A Hideous Beauty

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “Were you there? In the motorcade?” his blond girlfriend asked.

  “I wasn’t in the motorcade,” I said.

  “But you saw it, didn’t you? You saw the assassination?” the holder of the book asked. “Man, that must have been rough, I mean, you’ve talked with the man, right? Sat down with him . . . interviewed him . . . did you get to know him?”

  Had he asked me that question a couple of weeks ago I would have told him I knew the president. I probably would have boasted a little about being on Air Force One, or sitting in the Oval Office, or weekending at Camp David.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t know him that well.”

  “But that must have been sad for you today,” the redhead opined with a pout.

  A middle-aged man sitting with his wife at a neighboring table interjected, “I believe he won an award for that book. The Nobel Prize. Am I right?”

  “So what are you going to do now?” the man with the book asked. “Write a final chapter or something?”

  I took the book from him, autographed it with the date, and handed it back to him. “Hold on to that,” I said. “It may be worth something someday.”

  Reaching the fountain in front of Horton Plaza with time to spare, I took a moment to look across the street at the U.S. Grant Hotel nestled in a cozy light, its polished glass doors reflecting the passing car headlights of Broadway Avenue.

  If I took Semyaza up on his offer I could return later tonight and stay in the presidential suite. Or I could take door number two and spend the night on a crowded ceiling with a couple hundred of my closest slimy green relatives.

  I looked away. It was better if I didn’t think about it, diverting myself instead with the sights and sounds of humanity.

  The street I stood on had seen its share of history. I’d seen black-and-white pictures of Broadway on VJ Day at the end of World War II, and while the street didn’t look nearly as crowded as it did then, the downtown’s main artery was pretty much wall-to-wall people.

  I turned westward toward the Emerald Plaza and nearly got run over by three boys on skateboards, all wearing hooded sweatshirts. Despite their attire they seemed nice enough.

  Noting my direction, one of them said, “Going down to the bay?”

  “Been there.”

  “Kickin’ president, saving those schoolkids like that! When I go down? I want to go down big time, in flames like that!”

  “Careful what you wish for, kid,” I said.

  But he wasn’t listening. The three of them had already slapped their boards down and were crossing Fourth against the light.

  Five blocks later I’d reached the Emerald Plaza. Pulling open the heavy glass door, I stepped into the lobby. The door swung closed behind me, shutting out the city noise. A huge atrium of chrome, glass, and greenery, it served as entryway to hundreds of businesses located in the towers.

  Being nearly midnight, it was empty and as silent as a mortuary, except for a pair of bodiless voices coming from one of the adjoining corridors. One male. One female. Apparently he said or did something funny because she laughed.

  Crossing the polished white tile floor, I summoned an elevator. The doors made a ritzy whoosh sound when they opened. I stepped inside. The doors whooshed closed behind me.

  For several moments I stood there like a man in an oversized coffin. I stared at the double row of buttons.

  Semyaza appeared next to me.

  I started at his sudden appearance.

  “Going down?” he said with a smirk.

  Without comment I pushed the button that would take me to the top floor.

  Sue Ling lunged for the door.

  “Grant?”

  Jana and Christina walked in. Sue Ling threw herself into their arms, laughing and weeping at the same time.

  “He wasn’t at the hotel,” Christina said. She was shoeless and worried. “Did you have any luck with his cell phone?”

  “A guy named Craig answered,” Sue replied.

  “A tech at the station,” Jana said. She nodded as she pieced events together. “We used Grant’s phone to do the broadcast.”

  “He said he’d return Grant’s phone to you at the station,” Sue said. “Are you . . . going out with him?”

  “Who? Craig?”

  “He sort of inferred that you and he have something going on,” Sue said.

  “In his dreams,” Jana replied.

  From the middle of the living room the professor watched with interest. The television set was on. It had been on all afternoon.

  Jana said, “We’re going to drive around downtown and look for him. Come with us.”

  Sue glanced hesitantly back at the professor. “I probably should stay and—”

  “She’d be delighted to go,” the professor answered for her.

  Sue questioned him with a tilt of her head.

  “I’ll be fine,” the professor insisted. “Go with them. You need to get out.”

  Jana said, “Professor, you’re welcome to come too. I have plenty of room. We can put your chair in the trunk.”

  “Very kind,” the professor said dismissively. “But I have plenty to do around here.”

  “Maybe I should stay,” Sue said.

  Christina linked arms with her. “You know you want to go,” she said. “You’re as worried about him as we are.”

  When they were gone the professor wheeled over to the television set and switched it off.

  He sat for a moment in the silence, then lifted his head heavenward.

  “Abdiel!” he shouted.

  He waited a moment, then shouted again.

  “Abdiel!”

  He remained alone. Wheeling himself to the hallway, he shouted, “Abdiel!”

  When the angel didn’t appear, he wheeled himself into the kitchen.

  “Abdiel!”

  He opened the front door and shouted at the stars.

  “Abdiel!”

  A voice behind him said, “I’m not your genie in a bottle and I don’t appreciate being treated as such.”

  Abdiel stood in the middle of the living room.

  The professor slammed shut the front door.

  “Where’s Grant?” he said.

  “What makes you think I would know?”

  “Do you?”

  Abdiel didn’t answer.

  “Is Grant in danger?”

  Again, Abdiel didn’t answer.

  “Does Semyaza have him?”

  Abdiel appeared beatific, as composed as a statue, and just as silent.

  “Answer me!” the professor shouted.

  “The time has come for Grant to make a decision about whose side he’s on,” Abdiel said.

  “What do you mean, whose side? A few weeks ago he didn’t even know there were sides. You have to give him time.”

  “After Grant has made his decision, I’ll return to inform you.”

  “It’s tonight? Why the rush?”

  “Did I say it was tonight?”

  The professor hit the arms of his wheelchair with his fists. “Do you know, for an angel you can be infuriating? Is it tonight or not?”

  “I must leave now.”

  “Wait! What’s riding on his decision?”

  “I must leave now.”

  “Abdiel . . . I implore you . . . go to the Father. Intercede for Grant. See if you can—”

  The professor was talking to air.

  Fists hammered the arms of the chair.

  “Abdiel!” he shouted. “Abdiel!”

  He shouted until he was hoarse.

  “It’s not fair!” he bellowed at the ceiling. “It’s not fair! Grant isn’t like us! Without the Holy Spirit, he’s on his own. What chance does he have?”

  His words bounced back at him off the ceiling.

  The professor wheeled in circles, his voice barely a whisper, pleading Grant’s case. No longer addressing Abdiel, he made his case directly to God. “Almighty Father, please, the boy deserves a chance. He’s caught between two world
s. He’s no match for Semyaza, and for reasons I don’t fully understand, Abdiel and the others will not stand up for him. The boy needs an advocate, but you’ve denied him your Holy Spirit. Please don’t throw him to the wolves. You’ve given him life. You’ve given him free will. Now give him a chance to choose. That’s all I ask. Give him a chance.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The elevator doors whooshed open on the top floor of the Emerald Plaza. After his initial quip, Semyaza remained silent for the duration of the ascent.

  “I don’t need an escort,” I snapped as I stepped from the elevator.

  A couple in evening dress stood waiting for the elevator. A curious expression crossed their faces. When I looked behind me and saw the elevator empty, I knew why.

  I offered no explanation. The couple stepped into the elevator without turning their backs on me and were quick to close the doors.

  The stairs to the roof were at the end of the hallway. I walked the length of the fluorescent passage to the stairwell and up the painted cement steps and onto the gravel surface roof.

  An ocean breeze greeted me. From this elevation I could see the runway lights of the airport, the strip of residential and commercial lights that was Point Loma, and the velvet black Pacific Ocean beyond.

  In the foreground was the bay, lit garishly by banks of high- powered sodium floodlights aboard ships and the meandering spotlights of helicopters. Normally the bay at night is softly lit and romantic. This stark white glare, while necessary for men to do their jobs, seemed a rude intrusion.

  A myriad of craft bobbed on the bay combing through the debris that littered the surface. Between misshaped and jagged bridge pilings a huge crane on a barge was lifting the fuselage of Noonan’s FA-18 from its watery grave.

  A huge air-conditioning unit separated me from the open expanse of roof. I wasn’t prepared for what I saw when I stepped around it.

  Twenty-four angels were waiting for me.

  Semyaza was the closest.

  “You took me seriously when I suggested you make a spectacle of this,” I said.

  “A word of caution,” he replied. “Keep a civil tongue. When you are intimidated or frightened you have a habit of resorting to sarcasm.”

  “You noticed.”

  “It will not serve you well tonight. Not all angels understand your humor. They interpret it as insolence.”

  I started to say something sarcastic, if for no other reason than to get it out of my system. But I didn’t. Better to go cold turkey.

  Despite everything I’d seen today, until this moment I was never fully convinced that my former rival Semyaza, aka Myles Shepherd, was really an angel, a being with origins so ancient he predated time. But seeing him here, standing in an assembly of angels, my doubts were banished.

  They were all of impressive height, having assembled in a circle. Two half-circles, actually. Twelve and twelve. I recognized Abdiel. He stood with eleven others who were counted among the faithful. Opposite them were Semyaza and eleven rebel angels.

  The historian within me was going crazy. The stories they could tell! Here on this roof were beings that had witnessed, and in some cases participated in, every moment of history. Not only that, the beings that stood before me were present when the foundations of the universe were laid.

  I lingered on each of the angels who stood with Abdiel, wondering if I might recognize any of them by their appearance. Was Michael here, who led the battle against Lucifer and who later disputed with him over the body of Moses? Was Gabriel here, the angel who announced the birth of John to his father, Zechariah, and the birth of Jesus to Mary? I found myself looking at their lips to see if any of them looked like a trumpet player.

  And the rebel side . . . the obvious question was, Why? What was their strategy? Having stood in the throne room of God Almighty, did they really think they could win? Did they have regrets? If they had to do it all over again, would they?

  From the expressions on their faces, the sense of wonder was mine alone. They glared at me with disdain. All of them. Even Abdiel.

  Semyaza indicated I should stand in the middle of the circle. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked. That’s when I noticed I was the only one on the roof whose feet were touching the ground.

  “The mush-pot,” I said, having reached the center.

  “What?”

  It just slipped out. Until Semyaza challenged me, I wasn’t even aware I’d said it out loud.

  “Um . . . mush-pot,” I explained. “That’s what we called the center of the circle in kindergarten. The mush-pot.”

  Cold, stony silence encircled me.

  “Which, I guess, makes me the cheese, doesn’t it? You know . . . the farmer in the dell?”

  They didn’t know. Or if they did, they weren’t admitting it.

  To help them remember I spoke the lyrics for them. “The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho, the derry-o, the farmer in the dell.”

  I was nervous and I was babbling and it was making them angry.

  “I’m ready to announce my decision,” I said.

  “SILENCE, you insolent worm!”

  The voice was like thunder, shaking the tower beneath my feet. It echoed to the horizon.

  The command came from the angel standing next to Semyaza. His face was granite, his eyes flashed fire. “Do you have no concept of what is holy?” he said, sneering.

  The circle, both sides, agreed with him. There was not a friendly face among them.

  “I meant no disre—”

  Semyaza cut me off. “The accused will speak only when instructed.” To the others, he said, “The tribunal will now convene.”

  Preliminaries. Semyaza might have told me there would be preliminaries. I was intrigued. But then I welcomed anything that delayed the moment of decision.

  Curious. How do angels start a meeting? By taking attendance? Reading the minutes? Drinking coffee and eating doughnuts; no, not doughnuts . . . angel food cake.

  I pursed my lips to keep the irreverent thoughts inside my head.

  Solemnity surrounded me. Without exception, the angels closed their eyes and tilted their heads toward heaven. Maybe it was my imagination, but they seemed to stretch, to grow taller and even more imposing.

  A low rumble agitated the gravel. The vibrations traveled up my legs and into my chest and jaw.

  Because they were facing me I couldn’t see exactly what was happening behind them, but from somewhere around their shoulders heavy smoke poured forth, cascading down their backs like robes, hitting the ground and curling, the lengthening trains spreading until they filled the rooftop.

  Reaching the ledge, instead of pouring onto the street below, the smoke stretched upward to an impressive height, then inward, peaking directly over my head like cathedral arches with the stars beyond providing a heavenly canopy.

  My neck began to ache from staring upward at the incredible, smoky, transparent structure.

  The rumbling kicked into a higher gear, bringing my attention back to the circle.

  Beginning with Abdiel (I don’t know why it began with him, maybe they flipped a coin), with his eyes still closed, his face a meditative calm, an explosion of emerald light illuminated him from within, then was repeated in the angel to his right and proceeded that way around the circle of twenty-four. When it reached Abdiel, it repeated, each time with greater speed, like cylinders firing in a rotary engine, faster and faster until the separate firings blended into an unbroken ring of brilliant emerald green.

  Everything, including me, within the interior of the smoky cathedral was bathed in a soft green light. Very nice. Very soothing.

  Until I looked up.

  Populating the dome, also bathed in green and staring hungrily down at me, were a thousand hideous demon faces. A shiver chilled me when I realized that to them this was an induction ceremony and I was the inductee.

  The emerald light ring appeared to be some sort of communion among the angels, the sharing of a common source
of energy. They seemed to feed off it and were strengthened by it.

  I, too, felt it. A penetrating thrum vibrating every inch of me. Even with the demons present I felt warm and comforted and assured and accepted. And I wondered if maybe despite all my misgivings, somehow I was going to survive the night.

  Then the emerald ring of light began to pulse with greater and greater frequency. As it did the angels grew in stature . . . eight feet . . . ten . . . twelve feet tall, looking like human pillars.

  The ring grew ever brighter until it was dazzling white. The pulsing increased in pitch. It began vibrating in my head, hurting me, resonating with greater and greater intensity. I placed my hands against my skull to keep it from exploding, but the force kept building. I screamed, but it didn’t help. The pressure was becoming too much for me to bear.

  I felt my knees buckling and would have dropped to the ground, but a blast of light beat me to it. It hit me with force, knocking me to my knees. As with the emerald light, it began with Abdiel—a powerful, concentrated shaft of light—then continued around the circle, twenty-four angels, twenty-four shafts of the purest white light I’d ever seen. The beams focused on the center of the circle, where they met a short distance above my head and formed a single pillar of light that shot skyward as far as the eye could see and beyond.

  I could take it no more. On the gravel, my eyes clamped shut, clutching my head, curled into a ball, I screamed for it to stop. The pain was so intense, I would have given anything to make it stop. I would have welcomed death.

  I couldn’t hear my own screams. Then, that was all I heard. The thrum was gone. The pain was gone. I risked opening my eyes. The shafts of light were gone too.

  Twenty-four angels now clothed in dazzling white looked down at me lying in a fetal position in the mush-pot.

  I struggled to my feet, brushing gravel from my pants, and noticed that my clothing, too, had been bleached white.

  The angel with granite features spoke. “Until tonight no human has ever witnessed a convocation of angels.”

  He wanted me to be impressed, humbled. Maybe it was the headache and the ringing in my ears, maybe it was the ceiling full of demons licking their chops, and the renewed realization that at the pleasure of this august body I would soon be joining them, but whatever the reason, I couldn’t help myself. I said, “I’m all aglow.”