On Unfaithful Wings (15 page)

Another knock on the door, like I needed a reminder about my situation. “What about the guy outside my room?”

“He’ll be gone by morning.”

“How can you be sure?”

A brief pause. “Trust me.”

The phone went dead. I set the receiver down and faced Sondra’s fearful expression suspecting my own probably wouldn’t do much to make her feel better.

“It’ll be fine,” I told her attempting to sound confident. “We’ll wait until morning.”

“Okay.” She forced a smile full of jittery nerves and, for the first time, I realized the beauty of the soul sitting beside me. Smooth skin, hair full of life, eyes bright--only a passing resemblance to the woman who choked to death at Denny’s. With a couple hours to kill before dawn, I decided we should pass the time getting to know one another, distract ourselves from the situation.

“So how old were...are...” My small talk skills weren’t significantly better than my bedside manner. “What did you do for a living, Sondra?”

I cringed at my inept choice of words, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Social worker. I work--I mean, worked--with high risk youths.”

“High risk?”

“Kids from abusive homes or with histories of crime or violence.”

“Wow.”
Where was she when I was a kid?
“That must have been hard.”

“Only when I lost one.” She smiled. “It was very rewarding. I wish I’d helped more before my time came.”

“God must have other plans for you.” The words definitely came out of my mouth, but I felt like I should look over my shoulder to see where Sister Mary-Therese hid. Even after returning from the dead and meeting a few angels, I remained unconvinced God really existed or that he gave a shit about me. Decades of skepticism aren’t easily erased.

She nodded. “I guess so. My job was why I ended up the way I did.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Choking?”

She laughed a little. “No, the other stuff. I didn’t have time to take care of myself, or to spend with people who weren’t in need of my help.”

We talked for an hour, mostly about the humanitarian things she’d done in her thirty-two years on earth. For the first half-hour, I considered what a shame such an attractive soul should pass without knowing the pleasures of the flesh and looked for any excuse to touch her, console her. But after listening to the selfless things she’d done--traveling to Africa to dig wells, volunteering for more things than I thought it possible to volunteer for--I stopped. There was nothing to feel sorry for.

I understood why her spirit appeared beautiful despite the less-than-sexy corporeal body she’d left behind. The pity I’d felt was replaced by anger that this woman should be taken so young. Her life had been difficult, too, and lonely. She didn’t remain chaste because she wanted to: her appearance and dedication to her work decided for her. I wondered if the beauty of her spirit came from the things she did or if she did those things because her spirit was beautiful.

And what did that mean mine looked like?

As we talked, the pounding on the door continued intermittently until ending in a flash of light. I got up to see what happened, but changed my mind before reaching the window. After our conversation petered out, I clicked the TV on and we watched a rerun of CSI.

Turned out to be Sondra’s favorite show.

***

I opened the motel room door on a band of orange dividing the horizon from the brightening sky. We stepped into the chill morning air and my foot brushed a pile of cloth: a trench coat crumpled on the walk outside the door. I’d never doubt Gabe again.

We headed up the block toward the antique store halfway to the next intersection. Sondra held my arm while we walked, averting her eyes as we passed the Denny’s across the street. We tried to look like a couple on an early-morning date, but I remained a little jumpy, glancing around, expecting another man in a black trench coat--or worse, that Azrael guy--to leap out from behind a parked car. None did.

We reached the antique shop. The closed sign in its window didn’t stop the unlocked door from swinging open on creaky hinges suitable for a place peddling old stuff. A little bell above the door jingled announcing our arrival.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

The man appeared from behind an armoire so big I wondered how they’d managed it through the door. His hair and complexion shone white like his clothes--a line drawing on blank paper a child forgot to color in except for the blue eyes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s good to see you again,” I said.

“We have never met, Icarus Fell.”

“Weren’t you...?” I stopped. No point asking.

The man held out his hand. Sondra stepped toward him and stopped. She turned and took my hand in hers.

“Thank you, Ric.” Her smile spilled over into her eyes and she kissed the back of my hand. “You’re a wonderful man.”

Prickles ran up the back of my skull. No one had ever said such a thing to me before. My mouth twitched to smile a thank you at her, but my throat closed up, forcing me to concentrate on breathing instead of saying it.

The man in white put his arm around Sondra, guided her to the rear of the store. Before they disappeared behind the great chest, she waved like a woman leaving on vacation, like I’d see her again in a couple of weeks. A nice thought. I waved back.

Maybe this wasn’t such a bad job after all.

Chapter Ten

The chill in Father Dominic’s bedroom brought goosebumps to Sister Mary Therese’s forearms as soon as she entered. Since the fever settled into the priest, he’d insisted on keeping the window open a crack, even on the colder nights when the wind shook the ivy on the wall outside. Sometimes he would sweat and shiver simultaneously but still insist it remain open. She considered going downstairs to get her sweater, but it had taken considerable courage to come up here to ask what she had to ask. It wouldn’t be any easier a second time.

His eyes were closed--his face looked strained even in sleep--so she crept to the chair at the head of his bed, set close to allow visitors and well-wishers a seat by their beloved priest. She sat and leaned forward, elbows propped on knees, and looked at his face. The disease--she should know the name but couldn’t remember--had clambered its way into him inch-by-inch over the last six months, insinuating itself into every crack of his being the way water eventually seeps through concrete.

For months, he’d stood at the pulpit every Sunday battling the pain as his parishioners watched, his cheeks too pink, sweat noticeable on his forehead, preaching to his flock until he couldn’t bear to stand long enough to conduct mass. The dedication and love he’d shown for so many made doubt whisper in Sister Mary-Therese’s ear.

People change,
it said.
It was a long time ago.

She’d speak with him another time, when he was awake and feeling better.

The priest’s hand on her wrist surprised her, his grip weak but insistent. She looked from his gnarled hand into his rheumy eyes and tried to smile but the taut look on his face melted it away before it began.

“You startled me, Father.”

“Sister Mary-Therese,” the priest breathed. “So good to see you.”

“How do you feel?”

He closed his eyes and she fought an unexpected urge to pull away. A moment passed, a cough wheezed from his throat. She needed no further answer.

“I’ll come back another time. When you’re feeling better.”

“No, please stay. There may not be a time when I’m feeling better.” He smiled, but the background pain twisted his lips into a sneer. His breath rattled. “What brings you this day, Sister?”

She hesitated. “Concern for you, Father. Everyone asks about you.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but it’s not why you’re here, is it?”

His words left her unable to do anything but stare back into the pain-filled eyes holding her gaze.

“I dreamt you’d be here when I woke, and here you are. In my dream you came with news, but I woke before finding out what about. Why don’t you tell me now?”

Some said Father Dominic possessed a gift to see into other people’s minds and souls. Others of the congregation believed God talked to him regularly, though the priest never claimed it himself. Sister Mary-Therese considered herself more of a realist in spite of her devotion to God, and thought him an excellent observer with a flair for the dramatic.

“It’s Icarus Fell, Father.”

“Yes, he’s dead. I know, Sister. That was months ago.”

A hint of acrimony in his voice, or did she imagine it? She shook her head, both to indicate the negative and to clear the thought.

“No, Father. He’s not dead. Not anymore.”

“Impossible.” The emotion in his voice this time couldn’t be missed despite his weakened condition. “I conducted his funeral service. You saw his body. Icarus Fell is dead.”

“He’s not, Dominic. I’ve seen him. Twice.”

“You’ve seen someone who looks like him, Sister, that’s all. It’s only been six months, and you were close to him. Grief does strange things to people.”

“I’ve spoken with him.”

The priest’s eyes widened revealing an expanse of blood-shot whites. His bottom lip quivered like he wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. Sister Mary-Therese saw fear on his face, an expression she didn’t think she’d seen in all the years she’d known him. A second later, Father Dominic regained control of his features, as much as the pain he experienced would allow.

“What did he say?”

Sister Mary-Therese shifted in the chair, looked away and back. Even speaking to a man dedicated to God’s service about this made her feel uncomfortable, inexplicably embarrassed.

“He said the Archangel Michael visited him, asked him to help souls journey to Heaven.”

“The Archangel Michael? I doubt that,” Father Dominic snorted. “Only the damned return from the dead. This isn’t the work of God. It reeks of Satan’s hand.”

“No, Father. It was Icarus. He--”

“Icarus Fell was no tool of God in life, he certainly wouldn’t be in death.”

Sister Mary-Therese felt the tightness of encroaching tears in her throat and took a breath to quell them. The priest seemed not to notice her distress.

“Nothing good can come of such an abomination on God’s earth. If you see him again, Sister, run the other way.”

“I need to...I have to ask you--”

“Ask me what?”

She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him it was the Icarus she knew and loved, not a demon dredged up from the bowels of Hell. She wanted to ask him about the way Icarus cradled his arm that day two decades before. She wanted to ask him why the boy left, give the priest a chance to dispel her suspicions, but a knock at the open door halted her words. A man stood in the doorway; Sister Mary-Therese recognized him as one of the parishioners.

“Oh, my apologies, Sister. I thought Father Dominic was alone. I’ll come back later.”

“No, please. I was just leaving.” She pushed herself to her feet and forced a smile that quivered at the edges. Father Dominic’s hand still held her wrist, his eyes remained on hers.

“Heed me, Mary,” he said, his voice low, intended for them alone. “If Icarus is back, he’s dangerous. He’s already at fault for the death of one nun. Don’t be the second.”

His words rang in her head as she leaned forward to kiss the back of his hand, an act of respect she’d performed hundreds of times before. This time, her lips touching his flesh brought a tightness to her stomach. He’d done so much for her, supporting her when she needed it, being the wise guiding hand. Yet all the doubt that crept in while watching his fitful sleep scurried away on those words, and she saw that her suspicions could be the truth. In the passing years, she’d never fully discounted her worries, nor indulged them. She kept them to herself, making her guilty of nothing: doing nothing, saying nothing, deciding nothing.

She let go of the priest’s hand and crossed the room, nodding hello to the man coming in as they passed. When she reached the doorway, she paused and looked back at Father Dominic. The man sat in the chair passing the good wishes of fellow parishioners along to Father Dominic, but the priest shifted his gaze to her, the cords in his neck straining with the effort. Their eyes locked, and Sister Mary-Therese realized, whether because of the disease making him wither away or because of his words, that she no longer recognized the man she’d known as Father Dominic.

Chapter Eleven

I sat in the library, leafing through pages of the book on the table in front of me, a stack of eight more at my elbow. When I came across a picture labeled ‘The Archangel Michael’, I paused. Immense white wings at his back, a trumpet to his lips, golden sword at his hip. Other than the blond hair, the rendition bore no resemblance to the Mike I knew. Three sparse paragraphs dedicated to him said little: God’s right hand, associated with the color red, blah, blah, blah. It’s difficult in our new-agey time to dig up anything substantial about angels; so much of what’s written is about invoking them to relieve your emotional anguish. I flipped the page to a picture tagged ‘The Archangel Gabriel’ and choked back a laugh. The depiction showed an androgynous male, hair color and accoutrements the only differences between this picture of Gabe and the one of Mike. I wondered if the guy who wrote the book actually knew anything about angels or merely regurgitated what everyone else before him wrote.