Paper Angels

by Billy Coffey

  Helen spoke.

  “Thank you, David,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Yes’m,” he whispered.

  He walked off then, leaving Helen with the first real smile she’d had all night.

  I met David in the parking lot as he was heading toward his rusted Chevy truck, whistling what was either an Alan Jackson song or the theme from Magnum, P.I.

  “I’ll see ya, David,” I said.

  “Yeah Bo,” he answered, “I’ll see ya.” He took a few more steps, paused, and then added, “Hey Bo?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you take these things for me?” He handed me the balled-up Dairy Queen napkins he’d been carrying. “I don’t got no use for them. I got them for…”

  “…Helen,” I said.

  “Yeah, Helen. Just in case she needed them, you know? But I reckon she didn’t need them after all, huh?”

  “I guess not,” I said, taking them.

  He opened the driver’s side door and hoisted himself up and in. It took four turns of the ignition to get the truck going.

  “Have a good ’un,” he yelled over the engine noise.

  “Yeah, David. Have a good ’un.”

  I watched as he puttered out of the parking lot toward home and tried to comprehend what had just happened. When I reached my own truck at the end of the parking lot, I found the old man sitting on the tailgate staring at the stars. I took a seat next to him.

  “I love the nights here,” he said. “Everything just seems so…close.”

  “Close is good,” I said.

  “Close is very good,” he answered, and then pointed toward the funeral home. “But that’s another lesson for another time. Still trying to figure out what happened in there?”

  I leaned back on my hands and nodded.

  “The world can pretty much be divided into two kinds of people, Andy—the Pastor Charlies and the David Walkers. The Pastor Charlies are the gifted and the intelligent, the ones who seem to have been given a little bit extra from God. They stand in the pulpits and reign in the boardrooms. They make your laws and cure your sicknesses. They’re different. Special. Needed by God and by man.

  “And the David Walkers? They’re the people who grow your food and pump your gas and teach your kids. A lot of them look with awe upon the Pastor Charlies of the world. They want the smarts or the looks or the power. They think that unless they somehow get those things, they’ll be pretty useless to do anything of great importance for God or the world or themselves. But try as they might, most eventually come to the realization that a David Walker will always be a David Walker, and there isn’t much anybody can do about it.”

  “Well, that just stinks, then,” I said.

  “You think? Really?”

  I shrugged. “There are times when I wonder what I could’ve been if things had been different. If my folks hadn’t died and I’d stayed in the city.” I left off the part about him not being there, about what I could maybe have had then. But I didn’t want him to hear that. It would come out wrong no matter how I said it.

  “Andy, it wasn’t Pastor Charlie who comforted Helen tonight. He might have impressed her with his insights and helped her with his wisdom before, but that didn’t matter much when she needed it the most. Helen didn’t need pontification, she needed company. That’s what David gave her. And everyone is here on this earth for no other reason than that—to love and stay close. To work and pray and make things better for as many as they can in the best way they know. Folks don’t need a Ph.D. to do that.”

  “Maybe I should try to be more like David and less like Charlie, then,” I said.

  “I think that is a capital idea,” he answered. He patted my shoulder. I felt nothing but a quiet breeze. “You remember this night, what he did. You take that wad of napkins he gave you and put it in your box. On top, where you can see it plain. It’ll mean more later than it does right now.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked him.

  “Because right now you have all you need. But the day’s coming when you’ll have to realize you need all you have.”

  I wanted to say more. Should have, maybe. But I didn’t. The Old Man looked at me and smiled, and then he was gone.

  17

  Needed by God and Man

  What do you think he meant by that?”

  It was a counselor’s question, no doubt. One designed to probe the inner workings of a patient’s broken and confused mind in order to get to the truth within. But Elizabeth wasn’t the one who asked it.

  I did.

  Despite the ease by which she drew me out from behind the false safety of my own self (and despite the pitter-patter she made me feel in places no woman had since Caroline), Elizabeth had until that point been no different than anyone else in my life. I had given to her as I had given to everyone, just more. That remained the extent of things. I saw no risk in the giving of myself to others, whether that giving took the shape of time or attention. But I never took. It was only in the act of taking that we were bonded to another. Whatever we took we then had a responsibility to carry, however burdensome it might be. My question to Elizabeth was not merely an invitation for her opinion, it was a request for her wisdom. To take from it. The meaning behind those eight words was lost on neither of us.

  “I don’t know, Andy,” she said. “That seems like a strange thing to say. Having what you need and needing what you have seems like two ways of saying one thought. Did you ask him later on what he meant by that?”

  “I tried. He’d never say. But I think he was talking about now.”

  “You mean your accident?”

  I was afraid to say more.

  “Do you think that’s two ways of saying one thought?” I asked her.

  “Do you?”

  “I did. Not sure now.”

  I rubbed my eyes and offered a sigh that was heavier than I’d intended. The only clock in the room was behind me, which seemed to be the worst place in the world for it. Then I realized that time had little relevance for the sick and the dying. I knew it was late. Maybe in more ways than one.

  “Are you tired?” Elizabeth asked.

  “More weary, but I’m fine. I like the company.”

  “Me, too.”

  Elizabeth’s hands wandered to the box itself rather than the contents. She ran her fingers along its edges, pondering what it all meant. How could she know? Her with all the training and experience. How could she make sense of my life?

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know what all that stuff means. It’s not like that box holds my life. I’ve had bigger moments that taught me more important things, at least by my reckoning. But those things in there, those were the times he said mattered. And I don’t know why.”

  “We’ll get there,” she said. “You and I. Together.”

  Elizabeth took her hands from the box and wrapped them around mine.

  “He told me God sent you,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The Old Man. He said I should let you help me because God sent you to me. Do you believe that?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t want to answer that, Elizabeth,” I said. “I want you to.”

  Whether it was the weariness or the lights or neither, I could have sworn a tear was in her eye. “Yes, Andy. I believe that.”

  Outside, the nurses caught their second wind as the end of their shift drew closer. There was laughter and the smell of more coffee being made. But for a long time the only noise in my room was the beeping of my heart monitor. Those small valleys of quiet that had been peppered into our conversations were no longer evidence of the space between us. They had now instead blossomed into dialogues of another sort, the unspeakable words of two hearts that longed to say more but knew the time was not yet right. Elizabeth and I held one another in a gaze that was more knowing than longing, tethered to one another by the small grins on our faces.

 
; “We should continue,” Elizabeth finally said.

  I nodded only because I had no choice. I’d have swum naked in that silence forever.

  She rifled through the contents again, picking her prize. “Okay,” she said. “I’ve been saving this one. I love it.”

  The baseball cap she held up had never been shaped or worn. Even the price tag dangled from the bill, obscuring a bit of her face. The white overlapping NY seemed perfect in the sea of the navy blue everywhere else.

  “Are you a Yankee fan?” I asked.

  “I’m a baseball fan,” she answered.

  “Well, that hat doesn’t really have anything to do with baseball.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “No. But I have to say it’s a bit comical.”

  Elizabeth smiled.

  18

  The Cap

  Leave me alone, you freaking nut!”

  The words were loud enough on their own, but they were magnified even more as they bounced off the walls of the entrance. The few people making their way in or out, myself included, could only stare.

  There were five of us at the moment, but I knew our small crowd wouldn’t be small for long. Of all the instinctual abilities granted to humanity, few were more ingrained and absolute than the predisposition to gawk at an unfolding spectacle. We enjoyed peeking into the suffering of others, if only to convince ourselves that even though things in our lives might be bad, there was at least one other person in the world who had it worse. If only for a little while.

  The person who had it worse than everyone else, at least in that place and in that moment, was a man. One of two principal actors in a drama that was growing increasingly passionate and voluminous. The other was a woman who seemed more than a little agitated. The two stood on opposite sides of the doorway no more than five feet apart. Her face held a motionless scowl that could turn holy water into vinegar. He countered with a confused, caught-in-the-Twilight-Zone stare.

  Men do not usually enjoy the mall. It’s the shopping and the crowds and the excessive spending. Not me, though. While I could probably think of few things I would rather do than shop, I actually enjoyed the mall. It was a great place to exercise that aforementioned human curiosity. I’d seen some strange sights there, sights like the one unfolding before me. Which, by the way, happened to be a bit stranger than usual. Because I was used to being the watcher, not the watchee.

  I was the confused man with the caught-in-the-Twilight-Zone stare.

  I was the freaking nut.

  My primary purpose for driving the thirty miles or so over the mountain to the city that day was not to people-watch. My intentions were much more functional—I needed a new hat. I wavered a bit in going, since it was to be a solo trip. I hadn’t seen the Old Man in a while, but even then I didn’t reckon he counted as real company. I figured I would need company for a trip like that. Charlottesville was a very cosmopolitan, very hip, and very liberal city. And I was a very country, very simple, and very conservative man. The two often clashed, sometimes with disastrous results. But in the end greed won out over better judgment, and I went anyway. I really wanted that hat.

  I arrived early—except for a few employees and the dedicated troupe of elderly walkers, I pretty much had the place to myself. The smell of fancy coffee lured me upwind to the food court. I studied the menu. Between the fancy words and the fancier prices, I decided I’d better not.

  “When in Rome,” the Old Man said.

  I turned around and there he was, the very picture of a fancy men’s magazine cover. Pinstriped suit and fedora, silk tie and pocket square. Both just right.

  “Where you been?” I asked him.

  “I got a lot on my plate, Andy,” he said. “There’s always something going on in the spirit world, stuff behind the scenes. And don’t ask me, because I can’t say. Besides, I don’t want to be getting too familiar. Might make the magic go away.”

  I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I figured standing in line at the fancy coffee place was neither the time nor the place. I stole a glance to make sure no one was looking at me and said, “You look nice.”

  “Like I said, when in Rome.”

  I bought my fancy coffee—mochalottasomething, which the man with the twelve earrings behind the counter said was a best seller—and guided the Old Man toward the sports store. We walked and I sipped, and in the process I decided the only difference between the five-dollar coffee in Charlottesville and the fifty-cent coffee I served at the gas station was a prettier cup. Lesson learned. I bought my hat and made my way back up the mall, Old Man in tow. All was well.

  He said something from behind as I reached the three big sets of doors leading to the parking lot. When I turned to answer I saw a blur of a woman rounding the corner. Huffing and puffing and mumbling to herself. Her orange sweatshirt proudly announced her attendance at the University of Virginia. Three giant Gap bags, a pink-striped Victoria’s Secret box, a cup of coffee, a big pretzel, and a purse were all haphazardly arranged in her arms. Her lower lip stuck out and she let out a puff of air to shift a strand of brown hair that had fallen over her right eye. She steamrolled toward me while trying to look at the expensive watch on her left wrist.

  “Watch out behind ya,” I told him. “Don’t think you can get run over, but this lady might be able to anyways.”

  We exited the mall and I stepped to my right, holding the door open with my left hand.

  She charged ahead, still trying to check the time and still not quite doing it, then glanced up just long enough to gauge her distance to the door. Which, thanks to me, was already open.

  I noticed the flash of confusion on her face. She kept racing forward. I looked at her. She looked at me. I smiled. She didn’t.

  And then she stopped. And by that I mean in an instant—moving and then NOT, like the Road Runner did in those old cartoons. It was so fast that the inertia kept her hair and bags going forward until she jerked them back.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  I kept smiling, thinking she had somehow misread the situation. “I got it,” I said, holding up my free hand. “Come on out.”

  “Excuse me,” she repeated. The tone in her voice suggested I was the one who had misread the situation.

  So I said “I got the door” again nice and slow, because sometimes that’s how you have to talk to college kids. “Come on.”

  Her face contorted into a look that was half indignation and half surprise. She blurted out a humph that served as both a warning and a way to get that testy bit of brown hair away from her eyes once more. She fumbled with her bags to free a finger, which she pointed at me. I had the feeling it wasn’t the finger she really wanted to use.

  “Don’t you hold that door for me,” she said, eyes bulging. “I am perfectly capable of opening the door without the assistance of anyone else. Particularly someone like you.”

  First thought: Someone like me?

  Second thought: I should’ve stayed home.

  “I’m sure you can, ma’am,” I said. “But I just thought—”

  “—I don’t care what you thought! What is this, big strong guy rescues puny helpless woman? I don’t need your help, big strong guy. I just need you to get out of my way.”

  “But ma’am, I didn’t mean any—”

  And that was when I was cut off by her “freaking nut” comment. Plus a few others I don’t really care to repeat.

  The woman’s rant had escalated in decibels and language enough to become quite the attention magnet. Most everyone entering or exiting the doors paused to watch. She looked like an idiot, I thought. Then I considered the fact that standing there holding the door open probably didn’t make me look like Einstein much myself. And I couldn’t blame the spectators for spectating. I would have stopped and watched, too.

  I looked over to where the Old Man stood. As his attention was currently on the small piece of lint he was trying to pick from his sleeve, I doubted I could count on any assistance from him. The
thought did occur to me that maybe I really had done something wrong. That was followed by another thought that I had done no such thing. My grandparents raised me to be a gentleman. A gentleman loved his God and his country, said “sir” and “ma’am,” and took his cap off during the national anthem. And a gentleman held the door for people when they were walking through with an armful of stuff.

  “LET GO OF THAT DOOR LET IT GO NOW,” she screamed. And stomped her foot for effect.

  I rubbed my beard and thought. The rational side of me said this was no big deal, that if the lady wanted to go through the door on her own, I should let her. But the irrational side demanded I stand my ground, partly out of a deep ethical conviction that it was the right thing, and partly because I had decided that no yuppie college girl was going to tell me what to do.

  I tried the Old Man again. The piece of lint was now gone. He looked at me and pulled a coin out of his pocket, positioned it with his hand, and flipped it.

  The coin was still on its upward motion when he said, “Do you need to call it?”

  I shook my head. The coin disappeared into the air. I turned back to the lady.

  “I ain’t gonna do it,” I said.

  Her face flushed to the point where I was worried she might spontaneously combust. I glanced toward the crowd, which had now swelled to at least a dozen nosy souls. More vocal, too. There were now mixed chuckles and catcalls. More than one person wondered aloud what the big deal was anyway. One voice pronounced the whole situation as stupid. But it was not, and that was the one point upon which the lady and I agreed.

  I decided to try a diplomatic approach.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I’m not trying to play a big macho thing here. I just thought that with the pretzel and purse and the unmentionables there, you might appreciate a little help.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she said, though she had to reposition the weight in her arms to say it. “I don’t want your help. Do you understand me? I am not a helpless child. I am a woman. And I am perfectly capable of living my own life without you or anyone else sticking their nose into it.”