My Book of Life By Angel

by Martine Leavitt

and Jeremy was and he thought I was so funny.

  We danced and I gave him lots of school advice

  like keep your pencils pointy

  and ask your teacher how her weekend was.

  Then Dad.

  Dad was there

  and he saw how it was

  with all my sugar right there on the table

  and he said, what are you doing?

  what are you doing?

  and I said, I don’t know I don’t know

  I’m sorry I’m sorry.

  But sorry ­wasn’t enough for how mad he was

  and he yelled until I was too mad to be sorry

  and I could see Dad was too sad about Mom

  to be sad about me

  and I watched his eyes give up as we shouted

  until Jeremy cried and I stopped.

  Dad watched me pack with given-­up eyes

  and watched me walk away.

  He said, don’t come home till you clean up your act.

  Call took me to his apartment.

  He said, you can stay as long as you like,

  said, you don’t need school.

  So I stayed

  and I didn’t even know I’d run away.

  That was in September.

  Now it is May.

  I did not know how long it had been

  since I came to Call’s place.

  He does not have calendars.

  I found out when I called to report Serena missing

  and the police lady said,

  when did you see her last?

  I said, last church Wednesday

  and she said, May 17 then,

  and I said, May?

  I said, I would like to report nine months missing

  ha ha.

  She didn’t laugh,

  and I hung up.

  In Call’s place the couch’s bones ­were broken,

  its skin covered in scars and sores.

  I should have known right away, looking at that couch.

  I felt like I’d gone into free fall

  and fell all the way down to the bottom

  and found a ­whole place down there.

  Call became my pretend first boyfriend

  and gave me my first kiss.

  I didn’t feel anything, but I let him,

  kept thinking, hey, I’m kissing! I’m kissing!

  I told him about my Jeremy and that I crazy loved him.

  He said, you have a little brother? and he smiled.

  I thought, wow, he likes kids.

  After a while

  Call said, Angel do you love me?

  I said yes.

  But do you really love me?

  And I said yes.

  Would you do anything for me?

  And I said

  yes

  yes.

  Now I know

  in a single breath of yes, yes,

  you can hear your soul

  leaking out of your mouth.

  A yes can change you inside,

  make all the rules go sky-­why-­not . . .

  All those clothes and dinners

  and all that candy—

  Call said, I’m out of cash,

  can you help me out?

  do you really love me?

  At first it was just to be nice to a friend . . .

  and then a friend of a friend . . .

  As soon as I knew what Call had made me,

  the first time a man said in a word what I was

  and I ­couldn’t even say that’s not true—

  as soon as that happened

  I knew I could not bring that word home

  even if I wanted to—

  Jeremy and I ­weren’t even allowed to say stupid

  or hate—

  my dad would never allow a word like me.

  I found out Call’s candy flies you down

  tips you inside out

  dumps you upside down

  flies you through empty space

  to the black hole in the middle of you

  and you ­can’t stop

  ­can’t stop

  unless you want to vomit up ­whole planets . . .

  I thought I hated my dad—

  I thought he was mean,

  treating me like a baby,

  and I never told him where I was,

  never called him

  so he would worry.

  But I didn’t know what mean was

  until I found out the real Call.

  That one word yes

  gave Call all my words—

  he knew when I said yes

  that he would have my voice in a bottle,

  that no one would hear me

  again.

  Innocence, that as a veil had shadowed them

  from knowing ill, was gone . . .

  I woke up in the night

  and it was dark and the beginning of my day.

  Call said, wake up Angel,

  all the other girls are out there earning for their men,

  man I wish I had a girl like that,

  if only you loved me like that.

  I was awake so fast,

  looking for my shoes

  only ones, no pairs.

  My clothes ­were squashed to one side of the closet—

  Call’s clothes took up all the space—

  but my shoes covered the closet floor

  and hid under the bed

  and ­were piled at the door.

  My face was hot

  and the rest of me cold

  my hips out of joint

  my eyeballs filled with acid

  and I thought, ­here I go,

  and when Call said, I’ve got candy, good stuff for my girl,

  I thought yes

  and then I thought about my letter and my vow,

  and I said ever so polite, no thank you.

  He said, why, because of Serena?

  He said, you won’t last long,

  you don’t know how bad it can get.

  He said, don’t make me wake you up again.

  I picked out a pink ballet shoe

  and an apple green sandal

  and Call said,

  I called some of the gentry for a meeting

  at All-­Night Kayos—­they’ve got pork ribs on special

  and I’ve got an announcement.

  Meet me there after.

  I wanted to say

  okay okay give me candy,

  so I can be floatable while I work,

  but I didn’t.

  I didn’t.

  I went downstairs and through the store,

  Slingin’ Ink Tattoo Parlour, to go out.

  Tattoo—he’s the own­er—

  stared after me

  wanting to needlework me,

  wishing I could be his canvas.

  He grabbed my arm, said,

  don’t you wanna be my art?

  won’t you let me choose?

  not just copy some picture off the wall

  but something out of my own head?

  But Call says I’m supposed to be innocent,

  clean baby-­girl skin

  no makeup

  so dates can paste on any face they want

  and I can tell new dates it’s my first time

  and I am thirteen even though I am sixteen.

  Sixteen ­doesn’t make as much money

  as thirteen.

  Serena was nineteen,

  told dates she was sixteen,

 
told me she was a hundred down there.

  Tattoo whispered to me,

  I know what you are,

  said, your skin could be the way

  they know I’m alive.

  I said, I am scared of needles, let go,

  but Tattoo squeezed my arm hard, harder—

  I remembered Serena’s tip

  about staring and saying, angel, angel—

  so I did.

  I looked past Tattoo

  and said, angel, angel,

  and he let go

  and spun around

  thinking it was Call.

  It ­wasn’t Call

  and it ­wasn’t an angel either

  but I got away.

  Serena would have said, see?

  That’s what saying angel does.

  I passed the Carnegie library

  at the corner of Hastings and Main,

  which has a message board

  and stained-­glass windows,

  one of John Milton.

  I had never heard of John Milton

  until John the john found me

  and became one of my regulars.

  He gets me to read him paradise lost

  by John Milton, book nine, only book nine,

  while he does his thing.

  Call said, poetry, that is twisted,

  but okay because he pays so good.

  The pay phone is the border

  between Eastside and Chinatown—

  I walked past

  and just like that

  I was in China.

  I passed the Jimi Hendrix shrine

  fenced in an alley,

  fake grass and plastic flowers

  and posters of Jimi

  and his music playing

  and Jimi singing about angels coming down from heaven

  and staying for tea and stories—

  I thought, that’s what happens

  when you start looking for an angel.

  I walked to my corner

  at the gate of ten thousand happinesses

  and I stared at my shoes while I walked,

  stared at them walking me there again.

  That’s how I get to my corner

  at the gate of ten thousand happinesses

  every time.

  I stood on the kiddie corner

  where I always do,

  just a line in the sidewalk

  between me and the midtrack.

  Widow works the midtrack

  on the other side of the line.

  Widow waits for men

  who are not into little girls like me.

  She says, at least I’m not a lowtrack girl.

  Widow says to me all the time,

  I don’t feel anything

  care anything

  it’s just a big what­ever—

  I’ve got the menu memorized

  makes no nevermind to me

  who cares?

  But she cares if I cross the line in the sidewalk.

  Widow yells at me if I come too close

  but she and I talk

  on our own sides of the line.

  I said to Widow,

  do you think an angel really came to Jimi Hendrix?

  I heard him singing about it in a song,

  an angel coming for tea.

  That would be cool if an angel came to me . . .

  Widow laughed,

  she thinks I am so funny,

  laughed and said,

  ­we’re the last ones on earth who would get an angel.

  I thought, maybe the last ones on earth

  are the ones they come to.

  You can think about stuff like that when you’re waiting,

  when you don’t work by sun

  when you have a little dark to stand in

  some moonlight to walk in

  ankle deep down the street

  so no one sees your mismatched shoes.

  When Widow ­wasn’t looking I leaned back

  so my face didn’t go over the line, not my nose or chin,

  and I stretched my toe right over her line,

  the line between kiddie corner and midtrack.

  She didn’t even look at me,

  she just knew,

  yelled,

  you watch out for that toe,

  one night I’ll cut it off.

  How did she know?

  She talks like that, but she watches out for me.

  She has always helped me out

  just like Serena did

  only not as nice.

  Two men walked by Widow and said,

  I ­wouldn’t take that for free.

  They said, hey ugly,

  they said, waste of oxygen that one.

  Widow, she stood like a queen,

  back straight, chin up, silent,

  breathing oxygen,

  looking hot.

  After the men ­were gone

  I said, Widow, how do you keep your figure?

  you look so good . . .

  She said, the Jenny Crack diet

  and she cracked up.

  And then the tourists came out—

  Widow calls them hoons—

  rich kids, kids with cars

  who want to see the poorest postal code in the country.

  They threw things at us

  bleach

  spitballs

  eggs.

  I said, ignore them, don’t pay attention.

  I willed her with my eyes to have dignity.

  I said, I’m thinking angel, angel, which has powers.

  They won’t touch you.

  And they didn’t—­everything fell at our feet.

  Serena would have said,

  see? see?

  Widow said to me, you are a freak.

  She said, don’t you step over that line.

  A van with tinted windows drove by, slowed,

  and Widow called, hey Angel! come ­here!

  So I walked toward her and the van moved on.

  As soon as it was gone

  Widow said, hey, stay on your side of the line,

  and I said, but you called me,

  and she said, don’t you get into that van

  and don’t think I care if you do.

  Widow said, I got a bad feeling about that van.

  She said, pay attention—

  you wanna be the next one to go missing?

  Widow said, everyone on the street is saying there’s a killer

  but the police say no.

  She talked about a Mr. P,

  who she has heard whispers about,

  and how Mr. P has a van.

  It is true girls are missing. That part is true.

  Not just Serena.

  Widow told me Debra is missing—

  she played guitar and piano

  and sang like Janis Joplin

  and dreamed of going to Nashville.

  Dawn is missing—

  her father died with his head in her lap when she was five.

  Dianne is missing—

  she was a nurse’s aide who ­couldn’t support all her kids

  and welfare ­wouldn’t help

  because she had a job and too many kids

  because they don’t pay for that many kids.

  I said to Widow

  Call says in the business

  girls go missing all the time

  and it ­doesn’t mean a thing.

  They run away or they go to rehab

  or they g
o to jail or they get sick—

  Widow said, Dianne would have called her kids.

  She’s not missing, she’s dead,

  someone killed her,

  you think about that.

  I said, don’t worry, Widow, you are safe with me around.

  She said, just because your name is Angel

  ­doesn’t mean angels are real.

  She said, I’m an atheist thank God.

  I said, Widow maybe you have had a traumatic experience.

  She said, I’ll give you a traumatic experience,

  said, I bet Angel’s not your real name anyway.

  I said, it is hard to believe but try.

  I said, Widow what is your real name?

  She said, guess.

  So I said,

  Linda?

  Susan?

  Debra?

  Janice?

  Kimberly?

  Maxine?

  What is it, then?

  She said, no, no, no,

  and her face turned from mad to sad.

  She said,

  I don’t remember.

  I wish I could remember.

  And then she was mad again,

  said,

  why do all the crazies come ­here,

  you keep your sweet baby face out of my space

  or I’ll cut it up for you.

  I said to Widow,

  Serena told me I was her charm.

  She said I had a glow.

  Widow said,

  that glow is just you going neon on contraband,

  and if you ­were Serena’s charm

  where is she now?

  I said, Serena will be back.

  She ­wouldn’t go without telling me.

  Serena taught me the ropes.

  Yeah, Widow said, the ones we hang ourselves with.

  Widow said, you think Serena is missing gone

  but I say she got a date with Mr. P

  and she’s dead gone.

  She said, who’s gonna be next?

  Someone’s gonna lose the lottery again any day now.

  But then Widow got a date and she said to me

  before she drove away,

  stay off my tar,

  and then a car stopped for me.

  Shall I to him make known as yet

  my change . . . ?

  Call says it’s just business