The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Well, so you’ve come back to us.”

  The woman he saw confused him, for he was certain he had never seen her before. A bare light bulb was behind her, and it made a halo out of the blond hair surrounding her face. Blinking his eyes, he opened them again and saw her bending over him with something in her hand. It was a damp cloth, and when she moved it across his face firmly, the sense of moisture made him aware of his raging thirst.

  “Water—” This was all he was able to say. His lips were as dry as desert sand, and the inside of his mouth felt rough and parched. He watched as the woman put down the cloth. Then she was lifting him up, and he felt the touch of the glass she put to his lips. The water tasted so good, he grabbed her hand and spilled the water over his face. It ran down his neck and chest, but as the liquid touched his parched tissues, he gasped and almost strangled.

  “That’s enough for now.” The woman pulled the glass back, and as he dropped his hand, he saw that she was studying him with an intentness in her eyes, which he noticed were deep-set and of a peculiar shade, neither blue nor green but a part of each. “What’s your name?”

  “Quaid. Quaid Merritt.”

  “Well, you fooled all of us. We didn’t think you’d live.”

  Merritt licked his lips for the last remaining bit of water. “Could I have another drink, please?”

  “All right, but just a sip.” He did not grab at her hand this time, but he sipped slowly as she held his head up. When she laid his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the sensation of the water as it seemed to go through his whole body. “That’s good,” he said. He lay there for a moment, then lifted his head and looked around. His voice was raspy from long disuse, and his throat hurt. “What is this place?”

  “This is the Elite Café, the place you tried to rob.”

  His memory came back with a rush. He remembered entering the café after jimmying the simple lock, and he recalled eating something. Even that memory was faint, for he had been sick for days, and as he studied the woman, he saw that she was examining him carefully. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Erin Winslow. This is my café.” She lifted his head again and said, “Take just a sip or two. You think you could eat something?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. You lie there and be still. I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll go get you something.”

  Quaid Merritt felt like a character in a play. He had been sick for so long that his mind had been affected. Before he arrived at the café, he’d been moving around like a mechanical man going through the motions of living. He remembered the coughing spell that had nearly torn him apart and suddenly was aware that he had not coughed at all since he had awakened. Cautiously he took a deep breath and found that the pain was gone from his chest, and the fever that had clung to him for a long time seemed to be gone, as well.

  His eyes swept the room, which was simple enough—a desk, a chair, a cot, and some shelves holding a few supplies. The naked bulb shed its light starkly over the bare room. He was covered with a sheet, and now he pushed it back to look at himself. He was wearing a nightshirt he had never seen before. He was trying to put the pieces together when the woman came back. She carried a steaming hot bowl of something that smelled wonderful. She sat down in the chair beside the bed, put the bowl down, then reached over and said, “You’ve got to sit up so you won’t strangle.”

  Merritt pushed himself up, and she reached forward and turned the pillow lengthwise so he could rest against it. She asked, “Can you feed yourself?”

  “I think so.” He took the bowl, which rested on a plate, with his left hand, but his hand was so weak it trembled.

  “Here, let me help you. You’re going to spill this all over the bedcovers.”

  The woman took a spoonful of the broth and blew on it, then carefully extended it. Merritt tasted chicken, a salty flavor, and as she fed him steadily, he thought he could feel strength coming back into his body. It was, of course, impossible for the food to take hold that quickly, but his mind was clearing. And when the woman finished, he said, “I can’t remember much.”

  “I guess not. You were nearly dead. The doctor said you had double pneumonia. He couldn’t believe you were still alive.”

  Merritt felt his eyelids growing heavy. “I tried to rob you,” he muttered.

  “Well, you didn’t do much of a job. You tried to make off with two apples and a piece of bread. That’s not much to go to prison for.”

  He looked at her and saw there was no anger in her eyes. He wanted to apologize. The urge rose to do what he had not done for a long time, to explain his weaknesses and his failures, but sleep came on him like an armed man. He was aware that she was pulling him down in the bed and then lifting his head to arrange the pillow. All he could do was manage one word.

  “Sorry . . .”

  ****

  He came out of sleep with a start, for the racket coming from the next room had shattered his rest. He opened his eyes and sat up for a moment, considering getting out of bed, but he found himself too weak to do so. Voices were coming from the next room, and suddenly the door opened and a tall, gaunt woman wearing a stained apron entered the room. She had iron gray hair and wore glasses. “Well, you’re awake again. Could you eat something?”

  “Yes, I could. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Lena. You’ve got a funny name. Erin told me, but I can’t remember it.”

  “Quaid.”

  “Quaid? What kind of a name is that?”

  “Just a name.”

  The unusual quality of his name caused her to sniff. “Well, I don’t know what would possess a mother to call a baby Quaid. I’ll get you something to eat.”

  She stepped back through the door and left it open, and he could see across the room a stove and a wooden table laden with cans and boxes and packages. Farther on there was another door, and even as he watched, it opened and the young blond-haired woman who had fed him the soup came through it. She was wearing a light green dress with a white apron trimmed in darker green, and her hair was tied up around her head. She saw him watching her and came straight into the room. “You’re awake again.”

  “I’ve forgotten your name. I’m sorry.”

  “Erin Winslow.”

  The older woman came in bearing a dish. “Can you feed yourself?”

  “I think so.”

  “This is chicken and dumplin’s. It helped me to raise seven young’uns. Now you eat it, and I’ll get you some milk to wash it down with.”

  Quaid took the bowl and sliced off a bit of the dumpling with the spoon she had given him, put it in his mouth, chewed, and nodded. “That’s real good.”

  “I don’t have time to watch you eat,” Erin said. “Do you have any family we ought to notify? You’ve been out of it for over a week.”

  “No family. None that would care, anyway.”

  The answer, for some reason, displeased the woman. He saw it in her eyes but did not know how to make it any plainer. She turned and walked away, and the tall woman named Lena came back with a large glass of milk. “You eat all that, every bite, and drink all this milk.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

  He ate the chicken and dumplings, savoring the succulent bites of chicken that floated around, and then set the bowl on the table. He sipped the milk slowly and, when he finished, put the glass down. Reaching up, he touched his face and felt the bristles of his beard and then he folded his hands over his stomach and lay there wondering what would come next. I wonder what the penalty for stealing two apples and a piece of bread is. Probably the same as if you held up a bank. He was not overly concerned, however, and grim memories rushed in upon him as he lay in the bed and listened to the sounds around him—people talking, dishes clinking, and the sound of Lena singing a hymn in the kitchen just beyond. He had lived so long with such bleak disillusionment that he had no hope of anything better. Growing drowsy, he thought, It would have been better if I’d died. I’m no good
to anybody and never will be. . . .

  ****

  “Where did he come from? How come a young man like that has to rob a café?”

  “I don’t know, Lena. I haven’t asked him.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” Lena was washing a pot. She scrubbed it hard, going at it furiously, as she did everything else. “Looks like he ain’t gonna die, so you’re gonna have to do something with him. He can’t stay back in that room the rest of his life.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “You gonna put him in jail?”

  “Would you, Lena?”

  “Don’t reckon I would. After all, stealin’ a couple of apples ain’t the jail sort of thing. He tell you anything about himself?”

  “Not yet. He’s been pretty weak, but he’s stronger today, I think.”

  “Would be a right nice-lookin’ fella if he was cleaned up.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The two women finished the cleaning, and when Lena left for the night, she said, “Good thing we don’t live in the town where I grew up back in Mississippi. A young woman keepin’ a man in the back room—why, gossip would be all over the place.”

  “I think he’s safe enough.”

  “Well, I been prayin’ for him, but maybe you’d better give him this.” Lena went over to her purse, fumbled through it, and found a small package of papers. She extracted one. It was printed on light green paper, and the bold-faced type said, “Have you ever been saved?”

  “Yes, I’ll give it to him, Lena. You go on home now. You’ve put in a long day.”

  Erin waited until the woman left and then read the tract. It was simple enough. It presented the plan of salvation, although it was printed on coarse paper and was not particularly attractive. She turned and opened the door and found Quaid Merritt sitting up in bed. Beside him were an empty plate and an empty milk glass. She walked over to the chair and sat down. It had been a long day and she was tired, and there was still cleaning up to do.

  “How do you feel?” she asked rather tersely.

  “Much better.”

  Erin studied the man, with his coarse black hair, gray-green eyes, and stubbled beard. He was roughly handsome—he didn’t have the good looks that a matinee idol would have, but durable planes in his face and a suggestion of strength. He was far too thin, for the sickness had worn him down, but she suspected that at one time he had been much stronger, with the sort of lean strength some men have instead of bulky muscles.

  “Lena said to give you this.” She handed the tract over and watched Quaid as he studied it. He looked up and nodded and placed it on the table. “What comes now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, at this point you’re going to have to call the police, aren’t you?”

  Erin grew curious. He did not seem particularly disturbed about her calling the police, and she wondered if he was sure that she wouldn’t do it. There was an indifference about him she could not understand. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Twenty-six.” He grinned suddenly, and it made him look much younger. “How old are you?”

  “I’m eighteen.” She shook her head and said, “Are you a criminal, Merritt?”

  “I stole food, so I guess that makes me one.”

  “Don’t be foolish! What do you do when you’re not taking apples from a café? Don’t you have any profession?”

  “Just a natural failure, I think.”

  “I don’t believe that. All of us have a chance.”

  “I guess I’ve had mine.”

  Suddenly she touched the tract. “Are you a Christian?”

  “No.”

  She sat there studying his expression and then finally shook her head. “I’m not going to call the police. I’d hate to see anybody go to jail for a couple of apples.”

  She left the room and began cleaning up the place. She worked hard for two hours, and then when all was ready for the next morning’s opening, she went back to the office and saw that he was lying down. “Do you want something to read?”

  “That might pass the time.”

  “What sort of reading do you like?”

  “Just about anything.”

  “I’ll bring something down.” She turned and went up the steps that led to her apartment and came back with a book. “I don’t know if you’ll like this or not. It’s by Jack London.”

  “I like London.” He took the book and read the title. “Smoke Bellew. Haven’t read this one.”

  “Get all the rest you can.”

  She turned and moved toward the stairs when his voice caught her and turned her around. “I haven’t said thank-you.”

  “No need for that.”

  “I guess there is, Miss Winslow. I’m pretty sure I would have died if you hadn’t taken care of me. Lena’s been tellin’ me how much trouble I was, but she did it with a good heart. And she’s right.” He held the book in his hand and ran his fingers over the cover, then nodded. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m in your debt. Not that I’ll ever be able to pay it, but I thank you.”

  Erin was somehow touched by the simplicity of the statement. “You’re welcome, Quaid. Don’t stay up too late. You need your rest.”

  She went upstairs and prepared for bed, and when she lay down she was very much aware of the man on the cot just below her own bedroom. Who he was and what he was she had no idea, but something about him puzzled her. She had never known anyone that young who had not been able to make it in life, and as she fell asleep she wondered what lay ahead for such a man.

  ****

  Lena put the small package down beside Quaid, who had dressed and was sitting in the chair that Erin usually used for her deskwork. “These belonged to my second husband. I think you need to get out from behind that brush on your face.” Turning to leave, she found Dottie trying to see in through the door. “Get on about your business, Dottie.”

  “I want to get a look at the robber.”

  “He’s none of your business,” Lena snapped, closing the door and turning back to Quaid.

  On the other side of the door she could hear Dottie sniff and mutter under her breath, “Probably murder us all!”

  Opening the package, Quaid found a razor and soap. “Well, that’s nice of you, Lena. I would like a shave. I never feel clean unless I’m shaved.”

  “I’ll get some hot water, and I’ll bring you a little mirror.”

  Lena brought the mirror and hot water, then left Quaid alone. He sat down and fastened the mirror to a wall. Then standing, he put the basin on Erin’s desk. He soaked his beard for quite a while in the steaming hot water, then lathered his face and let that soak in. He found the razor to be sharp and carefully shaved until his face began to burn. He rinsed his face, cleaned the razor, and put the shaving kit on the table next to his bed. He picked up the basin of water and, carefully balancing it, moved into the kitchen. Lena looked up from the wooden table where she was slicing beef into small strips. “Just pour the water in the sink over there.” She studied him and said, “Now you look halfway human again, but you’re too skinny.”

  “I appreciate the shave, Lena.”

  He dumped the water, washed the basin, and then noticed the pile of dirty dishes. He put the basin down, braced the front of his legs against the cabinet, and began washing the dishes in the pot of water that someone else had already filled. Lena glanced up at him and opened her mouth to speak but did not. She nodded as if she approved as the tall man stood there and slowly washed the dishes, then put them into a pan full of water to rinse them.

  When Erin came in she stopped and blinked with surprise. “You shouldn’t be doing that. You’re not strong enough.”

  “Yes, I am. Feels good to be up and doing something.”

  Erin glanced at Lena, who shook her head. Erin did not say any more. She fixed three plates, put them on a tray along with drinks, and moved back out.

  “How long has she had this place?” Quaid asked.

  “Not
too long. She bought it from an older couple who moved back to Phoenix. I ain’t been here long myself.”

  Quaid worked steadily until all the dishes were washed and then found a towel and began drying them. “Where do these go?” he said.

  “Right up on the shelf.”

  Quaid nodded, then put the stacks of clean dishes and bowls in order. Feeling increasingly weak from being on his feet so long, he said, “I guess I’ll go rest awhile.”

  He moved back into the small room and lay down gratefully. It had not been much, but at least he had done something, and he felt better about it.

  ****

  Health came back to Quaid Merritt more quickly than he had thought possible. After the first dishwashing chore, he found he was able to work for an hour at a time and then later two or three. And finally, within four days, he was strong enough to last all day. Dottie and Grace, the two youthful waitresses, were somewhat leery of him, both of them warning Erin that no good would come of keeping a burglar. Quaid kept waiting for Erin to say something to him, to tell him to move on, but she said nothing. Dr. Satterfield stopped by once to examine him quickly, then said plainly, “Well, you lived through it, but I don’t see how. You ought to be dead.”

  Quaid smiled at the doctor’s words, which Erin, who was there during the examination, found strange.

  “That’s right, I should have been dead a long time ago,” Quaid said.

  “How’d you get those wounds?” the doctor asked, indicating some rather clean looking scars on Quaid’s chest. “They look like bullet wounds.”

  “That’s what they are.”

  The doctor stared at him, waiting for some explanation, but when the man gave none, he had said gruffly, “Well, don’t get pneumonia again. I wouldn’t advise it.”