My Book of Life By Angel

by Martine Leavitt

  But I said no and not even no thank you just no.

  He said, you’ll come begging for it

  I’ll make you beg, you know that—

  and don’t think about getting it somewhere ­else,

  they all know you’re mine

  and I’ve put the word out.

  He said, get out there,

  we’ll see if you can do your job without it—

  no skin off my nose.

  But it is, I can tell it scares him.

  And me.

  He said, get out there

  and take her with you.

  You don’t want her to work, fine,

  but you make double.

  So I held Melli’s hand as we walked

  to the gate of ten thousand happinesses

  and I said, sorry, sorry, but it’s better you are with me

  than alone with Call.

  She patted my back when I coughed

  and didn’t mind when I yawned and yawned at her.

  I said, Melli, even my fingertips are sick

  even my toes are sick

  even my hair is sick.

  On the way to my corner

  we stopped at the Carnegie library

  and I wrote a note for the message board

  with my hands shaking from lack of candy

  Dear own­er of Melli Smith,

  I know where your little girl is.

  Please leave your phone number.

  You have done a very good job with her.

  Angel

  I folded it and pinned it to the message board.

  On the outside I wrote,

  Looking for Melli?

  I thought,

  this is the kind of plan you get

  when you don’t do candy even if you are sick,

  and I thought, stained-­glass Milton would be proud.

  Widow said, not you again

  I’m nobody’s babysitter.

  What the—!

  She said, get that baby home to its mama.

  She said, where did you get it?

  I said, Call. He says finders keepers.

  Widow saw how it was.

  She stared at Melli, no blinking,

  until tears came out.

  I said, don’t cry Widow,

  I’m going to return her as soon as I get a good plan.

  I wrote a letter to my dad.

  When he comes to get me

  he’ll take Melli too.

  Widow said, who’s crying?

  She said, tell her about the line.

  Widow said, looks like Call got himself a twinkie,

  sweet and soft, all cream on the inside—

  Widow said, that’s how you started out,

  wrapped and fresh, iced for the kiddie stroll—

  but everybody eats twinkies up

  and throws the wrapper in the garbage

  and nobody cares

  and that’s what you get

  for being a twinkie.

  She said, I might have been a twinkie once

  but I don’t remember.

  I stood at my corner

  and Melli in the shadows

  and me in my yellow tutu

  and mismatched shoes,

  but to­night even my shoes ­couldn’t make me feel better.

  My shoes said,

  what are you doing ­here?

  what are you waiting for?

  And I said, shut up.

  I have to make up for Melli.

  I said,

  Widow, I gotta make double to­night.

  Call said.

  She said, maybe thinking angels will help.

  And I said, maybe,

  and she snorted.

  So I said, angel, angel,

  just like Serena said to do,

  and just then a car pulled up.

  In it was twins, two little men dressed the same,

  and one said, we pay double,

  and Widow’s mouth fell open.

  I said to her, will you watch Melli?

  and she didn’t say no.

  When I got back

  Widow said, you just got lucky,

  just luck.

  I threw up on the sidewalk, all white.

  She said, gack, lucky you did that

  on your side of the line.

  Then the man who had dirty hair

  and the teenage boy who was scared

  and the man who thought halfway through

  I was somebody he knew from Seattle

  and he called her name over and over

  and the man who never said a word

  but hated with his eyes

  and the man who told me what his suit cost

  and his watch cost

  and said, you’re burning up, I like it that way—

  and every time I came back Melli was okay.

  Without candy

  I saw how every time

  I was only in the man’s wishes, not a real girl,

  just a guess, a question, a story he made up—

  but every time I got out of a car

  Melli was in the good hiding dark,

  clean and smelling of wind and rain,

  and she was real, a real girl,

  and not even a story I made up.

  After the man in the expensive suit,

  Widow said, take this baby home,

  you’re too sick to work.

  She said, I’ll give you all my cash if you can guess my name.

  So I said,

  Ruby?

  Elsie?

  Yvonne?

  Sharon?

  Tania?

  Widow bit down on each one

  and said,

  no

  no

  no

  no

  no.

  She said, ­here’s my cash anyway

  just for trying

  and don’t think I’ll ever do this again.

  I thought of Serena’s money under my mattress,

  but I ­couldn’t use it because what if she came for it?

  So I said, thanks Widow.

  She pointed to the line

  and my toe which she owned.

  I said thank you and took her hard-­work money

  and that gave me more shame

  than all the money I took from men.

  On the way back to Call’s place,

  holding Melli’s hand

  we passed where Sarah ­wasn’t there anymore

  and she wrote poems and drew unicorns crying always crying.

  We passed where Janet ­wasn’t there anymore

  and she was a member of a champion softball team.

  They both liked things

  before they came to Hastings and Main.

  Now they ­were missing

  like Serena,

  and they never came back.

  My bones creaked while I thought,

  Serena . . .

  bone on bone,

  while my stomach folded up

  and all the shiny, slimy stuff

  that should have been in my brain

  was running out of my face—

  but I knew then, I knew then

  that Widow was right.

  Serena ­wasn’t coming back.

  Melli and I came in

  and I gave the money to Call

  shaking, my ­whole body shaking and aching.

  I threw up again so hard

  I thought I threw up a bit of liver,

  a piece
of me sliding invisible

  out of my mouth

  and down the drain.

  Call said, you want your candy now?

  and I said, in a minute,

  but I thought, no no no not yet.

  I drank some water

  and threw it up with what felt like a piece of lung

  and I drank some more

  and rinsed my face

  and brushed my teeth

  and why didn’t Serena’s body wash up on shore?

  why didn’t joggers find her bones in the woods?

  why didn’t garbagemen find her in a dumpster

  all red with blood and ketchup?

  I knew why now.

  It was because our girls

  all went to the same place to die—

  the secret place,

  they dropped down to the underplace,

  with bones and worms and rot—

  Serena was dead.

  I lay down on the bed

  and I said, Melli, Serena is dead.

  She didn’t answer. Surprise.

  I said, they never come back,

  somebody should tell the police they never come back.

  Melli didn’t answer.

  I said, you think someone is going to save you?

  my voice shaking the snot out of me,

  you think if you just sit there all big blue eyes

  and blue tears coming out

  not swearing, not stealing,

  keeping the commandments like jewels in a box

  like they’re made of gold

  you think an angel is going to save you?

  you think that?

  And then I hugged her and said,

  don’t be sad, Melli, don’t be sad, don’t—

  I told her about Serena

  and how she said, friend, you are welcome

  for hot dogs and church.

  I said,

  Serena—I bet she’s serene now.

  I bet she’s not hungry in heaven.

  I bet God gave her a good address:

  Cloud Nine, even.

  The worst thing was

  Serena ending up being stolen

  by someone ­else’s story—

  just a character in his story,

  and the ending she wanted to have

  got him instead,

  just a part of his stupid story . . .

  that was the worst thing of all.

  I threw up again,

  maybe with a chunk of heart,

  and Call came in and I said,

  do you see any bits of heart in there?

  He said, you’re losing it,

  said, this could all be over in a minute

  if you take your candy,

  and I forgot to answer because I was thinking,

  he ­can’t have her anymore,

  I’m writing a new end to her story,

  I’m taking Serena’s story back.

  I lay by Melli, yawning, yawning, and my legs jumping,

  trying to be still and not cough or shake.

  I whispered, Dad must have my letter by now

  and what if he came for us?

  Because I knew a girl whose family did that—

  I didn’t tell Melli

  that when that girl got home people looked at her

  like they look at people whose faces have been burned off,

  whose faces have melted,

  people looked at her like they wondered

  why she would want to live—

  so she came back to Hastings and Main.

  But what will not ambition and revenge descend to?

  Melli and I woke up

  and I made breakfast for her,

  cream of wheat, which I ate a little.

  Call was stroking the pages of names on his petition

  signed by people who want us off the streets,

  people who worry about their children.

  He said, see, Angel?

  I can do this.

  He said some of the names out loud,

  read them like poetry,

  admired their curly t’s and y’s,

  did not fold the pages.

  He was in a good mood

  like the Call I met at the mall

  like the one who gave me my first kiss

  so I said,

  Call, maybe there are angels.

  He ran his fingers down the list of names

  and didn’t answer, so I said,

  maybe we should take Melli back

  because of possible angels,

  because an angel would mean God

  and he would want us to give Melli back.

  Call said, you are crazy dopesick.

  He sat on the broken-­bone couch

  trying to be patient with me.

  He said, you think there’s God?

  You think when you die you go to a good place?

  You get to meet the head universe maker?

  Get real, he said, get real.

  He said, God is a crutch.

  He said, religion causes all the wars.

  I said, what religion was Hitler?

  He said, I ­can’t have a conversation with you.

  God is an imaginary friend for grownups.

  People like you will believe anything, Call said.

  I bet you believe people went to the moon.

  But that was a trick to explain

  what they did with all that money.

  Look at the footage, he said—­the flag is waving . . .

  What’s wrong with that picture, Angel?

  No air, that’s what. There’s no air on the moon

  for a flag to wave in.

  He said, I’m glad we had this talk.

  Then Asia came over to see Call’s name collection

  and show him his.

  I did not understand what they ­were talking about,

  something trying to get backing

  from a member of the taxation committee,

  something imposing an entertainment tax

  in exchange for movement toward regulation,

  something the right to advertise the product

  which would normalize the business.

  They could give complimentary ser­vices to legislators . . .

  They started laughing together

  and Call shouted at me,

  Supply! you’re in demand.

  I said, Melli and me, can we go for milk and bread?

  And he said, hey it’s okay between us, right, Angel?

  I can trust you, right?

  He plumped up Jeremy’s rhino,

  said, I know you’re my girl,

  buy me some ham while you’re there,

  said, why don’t you stop by the library.

  Which was weird.

  We walked downstairs

  and I held Melli’s hand because I wobbled

  and I explained to Melli with coughs

  and my face on fire

  and my hips out of joint

  about why I ­couldn’t run away.

  I said, if I leave, Call will hurt my brother Jeremy.

  And if I saw Jeremy in heaven

  I would be so sorry,

  I would say, it was all my fault.

  Melli, I would die of Jeremy

  if anything happened to him.

  But there’s that letter to my dad,

  in which I told him about Serena and my vow.

  I checked the mailbox,

  but nothing.

  Not yet, Melli, I said.
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  Just not yet.

  But soon.

  In the window of the store where we bought milk

  we saw a missing children’s poster,

  each little child in her own square

  as herself and as the computer aged her

  and with new computer hair.

  Melli’s picture ­wasn’t on it.

  Neither was mine. None of the faces ­were mine.

  I wondered how those kids felt,

  stars of the missing children’s poster club,

  but not being anywhere, just missing.

  I wondered if they ever said,

  I would never wear my hair like that.

  After we bought milk and white bread

  and tomatoes because Call is allergic,

  I took Melli on the coal harbour walk.

  Showed her my favourite gingerbread ­house­boat

  and told her about how I dreamed of floating it out to sea

  and how I would have kelp for my garden

  and waves for my winter.

  I showed her how to feed the pigeons

  with our bread,

  and they let her touch them,

  let her stroke their necks

  shiny as purple-­glitter nail polish.

  The pigeons never let anyone touch them . . .

  It’s a wing thing, I guess.

  She held my hand while we walked,

  held me up,

  and I didn’t throw up once.

  In a vacant lot

  some people ­were making

  a pop-­up storybook park

  all out of throwaways

  and scraps and string,

  all out of finders keepers

  and losers weepers,

  out of duct tape and rags,

  cartons and castoffs . . .

  Melli and I looked at it through the fence.

  On the way back

  we stopped at the library

  and I showed her Mr. Milton

  in stained glass.

  I checked the message board without belief

  but then I almost screamed

  because there was the note

  with my name on it!

  I opened it, shaking,

  and it said,

  Nice try.

  Call