by David Connor
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s nice.”
“On the other hand, maybe it’s pretty rare. Maybe you and your fiancée just had a really, really special pair of angels.”
“Maybe.” My heart skipped. “Maybe just one of us needed it, though.” That would explain the goodbye.
“Good luck, Goose. Happy wedding.” Steve shook his head. “Never me.”
“Thanks, Steve. Someday.”
I wheeled myself down to Patrick’s room once Steve left. Sunny was taking his vital signs. She kissed me on the cheek before she left.
“Not everyone gets one of those,” she informed me. “You two be happy.”
“We will,” I said.
“We are,” Patrick told her.
Once I had him all to myself a minute or two, I debated whether or not to tell him about what Steve had said. I didn’t want to make Patrick feel sad or possibly guilty—if that was the right word—about the idea that Jefferson and Daniel had parted. I know I would have felt some kind of way. After giving it some thought, I realized, through the entire recent ordeal concerning life and death, though Jefferson had been with me pretty much all the time, Daniel only showed up when Patrick was there, too, when he and I were together. When the four of us were. Time would come to share all of that, but not right now, I decided.
“Good morning.” I wheeled to the bed to offer a kiss.
“Hello, handsome. Oh. Look.” My alleged handsomeness held Patrick’s attention barely a moment. He pointed to the window.
“Hey, you.” The cardinal was back. Backing up my chair, I could reach the lever that opened the bottom sash. The sounds of the outdoors and a slight, cool breeze came in. It wasn’t the air that made me shiver, though, but rather twelve notes. “Amazing Grace,” I said. The cardinal didn’t fly off, even as close as the open transom came to where he sat. “Jefferson is still an angel.”
Patrick wiped the tear from my eye when I moved closer to him again.
“That’s why they said goodbye to one another in your dream,” Patrick said.
“What do you mean?” I knew.
“I was online yesterday on my…on my…” He closed his eyes, as if thinking. “Fuck!”
“Shh.”
“You know, that thing.” Patrick put his hand to his ear.
“Take a breath. You’re okay.”
“I’m not.”
“Your phone,” I said.
“Yeah. That. I just had a feeling. This podcast came up when I searched guardian angels…” Patrick’s voice broke. “Those two words came to me. It was about a woman who thinks she came back to life after being hit by a car only because her guardian angel gave up eternity in Heaven to bring her back.”
“I’ve heard of that happening,” I said. “Just recently.” Then, I held Patrick in my arms.
* * * *
A week later, Patrick was released as well. His body was strong. I was still in the wheelchair and would be for at least another ten days or so, before I could move on to crutches. Patrick wanted to carry me, but I wouldn’t let him. That and sex were off the table, since he was not allowed any strenuous activity for at least ten days, himself.
Patrick’s word retrieval was coming along, but we still had to practice. Stir crazy partway through our first day alone together, still in bed at noon, we needed a distraction from wanting to tear each other’s clothes off, so I got out the flashcards.
“Cat.”
“Good.”
“Book.”
“Yup.”
“Shoot. Umm…you fly it.” He punched the mattress a few times, not hard, but enough to show his frustration. “It has a tail and a string. Damn it!”
“It’s okay. Close.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It’s a kite.” I would have made a terrible teacher. I would just have given everyone the answer and an A-plus.
“Kite. Got it.”
I still hated telling Patrick when he got one wrong. “What’s this?”
“A telephone. That one I know now. Though I have no idea what century these cards were oriented, because no phone looks like that anymore.”
He had a point. The picture was of a rhombus shaped black phone with a dial. “We should write them a letter. How about this one?”
“Sun.”
“Yup.”
“Moon, where I can’t wait to see your face again.”
“Aww. We’ll look together, like in Heaven. A couple more.” I held up the next card. “What’s this?”
“Shit. Umm…” Patrick made the motion, as if writing. “You use it when you draw, too. Fuck!”
I angled close. “The swear words come right back to you.”
“Yeah, they do.” He stole a kiss. Though I would have offered one, anyway. “Pencil! It’s a pencil”
We high fived.
The next one was easy.
“Tree.”
“We know about trees. We were chained to one.”
“That I remember. Love,” Patrick said for the next card, the one with a heart.
I gave it to him and went on.
“Camel.”
“Camel?”
He could only keep a straight face half a second or so. It was the horse again.
“Love, camel.” I laughed, too. “I see what you did there.”
“I stacked the deck,” Patrick admitted, “so we’d have a moment here.”
“Nice going.”
“I think so.” He threw himself at me and kissed my mouth.
“Easy, there.”
“Mouth.” He kissed my throat, “Throat,” the side of my neck, “Neck,” and the pendant with the letters. “Us.”
Patrick kept on going. Down my shirt, then under it, when he rolled it up toward my nipples, “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Breaking the rules.”
Patrick had a bit of problem with fine motor skills, getting his fingers to work like he wanted them to with a knife while buttering toast, or when trying to write with a pen. Working the string on my pajama pants presented one, but he persevered.
“Be careful.”
“It’s therapy. Voila!”
The string was undone.
“We don’t have to make it strenuous,” Patrick said. “We can do it slow, gentle, long and leisurely. Can you get naked?”
I twirled the string. “Partway there already. I think I can.”
“Can you do it, or should I help?”
I had the pants and my long-sleeved T-shirt off quicker than a genie. “I can do it. Granted, it’s more fun if you help, but next time, in, like, ten days.”
“I ain’t waiting ten days between love fucking.”
“None of that,” I said.
“No love fucking?”
“Just this…” I touched his mouth. “And this…” I put his hand on my dick. “Except you lie still, and I supply all the motion.”
“Face fucking.”
“Reciprocal, of course, but I still do all the work.”
We were lounging there naked, on top of the duvet after, Wilbur between our feet, the taste of Patrick’s cum still on my tongue, when I got to thinking about Tate, the Florida cop. “We need to throw a policemen’s ball or something, so I’ll have a reason to call him,” I said. “I want to know for sure if he’s Daniel.”
“A scheme. Yes. We can do that.”
I pulled the blanket up a little more when my phone rang. I wasn’t planning on Facetiming my sister, but still, I wanted to cover myself.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“Busy?”
“Just finishing something up,” I told her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. All’s well.”
“You’re taking it easy?” I asked.
“I’m taking it so easy, I’m going to wear out the couch. I’m trying to learn how to knit, but so far, everything I’ve made looks like a spider web spun by a drunken tarantula.”
“Ha! You have almo
st seven months to master it.”
“So, what time are you going to be ready for Richard to come get you for dinner?”
“Whatever time he wants.” Neither Patrick nor I were allowed to drive yet, either. “Patrick made pasta salad and he’s going to whip up some pancake buns.”
“You’re not on speaker, are you?” Shelby asked.
I could tell by her voice exactly what she was thinking. “No, but we’re close.”
“Oh.”
“I won’t make her try one,” Patrick said.
“You hear that?” I asked.
“Yes. Thank you, Patrick. And you should be taking it easy, too.”
“I keep telling him. He’s stubborn.”
“If Daniel gave up his afterlife for mine on Earth, I’m not about to waste it doing nothing.”
Shelby was glued to the TV when we got there. Rip had offered to carry me into the house, but with the crutches I wasn’t supposed to be using yet, I was able to master their three front steps without the chair.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“It’s so sad. Some kid Carrie’s age jumped off a bridge.”
“Shoot.” Rip unfolded my wheelchair and helped me settle into it. “Something on TLC or Discovery?”
“No. On the news. It just happened. He survived, thank God.”
“Or his guardian angel,” Patrick said.
“Yeah.” I took his hand when he sat down on the couch.
“The kid was talking and everything after they pulled him from the water, the rescuer said. There’s no way he should have survived.”
“Hmm.” I thought of Steve’s theory about guardian angels, not his theory, but the one he and Patrick had expanded upon. “I hope the kid gets the help he needs, so he wants to stick around a while more.”
“Where’s it all happening?” Patrick asked.
“Out West.”
“Hey, you guys.” When Carrie came running down the stairs, Shelby turned off the TV. “Patrick!” She rushed to him and hugged him gently. I got one, too. “Guess what Aunt Shirlene sent me.”
“What?” I asked.
“Stuff from Tennessee. There’s a letter about Calvin…Daniel, I mean.” She showed me in her phone, and then read it aloud to all of us. “I have sinned. This lovely child I have raised was not mine to keep, and yet, that is what I’ve done. He was taken from his mother once but discarded when he became ill. While tending to him, I fell in love. Unable to have a child of my own, I gave into my selfishness to keep this beautiful boy, rather than reunite him with his parents, who probably still missed him so. If I may not be forgiven, I understand my fate. If I get but one person who will, I hope it is Calvin, now such a fine man. I shall always adore him, until I take my last breath any day now.
“It’s signed Annabeth Goodacre,” Carrie said.
“Whoa.”
I was pretty sure all of us had the same exact reaction.
“Aunt Shirlene said there was a whole section in that church you found online, the one you saw first at Daniel and Jefferson’s wedding. It has, like, a library, and they had all of these historical documents there, including this letter, that was found in Ainsley Goodacre’s bible. He was the pastor of that church at one time, back in Jefferson and Daniel’s day. His wife, Annabeth, she was a schoolteacher.”
“She doesn’t mention the Porters,” I said.
“Not in her note,” Carrie replied, “but there’s another one. Ainsley wrote to the Porters, but his note was never sent. See.” She showed me her phone again.
“Your son, Daniel, grew into a fine and wonderful young man, who went to war for the freedom of all,” I read. “We raised him as Calvin, but whatever his namesake and wherever his upbringing, he brings pride to your family.” There was a picture of an envelope with Daniel Porter written on it, just the name and Alabama.
Carrie reached over to thumb the screen. “This little card under the bible says he apparently died before he could find out exactly where to send it.”
“Daniel mentioned Alabama at his wedding,” I recalled.
“So, they never knew,” Shelby said in awe.
“Maybe not on Earth, but they know now,” I told her with certainty.
“We should talk to the current leaders of that church,” Patrick suggested.
“Absolutely. We’ll take a road trip when we can.”
“There’s even a picture of Calvin.”
When Carrie showed us that, I had to reach for my heart as I stared at the grainy, old black and white image. “Yes. That’s Calvin.”
“It is,” Patrick agreed. “It is Daniel.”
Rip took the phone to see it close up. “That’s incredible.” Then, he handed it back to Carrie.
“Reverend Goodacre had left it with the note, to send with it, they figure.”
I took the phone to look at it some more. “Wow. I wonder if this would be enough to get someone to put Daniel’s name on that unnamed soldier tombstone, or at least give him one of his own, give him credit for being a Civil War soldier.”
“Maybe,” Patrick said to me.
“Look.” Carrie had more to show us. “Aunt Shirlene even got pictures of your tree. There’s a little plaque on it now, because of what you guys did last October.” She crouched down to give us a better look. There were five photos in all. “You can see the inscription you carved into it.”
“Yup.” When I touched it on the screen, the picture shifted. “Oops.” I zoomed in and adjusted it, to see what I had written. “Wait. There are two.”
“Makes total sense,” Patrick said. “One you did in the 1800s, and one in 2019 lower down, because the tree grew more.”
Upon closer look, to prove that, I noticed there were actually three. “Look.” I showed it to Patrick.
“GT plus PO,” Patrick read.
“Remember how Jefferson and Daniel were up to something they didn’t want us to see right before they got married?”
“That was it,” Patrick marveled.
“That was it.”
“And Jefferson also turned the C G you made that day into a D P.”
“He did, Patrick.”
“I remember that,” he said.
“You do?” I touched his lips.
“I do.”
“I see what you did there.”
“I remember the hats. You think we can bring them back in style? My head’s cold all the time.”
I ran my hand over the fuzz. “I’ll get you one. We’ll wear them at our own wedding, too.”
“Halloween!” we both said at once.
“Perfect. I love Halloween. It’s sort of our anniversary already, anyw—”
I suddenly noticed everyone else in the room was staring at me, at me and Patrick. “Umm…you had to be there.”
“A-a-ma-zi-i-ing grace, ho-ow sweet the sound.”
We all turned back toward Carrie, preventing any sort of response.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Sorry, I was watching this news thing online before I came down, about a boy in Colorado. I forgot to close the window.”
“We caught this young man singing this song,” a voice said through the tiny speaker on Carrie’s phone, “right after the teen was pulled from the water.”
They played more of the song. “I once was lost…”
“Jefferson,” I said.
“What?” There was that look, as if my sister was staring at a crazy person.
“Steve said a guardian angel will give up his afterlife to save a charge.”
Rip had the same expression of disbelief. “That’s a thing?”
“We think it is.”
“The sweet singer’s name is Micha Crane,” the reporter stated. “He said he just felt like warbling, when he knew the young man was now safe.”
“Did they show Micha’s face?” I asked Carrie.
“They did, but it’s off now,” she said.
“Did it look like any of my sketches of Jefferson?”
“Maybe. Let me see if I can find him somewhere else.”
“You weren’t Jefferson’s only charge?” Patrick stroked my arm.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe, I don’t need him anymore. Maybe, I’m not scheduled to die again for a while.”
“Goose!”
“Sorry, Bro-ham, just thinking out loud.”
“Here.” Carrie found another video of the small, young, bearded man singing. “I don’t think—”
“Jefferson,” I said, the moment I saw it.
“Looks like him or is him?” Rip asked.
“It’s him. I’m sure of it. Truthfully, I’m also kind of jealous Jefferson was someone else’s angel. I also want to find out if this kid knew Jefferson…and how. And I want to make sure Micha from Colorado meets Tate the cop from Florida.”
“Sounds like an adventure for when we’re feeling better,” Patrick said.
“Definitely. A wedding to plan, a baby on the way, a new adventure…It’s going to be a busy summer and fall.”
“Sounds like,” Patrick said.
THE END
ABOUT DAVID CONNOR
David has always wanted to be a daytime drama writer. His books are like soap operas in print, filled with intrigue, romance, comedy, and drama. His imagination refuses to shut off even when he sleeps. Many of David’s plots and ideas come from nightly dreams and nightmares. He lives in upstate New York with a kitty cat named Molly and the spirits of several doggies and kitties who have passed on. David enjoys writing (of course), puttering in the garden, and naps for new story ideas.
ABOUT E.F. MULDER
E.F. and her writing partner, David Connor, have always been soap opera fans. Living in a small New York town, they both turned their love of the genre to books and short stories with romantic, soap opera-ish themes. Nothing beats a cliffhanger, a twist, a good mystery, and maybe an evil twin.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!