My Book of Life By Angel

by Martine Leavitt

  what if it was tomatoes?

  People always blame apples,

  but how do they know it was apples?

  Maybe once tomatoes grew on trees

  and after Eve they got demoted.

  I cut up a tomato

  and there—­the shape of an angel

  between the seeds like stars . . .

  I cut up another and another—

  there was an angel shape in every one

  and I sprinkled them with sugar.

  Then I ate them

  and I kissed Call

  in my same mouth

  where I had eaten tomatoes and angels with sugar

  but he didn’t die.

  But past who can recall, or done undo?

  When I woke up

  I thought, today is Sunday.

  Without candy,

  you know stuff like that.

  Melli was already awake, playing solitaire,

  never cheating, always losing.

  Call was watching her, just watching,

  said to me,

  she never cheats.

  He put the rhino on the kitchen table,

  said, I’ve got business.

  You go shopping,

  buy yourself some new shoes,

  two of them.

  This is your chance to prove yourself, right Angel?

  You be good and I don’t lock you in anymore.

  He went out,

  and just before he did

  he squeezed Jeremy’s rhino around its neck.

  I said, Melli, Call wants us to be good,

  so let’s be good.

  It’s Sunday.

  Let’s go to church.

  Call had trashed Slingin’ Ink to pandemonium

  everything broken and holes in the walls

  and lights pulled down

  and no Tattoo in sight.

  We waded through the needles and gloves

  and spilled inks and tipped-­over furniture

  and rubber grips and sample books . . .

  my shoulder throbbed where Call beat up my wing

  but I said, ­we’re going to church.

  I was scared walking to the church,

  the Church of Church Wednesdays of Hot Dogs for the Dead.

  But at the church steps I heard singing and I said,

  hear that, Melli? they’re singing.

  And instead of opening the door, I walked into it.

  Melli touched my face where I bumped into the door.

  I said, Melli, I thought I was so nothing

  I could walk right through that door.

  Wow, I said, church has already taught me

  that nothing is something I never was

  and never can be.

  We walked in

  and I walked into the chapel like a bride,

  and everyone looked at us.

  I walked down the aisle, my hands folded before me,

  holding my invisible bouquet, and they saw me

  and, what is she doing ­here?

  They put loving arms around their children and stared,

  and I put a loving arm around Melli to show I understood.

  The reverends ­were husband and wife,

  Adam and Eve in their churchy Eden.

  Mrs. Reverend talked about Restitution.

  She read about Restitution from her book:

  “For he should make full restitution;

  If he have nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft . . .”

  And I thought, is that what happened to me?

  for stealing display shoes?

  Mr. Reverend wore a diamond in his ear,

  as if his face ­were married to God—

  his ear was saying,

  I’m listening with sparkles,

  I’m hearing with stars . . .

  Then music as good as Jimi Hendrix

  and stained glass as good as John Milton

  and then to taste of sacrament hors d’oeuvres,

  to eat low angel food—

  and then it was over.

  Mrs. Reverend came to me after and said, welcome.

  I said, I liked thee poem.

  She said, thank you.

  I said, the angels helped thy write it.

  She said, yes, maybe, I hope so.

  I said, have thy ever seen an angel?

  She said, sometimes you can entertain one unawares.

  I said, yes, that is true.

  She said, what is your name?

  I said, Angel, and this is Melli, Melli Smith,

  daughter of Mike and Sue Smith—

  do you know them?

  She shook her head and I stared at her

  and she stared at me

  and then all the people came to touch her hand

  and hug her.

  I walked away

  with Melli’s hand in mine,

  with Restitution in mind.

  Back at Call’s place,

  where he ­wasn’t home yet from his business,

  I opened his closet

  and looked at all the shoes—

  I said, Restitution, Melli.

  I picked up the shoes one by one,

  my gillie-­tasselled boot

  and my colour-­block suede pump,

  my alligator sabrina

  and my plaid wellington,

  my curve-­wedge heel with rhinestones . . .

  I picked them up,

  held them,

  said goodbye.

  Sometimes you have to do drastic things,

  I said out loud to Melli,

  sometimes you have to choose.

  I packed up all the shoes into bags,

  said, Restitution,

  and between one word and another

  I figured out that’s what believing does—

  it’s a shape for words to live in,

  it’s a pretend meaning for a little while,

  and if you leave it there long enough

  it hardens into something true.

  If I took those shoes back,

  nobody could take that away from me.

  Melli and I walked to the store.

  She had a bag of only ones

  and I had a bag of only ones

  and I picked a lucky shoe store

  and we went in with our bags full of shoes.

  Right away I saw the most beautiful shoe on display,

  one with red patent leather uppers and

  a tiny brass buckle

  and on the sole it said Isabella Fiore—

  so I ­couldn’t help it.

  I picked it up and put Melli’s foot in it, and it fit.

  I stood back and said,

  feet are kind of ugly until you put shoes on them

  and they become art.

  Then the clerk said, can I help you?

  I said, do thee have these in black?

  and he said, I’ll check,

  and as soon as he was gone

  Melli put on her own shoe

  and we emptied our bags of stolen shoes onto the sofa

  and I said goodbye to little red Isabella

  and we walked away.

  I felt better, so better, right away,

  better even than in church,

  like my bones didn’t ache anymore,

  and my eyes ­weren’t leaking

  and my brain was juiced up a little,

  and I felt better, swinging empty bags.

  I said, Melli, if you want an angel

  you’ve got to fast
from stolen shoes,

  deny yourself ungodly platforms.

  And if I get an angel, you’re going home.

  Call ­didn’t notice

  that I had made Restitution.

  He was reading the paper when we got back,

  like a responsible citizen.

  He said, without putting down the paper,

  I knew I could trust you—

  you buy some nice shoes?

  I said, no, I don’t believe in shoes anymore.

  I said, ­here’s your money back,

  invest in the business.

  He said, I knew you loved me,

  now get out there, get to work.

  He said, when are you going to turn her out?

  are you sick of earning for two yet?

  are you sure you don’t want your candy?

  I said, never, no, yes, I am sure.

  I wore my see-­through plastic flip-­flops

  that matched and ­were bought by my mom,

  and me and Melli went to the gate of ten thousand happinesses,

  and I knew something was going to happen

  because of Restitution.

  Widow said,

  not you again,

  not your twinkie again, oh lord.

  Widow said, go ahead and die then,

  and stop breathing my air.

  Here I stopped swearing around you,

  see if I don’t start again,

  see if I don’t . . .

  She said, hey, that’s fine,

  more people to lose the Mr. P lottery.

  If it’s you, it’s not me.

  I said,

  Diana?

  Debra?

  Dorothy?

  Ingrid?

  and she said,

  no

  no

  no

  Ingrid? no

  I said, Widow, don’t worry,

  something is going to happen.

  I made Restitution.

  And then John the john drove up

  and Serena in my head saying, see? see?

  I said, Melli, stay ­here with Widow,

  don’t talk to strangers

  and just say no to drugs.

  After the handwipe

  I started reading for John,

  and I felt tired but so better—

  I read and read and this time

  the first sentence I read made sense.

  The first sentence and the next one

  and the next.

  I knew what it all meant, every word,

  and I read it with red-­hot punctuation

  and I read it with grammar

  and John, his eyes ­were melty—

  But strange

  Hath been the cause, and wonderful to hear:

  This Tree is not as we are told, a tree

  Of danger tasted, nor to evil unknown

  Op’ning the way, but of divine effect

  To open eyes, and make them gods who taste.

  My eyes saw the words 3-­D, jumpy on the page,

  pick-­up-­able, like I could peel them back

  and find myself underneath

  in a ­whole flat world, white, 1-­D,

  but me.

  I stopped, said,

  I get it now . . .

  John said, I can tell.

  He said, so now you see how the world

  is the woman’s fault, the weaker, the impure sex,

  vain and in need of rule.

  I said, but it was a setup—

  what did they expect?

  even the angels ­couldn’t see through the bad guy’s disguise . . .

  she didn’t know what it was to die

  she didn’t know what evil was

  she didn’t know what disobey was

  she was too pure, too innocent,

  it ­doesn’t count . . .

  I said, louder and louder,

  what’s so bad about knowledge anyway?

  I said, didn’t God make that tree? that fruit?

  why? because he wanted them to grow up to be like him,

  because it would have been a boring story without it,

  that’s why!

  because they ­couldn’t really love until she did it—

  Eve did it for love . . .

  Maybe he had a plan,

  maybe it was a setup, a plan . . .

  maybe it was the way he wanted it.

  John frowned.

  He said, you are an ignorant girl,

  said, I ­can’t expect that a girl like you would know anything,

  said, I have been wasting my time . . .

  said, you’re nothing but a whore

  and it’s your own fault.

  I said, that’s the word you call me,

  but I am writing my own book of life

  and I say you are an old man and hateful,

  you wear weird glasses and thick,

  I like not you,

  give me my money.

  He gave me a little,

  and I said, more, more—­lots, or rip I up your book.

  So he gave me more and more,

  said, you’ve spoiled everything,

  you won’t see me again.

  I said, terrific.

  When I got out of that car,

  there was terrific Melli standing there,

  little girl all gold, all quiet smiles,

  and nothing was her fault

  and I knew something true.

  I was smiling with the knowledge of it—

  that if you say the word whore

  you can make a girl into something,

  but she can make words do things, too.

  I smiled to know

  that you ­can’t see a thing

  unless you put on words like glasses.

  Everything is just a wobbly vision without a word,

  something at the side of your eyes.

  Someone can turn you into a stone statue

  for everyone to stare at,

  but they can never take away

  that moustache you drew on it.

  I said, Widow,

  I figured out how to not be bossed around

  by other people’s words,

  and Widow, in my own story,

  I am now going to name you . . . Paula.

  Widow looked at me

  and she looked up and she said,

  Paula.

  She said, Paula.

  Paula.

  She said, I like it—

  Paula Paula Paula . . .

  and then

  just then

  Someone was on Widow

  right there in the street.

  He pushed her down, punched her—

  I screamed stop stop but he had her down—

  I wrapped my arms around Melli

  her mouth open lips pulled back

  but no sound

  and no sound from the punching

  not like TV

  no sound

  just Widow’s air coming out of her—

  Widow ­wouldn’t scream for him

  ­wouldn’t cry for him

  ­wouldn’t beg . . .

  I let go of Melli, said run run

  but she didn’t run

  just stood with her mouth open

  and nothing coming out.

  I stopped the next car,

  ran in front of it,

  said, call 911 please please please

  and then I ran my ­whole self right over that line,


  I screamed for Widow, stop! stop!

  I kicked him hard, but he was so high on hurting her

  that he didn’t feel it, not a thing,

  except how good he felt for hurting her

  his face loose with plea­sure . . .

  The police pulled up

  quiet, calm . . .

  and right away the guy was up off Widow and running . . .

  Widow looked at me, her eyes like bullets,

  her mouth bleeding, but her eyes saying,

  don’t you cry

  don’t you feel sorry for me

  don’t you, girl.

  The police pulled up

  and I bent over Widow

  who was bleeding down her legs

  and out of her nose

  and her face had teeth marks on it.

  Widow was all eyes for me

  and she smiled with blue lips

  and blood teeth

  and I touched her forehead,

  said, Paula.

  The police

  pushed me aside

  and one said to Widow, stand up, get up, get up,

  and she did, loose, like a bag of bones

  and they put handcuffs on her.

  He went that way, I shouted, that way,

  you could catch him!

  But they didn’t chase him.

  Instead they dragged Widow to the car,

  and one put his hands on her breasts

  as he pushed her in.

  I leaned on the car door

  and she said angels

  and I said no

  and she said yes

  and I said no that is dumb,

  said it with the last of my brains

  running out of my eyes—

  She smiled a hard smile,

  a smile with teeth like stones,

  and she said,

  don’t you let this hurt you, baby,

  she said,

  you owe me a toe.

  I said, you are smart, Paula,

  no angels ­here, no tricky corners—

  But she smiled her blood at me,

  said, don’t you let them do that to you,

  and I had to step back fast

  so the car ­wouldn’t run over my feet.

  I turned

  and Melli

  still there, still there—

  too scared to run.