Angels of Destruction

by Keith Donohue

  “Don't worry. I can pretend.”

  “I'm sure that you can.” She studied the child's face, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Once upon a time, I met a girl like you. She even looked like you, same glasses and eyes, same hair. Her name was Una, and she had no mother or father, just like you, and she lived in a cottage all alone in the woods with her grandmother.”

  “What happened to her mom and dad?”

  Pressing the pads of her fingers against the table, Erica retrieved a few stray crumbs. “We don't really know. They may have run away. May have been in an accident. In any case, they left her there in her grandmother's house and never returned.”

  “That's a sad story,” Norah said. “Was she lonely?”

  “A little. But she was smart, like you, and had a vivid imagination. Una was good at pretending too.”

  Behind her glasses, Norah blinked several times in rapid succession, her efforts magnified by the thick lenses. She wavered slightly like an object gone temporarily out of focus. Lost in her thoughts, she offered a curt smile, and then considered her unfinished drawing. “Are you going to send me away right now?”

  “Of course not. My mother and I need some time to sort out things.”

  “Where do I sleep tonight?”

  “In your own bed. We'll talk more later. Why don't you run and kiss the ladies now, before you go to sleep?”

  “Goodnight, Mary.”

  The name put a smile on her face, and then patting the child's hand, she rose to answer the singing kettle.

  20

  The mothers came to save their children, to reel in the long strings, the kites and balloons threatening to float away forever. They were resolved to rescue their sons and daughters from the bridge, to leap into the waters far below, if necessary, and scour the bottom if any chance remained to hand them out of trouble, panting and gasping, back into sensibleness. All weekend, telephones relayed the news of the police, the children on the bridge, the little danger living among them—not only at their school but in the community itself. Norah Quinn put in peril their unspoken shared values and the order they insisted upon for their children. By late Sunday night, the protest had been planned. The mothers would marshal to speak to those in authority, to give a piece of their minds to the unguarded listener, to root out and remove the virus spreading from family to family. In the breaking light of Monday morning, the posse gathered outside the school, hands gripping the shoulders of their beloved charges, waiting to ambush Taylor—for the respect of “principal” and even “mister” had been abandoned—to make him do something to ensure that this talk of angels among them would be scrubbed like obscene graffiti marring the school walls.

  Taylor did not know what to do with the phalanx of mothers and children gathered on the front lawn beneath the flagpole, and the mere sight of the women deflated his already sunken spirits. He was driving his sister's Volkswagen, mourning the loss of his sports car, and swore at the group from the parking lot, muttering foulness till he met Mrs. Ford, coiled with anger, halfway up the walk. The boy pinched under her arm was white with terror and shame.

  “You have to do something about that Quinn girl.” Froth gathered in the corners of Mrs. Ford's mouth when she spoke.

  Mrs. Tilghman rushed to join. “A menace. My daughter coulda drownded.”

  Soon he was surrounded and could progress only by slow steps and the shuffle of the circle. Mrs. Hopper, petite as a mouse, thundered like an elephant. “She's making them think about things they shouldn't be thinking about,” she said. Mrs. West wagged her finger, even though her boy was already in fifth grade. Mrs. Paddock, Mrs. Harper, and Ms. Grimalkin formed a Scottish coven, bubbling with trouble. Gull-eyed as her son, Mrs. Mansur appeared slightly crazed and desperate to find a single right word. They howled at him. Cornered, they protected their cubs.

  No fathers were present, for the few lucky enough to have jobs could ill afford the hours away from the mill to yell at a school administrator, and none were inclined to flaunt any authority in these hard times. Those waiting for the steel industry to rise up from the dead dreamt at home abed or nursed the day's first boilermakers at the union hall. But though they absented themselves, the fathers bristled at the threat to their children as soon as the mothers told them about the episode above the Mon River. Some secretly knew that their sons and daughters were ripe for such a pied piper, were too thick or simple to resist, would say yes to any hint of magic. The fathers wound the string on these children when the mothers were not looking. Their corrections were more oblique—the distraction of football or hunting or fishing with sons, the utter confusion of what to do about their daughters while they were still young enough and beholden. The glory days before their children thought them helpless idiots. Time would come when the fathers would be reduced to stealth, bribery, and angry hectoring at their children to stay put and not float away a moment too soon. Fathers know from the beginning the string will snap, and they mourn a bit each passing day. Mothers keep their eyes fixed on their children in the bright blue sky and are dumbfounded when they break their hearts.

  The mortified children chafed at their parents’ involvement, shrank under the mothers’ complaints. Five of the six disciples bore the double burden of an uncertain faith and the inadvertent trouble they had caused. They hid in their mothers’ shadows, more fearful of scorn from their peers than of anything the adults might say. After the police had stopped them on the bridge, the followers betrayed Norah one by one. Lucas Ford and Dori Tilghman recanted. Sharon Hopper fell to tears and did not know what to believe. Mark Bellagio held out the longest, trusting the empirical sensory evidence and his long training to accept the possibility of miracles. But even he was cowed when his parents began talking about sacrilege and blasphemy and the gall of anyone claiming to be closer to God. “Those Quinns,” his father spat out. “First the goddamn crazy daughter, and now the granddaughter, mad as a bumblebee.”

  On the school green, promises were made and an accord was reached. After allowing an appropriate amount of parental huffing and puffing, Taylor agreed to talk with the student and, later, her grandmother. “On my calendar,” he said, “as soon as you let me into the building.” In the interest of peace, he consented to meet with all interested parents one evening that week, hear their grievances, and explain what steps he would take regarding Norah Quinn. With each capitulation, he scanned the horizon beyond the mob, carefully watching the other children and faculty arrive. He wanted nothing more than for the parents to stop shouting at him and to simply go away, and the thought of a larger rabble filled him with dread.

  The mothers released their sons and daughters, and free from their talons, the children hastened into their classrooms. Some lingered for a final approving hug or look goodbye, but most spun away as fast as they could, anxious to discover the truth as told by the actual participants. Was it true you were trying to fly? Do you honestly think she's an angel? Did they really take you to jail? Their mothers remained behind to invent and embroider a group narrative and a consensus on what must be done. A remnant of eleven stayed long enough to see Norah Quinn and Sean Fallon arrive.

  Despite his mother's caution, Sean had called for her as usual, slipping onto the Quinns’ porch as softly as a cat. He knocked, but the whole house seemed to be asleep. The rental car in the driveway alerted him to a visitor, so he was not completely surprised to see Diane's bewildered face at the door, though she was taken aback by his presence, as if she had forgotten to decide upon a proper question. A cloud in the memory lifted when she finally remembered his name and ushered him inside. He sensed at once the difference in the household, old troubles vanquished, new ones in their place. Tightening the belt of her robe, Diane hurried off to find Norah, clueless as though she had misplaced a shoe or set of keys. She looked at the coat hooks, the dining table, and even the closet beneath the stairs. She called for the girl in a hoarse whisper usually reserved by those desperately hoping not to wake a sleeping b
aby. When Norah finally appeared from the kitchen, she seemed altered too. More subdued, less luminous, dark circles around her eyes.

  “Up late?” he asked.

  “Quiet, they're still in bed.”

  He wondered for a moment if she had fallen ill or had suffered some dark consequence from the incident with the police, but when she flung her bookbag over her shoulder and raced past him, he knew he would have to struggle just to catch and keep up with her.

  When she saw the women clustered in front of the school like sheep in a glen, Norah slowed to a normal clip and stopped Sean to talk before they were noticed.

  “She's come back,” she said. “Last night. Just as I hoped. Mary Gavin.”

  “Who is Mary Gavin?”

  Incredulous, she rolled her eyes. “That's what she calls herself now. Mrs. Quinn's daughter, Erica. She's in seclusion.”

  “The one that's been missing?”

  A face in the crowd stared in their direction. A hand pointed, an arm drawn erect as a rifle. Above them, the flags beat against the flagpoles.

  “The one. The time is here.”

  The mothers spotted her in unison, raised their heads across the plain, and tensed.

  Sean took no notice. “Mrs. Quinn must be so happy. How did she find her?”

  “You and I showed her the way. Listen, you cannot tell a soul. If anyone knew she was here, the police would come and take her away. They think she is guilty, but she has paid for her sins. Promise you will not tell.”

  With one finger, he drew a cross over his heart.

  The women huddled on the lawn.

  “You ought to go on ahead,” Norah said.

  Hands balled into fists, the scowling mothers hastened toward them.

  “I'll stay with you.”

  “You'll wish that you hadn't.”

  And the mothers fell upon the children and tore the pair to pieces with their words.

  21

  All morning long, after absentmindedly sending the child to school, Diane watched the dance between mother and daughter. Margaret could not keep from touching Erica each time they passed, to assert her claim on her daughter's reality and continuity. To say you are mine once more.

  Diane kept the conversation going, kept the music playing to push them past their awkwardness with each other. She put on the kettle, buttered the skillet, toasted the bread. “Talked with an old friend of yours, Maggie. Very discreetly, of course, he'd do nothing to hurt you after all these years. More than a friend, eh? Jackson. He's still as handsome as ever, would rock your rocking chair. He says that Mary here—that is, Erica Quinn—is still a wanted woman. The choice is to turn herself in and pay her debt to society or keep hidden.”

  “I can't stay too long, Mom. Too many people here remember me.” The reality of her statement rolled across the kitchen table and struck Margaret in the chest. She drew in a deep breath and studied her hands vined round a teacup. Her daughter leaned forward. “You could always come with me to New Mexico.”

  A second wave washed over her. She slumped back in her chair. “But what about Norah?”

  Diane cleared her throat and set two plates of eggs before them. “I spoke with Jackson about her as well, hypothetically of course. He seems to think, from what I described, that she has got to be some sort of runaway, and I agree. Maybe a foster child. An orphan.”

  The thought seemed to stun Margaret. Erica rose and went to her side, crouching like a child at eye level. “Tell us the truth, Mom. How did you find her?”

  “She arrived in the middle of the night, freezing cold and hardly a stitch on her. I only meant to keep her for the night and see to it in the morning to send her back. I let her sleep in your room, Erica. Just so she'd have a warm place to stay. If you'd seen her, poor thing, you'd have done the same.”

  “Did she ever say where she came from?” Diane asked.

  “She said she had lived all over and that she had no parents and asked could I keep her for a while. I'd been so lonely—”

  Erica wrapped her arms around her mother's shoulders. Margaret nestled her head against her daughter's chest and felt the thrum of her blood. “I don't know why I did it, but I had fallen and she saved me.”

  “But there is something wrong with the child,” Diane said. “She is … delusional. All this business with the school and now the police. Maybe she's escaped from an institution. Maybe she needs help.”

  “I'm her help.”

  “And she is saying she is an angel. Messenger from God. Hello?” She towered over her sister and her niece. “You yourself said she was going to fly off a bridge. Someone could have been hurt, or killed. If you want to help, take her to a doctor at least. See what's wrong. She's not one of us, and we cannot keep pretending forever.”

  22

  During the broadcast of morning announcements, he filled the doorway to Mrs. Pattersons room and hooked her to him with one curled finger. As the teacher turned her back on the students, she heard the first whispers, and all of the children knew at once why Mr. Taylor had come. Norah stood quietly and waited to be called. As she passed Mrs. Patterson, she felt the woman reach out and lightly brush the crown of her hair. For the next hour, Mrs. Patterson's fingers tingled as if frostbitten.

  The principal and the child walked side by side down the corridors in grave silence, exchanging glances at each corner to make sure the other was following the same path. Behind the closed door of his office, Mr. Taylor loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He cast off the stern demeanor he wore in public and forced a smile. Norah grinned back at him and knotted her hands in her lap.

  “Miss Quinn. Norah. You have made quite an impression here at Friendship in the time you've been here.”

  “Two months.”

  “Is that all? It seems much longer. How are you finding our school? Everything to your satisfaction?”

  “I love it here, Mr. Taylor, though I am sorry about your car.”

  “My car?” For the first time since the incident, he allowed the possibility that the explosion was no accident. The demure child in front of him chased away such speculation. “Yes, never mind about the car. I've wanted to speak to you about another matter. I'm sure you noticed the group of ladies outside school today—”

  “You mean the ones who yelled at me and Sean Fallon? One of them called me a name I'm not allowed to say.”

  “So you know how angry they are. I want you to know I am not angry with you, per se, but just concerned about this whole business. It's become a disruption to the school, and when I spoke to your grandmother when it first happened, she said it wouldn't happen again, but it has happened again, and as I say, I am a bit worried about you. And your feelings.”

  She fidgeted in her chair. A scarlet streak flashed by the window, a cardinal.

  “Norah, if you and your grandmother agree, I'd like you to talk to a doctor—”

  “A psychiatrist, Mr. Taylor?”

  A jay landed in the branches outside and screamed angrily.

  “Yes, no. A counselor. Someone trained to discuss some of the thoughts you've been having. The things that you've claimed.”

  “But I'm not crazy.”

  His voice rose and quickened. “Nobody said you were. This is just someone who could help you understand what you've been thinking.”

  “Is this about being an angel?”

  Three sparrows hopped across the outer windowsill. He breathed in deeply and exhaled a long sigh. “You can't keep going around saying such things. You are jeopardizing your place at this school, not just among the other children, but with Mrs. Patterson, and the parents too. Do you realize what people are saying about you and your grandmother? That stunt on the bridge could have been far more serious, young lady, than you might suppose. What if someone fell into the river? Mrs. Mansur says you should be suspended, and Mrs. Tilghman threatened to go to the school board if you weren't immediately expelled. They say you are teaching their children to think dangerous thoughts.” />
  All the birds flew away. She no longer stared through the window but gave him her full attention.

  “Now, I'm trying to be reasonable here. I've called your home a number of times but nobody answers, so I have a note for you to give to your grandmother to come see me. Maybe we can talk this through and meet with some of the other parents, explain the situation. I'm sure if you apologize and agree to counseling, they will be understanding. But you must tell the truth. I don't want to see you in any more trouble, Miss Quinn, but I can't have this kind of disruption any longer in my school, and I hope you will give some serious consideration to seeing this doctor.”

  “The truth is never as simple as it seems, and people will believe what they need to believe.”

  He stood and walked to the door, opening it for her. “I'm sure it isn't, Miss Quinn, but you have to understand I have a job to do here. Make sure I see your grandmother tomorrow. Make sure she gets that note.”

  AT OUTDOOR RECESS, Sean did not notice that they had been shunned, for they were too busy hunting the first clues of spring. As she pushed through the doors, Norah pointed out a line of bloodroot blossoms peeking along the fence, and they made a game of counting flowers and other plants pushing through the detritus of dead leaves and mulch. Sean found a green frog in a wet patch of ground behind the baseball backstop, and Norah discovered the ferns coiled like snail shells next to the maintenance shed. A flock of robins landed in the yard, flashing their ocher breasts, and they tried to count them all. With their shoes muddy and reeking, they went inside happy as explorers.

  The banishment continued through lunch. Sharon and Mark picked up their trays and moved silently to another table when Sean and Norah approached. The other children wound through an obstacle course of chairs and tables so as to avoid the slightest contact. Exile lasted the entire day. Nobody spoke to them in the classroom, and the slightest word from either one drew a cold stare and quick rebuke. In the breaks between classes, the whispers began. Notes circulated. A malicious plot hatched by signals and shorthand.