by J A Campbell
"Ain't got any."
"You don't have any. At least speak properly."
"Yes, sir."
"Why do you not live at the orphanage?"
He shrugs.
"Never mind, I see the sores and bruises of those boys. Better to roam the streets than to suffer the hand of Olaf, eh?"
He nods. The doctor corrected his poor speech so strictly he fears to utter an answer that might bring an end to his treatment.
"Where did you get the flowers?"
He shrugs again.
"You didn't steal them?"
A head shake.
"No matter then. They please my wife. I'm going to give you this." He writes in a beautiful script on a piece of precious paper. "It'll help with your cough. Stay away from sleeping near the river. Drink water from the fountains when you can. Come back next Thursday with more flowers and I'll check on you again."
"Thank you, sir, but I can't pay the druggist."
"Tell him to place it to my charge. Here, let me write it for you." He scribbles again and holds the paper out.
The beggar takes it. "Thank you, sir. I ain't...you're very kind."
The doctor tousles with his hair as a father would a son's. "See you next week."
Afraid, he doesn't go to the pharmacy the first week. The second week he does. The third he feels a little better.
* * *
He leans against the lamppost once more and looks at his dying garden. He shakes the brown bottle and looks at the tiny amount of liquid remaining there. His forehead burns with fever and he doesn't see the doctor until tomorrow.
The flowers wilt. The heat beats down on them day after day. He brings water when he can. Opens the dying petals and scatters seeds over the rich soil. The sun shines too strong without the shadow of clouds or rain.
"Driest summer in decades," he hears the old men say.
He toils on. Flowers serve as currency. Until last week he felt much better.
Thursday, on his way downtown after delivering flowers and seeing the doctor, he saw the dog standing on his hind legs digging through the trash behind the bakery.
Bread, he thought, energy giving bread. Even days old and dry and covered with mold, bread fills his belly like nothing else. Pocketing the brown bottle of medicine he walked over. The dog eyed him and growled. Not an entirely uncommon situation.
He reached for a stale loaf to call his own, and the dog bit him.
He howled in pain. Blood welled up where teeth punctured the skin. He dropped the bread and backed away. The dog kept munching away.
The next night he struck the dog with his crutch while it slept. It whimpered and ran away. It seemed now that the dog would have the last laugh after all.
He looks at his hand. Red and swollen, six fat lines run up his arm from the teeth marks. Monday the fever struck. Tuesday it got better, today worse again. The red lines thicken; the swelling threatens to split his skin.
The bucket sloshes against his bad leg as he limps across the lot. Spread seeds. Water the flowers; Pink, red, yellow, and orange. Once open to the sky, their heads now bow low.
He finds himself on his hands and knees, head swimming, pain unbearable. He plucks the best of the pitiful plants and struggles to his feet. He will go see the doctor a day early.
He staggers from post to post, sweat stinging his eyes. The crutch and his bad leg are a constant hindrance.
Staggers up the steps and strikes the door as hard as his weakened condition allows. The doctor's wife responds to the timid tapping.
He sways, holding out the flowers. She snatches them from his trembling hand.
"Come quickly, Ham! It's the boy!" He hears her call out to her husband, and then he falls face first into their home.
Zach
Mom pulls the stocking hat down over my bald head, and pats me on the shoulder. She cries a lot.
I have cancer and there's nothing I can do about it. Mom and Dad try to tell me it's okay, but I hear them at night and I have a computer. I'm smart for my age, and I know my chances.
Not good. Most of my friends talk about what they want to be when they grow up: Firemen, policemen, miners, doctors, and vets. I don't think I will ever grow up so I'm trying to make the most of every day. If I grow up, I want to be an angel.
Dad honks the horn and I grab my skis. My legs are really tired, but I don't want to tell him. I want to ski today until I can't any more. Any time he offers to take me, I go with my dad. Mom worries, but he argues with her. After all, what could the harm be? Either I die doing something I want to do, or I just die.
Death isn't scary to me. I already see the angels. They talk to me from time to time. Usually it's when I'm in the hospital and the doctors are giving me the special drugs or an I.V. of some sort. I know what the stuff does, even if they don't want me to.
The medicine kills cells. Most of the time it kills the cells they want it to, or at least tries to stunt their growth. It kills good cells, too, the stuff that makes up me. I'm Zach, I'm twelve, and they tell me I am very brave. I don't feel brave though. I feel scared.
I'm dying. I don't know when. But today I'm going skiing with my dad.
* * *
It's called a terrain park, but it's not really terrain. At least that's what Dad says. Man-made obstacles aren't really terrain at all. They're anti-terrain. He comes in here with me because he loves me. He even learned to slide rails and do the C-box. The thing my dad is good at is the jumps: big air. Even though the tricks he does are pretty old, I still cheer.
He's coming over the jump now, and I hold the video camera as steady as I can. My hands are starting to shake, and I know I've pushed myself too hard. It's time to go in and rest my body. Get something to eat, hydrate a bit. What I really need is to go home but I don't want this day to be over.
He flies over the lip into view and does a simple 180, landing backwards. He skis up to me and spins around.
"How're you feeling, Zach?"
"I'm okay."
"I think we should go in, kiddo."
"One more run."
"Z-man..."
"Please, Dad."
He can't tell me no. We ski to the lift and head up one more time.
At the top I see the familiar sign: "6500 feet." I love the mountaintop, but I can hardly breathe now. One more run will be plenty for the day.
"Ready?"
"Race you down!" I take off. I skate a little at first to get some speed, even though I know he'll catch up to me.
The wind whips past me. My vision starts to blur, and I can't get enough air into my lungs. I try to cry out, but I feel the world tilting as I fall over. I feel my skis release and I leave them behind on the snow. I drop my poles, too, and hear Dad laughing. He thinks it's just one of my famous "Zach yard sale" crashes.
The sky twirls in my goggle-distorted vision as I spin down the hill on my back, unable to control myself. I slide for a really long time.
I finally stop, and I feel air gradually coming back into my lungs. Nothing hurts. I try to sit up, but I just don't have the strength. My head gets a few inches off the snow and then drops back.
Dad's face enters my vision, and his smile falters.
"Zach?"
I try to answer him, but I can hardly breathe. "Tired," I finally manage.
"Okay. I'm gonna get us some help."
He starts to shout and wave, and some other people ski over. Dad is here. It's going to be okay. So I rest.
* * *
There is music, sweet music. An angel is beside me.
"Is it time?"
"Not yet."
"It feels so good here."
"Your mother and father need you a bit longer."
"It feels good to rest."
He kisses me on the cheek. His wings brush my face as he turns to leave.
"Take me with you."
He keeps walking and doesn't answer.
* * *
"No more skiing."
"But he loves to sk
i."
"You heard the doctor. It's just too risky."
"It's what he wants to do."
"He's dying, Rick!"
"You think I don't know that? He's my son, too."
"No more skiing," I say from the bed. It's not the first time I've heard them argue and I doubt they will stay together when I'm gone. I've read the books and I know their odds, too. Life after death is hard even on earth.
"Z-man." He shoots her a dirty look that he thinks I don't see.
"Season's almost over, Dad, and I want to see the flowers."
"Flowers?"
"Remember that place we went to in California? All the flowers?"
"The one in Mendocino?"
"Yeah. I want to go there."
"Why, buddy?"
"I want to see spring again."
"You will." My mom starts to cry.
"How much time do I have left, Dad?"
"What do you mean? You have your whole life ahead of you."
"Dad,"
He puts his head down, sobbing. I start to tear up, too, but I have to be strong for them; for me, too, but mostly for them.
"Mom?"
She looks away. I grab my father's hand. "Daddy."
He looks up, the tears stopping. He wants to be strong for me and Mom, too, I can tell.
"A month, buddy, maybe six weeks unless a miracle happens."
"Okay." I feel sobs rising in my twelve year old chest, but I can't cry now. Not now.
"I'm done with school," I say. "I want to go see spring." Besides skiing, spring is my favorite time of year. It's only March in Northern Idaho though, and spring could be a long way away.
"Okay." Dad pats my arm, and Mom sobs and runs out of the room. He looks after her. "She'll be okay, Z-man."
"Dad, I may be only 12, but I'm not stupid. Try to stay with her when I'm gone. She's gonna be a mess for a while. I'm gonna be fine."
"Buddy..."
"Dad, I'll be with the angels, watching."
"Son, it's not that simple."
"Promise me you'll try, Dad."
"Okay."
"Promise."
So he did. He promised me he would try. Really, what more could I ask of him?
Abel
He lies on the bed, ice-soaked cloths pressed to his burning forehead from time to time. He sits up and coughs. A hand grips the back of his neck, and helps him remain upright. Sweet cold water touches his lips and he swallows eagerly. A second later, a shot of brandy follows. Sweet brandy, not like the stuff he's tasted on the streets.
He can't afford this. He knows he can't. Someone is giving it to him anyway. He swallows a fire that slides down to his belly and seems uncertain if it wants to stay. He tries to move his right hand, and it seems lighter than before. A throbbing pain slithers up his arm to the shoulder. He turns his head that direction but the hand behind his neck prevents him from going too far.
"Ham!" The familiar voice of the doctor's wife calls out. "He's awake! He's awake! Come quickly!"
His head spins and when she lets his neck go, his head falls recklessly back to the rough linen below. He closes his eyes, and on the inside of his eyelids a bright and blinding light shines. He tries to open them, but can't.
An imposing form materializes. Two snow-white wings sprout from its back. "Fear not." The bass of its voice vibrates his every nerve.
"You're an angel."
"How do you know?"
"Angels always say that first."
"Indeed we do. But yours are a fearful people."
"Am I dead?"
"Not yet. It is not yet time."
"I'm so cold."
The figure turns and walks away. He calls after it, but no answer comes. He feels hands slap his face then, rough hands shake his shoulders, and sound fills his world.
"Boy! Boy! Wake up! Wake up!"
Icy water cascades over his body, and he jumps but remains unable to reply. He feels strong hands lift his too light form, and a moment later he's immersed in icy water. It seems to turn to steam as it flashes onto his forehead.
It feels good. He eases into consciousness. The doctor's face is close to his and real candles burn in the background. Also in the background stands a winged figure that moves from shadow to shadow, visible by its dispelling of darkness. No one else seems to notice.
* * *
Hours flee the day. He murmurs in and out of sleep. He dreams of angel kisses and winged flight. He fades in and out of a room flickering with candlelight and people keeping watch over him. From time to time he hears them speaking of someone that must be him.
"The fever can't go any higher."
"Will he live?"
"He burns like a furnace."
"Nay, like a sun."
"Aye, the July sun."
Later: "He talks as he sleeps."
"Of what does he speak?"
"Of angels. Is the priest ready?"
"I pray we will have no need of him."
"Pray if you will. I will watch and call when we have need of him."
These speakers dressed in the yin and yang habits of the One True Church. He's not a believer, although his mother named him after the first son of Adam and Eve.
He sees the angels. The nuns don't, or at least they don't acknowledge them. He wonders how true their belief is.
He rises to the surface of consciousness once more. He sits up on his own, feeling oddly strong and better.
* * *
It takes the doctor a long time to come. He realizes he's no longer at the doctor's home. The convent, he imagines, or the home the Church runs for the urchins. He doesn't care which. He just wants to drop back into sleep.
"Stay with us," one says.
"It is a miracle you live at all!" The second nun crosses herself and bows her head.
"What do you mean?" He manages a whisper.
"The doctor will explain," the eldest of them states. They speak no more.
Time passes slowly. The doctor arrives. He waves the nuns from the room. "Abel, is it?"
"That's my name."
"It is better I call you that than ‘boy.'"
He smiles.
"Able, the dog was sick."
"So he made me sick, or sicker."
A head shake.
"Will I die?"
"I don't know."
"My hand?"
"Gone."
"Gone?"
The doctor lifts his injured arm and brings it into his sight. Abel feels him grab his hand, but when he looks there's nothing below his elbow.
For a moment he sobs. His eyes leak no water as his body is as dry as ashes. "Did you catch the bite in time?"
The doctor shakes his head, and Abel sees the tears standing in the corner of his eyes.
"Is that why I may not live?"
"Abel, I don't understand why you're this awake. You aren't getting better except..."
"The nuns mentioned a miracle."
"It's your only hope."
He looks again at where his arm should be, and down at his crippled leg. "I match."
"You match?"
"Bad hand. Bad leg. If I live, I match."
"I see."
"I want to sleep."
"I know. Do you pray?"
"No."
"Me either. If you were to take it up though, now would be the time."
"I may." He closes his eyes, and far away a winged figure walks toward him with deliberate steps.
The doctor watches as his chest rises and falls with increasing speed. A moment later, it stops. One last sigh escapes the lips of the beggar boy and rises to the celling, taking with it his soul. He speaks a word to a God he doesn't believe in, asking that God to take the boy's soul, if he's there at all.
From his mouth to the ears of God...
* * *
...to the lips of an angel. The angel leans over the boy and kisses him on the cheek. A form rises after the kiss, hovering over the boy and forming a new body, one with no limp and a whol
e arm. From the back of the figure sprout two wings. In moments they grow and mature.
"Where am I?"
"You are among the angels."
"I'm dead?"
"Your earthly life is over."
"What next then?"
"Follow me."
"What will I do?"
"You will tend the flower gardens of heaven."
Abel smiles and takes the hand of his new companion. Together they walk a few blocks. Abel wants to take a few flowers with him. Flowers he himself planted on earth. The angel waits as he navigates the debris of the empty lot and gathers a few blossoms.
Zach
The ribbon of the road unwound under the car. My parents took me to California. In Mendocino I saw rhododendrons, fuchsias, magnolias, azaleas, camellias, and a multitude of flowering shrubs. We walked over trails and bridges that forded streams. We walked through fern-covered canyons, and when I could walk no more, my father carried me.
We spent seven days in the gardens of Golden State Park. My father bought me a tiny camera, and I took hundreds of pictures of the daffodils surrounding the Dutch windmills and the cherry trees blooming in the Japanese Tea Garden. Near the end, my father rented a wheelchair and tirelessly wheeled me from place to place.
Mother often stayed behind in the hotel room. She avoided eye contact with me, and hardly looked at my father. She drank and thought I did not see or know. The vodka bottles came and went with the bottles of Listerine and the gum she popped between her teeth. As I got sicker and weaker, so did she.
In a restaurant on Fisherman's Wharf, I realized I couldn't go on any longer. You know the place, where they dump the seafood all over your table? I couldn't even crack my own crab legs. I sat back in the wheelchair that seemed my last home.
"Tomorrow we head down the coast."
"Dad, I can't." My breath came in ragged gasps. I felt dizzy.
"Buddy, sure you can."
"It's time, Dad. I need to rest."
"But you wanted..."
"I know."
He cried for the first time then. The rest of the meal he opened shells and fed me what little I could eat. We got back to the room and Mom took one look at me and started to cry.
