California Angel

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  California Angel 103

  wheres. You get that, then I'd say you got yourself some real proof. Am I sharp or what? Told you Joey ain't no dummy."

  "You're right," Toy said, leaning forward excitedly. "That's a great idea. Brilliant, actually. If they were shooting footage of the fire, they may have some film with me on it. The only problem is, how am I going to get them to give it to me?"

  "Lie," Joey shot out without a second thought, a mischievous look in his eyes. "Now, don't get a guy wrong. I don't think telling lies is kosher, but hey, don't they say everything is given to us for a reason? Way I see it, there really ain't no bad things, just bad people. Now, if you told a lie just to hurt someone, well, we're talking wrong here. But this is different, okay. Just tell them that you're in the business, that you're with a television station here in the city, and you need that film to do a follow-up story on the fire."

  Just then the waitress returned and slapped their food down on the table. Toy took a dainty bite of her roast beef sandwich, while Joey dug into his meal, an open-faced turkey sandwich with stuffing and cranberries. Toy stopped eating and reached across the table to touch his hand. "You've really helped me," she told him. "I don't know how to thank you."

  With a mouthful of food he said, "Hey, you're my angel, remember? Where's that T-shirt you had on the other day?"

  "Oh," Toy said, "I still have it. It's in my hotel room."

  'Then why you wearing that?" he said, pointing at her green pant-suit and shaking his head. "You looked real pretty in that T-shirt."

  "Oh, I did, huh?" she said playfully.

  "Yeah," he said, giving her a rakish smile.

  "You sure?" she said. "You don't like this outfit better than a cheap baseball T-shirt? This is one of the nicest outfits I own."

  "Nan," he said, "I like that T-shirt. Wouldn't mind having one of those shirts myself, to tell you the truth."

  "I tell you what," Toy said, "you give me that statement I need, and I promise I'll get you one. How about that?"

  Joey picked a toothpick off the table and stuck it between his teeth, moving it to one side and then the other. "That would be real swell," he said slowly. "You got yourself a deal."

  Parting company with Joey in front of the restaurant, his handwritten statement in her purse, Toy headed back to the hotel to call the television station as he had suggested. She knew just what she was going to do when she had all her testimonials down in black and white, and she felt like jumping up and down and screaming it at the

  top of her lungs. It wasn't exactly what an angel should probably pursue, but if she was an actual angel, Toy knew she was different from all the others who had gone before her. If there ever was such a thing as a contemporary angel, Toy was going to be one. She decided to bring this angel business right into the twenty-first century. And Joey Kramer had been the one to show her how to do it.

  The media.

  If people thought UFO's had attracted the fancy of the American public, Toy decided, just wait until they got wind of this story.

  Sarah had slept in a cot next to Raymond's bed. Waking when they brought in the breakfast tray, she tried to talk to him and get him to eat, but he just stared at her as if she weren't there.

  Deciding there was nothing else she could do, she started feeding him, just as she had the day before in his loft. Every once in a while he would mumble something, but she couldn't figure out what he was saying. After half the breakfast was gone and Raymond kept turning his head away, Sarah ate the rest herself. They had told her last night that the doctor would see them this morning. She kept watching the door. Finally it opened.

  With short blond hair and a thin mustache, Dr. Robert Evanston didn't look much older than Raymond and Sarah. The young physician was bursting with energy or flying on caffeine; his speech was so rapid, Sarah had to ask him constantly to repeat what he had said.

  "I understand exactly what you're saying, Dr. Evanston," she said, once he had finished his dissertation on autism. "But how do you know that's what's wrong with him?"

  "We found his next of kin listed in his wallet and made a call to Texas. His mother thought he was doing well. She was quite distraught that he'd suffered a relapse."

  "Is she going to come out here?" Sarah asked, knowing she couldn't stay with him forever.

  "Not right now she isn't," the doctor replied. "Seems her husband just suffered a heart attack and they're pretty strapped for cash."

  The young doctor shifted his eyes between the vibrant young girl before him to the dark, brooding face of his patient. For some reason the two images didn't mesh. "You can take him home if you want," he finally said.

  "What do you mean?" Sarah said, her mouth open. "Like this? You have to do something, get him to snap out of this."

  "There's nothing I can do. I can give him some pills. They may

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  make a difference, but I seriously doubt it. He's physically fine. He's simply autistic, exhibiting pronounced symptoms of autism."

  "But he can't even feed himself, dress himself, speak," Sarah argued. "How can he survive?"

  The young doctor had a puzzled look on his face. "Aren't you his wife?"

  "No," Sarah said, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm his girlfriend."

  Quickly the doctor opened Raymond's chart and started thumbing through the pages. "Lives alone, huh?"

  "Yes," Sarah said. "He's an artist. He has a loft in TriBeCa."

  Approaching Raymond, the doctor positioned himself directly in front of him. "How you doing today, Raymond? Are you ready to get out of here? Talk to us, fellow. Tell us what's going on inside that head of yours?"

  Just then they turned around. Raymond had said something. They both fell silent and listened. He was muttering again, his lips barely moving. Sarah leaned her ear close to his face and listened.

  "My angel," he whispered. "I need my angel."

  "I'm here, baby," Sarah said. "I'm right here."

  The doctor slapped Raymond's chart against his thigh, eager to get on with his rounds. "We've got two choices," he said. "We can have him transferred to a mental institution until he improves enough to take care of himself, or you can assume full responsibility for him. As to the mental institution, he doesn't have any insurance, so it will have to be a state facility. Private ones are extremely costly." He paused, letting his words sink in. "It's your decision. If you want, I can write up a release and you can take him home this morning."

  "Do it," Sarah said without turning around, her arms locked around Raymond's head, his head pressed to her chest. He had called her his angel. How could she walk away now?

  "You're certain?" the doctor asked. "I don't want you to take the guy out of here and then find out a few days from now that he walked out in the street and got run over by a truck or something. Until he improves, someone will have to be with him twenty-four hours a day. Are you absolutely certain you can handle something as extensive as this?"

  Sarah stared hard at the doctor. Then she turned back to gaze at Raymond's face, and her expression instantly softened. He was like a baby, so helpless, so lost. How could she allow them to put him in a

  terrible place like a state mental hospital? She knew she was being rash, that she was taking on more than she could handle. She was simply powerless to do anything else.

  "So," the doctor said, "what's it going to be? You want me to start processing the paperwork for his release?"

  "Yes," Sarah said firmly. "I'll take care of him. I don't know how exactly, but as long as he needs me, I promise I'll be there."

  Toy had her shoes off and was stretched out on her bed in the hotel talking on the phone. She'd stopped off at a stationery store and bought some spiral notebooks, and they were now scattered all over the bed. Suddenly the caller said something, and Toy let out a whoop and a holler. "Great," she said, "you've got the footage. The boy with the redheaded woman, right? You've really got it."

  "Yeah, we got it. What televi
sion station did you say you were with?"

  "WKRP in New York." Toy hoped there really wasn't such a station. The letters just popped into her mind. "Listen, Federal Express the tape to me. Send it overnight mail. I'm on location. Let me give you the address of the hotel."

  "Hey, CNN owns that tape. You guys want it, you buy it."

  "How much?"

  "Hell, I don't know. What's it worth to you?"

  My life, Toy thought. "I'll give you two hundred dollars for it."

  He laughed. "That's an insult. How do I know that you don't have a bigger story? Maybe something happened out there that day that we missed and you're going to scoop us."

  "Please," Toy pleaded, "I'm new on the job. This is just a little human-interest story on acts of heroism. You're not going to run this again. Be a sport. Sneak me a copy and I'll make the check payable to you. No one will know the difference."

  He mulled it over for a while and then bit. "Jeff McDonald. Put it in the mail today. If you don't, I'll come looking for you."

  "No problem," Toy said, rattling off the address of the hotel. "Federal Express, remember?" she added. "Make sure you ask for overnight delivery." Then she thought about what she was saying. The following day was Sunday, and Federal Express didn't deliver on Sunday. "Look, I changed my mind. Send it air freight or I won't get it tomorrow. I'm on a deadline. I have to have it by tomorrow."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, slamming down the phone.

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  Due to her shrinking wallet, there was very little Toy could do to occupy herself. Saturday evening she remained in her room watching television, ordering her supper from room service. Several times she tried reaching Sylvia at her brother's house in Brooklyn, but no one was there, so she left a message on the machine.

  Sunday morning she slept late, then went out window shopping until late afternoon.

  As soon as she entered the hotel, she rushed to the counter to see if the videotape from Kansas had arrived, but the clerk told her that it had not. Rather than go upstairs and sit in the small room, she took a seat on a sofa and flipped through a magazine. Every few minutes she would look at her watch. Around five o'clock, she saw a uniformed man enter the lobby with Emerson Air Freight written on his shirt and hat. She jumped up and almost assaulted him. "Toy Johnson. You should have a package for me."

  "Just a minute," he said, looking at his list. "Yep, sure do. Sign right here and it's all yours."

  Toy quickly scribbled her signature and clutched the package to her chest, almost running to the elevator. Once she was in the room, she ripped it open and shoved the tape into the VCR. This was it, she told herself. This was the moment of truth. If she was on this tape, she was on her way to glory.

  Instead of sitting down, she simply stood right in front of the television set, her eyes glued to the screen. Evidently when the fire broke out, the teachers had evacuated the children, telling them to wait on the front lawn. Then they had seriously misjudged the extent of the fire, and all three teachers had reentered the building, probably to get belongings, try to save equipment, or simply to make certain there were no children they had missed. While they were inside, a gas stove had exploded and they had been killed.

  There it was: the group of children moving across the field. The camera was so far away, however, that all Toy could see were dark shadows. But one of the people moving across the field was taller than the others, and Toy held her breath. Suddenly the cameraman zoomed in for a close-up, and Toy knew without a doubt that she was watching her own image.

  Her heart started racing in her chest. There she was in living color, running across that field, little Jason Cummings in her arms, flames nipping at her feet. She watched as she handed the child to the fireman, watched as she ran along beside him and then kneeled

  down next to him. The camera zoomed in for another close-up of her face, and she read her own lips. "I know I can. I know I can. I know I can." Then she ran around the hotel room chugging like a train, completely out of her mind with joy.

  Hearing the announcer's voice, her image no longer on the screen, Toy stopped and listened. "The woman you just saw with Jason Cum-mings suddenly vanished right after this film was shot. The boy's family js eager to find her to offer their appreciation. If she had not pulled him out of the flames, risking her life, the child would more than likely have perished in this tragedy."

  Hitting the rewind button, Toy jumped onto the bed and watched the tape again from start to finish. How had she and Stephen missed this portion of the broadcast? It must have been aired right before they turned on the television. When she started to play it back a third time, she became fearful that the tape would break in the VCR and hit the stop button. Ejecting it from the VCR, she held it in her hands. It was so light, so small, but in her hands was her own private Shroud of Turin, her personal Dead Sea Scrolls.

  Clutching the cassette tape to her bosom, she raced out of the room and took the elevator down to the lobby, rushing to the counter. "I'd like a safety-deposit box please," she told the clerk.

  "Certainly," he said. "Just fill out this card and I'll be right back."

  Toy scribbled her name, address, phone number on the card and then looked around her at the people waiting at the counter. What if someone stole it right out of her hands? Then she would be right back where she started from. But of course, she told herself, no one knew what was on this tape, what it meant, not just to her but to the entire world.

  "Follow me," the clerk said, leading her to a small locked room behind the counter. "What size box do you need?"

  "Big," Toy said, her eyes on fire.

  "Is this big enough?" he pulled out a large metal box.

  "Anything bigger?" Toy asked.

  This time he pulled out an enormous safety-deposit box. Toy glowed. "This will be fine." As soon as he had left, Toy reverently placed the black cassette tape in the box. It looked lost in there, she thought, but not for long. This was her first piece of evidence. Hopefully there would be much more.

  Slamming the box into the wall, she removed the key and secured it inside the zippered compartment of her purse. Then she headed

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  out the front door of the hotel and asked the doorman to get her a cab.

  "Where will it be?" the cabbie said, already pulling away from the curb, chomping at the bit like a racehorse about to come out of the gate.

  "Wolfe's Delicatessen," she said, having jotted down the cross streets. "Fifty-seventh and Sixth."

  The cab lurched forward, darted around three cars and then the driver floored it, roaring up the street and skidding to a stop at the first signal. "Boy," Toy said, "where did you learn how to drive? The Indianapolis five hundred?"

  The cabdriver laughed. "You ain't that far away, lady. You could have walked. Where you from anyway?"

  "Everywhere and anywhere," Toy quipped. "You know, wherever I lay my hat is home."

  "Here we go," he said, pulling to the curb a few minutes later.

  Once he had sped off, Toy looked through the glass windows into the restaurant. Then she stepped to the storefront next door and pulled out her compact, checking her lipstick, fluffing up her hair. This was more than just verifying her story, she thought. It was a matter of dignity.

  Glancing to her right, Toy saw a homeless person sleeping under a piece of cardboard in the alcove. At least it wasn't snowing yet, she thought. In another month or so, these poor people would freeze.

  "You want a booth or a table?" the woman with the orange hair said from her stool.

  "Neither," Toy said crisply. "I'd like to speak to one of your employees. He's tall, ugly, and has pockmarks on his face."

  "Hey, Tony," she yelled, "someone's looking for ya."

  Tony was heading to a table with a whole tray full of plates. Seeing Toy, he blinked but kept on walking. Toy waited by the register. She didn't think he recognized her. That wasn't too hard to figure out. She was standing there in one of her b
est outfits, her finest leather shoes, her one and only decent handbag. Obviously she didn't look the same as she had before.

  "Whadya want?" Tony said on his way back to the kitchen. "Hey, don't I know you? You're Sam's wife, aren't you?"

  "No," she said, looking him squarely in the eye, "I was here Friday, right back there in the booth. I was wearing a blue T-shirt and no shoes. Remember me now?"

  "Yeah," he said, looking her up and down. "Now that you mentioned it, I do."

  Toy said, "Look, I'm sorry about what happened the other day. I was in the hospital with a medical condition, and I guess I just wandered off. I'm glad you called that handsome officer to assist me. That was kind of you." As the words rolled off her tongue like butter, Toy felt an incredible urge to stomp on his foot, just dig her heel right into his instep. The man was a megaton jerk. If his mother was lying in the middle of the road, he'd run right over her. "So," she said, fluttering her eyelashes, "I wanted to give you a nice tip." The money was already in her palm, a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Toy had used her credit card the day before to get a cash advance of two hundred dollars. She reached out and handed it to him.

  "Hey, thanks," he said, sticking it in his pocket and turning to walk off.

  Toy grabbed his sleeve. "I need a little favor."

  He gave her a dirty look. "Oh, yeah? What?"

  "Well, while I was here in your restaurant, something incredible happened. I won the lottery. Ssssh," she said. "Don't spread it around. You know, someone might rob me or try to follow me home."

  He just kept staring at her. New Yorkers were astute people. You had to get up awfully early in the morning to pull one over on them. "Won the lottery, huh?" he said, smacking his lips and popping his knuckles. "How much you win?"

  "Plenty," Toy said, stepping closer and lowering her voice even more. "What I need from you is a little like an absentee note from school. If you could, I'd like you to write down what I look like, what I was wearing that day, where I was sitting, and how you called that officer to take me away. Of course, the time is the main thing. You do remember what time it was?" When he just gave her a blank look, she pushed ahead. "It was a little after five, right?"