Some Kind of Angel (5 page)

“You would be right.  I am sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I am.”

The restaurant served up an overload on Michael’s newly acquired senses.  His nose in particular seemed to be bombarded with odors.  Garlic and onion, Arpege perfume, cabbage, sizzling steak, and as he walked past the restroom area, chemical bleach cleaner.  Not only that, it was October 15th and people were Christmas shopping, as well as buying Halloween costumes.  He dodged around packages tucked under the tables quite artfully, if he did say so himself.  He was glad Gabriel had seen fit to give him strong muscles.  How Leslie had handled these heavy trays, he couldn’t imagine. 

His photographic memory served him well, both in punching his orders into the computer and handing out food to the correct people. 

His expertise made him a favorite with the women servers, but the men waiters were another story.  Ned Haskins in particular, was antagonistic.  Michael realized Ned was insecure and jealous of Michael’s abilities and it was hard to stay friendly when Ned did everything he could to sabotage Michael’s serving.  So of course, when the older lady came in with an expression on her face sour enough to rival an entire jar of dill pickles, Ned said, “Let Michael serve her.  Let’s see if his angelic charm works on the dragon.”

Because Michael was so new to earth, he put little stock in what a person wore.  Even though the woman’s wardrobe was a coat with raggedy sleeves and a hat that must have been popular in the 1940’s, Michael could see into her heart.  This lady carried a deep sadness for something she thought couldn’t be changed.

“Who are you?” she barked at him.  “Where’s Ned?”

“He is taking a much needed break right now, ma’am.  I will be taking care of you.”

“You don’t look like you could take care of a flea.”

“Is there a flea you would like me to care for?”

“Don’t you be smart with me, young man.  Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Michael.”

Her face immediately twisted into anger.  “Don’t you try that with me.  It’s been tried before and I’ve never fallen for it.”

“I am sorry.  I do not know what you mean.”

“I mean saying your name is Michael.”

“My name has been Michael for many, many years, ma’am.  It’s a perfectly normal name for a man.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what that name means to me.”

Suddenly, in a flash from heaven, he did.  Her deceased son’s name was Michael.  But Michael had been on earth long enough to know he didn’t dare admit what he knew.  “I really do not know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, just shut up and tell me what the soups are for today.”

“We have mock turtle, chicken noodle, tomato basil, and broccoli cheese.”

“I’ll have the tomato basil with a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“Excellent choice, ma’am.  And to drink?”

“Iced tea.  And don’t bring it out so full of ice that it’s water by the time I get around to it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He walked back to the kitchen, sending an urgent message up to heaven.  By the time he fetched her iced tea, dished up her soup with an extra frilly doily under her bowl and gathered her sandwich from the grill to cut it into precise fourths, he had the answer.  He also had a tiny American flag pin that he placed on her plate.

He set her plate in front of her, but before he knew what was happening, she reached out a gnarled hand and grabbed his wrist.  “What do you think you are doing?”

“Serving your food.”

“Since when does Saul start handing out American flag pins?

“He thought you might enjoy wearing it.”

“I hate America.  I hate everything it stands for.”

Michael went down on his haunches to look her in the eye.  “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.  America took my son from me.  And when I wanted to bury him with full military honors, they told me I couldn’t, that he wasn’t a veteran.  He had served during “peacetime.”  Some peacetime. My Michael sat in Korea on the wrong side of the thirty-eighth parallel for two years.  Two weeks before he was to come home, he was killed by a sniper bullet.  But he is not considered a veteran.  I couldn’t bury him with veteran’s honors.  Now, you tell me why I should sit here and eat my tomato soup and put on your damn pin and tell you how much I love America.  It’s been fifty-five years since he’s been gone.  But I won’t forget.  I’ll never forget.”  She pushed her soup away and with her limping walk, stalked out of the restaurant. 

Ned was there to greet him behind the kitchen grill.  “I guess you found out what was bothering her.  The problem is, she’ll never come back.  And she was one of Saul’s regulars.  Nice work, Sherlock.”

It was eleven o’clock by the time Michael returned to his apartment.  His feet hurt and his neck ached.  He longed to talk to Leslie, but no light shone under her door.  He went into his miniscule bathroom, stripped off his clothes and washed away the scent of garlic and sadness.

Third week in October

Nighttime.  Lovely nighttime when the sun was down and the lamps were on in the apartment, giving it an ambiance it didn’t have in the daylight.  I could put on my comfy pajamas and settle in to the sofa with the script in my lap. “This dialogue totally sucks.  He’s made the woman character into this girl who acts as if she just fell off the turnip truck.”  I leaned back against the sofa, my legs crossed underneath me, a position I was sure I wouldn’t be able to hold in a few months when my belly stuck out further than my breasts. 

“So?”  Marian stood behind the breakfast bar measuring out a fourth cup of granola to add to her vanilla yogurt.  “How are you going to fix it?”

“Darn good question.”  I stuck my pencil in my mouth and clamped down on it.

“You know that’s not good for your teeth or your immune system, don’t you?”

“I always studied best in college when I chewed on a pencil.”

“I’m surprised you made it through without breaking out in a rash.”

“No, only this baby makes me break out in a rash.  Or whatever that dark skin is on my face.”

“Mask of pregnancy, babe.  Are you using that cover up I brought you?”

“When I’m home by myself, I don’t need it.  I don’t want to waste it.  What do you think of this line?
Whatever you think is best for us, I know it will be right.  I love you and trust you.”

“Ew.  Gag me with a spoon.  You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“The trouble is, in order to change the dialogue, I have to change the female character into a woman who has, you should excuse the expression, balls.”

“Well, then do it.  You’re just using sticky notes on the script, you’re not actually rewriting anything.  Melville’s going to read your changes first.  Do what you think is right to give the character,” she paused and smiled, “
character.”

“Changing the character will change the outcome.  The whole plot, as this guy has written it, will be trashed.  They are already in production.  How’s that going to work?”

“Not real well, I should think.”

“Yeah.  I’m beginning to wonder if Melville is using me as a sort of hatchet man.  He knows the script is bad, but he doesn’t want to be the one to tell the writer.  I guess this writer is some guy’s nephew.  The uncle has a ton of money and is financing the production.”

“Talk about your worst case scenarios.”  Marian toyed with her teacup.  “Speaking of worst case scenarios…when are you going to let your brother know he has a little niece or nephew on the way?”

“When Hell freezes over?”  I gave Marian a rueful smile.  “It’s not something I’m going to be able to hide for very long, is it?  I wish I were in one of those TV movies where the heroine gets herself in big trouble, and this tall, handsome…oh, yes, let’s not forget rich, man swoops in and sweeps her off her feet.  He doesn’t actually solve her problems, we are more modernized than that these days, but he helps her see her way through them.”

“I’ll take a guy like that, I’m not proud.  He can solve my problems, too, while he’s at it.  Speaking of which,” she paused dramatically, “what about tall, dark and please-let-me-see-him-naked next door?”

“He’s certainly not rich.  He wouldn’t have offered to take over my job if he had money.  And he wouldn’t be looking for an Armani suit in my second hand antique store.  But heaven knows, he looks like an angel in it.  Come to think about it, he looks like an angel in jeans, too.”

“That’s an odd thing to say.  Usually we say men are handsome, or hot, not that they look angelic.”

“I know.  He does look hot and handsome, but he looks angelic, too, as though he has never done anything wrong in his life.”

“No man reaches his ripe old age of…how old do you think he is?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe thirty six?”

“Well, anyway, I doubt there’s a male past the age of fourteen who hasn’t been up to some kind of mischief.  It’s in their DNA.”

“That’s a pretty cynical outlook toward the opposite sex.”

“Says she who is with child and no father in sight.”

When Leslie turned her face away in an obvious attempt to hide her reaction, Marian said, “Oh, honey.  I’m a complete jerk.  Don’t listen to me.  Any other woman in your position would have been to an abortion clinic by now.  I gotta give you credit for refusing to do that.”

“I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t kill a child who was part of Adam...and myself.”

Marian began to wish heartily that she had not ventured into this territory of discussion. But she worried about Leslie.  Despite what had happened to her, Leslie still retained an innocence of the world and its foibles.  Leslie had that air of naiveté that was both endearing and dangerous.

“You think that’s silly.”

“I don’t think it’s silly.  It’s…” Marian searched for the word, determined not to say anything more to hurt Leslie.  “It’s problematical.”

Leslie gave a wry laugh.  “It is that.  I think we’d better stop talking about my problems and let me get to the oversized eggs in this script.”

“All the while you’re hatching yours.”

“Ha, ha.  You’re so funny.”  I should be annoyed with Marian.  But it was hard when Marian’s quips were so dead on.  “Wait a minute.  That’s what this heroine needs.  A smart mouth.”

“I’m glad I could be an inspiration to your muse,” Marian said drily. 

“Okay, just listen to this.  When they meet in the bar, he says, “What are you doing, just sitting there looking beautiful?”

In the original script she says,
“
Nice of you to notice.”

What if I had her say, “What are you doing, just standing there looking predatory?”

“I like it.”

Then he says, all innocent, “Is that how I look to you?”

She says,
“
Oh, yeah.”

He says, “You’re mistaken.  I’m as harmless as a puppy dog.”

“Oh, crap.  That sounds ridiculous.  I’m not a writer.  What makes me think I can write dialogue better than this writer who already had a Broadway producer giving him the green light?  Especially since I’ve been to a bar twice in my life.”

“Don’t let that old bugaboo of self-doubt creep in.  I think you’re on to something, giving the girl more wit and wisdom in her responses.  Keep at it, girl.  You’re on the right track.”

Michael stood in his apartment, hanging a print he’d found in a wonderful little art gallery called
Enjoy Today
off the beaten path.  It was a landscape of sky and earth and sea and it drew him in immediately.  He liked the contrast between dark, foreboding clouds in shades of gray and the glow of sunshine breaking through just before sunset.  Rather like life here on earth.  Dark, foreboding shadows of broken dreams, broken hearts, broken lives, and quiet times of joy chasing the shadows away with light.

He couldn’t wait for tomorrow morning.  Thanks to Gabriel, he’d made contact with two men who were in the Army reserves, who would wear their uniforms and hand a folded flag to Mrs. Hudson at her son’s gravesite in the Evergreen Cemetery.  It was thanks to Leslie and her theater connections he’d found a trumpeter to play “Taps.”

Three days later, the morning dawned as Michael hoped it would, brilliant with a sun orbiting lower on the horizon each day as the earth approached winter.  A faint touch of chill hung in the air, but brilliant yellow leaves still clung to the maple trees.  It was sweater weather in New York, a welcome breath of fresh air after the heat of the summer.

He knew she would come.  He’d persuaded the cemetery groundskeeper to call her.  He was quite certain Mrs. Hudson could not resist coming to see what was happening at her son’s grave.  He’d told the groundskeeper to tell her ten o’clock, but of course in her anxiety, she arrived early.  Luckily, he had told his men to be there at nine-thirty.  While the three men walked forward to meet her, Michael stayed in the background, leaning against a tree out of her sight.

“Mrs. Hudson.  We understand that your son was denied a funeral with military honors.  While we can’t rectify this error, there is nothing that says we cannot recognize your son’s sacrifice and give you this flag to honor his memory.”  The sergeant handed her the symbol of their respect, a folded flag, while the trumpeter put his horn to his lips and played each note of “Taps” with a wonderful resonance that echoed through the peaceful cemetery.

Mrs. Hudson bowed her head and tried to contain her tears, but they flowed freely down her cheeks.  She’d waited so long, harbored such resentment.  Now to have her son honored this way both humbled and saddened her.  Yet there was an understanding in her heart that someone had taken the trouble to do what he could to ease her pain.

As the last note of “Taps” died away, Althea caught the sergeant’s arm.  “Who arranged this for me?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

“I need to know.  I want to thank him.”

“I’m sure he understands how grateful you are.”

“I wonder.”

She turned around, but by this time, Michael had stepped into a cab and was giving the driver directions to Manhattan.

That night after his day at Monikers, he came home, took his shower and got into his sweat pants.  He was beginning to love sweat pants and t-shirts.  They were so comfortable.

The door of Leslie’s apartment closed and heels clicked down the stairs that he was sure were Marian’s.  Leslie would be alone.

You better not go over there.  She is probably in her nightwear.  Stop salivating.  You’re not really a man, remember? 

Then why do I have all the symptoms? 
Even while he debated, a soft knock came at his door.

“Hi.” 

Leslie, looking absolutely adorable in her fluffy robe and slippers with her hair up in a ponytail.  “I just wanted to know how your surprise went today.”

“It went very well.  She was deeply moved.”

“It’s a good thing you were covering for me at Moniker’s.  I would have probably snapped right back at her.  What a good man you are, Michael.”

He felt that unfamiliar rise of his lower body.  Good man, indeed.  “I am not all that good, Leslie.” 
Especially when I see you in your pajamas.

“I wish I could have been there.  Anyway, I need your help.  This script has got me stumped.”

“Stumped?”

“Yes.”  She tilted her head and looked at him curiously.  “They don’t say stumped in Ireland?”

“Not that I recall.”

“It means, I don’t know what to do.”

“What are you trying to do?”

“Improve this script that Melville gave me.  Write believable dialogue between a man and a woman.”

“Where’s the dialogue supposed to take your characters?”

“Into bed.”

“Oh.”

Leslie pulled her legs up underneath her on his couch and gazed down at the pages she’d brought with that little frown between her brows, looking even more delectable.  She was so at ease, so without self-consciousness.  Was that because she sensed he wasn’t a threat to her?  Or was it because the worst had already been done to her.  He hated to think that might be the case. 

Those brown eyes flashed up to him.  “Michael.”  Excitement made her eyes sparkle with her flash of inspiration.  “You’re a man.”

“Yeesss.” 

“Suppose you take the part of the guy and I take the part of the girl.  Here, I’ll scoot closer to you so we can read off the same page.”

Must you?  That seems to do even worse things to my body.

“I’m working on this section here, where they are in his apartment and he’s trying to seduce her.  Now I want you to think about what you would honestly say.”

She was giving him that quizzical look with her head tilted, as only Leslie could do so endearingly.  “Are you all right with this, Michael?”

Define all right.
  “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?  It is just playacting, after all.”

“See?  I’m right here.”  She stabbed one of her lovely slender fingers with the nails decorated with pale pink polish at a line in the script.  “He’s already asked her if she wants a drink and she says yes.  So they have their drinks.  Now what?”

Oh, joy.  I’m in deep trouble here.
“Well, if it were me,” he paused, knowing he was about to step into a tidal wave, “I’d ask her if she wouldn’t like to get out of this stuffy apartment and go up on the roof.”

“I like that idea,” she said, grabbing her pencil out of her hair.  “But this is a stage play.  We might be limited…”

“No.  I’ve seen lots of stage musicals where the furniture disappears and nothing is left but the night sky done with a projection screen.  After the apartment furniture goes, a few benches glide on, along with a table and chairs, giving the look of a rooftop terrace.”

“Of course that’s possible.”  The gleam in her eyes told him she was visualizing it.  “I wasn’t aware you were so versed on stage settings.”

“I’ve seen quite a few in my day.”

“In your day,” she scoffed.  “You say that like you’re a hundred years old.”