The Third Angel

by Alice Hoffman

  Lucy went upstairs and got ready for bed. Her father would never know that she was wandering around the hotel at such a late hour. He didn't need to know that Michael Macklin had asked for her help. She put the letter in the desk drawer. When Lucy fell asleep she dreamed of rabbits. It had become a recurring dream; she almost looked forward to it. She was in the park and she came upon a lake. She thought she should jump in and swim across but then she realized that the lake was a mirror. One touch and it would shatter. She stood on the edge, uncertain as to whether or not it would be safe to cross. She noticed that the rabbits were only shadows, not flesh and blood. They were just black shadows made out of soot. Lucy's mother was standing in the lake, the way she had on the day they saw the heron. She looked so real Lucy tried to run to her, but there was water everywhere in her dream, too deep to cross.

  She gave Bryn the letter the next day at the dressmaker's. She'd been dragged along since Charlotte didn't seem to want to give her any time alone with her father. But this time it served Lucy's purpose. Charlotte and the other sister, Hillary, were out by the mirrors with the tailor having their hems taken up, complaining as usual. They didn't notice when Lucy wandered off. Bryn was in the dressing room in her slip, smoking a cigarette. She looked up and saw Lucy staring at her.

  “What?” she said. “My hair?” Bryn ran a hand through her feathery pale hairdo. “Am I ugly?”

  “Anne Frank had all her hair cut off,” Lucy said. “Not by choice.”

  “Who has choices in this world?”

  Lucy sat down on the bench next to Bryn, who seemed utterly weird and mysterious.

  “You'd look pretty with short hair,” Bryn told her. “A pixie cut. You should get one. I'm sure Charlotte would hate it.”

  Lucy didn't like her long dark hair. It tangled and made her hot. She was interested in the idea of pixies. She was interested in Bryn, who seemed so different from anyone she'd ever known, so moody and self-centered and beautiful.

  “Are you in love?” Lucy asked.

  “Personal, aren't you?” Bryn took a drag of her cigarette. “Yes, but with the wrong man. You?”

  “I don't believe in it. I'm never getting married.”

  Bryn laughed so hard she doubled over.

  “I'm glad you think I'm funny,” Lucy said.

  “You're smart,” Bryn said. “Smarter than anyone in my family. Fuck them all,” she added. “They think they know everything.”

  Lucy sat up straighter. She was not accustomed to hearing grown-ups curse. “I see,” Lucy said, mostly because she couldn't think of a response. For some reason she had a wave of missing her mother. She wondered what her mother would have made of Bryn. Bryn must have been psychic or something; she could tell Lucy was sad. She took Lucy's hand and held it. They sat there for a little while, not saying anything, just feeling sad together. They could hear Charlotte and Hillary talking to the tailor. Their bridesmaid dresses were pale peach. A silk chamois. Lucy hated the color.

  “He wanted me to give you a letter,” Lucy said quietly. “I don't know if I should, I don't even know if you want it—”

  Before she could finish her statement, Bryn squeezed Lucy's hand so tightly her skin turned white. Her bones felt crushed.

  “Give it to me,” Bryn said.

  Lucy reached into her pocket and took out the envelope.

  Bryn let her go. She shoved the letter into her purse. “Did you read it?”

  “Of course not. Who do you think I am? Charlotte?” Lucy rubbed her hand. It still hurt. “You didn't have to squeeze me.”

  “If you were Charlotte you wouldn't even believe in love. I'll show you what love is.” Bryn grabbed Lucy's hand back and put it to her chest. Bryn's flesh was hot and Lucy could feel her heart pounding. She felt her own blood rush to her head. Everything seemed heightened and fast and wild. “Now you know.” Bryn cast Lucy's hand away. “Don't forget it.”

  Michael Macklin had done some bad things, it was true. He continued to do them, using a child to get his letter to Bryn, tracking her down, changing his room to the one across from Lucy's so he'd have access to Bryn. Well, that was who Michael was. He'd lied about everything in his life, and he wasn't going to stop now when it really mattered. He'd lied so often and so well he sometimes got confused about the facts of his own life. In truth, they were simple: He'd been born in Manhattan to parents who meant well and did little. He was out to work at fourteen, then in the army, stationed in France, where he'd learned not only the language, but how to get what he wanted. He put his life on the line in France, and he hadn't even shivered. Some of the guys he knew said the only people who didn't fear death were those who had nothing to lose and he thought they were probably right. In battle, he'd felt alive. On the run, he felt he had something to run to. He liked danger, he liked the smell of it. He liked the feel of his blood running hot.

  Michael was a thief, but he never stole from the poor. He'd seen Robin Hood with Errol Flynn when he was a boy, after all; he knew to look for people who could afford to lose some money, people who'd never even miss it. Michael resembled a dog in many ways: He could smell danger and he could smell wealth, he could stalk and quarry. He lived in the moment, for the here and now. He had gone through life without questioning much. The only time he ever felt connected was when he saw stray dogs. It had happened in abandoned villages in France and in New York City, down by the docks. It was a weird, visceral connection, like seeing yourself in the mirror and recognizing yourself even though you looked different from how you'd imagined, all fangs and fur and fear.

  He'd come back to New York after the war and nobody gave a damn if he was a hero or a thief. Nobody knew him. Sometimes he went down past Tenth Avenue and he sat in the dark waiting for one of those dogs, desperate to be in the presence of a creature who would understand him. Funny how he'd felt that with Lucy, a twelve-year-old kid who couldn't possibly understand the kind of life he'd led. And yet she seemed to get him. She saw people from the inside out, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

  Michael had met Bryn unexpectedly. He was walking down Fourteenth Street and she was walking ahead of him and he found himself following her. He had a strange thought, the strangest he'd ever had. He imagined that he had found an angel on earth and that he needed to protect her from people such as himself. Would anyone from his previous life believe he had fallen in love? Unlikely. He was a user, out for numero uno; everyone who knew him knew that much. They would never have believed he had spent all his money to court Bryn, or that he waited to have her in bed until they were married, or that he meant it when he said it was forever.

  Walking down Fourteenth Street on an ordinary day he had changed. It was as though his cellular structure had been rearranged. Now he could feel things, and he understood why he hadn't for such a long time. It made sense to be a dog in this world. To keep moving and have a nose for trouble. He should have done that again after Bryn was taken from him, cut his losses, forgotten he'd been in love. Instead, here he was in the Lion Park Hotel, having tracked Bryn to Amsterdam and then to Paris and now to London. He was waiting for a twelve-year-old girl to rescue him. She didn't fail him. Lucy knocked on his door and slipped an envelope underneath.

  “I am not doing this again,” he heard her say while he scrambled to retrieve the letter. He didn't even bother to open the door to thank the kid. He read the letter from Bryn greedily, so fast he missed some words. So he read it again, and again. He'd been sitting there waiting, nearly drunk, in wrinkled clothes, almost ready to give up. Now he took a shower and sobered up and put on a clean shirt. Lucy was his angel. He had needed help, and she had given it to him. He had needed someone, anyone, to have faith, and she had.

  He sat down at the desk to write. He'd thought it wasn't possible to put one's soul into words, but it was. He wrote down all the evil things he had done. He wanted to be known. It was like thirst or hunger, maybe even stronger. He thought of the dogs in New York City and how he'd thought he'd known them, but he'd be
en fooling himself. He hadn't known anyone, least of all himself.

  He stayed up most of the night writing the letter, and in the morning he was already waiting in the restaurant when Lucy and her family came down for breakfast. He hadn't slept because he'd been waiting for this moment. Lucy looked at him, then looked away. Her father and Charlotte were taking her to see the Tower of London even though Charlotte thought it was a waste of time and would be terribly crowded. Lucy's father had insisted that they needed one day to be tourists because Lucy hadn't seen much more than the inside of a hotel room.

  They sat down and ordered eggs and fried tomatoes and coffee. Lucy wanted tea and toast. She was developing a taste for marmalade.

  “That is not nutritious,” Charlotte said. “You need the five food groups.”

  “Chocolate, pizza, cereal, soda, and French toast,” Ben and Lucy said at the same time.

  Lucy grinned. It was a private joke they used to share before Charlotte came into the picture. A list of their favorite things.

  “Is that man over there staring?” Charlotte said.

  They all looked over at table by the window. Michael Macklin was stirring his coffee. He really was handsome. He put down his spoon and saluted Lucy. Again, she looked away.

  “Do you know him?” Charlotte asked.

  “I wouldn't say that,” Lucy hedged. “I lent him The Diary of a Young Girl, by Anne Frank.”

  “This Anne Frank thing is not normal,” Charlotte said to Ben. “It's an obsession.”

  Lucy raised her eyes. “Do you think most people detest you?” she asked Charlotte. “Or just the ones with brains?”

  “Lucy,” her father said. “That's no way to talk!”

  “Well, then tell her that,” Lucy said. “She just can't talk about me while I'm sitting here. I'm not a piece of furniture.”

  “I didn't mean it that way,” Charlotte said. “You're taking it much too personally. I just meant there are more cheerful things to think about in the world other than Anne Frank.”

  “Hey there.” Michael Macklin had come over. He looked like a movie star, like someone Katharine Hepburn would be in love with, and then lose and have to win back again. “Nice to meet you.” He shook Lucy's father's hand. “You've got one smart daughter. I'll tell you. She's a brain, that's for sure.” He took the copy of Anne Frank's diary out of his jacket pocket. “I learned a lot,” he said to Lucy. “I want to thank you for lending it to me. I don't think I'm the same man anymore, thanks to you.”

  Lucy took the book and put it on her lap. There was so much wrong in the world she couldn't bear it. Was it really possible for love to exist?

  “Well, have a great day here in London,” Michael Macklin said.

  “New Yorker, right?” Ben Green said.

  “Aren't we all?” Michael shook Lucy's father's hand again.

  In the taxi, on the way to the tower, Charlotte insisted they drive past Buckingham Palace. Elizabeth had been Queen since February, called home from Kenya suddenly when her father died.

  “There it is,” Charlotte said.

  Lucy was paging through Anne Frank's diary while she looked at the men standing guard behind the gates. She thought they must be terribly hot. She felt the edge of an envelope in the middle of the book. Immediately, her heart begin to race. She put her hand on her chest. She hadn't even thought she had a heart, but there it was, thumping away. Michael Macklin was smart, all right. All through the tour of the tower, Lucy was aware of the letter in her pocket. It seemed to weigh more than paper should. There was a lot of talk of beheading and wives locked away. For some reason Lucy felt like crying as they went along with the crowds to see the Crown Jewels behind glass. Her mother loved art and she and Lucy often went to the Metropolitan Museum. She missed her mother and her father and the self she used to be. She missed it all.

  In the taxi, on the way home, Lucy said she had left her glasses with Bryn. She was supposed to wear them for distance, but she never did. The taxi pulled up in front of Teddy Healy's flat—that's where Bryn was staying while Teddy bunked with his brother until the wedding.

  “I'll run,” Lucy said. “I'll be right back.”

  “We can't wait here all day,” Charlotte called after her.

  Lucy went inside the building, then up to the second floor. She had to bang on the door before Bryn came to answer.

  “Where is it?” Bryn was wearing a bathrobe even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

  Lucy handed over the letter. She'd have to tell them she'd been mistaken if they asked where her glasses were. They were actually on the bureau in her room at the Lion Park Hotel.

  “I have to write back,” Bryn said.

  “Are you crazy? They're waiting for me in the car.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Bryn said. “Then just tell him to meet me at the Church of the Apostle on Westbourne Grove. Everything is all set for tomorrow at ten. You won't forget?” Lucy promised she wouldn't. Bryn leaned down and kissed Lucy, right on the lips. “I want you to be my witness. Will you do that?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “Well then go!” Bryn told her. “Before they come to search for you.”

  They didn't even ask her about the glasses when she got into the taxi. They appeared to be in the middle of a fight.

  “How did Bryn seem?” Charlotte asked on the ride back to the hotel. “Normal?”

  Lucy wanted to laugh out loud. She looked at Charlotte quite carefully. She didn't give a damn what her stepmother thought.

  “Perfectly normal,” she said.

  LUCY SLIPPED a message under Michael's door that evening. In the morning she sneaked out early, while her father and Charlotte were still asleep, leaving them a note that she was going to see some English people she'd met who wanted to show her the town, maybe take her to the zoo. She knew she wasn't supposed to go anywhere, but she'd be quick, and no one need ever know where she'd really gone. She met Michael on the corner and they took a taxi to Westbourne Grove and were exactly one hour early. The church was old, made of red brick, with a pretty spire. There were stained glass windows and statues of saints.

  “I think this is a Catholic church,” Lucy said.

  “Smart as always. Are you sure you're only twelve and not forty? She said ten o'clock, right?”

  Michael was nervous. He smoked three cigarettes in a row and walked back and forth on the sidewalk.

  “Ten o'clock,” Lucy assured him. “Don't worry. It will all work out.” It wasn't like Lucy to be comforting, but she felt compelled to calm him down.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Just like everything else. Did everything work out for the Jews in Nazi Germany?”

  “She'll be here,” Lucy said.

  “Expect nothing and be grateful for everything, that's what my mother told me,” Michael said.

  “My mother said she was afraid to die.” Lucy had never admitted that to anyone. It gave her shivers to think back to that moment when she sat with her mother in her darkened room near the end. Usually that moment was blanked out in her head.

  “Sounds like your mother was one of the few honest people on earth.” Michael stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. “That's where you get it from, most likely. It's a gift she gave you. Your honesty.”

  But she wasn't honest. Not really. When her mother said that Lucy had quickly said, You won't die. Even though it was obvious that she would. Lucy couldn't bring herself to tell Michael that part. She couldn't have him hate her for being such a coward.

  “I'm not so honest,” Lucy did manage to say. “I told my father I was going to the zoo today with some people I met in the park so he wouldn't find out I was here.”

  “That's not a lie, it's a cover story. You're honest about the important things, Lucy.”

  Lucy smiled. She thought, No wonder she's in love with him.

  Bryn arrived at a little before ten. She got out of the taxi and started kissing Michael in a way that made Lucy look away. She had the feeling she shouldn't be seeing so much; tha
t some things were meant to be private.

  “My witness,” Bryn said when she noticed Lucy.

  They went into the church and Michael stopped to cross himself with some of the holy water from the font. The priest, along with an elderly woman as the second witness, was waiting for them, and they went right up to the altar. The air smelled like incense. Lucy stood beside the couple, and although she didn't understand the liturgy, which was surprisingly lengthy, she understood when the priest told them they were married in the eyes of man and of God. They kissed again, crazy kisses, and then Michael and Bryn had to say good-bye. Michael was off to get tickets to Paris, so Lucy went with Bryn to help her pack. Bryn threw clothes on the bed and Lucy folded. When they were all done, Bryn took off her diamond ring, the one Teddy had bought for her, and she gave it to Lucy. “For you. Keep it.”

  Lucy held the ring up to the light. The stone looked like a huge ice crystal. It was quite beautiful. She put it in her purse while Bryn wrote out a last letter to Michael. She believed in love letters and in romance and in destiny. She wanted to let him know how much she loved him. She would come to the hotel for him, and then they would go far away and no one would find them this time. While she was busy writing, Bryn let Lucy eat as many chocolates as she liked out of a fancy box that came from Harrods. There were candies with caramels and others that were raspberry creams or milk chocolate with ginger fillings that made her mouth pucker. Lucy drank fizzy lemonade afterward. Lemonade soda and chocolates; two out of the five food groups she and her father had always preferred.

  “Wish me luck,” Bryn said as Lucy left to walk back across the park to the Lion Park.

  Lucy hadn't the heart to tell her she didn't believe in luck.

  The day was hot and breezy and the park smelled fresh and sweet; it made her think of those chocolates in a box. Lucy walked along the Serpentine and watched the families out on boats for hours. She liked the fact that nobody knew her. No one knew she had a diamond in her purse. No one knew her name. She imagined that people really could start over. She let herself think about her mother. Now that she'd told Michael about her, it was less painful to bring her to mind. Her mother had said something to the blue heron on their perfect day. She had gone right up to it, the water up to her knees. The heron had seemed to listen to her and then he flew away. Lucy and her mother had both waved to the heron. They'd jumped up and down and shouted out to him; then they had watched him disappear into the trees. Lucy's mother had climbed out of the pond then. The hem of her dress was soaked, her feet were bare. “I told him to watch over you,” she told Lucy. That had been the last good day of Lucy's life.