Paper Angels

by Billy Coffey

  Elizabeth drew near.

  “There was a soldier here once,” she said. “He had gone off to war because he felt his country calling. To him, it was an almost holy act. For three years he fought in sand and mountains, through city streets and tiny villages, trekking in lands that had been battlefields since time immemorial. He saw friends fall. He saw his enemy fall. He bled and he sweat and he cried, and then he came home. Three months later I sat in his room here at the hospital. He’d tried to kill himself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he thought the fight ended when the guns fell silent. It doesn’t. Not for anyone. Because the real war is never five thousand miles away from anyone, Andy. The real war is in the heart. It’s in the soul. This world’s a mess because people are a mess.”

  “And I’m a mess?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

  “Well then,” she said, squeezing my hand, “let’s find that out together. Small steps, Andy. We’re almost done. I promise you that. Just a little farther now.”

  I looked down into the box. The angel key chain was the only thing left. It sparkled and stared at me, both taunting and begging for my attention.

  “Andy, everything, every little thing, comes down to this.”

  I looked up at her. “That’s what he told me,” I said. “When he was here, that’s what he said.”

  “The Old Man?”

  I nodded.

  “You might not believe him after everything that’s happened, Andy. You might not trust him. I understand that. But do you trust me?”

  “I more than trust you, Elizabeth.”

  Those words seemed less to me then than they would be later. At the time I spoke those words to say I trusted her with more than my secrets, I had trusted her with my past and my present as well. But later I knew the truth of what I was trying to say. In those words I had come as close as I ever had to telling a woman that I loved her.

  “Tell me, Andy,” she said.

  I picked up the key chain and dangled it between us. It shimmered in the dim light and washed me in anger and pain. The truth? I had no courage. There was nothing more I wanted than to put it back into the box, latch the top, and never look at it again. But the truth was also this—sometimes courage arises within the hearts of men, and sometimes it arises in the fear of disappointing those whom we love. I could not disappoint the woman beside me.

  The Old Man had been right to say Elizabeth had been sent by God. She, not he, had become my angel.

  From wherever that courage came, I found it. And with that finding came not the last step of my journey, but surely the most important.

  “His name was Eric,” I told her.

  26

  The Key Chain

  They walked into the gas station that first morning, and all I remember thinking is Sweet fancy Moses, what is this? If you would have seen the two of them, you’d have thought the same.

  The older one—but not much older, I supposed—wore a faded pair of corduroy pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt that looked three sizes too big. An unkempt mane of brown hair and a poor attempt at a beard rounded out the look. His companion was only slightly more presentable; at least he’d bothered to tuck in his shirt. But his pants were so big they were sliding down his rear end, his hair was even longer, and his beard was even more spotty. They both looked like refugees from some hippie utopia who had somehow found themselves stranded in the land of reality.

  How in the world the two of them had found Mattingly was beyond me. I assumed they were just passing through, troubadours along the road of life. Such sights weren’t common in our town, but they happened from time to time. As they made their way up and down the aisles eyeing the chips and the drinks, I went ahead and began bagging some beef jerky and bottled water for when they asked for a handout.

  I was surprised when both of them came up to the counter with not only a few groceries, but the money to pay for them. I made a halfhearted attempt at shoving the two plastic bags full of food and drink onto the shelf beside my angel box and smiled at them.

  “Mornin’, sir,” the oldest one said. The other one said nothing but offered a smile and a nod.

  “How y’all doin’?” I answered. “That’ll do?”

  “Yes sir,” the oldest said.

  I rang up the soda, the chips, and the smokes, trying all the while not to judge the two of them but doing so anyway. They were clean, at least. Messy but washed.

  “Seven-forty,” I told him with a smile. I took his ten dollars and handed back the change.

  I repeated the process with his friend, whom I suspected was likely a brother. Both shared the same nose and cheekbones, and, aside from the slight difference in height, the same build. My questions of how he was and if that was all he needed went unanswered but not ignored. He offered another smile and another nod when I thanked him for his business.

  The two of them walked toward the doors to leave, but not before the silent one stopped to pick a scrap of paper off the floor and put it in the trash.

  “You have a great day now, sir,” the other said.

  “Y’all, too,” I answered.

  I watched through the window as they made their way around the corner. The younger one spoke (which told me he was shy rather than mute). The older one gave him a punch in the shoulder and a laugh. They pulled out in a battered Jeep and headed toward the interstate.

  “Nice kids,” the Old Man said from next to me.

  “Seemed so,” I told him. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing yet.” The Old Man’s eyes followed the Jeep. When the trees and the curve in the road swallowed it, he still watched.

  *

  They were back the next day, then the day after that, and then every day after that. Different clothes each time, thank the Lord, though one outfit was just as ratty as the next. But after the first few days, I did what I should have been doing all along—I forgot about the clothes and concentrated on the people in them.

  There is a certain familiarity that develops over time between the public and those whose job it is to serve them. I knew most of my customers better than their doctors and preachers and even their spouses did. Not because they confided to me the intimate details of their lives (though some did), but because you notice the little things that most others overlook.

  The way that familiarity happened with those two boys went pretty much the same way it had with everyone else. It wasn’t one giant leap from stranger to friend, it was a succession of small steps taken one day after the next. It was the same time on the same days, the same Mornin’ sir/How ya’ll doin’, the same soda and chips and smokes. It was familiarity that grew into expectation that grew into comfort.

  One day the older boy gathered his soda, chips, and smokes and said, “My name’s Eric.”

  “Good to know you, Eric,” I said. “I’m Andy.”

  He shook my hand when I extended it. The grip was tight and confident. I was impressed.

  “Pleasure’s mine,” he said. Then he cocked his head to the side and motioned toward his sidekick. When he did, his hair swept across his face and made me grimace. “This here’s my brother,” he said. “We call him Jabber.”

  “Jabber?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Eric said. “He never talks much.”

  I smiled. “Gotcha. Good to know you, Jabber.”

  It was the first time Jabber traded eye contact for words. He managed, “Hey, Mr. Andy.”

  “Where you two from?” I asked, “ ’cause I know it ain’t around here.”

  “We live over in Nelson,” Eric said. I raised an eyebrow at that one. Nelson was clear on the other side of the mountain. “Jabber and I go to the community college in Traversville. Your store’s pretty much halfway between the two, so we figured it’d be a good enough place to stop by every morning and take stock of things.”

  “I’d imagine there are other stores between Nelson and Traversville,” I told them
.

  “Yes sir,” Eric said. “But Jabber here calls this our spot. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  I looked to Eric’s brother, who nodded and smiled. I warmed to them both immediately. It wasn’t just their manners or their words or their dress. In a strange way, they reminded me of me.

  “Don’t mind at all,” I said. “I appreciate that, Jabber.”

  Eric grabbed their bags from the counter and said, “We’d best be gettin’, Andy. My professor doesn’t usually mind students showing up late, but Jabber’s would tear him a new one. We’ll see you tomorrow, though.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  When Eric and Jabber pulled out of the lot five minutes later, the Old Man was standing by the road watching them go.

  *

  It always amazed me how good-minded people would spend their money to get their futures told. Live long enough and you realize the future’s not some big Unknown. Chances are tomorrow will be just like today, which is most times just a redo of yesterday. Life is like that, I think. It’s not so much one thing after another as it is one thing over and over. Which is why Eric and I were both right. He and Jabber were back the next day, and I was right there waiting.

  The two became a fixture of the early mornings, arriving just after the farmers had left with their coffee and the morning’s copy of the Gazette and just before the first shift came through on their way to the factory. I began to expect them every morning, and they never disappointed. Eric and Jabber were there every Monday through Friday for almost a year.

  And because of that, the familiarity that was shared between the brothers and me began to evolve into friendship. Then friendship became companionship. And then that companionship grew into a closeness that was expressed much more in feeling and much less in words. I had built a relationship with those two boys, though what sort of relationship it was I could not say. Still can’t, really. There were unspoken boundaries we did not cross—the boys never asked about family or my life away from the gas station, and I never asked about theirs. I knew they went to school—even summer classes, which told me they were either the most dedicated students in the world or just two boys who needed somewhere to escape to—and that they were from Away. That was enough, at least at the time.

  Once Eric mentioned something about their mother that was not flattering—it involved alcohol, as most unflattering things did—but I would not pry. One look at the Jeep they drove told me the father wasn’t in the picture. The oil hadn’t been changed in forever, which was likely due to the fact Eric and Jabber didn’t know such maintenance had to be performed. Didn’t know to even check it. And the license plates had been expired for five years. Kept telling that boy to fix that. He never did.

  I suppose I stepped into the role of surrogate father without realizing it, and I suppose that’s what kept them coming back. There was always something they needed reminding of, whether it was a test to study for or an appointment to keep. I gave them money for bills, and when they refused it—those boys always did—I hid it in the bag of groceries they’d get every day. Once I even drove out to Traversville to watch Eric give a presentation for a religion class. His mother was busy, he said, and by then I knew their father had died when they were both little. I did for them, did what no one else was bothering to do, and in return they did for me, too. Eric and Jabber would show up at the house in the evenings sometimes to give me a hand in the garden or pull a few weeds. Nothing major, but it sure helped me out. The three of us exchanged presents that Christmas. Even had them over on the weekends sometimes for pizza and a ball game. It was the best way I knew how to be a father.

  The words we said to each other were the best attempt we could make at fondness.

  “You ever eat anything else?” I asked Eric one morning as he placed his chips and soda on the counter.

  “You ever use that tiny brain of yours for anything other than how to make change from a ten?” he answered.

  “Just to take a shower. You know what a shower is, don’t you, hippie?”

  Jabber chuckled.

  “Sure I do,” Eric shot back. “You know what a razor is? Or is that mangy beard you’re wearing just a favor to the world so we all don’t have to see all your ugly hanging out?”

  I rubbed my thick beard and smiled. “Oh sonny, don’t be so jealous. You could grow a beard like this if you didn’t look like such a girl.”

  “I’d like to cut that beard off and see what’s underneath.”

  “I’d like to teach you how to respect your elders.”

  We both paused and looked to Jabber, who had by then adopted the role of referee for our verbal sparring matches. He looked at Eric, then to me, and offered me a thumbs-up for his verdict.

  “You win, Mr. Andy,” he said.

  I raised a fist over my head and nodded.

  “Whatever,” Eric said. He gave his brother a punch in the arm. “I totally got him today.”

  “The ‘hippie’ thing was good,” Jabber told him.

  “Thought that one up last night,” I told them.

  Seems a little mean-spirited, I know. But such were the conversations between men who had a genuine affection for one another—a macho mixture of sarcasm and callousness that safely masked any hint of genuine care. The more we picked on one another, the more we teased and taunted, the more our true feelings showed through.

  But there was much more than the simple “bebop and scattin’,” as Eric would put it. Jabber eventually confessed to me a knack for math. He was planning to attend the university after community college and study to be an accountant. I raised an eyebrow at that little revelation. Jabber didn’t look like a numbers guy. Maybe an artsy musician guy or a guy who would major in philosophy and minor in sloppy dressing, but not a numbers guy. I nonetheless urged him to follow through on that particular career course, if only because becoming an accountant would greatly increase his odds of having to get a haircut.

  If Jabber’s desire for the future was unexpected, Eric’s was downright shocking. He told me one day between our mock argument of You’re filthy/You’re stupid and checking the tire treads on the Jeep that his goal was to become a missionary. He wasn’t kidding, either. And to where didn’t matter, he said, so long as he was out there somewhere doing what God wanted him to do.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I said with half a laugh.

  “Honest Injun,” he said. “You think I want to be like you when I grow up and sit behind a cash register all day?”

  “Hey,” I said, “you know you wanna be like me.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” he said.

  Jabber regarded the two of us in silence and then raised his brother’s hand.

  “Dang it,” I said. “I’ll get you tomorrow.”

  I smiled as they left. Though I would never have admitted so to Eric’s face, I saw something in him that was, for lack of a better word, special. Jabber, too. Though both were on the other side of their teenage years, they seemed untouched by the prevailing sense of angst and cynicism that infected so much of the world. Those two boys had direction. And most of all, they knew what God had called them to do. It was a purpose for which they had not only been well equipped to handle, but which had given them a passion for living. I envied them, and Eric especially. I was more than thirty years his senior and still struggling with my own sense of place in life. Eric’s future had been ordained by God Himself, and he couldn’t wait to get there.

  The Old Man stood outside the doors as they left, then made his way through the wall to where I stood.

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Been busy,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Business as usual.”

  The Old Man nodded and stared out the window. He seemed more gone than there, like he was talking to someone far away.

  “There’s a storm comin’, Andy. Gonna be a bad one, too. No one’s safe from the world. Just have to tell you that. But you
’ll find your shelter, and it’s going to be okay. Better than okay.”

  I looked up at a cobalt sky, empty except for a hawk that passed overhead.

  “You ain’t much of a weatherman,” I told him. “Paper says we’re free and clear for the next week.”

  The Old Man said nothing.

  *

  A month passed. The Old Man was staring out the window again one morning as Eric and Jabber drove into the lot and parked in their usual spot along the side.

  “What’s it going to be today?” I asked him. “The hippie thing’s a little played out, I think. Eric knows that’s coming. Maybe I should start in on that hunk-of-junk Jeep he has.”

  The Old Man looked at the Jeep. “Could,” he said. “Then again, you got that hunk-of-junk truck parked out back.”

  “You have a point there. Maybe I’ll just play it by ear.”

  The two boys walked through the front door. Jabber gave his customary nod and “Mornin’, Mr. Andy.” Eric waved and gave his customary snide comment: “Mornin’, Genius. I see you managed to find your way to work this morning.”

  “And I see you’re still trying to grow a beard,” I answered. “I’m sure you’ll have better luck at that once you hit puberty.”

  He laughed as they made their way to the drink cooler and then the snack aisle. I grabbed a pack of cigarettes and sat it on the counter, exactly where Eric and Jabber sat the rest of their daily rations.

  I didn’t bother to tell the boys their total. By that time I didn’t have to. Heck, by then they could’ve walked around the counter and rang themselves up. Bag of chips, soda, pack of smokes—seven dollars and forty cents, every day of the year.

  “Puberty, huh?” Eric said. “I have more testosterone right now than you ever have, old man.”