregarding his no smoking in the house policy. He paced about the floor, cursing Barney, the religious women and even God himself for sending his “miracle.” All a waste
of time. The cattle, the ranch. He started to worry about all the time he couldn't get back.

  Then the phone rang.

  That afternoon, Tim watched from behind the shades of his window as multiple vehicles, a large equipment van and two cars, drove off the highway and onto his property. He exhaled smoke as he peered into one of the cars. The three women from PATS waved at him as they parked.

  “Tim!” Nora exclaimed as she stepped out of the car, summoning the rancher onto his driveway. He walked out of the door and stomped out his cigarette before accepting the extended hand Nora offered him. She pulled him into a hug.

  “Isn't this great?” she asked him. “Not only can we let Christians all around the area see this miracle, but the station has even agreed to set up a hotline for donations. Everyone will see your plight and can help out.”

  “That's,” Tim started, peering around the corner of his house to watch as camera operators set up their equipment, “great. Really, it is.”

  A tall, slender Asian woman approached Tim from the second car. “Are you the owner? Mr. Simacean?” she asked.

  “Uh, yes. Hi, that's me,” he responded with his hand extended. She accepted it and smiled tightly.

  “Hi there,” she started, charismatic. “First off, let me just say from the bottom of our heart at the station, it is a terrible tragedy what happened to your ranch. Let us know if there is anything we can do for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When we start, we'll want you in front of the angel, behind the van,” she explained.

  Tim nodded.

  “Great,” she said before wandering off toward the cameras.

  “Tim Simacean's ranch has seen incredible losses since this bizarre occurrence,” the reporter said on the television as the rancher watched the taped version of the story later that evening. “The 'angel' itself, as it is being called by locals, is from an unknown source. Most theories point to this being debris from a private aircraft, or quite possibly a satellite. But, so far there are no reports that match the scene. The facts remain uncertain. Only speculation can be made.”

  The screen cut to Tim himself. “I have no honest clue where the thing came from,” he said, his voice gravelly on tape. “Two Sundays ago it just fell from the sky and crashed into my barn. You know, there were lots of things shaking and falling until that final crash. Now I have almost thirty dead and very flat cattle.” He laughed halfheartedly. “I don't even know how I'm going to afford to eat.”

  I didn't realize how grumpy I sound, Tim thought. How much it seemed like he was being bothered. He thought he had come off rather apathetic.

  “This is the angel, still lodged in the crater it created when it fell from the sky,” the reporter smiled as she posed next to the large rusted form. The cameraman had found it very difficult to capture the whole image in frame. “Perhaps this could be seen as a divine intervention. It leaves many questions and many hopes in the hearts of so many. Where did the angel really come from? What is its purpose? All I can say is that I hope this fallen angel is a good omen. Back to you, Margaret.”

  The TV flicked back to the studio where the anchor made some awful joke about the story that Tim had ignored because of a ringing in his ear. Something didn't sit right with him about the news story. Seemed to be far more attention than he'd prefer. Made him seem weak.

  The rancher scoffed as he clicked the appliance off and lumbered over to his bed. I doubt anything will even come of this. Nothing bad at least.

  -Chapter Sixteen-

  Suggestion

  Just like that, over the course of a week, Tim had begun receiving donations from all over the local area. They piled as envelopes in his mailbox or as large electronic donations that the rancher only discovered he had when he asked for cash back on a bottle of organic shampoo. Notes were sometimes attached to the donations, some typed up on papers from the desks of certain movers and shakers with a note about how much they care about the community and give what they can and so on. Others, to Tim's near displeasure, were charming little letters written on notebook paper with crayon or another colorful utensil from children who had seen him on the news, asking God to bless him and saying other beautiful things. Even the children donated what allowance they could from the bottom of their little hearts.

  A prayer group had even shown up one morning with a large donation and a touching ceremony. They prayed at the gigantic angel for Tim's safety and that of his ranch, wished him the best, and then drove off his land in their stretched vans.

  In a small amount of time, Tim had collected enough money from these various generous donations, and by selling the last of his beef, to begin rebuilding his barn. For a couple nights he stayed up and looked at the ruins. He wondered if he could even continue after such a loss. Every time he thought about raising cattle, all he could see was twenty-seven mangled corpses. Still, he thought, it's who I am. I am a rancher. He would stare deep into the blank, featureless face of the angel. Is it sacrilege to hate the thing for killing his way of life? He wondered. Or, was it strange that he felt a sort of responsibility for the miracle? Some sort of new connection was being formed for the thing. He thought long and hard.

  The rancher had planned to tear the thing out of the earth and huck it. Donate it to someone who wanted it. On his second night of contemplation, Tim decided instead that he would incorporate it into his designs. Allow it to stay where it had landed. He could watch over it.

  He drove into town with a short stack of money and bought himself the supplies he needed. He piled mounds of wood and fencing material into the back of his truck and began construction as soon as he got back home. He discovered that he was no professional as he struggled with the corners of his corral. It had started off with him just winging it, nailing the pieces together as he thought they should fit. It never worked out well in the end. He started drawing up a plan based off of other designs that he studied in the public domain and started putting it into practice when a familiar car drove onto his property.

  “Working hard, Timmy?” Barney asked, pulling his sunglasses off for a second before deciding against it and replacing them. He walked over to the rancher, glancing over Tim's work. “Nice, buddy, how'd you swing this out?”

  “That was you, Barney,” Tim replied. “Did you see my story on the news?” He stopped working to turn and look at his visitor.

  Barney nodded. “I did indeed.”

  “Well,” Tim started, snapping his fingers, “just like that, money started coming in from all over. Church groups, businesses, even children.”

  “Ah well that is really lovely, Tim,” Barney commented. “So, you're going to rebuild the thing, huh?”

  Tim moved his hand to block out the sun from his eyes. “I don't see what else I'm going to do,” he said.

  “No, I understand it,” Barney replied. “I just don't know if I could do it again after all that,” he searched for a word, “meat.”

  “It's in my blood,” the rancher explained.

  “As, I would presume, is an abrasiveness to change,” Barney commented. Tim looked at him in thought as the insurance agent knelt down beside the rancher and took a closer look at the construction. “Yikes.”

  Tim looked at him with concern. “Yikes? What's yikes?”

  “You've never done this before, have you?” Barney asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, to be honest, I can tell,” Barney said. Tim looked at him with an air of slight offense. “It's not a bad project at all, you just need some trained help.” Barney walked around the construction without being led by his host, inspecting the fence like the judge of a dog show. “Yeah, your walls aren't reinforced right. They would end up falling in pretty easily.”

  “Excuse me?” a soft voice greeted from behind. Tim and Barney turned around and saw a very plain but attractive young woman. She was small and dressed in an outdated manner. She looked like she lived on a farm herself.

  “Yes?�
�� Tim greeted her. “How can I help you?”

  She was timid. She seemed so unsure of herself as she spoke. “Um, well I come from this small town about an hour up the road,” she started, then stopped short as if Tim and Barney were interrupting her. She didn't speak in front of many people. “Saxdale, it's called. Yeah.”

  “I know the town,” Tim grinned with all his charismatic performing ability. “That's quite a ways for a visit.”

  “Well,” the woman started, her voice barely above a whisper and fragile enough to be broken with a straw. “The reason I've come out this far is that my little brother, Timothy, he's in the hospital. And I saw you on the news. We all did. And the miracle – you – you don't know where the angel came from, do you?”

  Tim shook his head. He pointed. “Up,” he answered.

  She beamed. His response seemed to delight her. “Oh that's just so amazing. My family, we all thought, maybe – maybe it came from heaven,” she explained like a rolling train.

  If there was a gesture that Tim would use to calm overexcited speakers, that was what he did now. “Maybe. What's your name?” he asked.

  “Heather.”

  “Heather,” he echoed. “Well, you can ask me what you want about the angel. I won't bite.” He did his best to smile for reassurance. It was well received. She grinned back.

  “What I really wanted to know was,” she hesitated, reserving herself, “could I pray for my brother at the angel?”

  Barney's head turning attracted Tim's attention, who turned his head, too. Barney had a strange expression, his eyebrows raised and his mouth creased in thought. Tim groaned to himself for a moment, more strained by having to make a decision rather than being displeased with the request. Then he turned back to young Heather.

  “Sure, sweetheart,” he answered.

  Her smile grew like a rising moon, spanning from nose to chin. “Thank you so much!” she cried, moving forward to the thing looming on the far side of the property.