On Unfaithful Wings (7 page)

She remembered visiting the morgue to identify the body.

When Sister Mary-Therese reached the cot where Icarus sat waiting, she stood looking down into his face, into his eyes brimming with held-back tears.

Could it really be him?

She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and stared straight ahead, knees together, palms flat on her thighs. Her mind raced but settled on nothing: no explanation, no words to say. She took another deep breath and turned toward him. He was looking at her. When she gazed into his eyes and saw sadness and love and hurt in them, she knew the man at her side really was Icarus Fell.

“It’s good to see you, Icarus,” she said finally. She’d always been the only one he allowed to call him by his full name.

“You too, Sister.”

“I hoped I’d never see you on the street again.”

“Temporary setback. A night or two.”

Silence fell between them again, though she wanted to say more. Icarus fidgeted under her gaze, looking away and back like he wanted to avoid her scrutiny but wouldn’t let himself. His unease crept across the space between them.

“You...” She paused, not wanting to say what needed saying. “You were dead.”

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“What’s going on, Icarus?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know it wasn’t a rumor. I found you. I identified your body.”

This time his eyes dropped, found his hands in his lap, fingers twining and unwinding. He looked up and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again and Sister Mary-Therese sensed he’d been about to lie to her but thought better of it.

“Tell me what’s happened to you.”

His eyes flickered around the room. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

She smiled, soothing but unsure. “Try me.”

He looked at his lap again, rubbed sweaty palms on the legs of his pants--the same pants he’d been wearing the night she found him. Blood stained one leg, practically invisible on the black cloth. It took a few seconds for him to collect his thoughts.

“You’re right. Two men mugged me in the church yard six months ago. Stabbed me. I remember it. And I remember being at the hospital.” His expression suggested he wanted to say more but changed his mind.

“Go on.”

“I woke up in a hotel room yesterday. There was a man waiting for me. He said he was the Archangel Michael.”

A shiver ran down her spine. In her years working with the homeless, she’d heard many stories about visits from angels, or from Jesus himself, and she’d always smiled, nodded, indulged. If she could, she’d aid the storyteller in finding someone professional to talk to--sometimes Father Dominic, sometimes a doctor. This time, she wanted to either laugh or run away--a man she’d seen die sat beside her speaking of resurrection and angels. She swallowed around a knot in her throat and, unable to do anything else, nodded and let him continue.

He sighed deeply, the breath shuddering in his chest. “He told me they need my help. He said I have special abilities, that they want me to escort souls to Heaven. I’m crazy, right?”

He squirmed, glanced at her eyes and away. It sounded crazy, but what other explanation could there be? This wasn’t one of those other homeless men with their wild eyes, this was Icarus. Pride filled her, brought a smile to her lips.

“I always knew you were special.” She brushed his cheek with her fingers, more affection than she should show in the crowded hall. “There’s great work ahead of you.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course.”

“You think I’ve been brought back to life to be the Angel of Death?”

“Not the Angel of Death, child. A shepherd of God’s children.” Tears rolled down her cheeks from behind her glasses until they touched her smiling lips. “You’ve been chosen.”

“What should I do, Sister?”

“Do as they ask. You’ve been honored.”

A bell indicating lights-out sounded. The few visitors around the room stood and moved toward the door. Sister Mary-Therese took a Kleenex from its place tucked in the cuff of her sweater and used it to dry her tears, then stood. Icarus grabbed her hand.

“Is Father Dominic here?”

His question made her stomach twinge. “No. He’s on sabbatical. His health...isn’t good.”

“I see.” Whenever he brought up Father Dominic, he always seemed like there was more he wanted to say. She suspected what it was, but he never said and she didn’t feel she could ask him or the priest.

“We don’t think he has much longer.”

A light in his eyes flickered, an expression of relief not quite hidden. She let her own disapproving look slip onto her face for an instant and he noticed. Icarus let go of her hand, his eyes remaining on hers, and this time she wanted to look away. She made herself meet his gaze.

“It’s time for me to go, Icarus.” He nodded and she looked into his eyes a second longer. She didn’t want to leave this way, with this hanging between them, but her time had run out. “Can I get you anything before I go.”

“No, thank you.” He forced a smile. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

She touched his arm then turned and left, wending her way through the maze of beds, excusing herself as she passed people readying for sleep. She wanted to stay with him but also wanted to leave. When she felt his eyes on her, she looked back to wave good-bye. She didn’t stop again before reaching the door and letting herself out into the night.

It was a different night than six months before; a chill wind held the promise of winter to come, rustling the red and brown leaves still clinging to the oak tree’s branches. The cloudless sky bathed the churchyard in bright moonlight, heaving long shadows across the grass. Sister Mary-Therese stared toward the tree, at the spot where she’d found Icarus dying. Maybe if she’d done something differently two decades ago, Icarus might not have run away and spent the next few years living on the street, spiraling into addictions that affected the rest of his life. More care from her, more faith and belief might have saved him.

“I can’t do it anymore, Sister,” he’d said twenty years before when he’d nearly run her down rushing along the stone path not far from where he’d meet his end.

“Do what child? What’s happened?”

“I...He...”

He gestured with his right hand while the left hung limp at his side, an unusual circumstance for the demonstrative teen. She’d wondered about it then but hadn’t brought herself to ask.

“Be calm, Icarus. Tell me what’s going on.”

His mouth opened and closed again, tears welled in his eyes. The mild concern Sister Mary-Therese had felt as for a child fallen out of a tree blossomed into something close to fear for the boy.

“Icarus--”

He rushed away, his quick steps turning to a jog and then a run as he cradled his left arm against his body. She took two steps after him but knew she wouldn’t catch him. Two years would pass before she saw him again, high on drugs and sleeping on her doorstep.

Tonight, she saw clearly the line from that day to the night she stood in the morgue identifying his body. It was her fault. She could have prevented all of it from happening if she’d only done something. This time, she’d believe him no matter what he said.

Sister Mary-Therese leaned against the door and brought her hand up to her mouth to hide the sound of her sobs.

Chapter Five

Sleep eventually came, but only after hours of tossing and turning. With the cot springs creaking so much, I could only imagine what everyone must have thought I was up to. I couldn’t help it, though--Sister Mary-Therese recognized me. She
knew
me. I spent those hours of unrest thinking that, if she did, maybe there was a chance other people would, too.

Maybe Rae. Maybe Trevor.

When they woke us early the next morning, I didn’t feel as though I’d rested. They allowed us a few minutes to shake the sleep from our heads, then fed us bowls of porridge thick enough the leftovers might have been used to stucco the church. It tasted like shit but filled the gurgling hole, albeit with a lump that sat in my belly as though I’d swallowed a bowling bowl filled with cement.

I left the church with Rae’s house as my destination but it was early--she’d be at work and Trevor at school--so I had time to kill. Following the stone path from the church hall, I wandered to the spot where the two gorillas in raincoats killed me and expected to feel rage or a desire for vengeance, but those feelings were as missing as the peace I’d been after. I stared at the piece of lawn where my blood had spilled, searching for some sign of my passing, but no one built a memorial or marker like the ones scattered along the sides of highways. A small circle of grass, nourished by my death, grew thicker and greener: as good a headstone as I’d get--Rae wouldn’t have wasted her money on something like that. Why would she? It had been years since I gave her any reason to want to. My gaze wandered to the run-down cemetery beside the church, but I tore my eyes away.

I didn’t see Sister Mary-Therese before leaving and was glad of it. Seeing her had delighted me, but I didn’t want to indulge the guilt either of us felt about the past. I owed her so much, she didn’t deserve to feel that way. On the other hand, no one in the world but her recognized me and that loneliness made me wish for her company.

The touch of autumn in the light wind made me button my suit jacket as I headed for downtown, putting the Sister out of mind while formulating a plan to acquire a coffee with no money in my pocket and no squeegee with which to earn some. If I’d been on my game, I’d have asked her for some cash, but the shock of seeing her, of her recognizing me, had kept me from thinking clearly. Normally I’m very good at taking advantage of the guilt of others.

There was so much to sort out: where to live and how to afford it, for instance. I planned to try the bank once I got downtown, see if they’d let a dead guy draw against his overdraft, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that would actually work. The Sister would provide a bed if need be, if I could make myself come back here, but the idea of staying at the church made me feel queasy.

I took the corner onto Eighth Street and fell into pace behind a fellow early-morning walker. A head shorter than me and walking slower, the gentle swing of her heart-shaped derriere convinced me to match her pace rather than blow by. Her hair was cut short in what my ex-wife would have called a pixie cut and she wore no jacket in spite of the chill in the air. The collar of her t-shirt dipped low enough in the back to reveal a tattoo of a bird at the base of her neck. The bird faced toward me, as though it would fly off her back and into my face; its blue and white feathers shimmered as though freshly inked. As we walked , I scrutinized it more closely. A swallow. I chuckled, wondering if her choice of birds might prove Freudian. The light at the next intersection went red and we stopped side-by-side. I glanced down to find her looking up at me, smiling. Her gaze caught mine like a professional ball-player snagging a fly ball and the world seemed to go quiet around us. I stared at her, unable to look away, as though the freckles spilling across her nose spelled out my name.

“Hello, Icarus.”

The smile ready on my lips faded and the sound of traffic rushed back in to my life.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet, but I know you.”

Her words held a vague accent, a faint lilt as easily British as not. The glowing orange hand cautioning us to wait before crossing the street changed to the white outline of a man in a hurry and she left me standing on the curb, mouth agape. I watched the swallow on her back fly backwards away from me before I jogged after her.

“Hey. Who are you? How do you know me?”

“We have a mutual friend.”

“Who?”

She strayed off the sidewalk into some green space warranting the name ‘park’ only because it occurred in the middle of a city. Anywhere else, it would have been somebody’s lawn, and a small one at that. I stayed with her, intrigued by her words, her tattoo, the way her eyes held me captive. When she sat on the lone bench normally reserved for people sneaking out for a smoke, I took a seat at the opposite end. She smiled at me again but still didn’t answer the question.

“Who’s our mutual friend?”

She ran long fingers through her hair and lifted her face skyward, eyes closed, allowing the sun to touch her cheeks.

“I love the feel of the sun on my face.”

“Miss?”

“It’s glorious. A most provocative reason for being human.”

I watched her profile, pondering the oddity of her words, then looked skyward, wondering what she saw, and felt the autumn sun caress my cheek.

She’s right.

I looked back at her face. No older than mid-twenties, her hair was the color of slightly over-cooked gingerbread. The freckles dusting her cheeks were enough to be attractive, not enough to be considered a blemish. Full lips, delicate nose, high cheek bones. Beautiful.

“Thank you.” She opened her eyes and favored me with a look.

“What?”

“I said ‘thank you.’ For thinking I’m beautiful.”