On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

  Equal parts relief he couldn’t see Phil and desperation at his recognition mixed through me. I pushed the button a few more times to make it hurry. Above the door, the number three illuminated. Marty stood, his expression suggesting he wasn’t happy to see me here.

  “It’s okay, Marty. It’s Ric Fell, like he said,” Phil said.

  “Save your breath.” I did my best ventriloquist impression out of the side of my mouth. “He can’t see or hear you. And he doesn’t recognize me.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Marty said, shuffling his feet like he wanted to approach, but the kid with the blocks pinned him behind the coffee table on one end while two magazine-reading adults boxed him in on the other. I flicked a glance up again. Fifth floor.

  “You’re mistaken,” I lied.

  “No, you’re the guy who tried to pass himself off as Ric Fell.”

  He stepped awkwardly over the magazine-cluttered table, catching his toe on the edge and hopping on one foot for a second to regain his balance. The elevator dinged the car’s arrival.

  The time between the sound of the digital bell and the shush of the doors sliding open lasted an eternity as Marty started toward us, fists clenched at his side. When the doors opened, two men rushed out bumping my arm and passing through Phil’s spirit as they took a hard left toward the I.C.U. I backed into the elevator and hammered the ‘M’ button as Marty crossed the floor.

  Rage twisted his face. “What did you do to Phil?”

  For a second, I thought he’d get his arm between the elevator doors, prevent our departure, but they surged closed before he made it. The car jerked a little, sending me down to the hospital’s main floor with the spirit of one of my old drinking buddies in tow. We stood beside each other, quietly watching floor numbers tick past as I steadied my breathing to calm the gallop of my heart.

  “What happened to you, Phil?” I asked without taking my eyes off the glowing numbers.

  “I guess I should ask you the same thing.”

  “You might say I got a new job.” The statement might have sounded humorous sitting in a bar; not so much in this situation. “I expected to find you dying of cancer.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “The marks under those bandages don’t look like cancer.”

  “No. Some guy did it to me. He jumped me going home from Sully’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. Never saw his face. Kept muttering about ‘the cost of sins must be repaid’ while he was carving me.”

  I cringed--my murder seemed gentle compared to Phil’s. “That sucks.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Poe stood outside, hair disheveled, a worried look on her face. I didn’t bother to ask how she beat us down here.

  “We have to hurry.” She grabbed my arm. I gestured for Phil to follow.

  “Carrions?”

  “No. Security.”

  We hurried toward the exit, Poe pulling me along, and me pulling Phil in turn. Patients with dim and gloomy auras and their concerned-looking visitors jumped out of our way, startled by the unexpected commotion.

  “Hey, you. Stop.”

  I quickened my pace, reminiscent of an Olympic speed walker. I didn’t need to look to know they were yelling at me.

  “You, in the black trench coat. Stop.”

  Thanks for clearing up the confusion.

  Still holding Phil’s arm, I broke into a run. Since no one else was able to see Phil’s spirit, I must have looked crazy: a guy dressed like a used car salesman in bad weather running through the hospital toting an invisible bag. I determined right then to either ditch the coat or get a fedora so I’d look like a Dashiell Hammett gumshoe. No one respects a car salesman.

  A good Samaritan tried to tackle me and I felt a twinge of remorse for side-stepping and punching him in the head, but when someone’s soul depends on you, you gotta do what you gotta do. We burst through the sliding doors, sprinted past a group in hospital-issued wheelchairs gathered for a smoke, and took a left. The sound of polished black dress shoes beating pavement followed close behind. At least no one shot fireballs at us.

  “Keep going,” Poe urged. “I’ll distract them.”

  She fell back as Phil’s spirit and I pushed on. People glared at me running by, cursing the inconvenience. At the next street, we weaved our way across traffic and took a right. I glanced back to see how we were doing.

  A block away, I saw the golden glow cast by my guardian angel.

  ***

  I chose the booth in a corner of Denny’s, far from the other late-nighters drawn to the twenty-four-hour restaurant. Although Sondra turned out to be lovely, I was too hungry for another interruption-by-choking. Knifings and gunfights would be none-too-popular, either.

  “Gabe said angels don’t need to eat, so why do you?”

  Poe sucked thoughtfully at her chocolate shake then pulled her lips away leaving the straw standing erect in the thick drink.

  “I like the taste,” she said with a smile. She really was quite cute in spite of the prominent nose. “And angels do eat, just not the same thing humans do.”

  “Yeah. Manna, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  I stirred the blob of ketchup on the edge of my plate with the end of a French fry. No matter how many times Father Dominic gave me shit for it, I’d never given up the childhood habit of playing with my food.

  “What exactly did you do back there?”

  Shyly, she glanced away. “Showed them my true face.”

  “You mean...?”

  “There will probably be a story in the paper tomorrow about people claiming to be visited by an angel.” Her smile broadened. “And a few more people than usual in church on Sunday.”

  “Do you get some kind of bonus for that?”

  I laughed a little, then went back to my half-eaten burger and pool of ketchup, the memory of Phil’s wounds quickly draining my humor. Upside down crosses, five-pointed stars, biblical references. Years of neglect left my recall cloudy, but the references inscribed on his flesh came from Revelations: Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the End of Days, all that stuff.

  Shit.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Three days. No scroll, no Gabe; even Poe didn’t drop by. Maybe I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t. Instead, one thought ran through my mind:

  Did I do something wrong?

  How was I going to get another shot at my life if there were no scrolls, no souls to lead to their salvation? I paced restlessly.

  In the afternoon, I couldn’t bear waiting anymore and swapped license plates with another car, threw away the parking tickets collected under my wiper, and drove to the old neighborhood to sit outside Rae’s house for a while. No one home. I left before anyone got suspicious enough to take note of the color of the car and the numbers on the stolen tags, then spent some time cruising. My aimless wandering took me by Trevor’s high school where a gaggle of teenage boys in blue shorts, green shirts and mud-caked shoes ran around the field chasing a black-and-white patchwork ball. At his mother’s insistence, Trevor played soccer, though I didn’t know if he’d be among those kids.

  I parked the Escort and headed toward the bleachers sprinkled with cheering parents. Halfway there, I spied Rae perched in the front row. My heart jumped. I stopped, staring at her until a line judge ordered me off the field.

  I cringed as the bleachers creaked under my steps when I took up a position four rows behind her. I didn’t want her to turn around. If she saw me and didn’t recognize me, it would break my heart all over again. Worse, though...what if she did ?

  She’d colored her hair since I played peeping-Tom through her living room window--blond highlights to make her look younger. It looked good. I surveyed the sparse crowd, checked up and down the sidelines: no Ashton. Probably out bringing home the bacon.

  Was she with him while she was with me?

  I averted my gaze and scanned t
he field for my lanky fifteen-year-old amongst two teams of lanky fifteen-year-olds. Right away, I saw Trevor slouching in the backfield, barely following the play, arms crossed in front of his chest like a soccer field might be the last place on earth he wanted to spend his afternoon. I snickered at how out of place he looked, but felt for him, too. Like a good parent, Rae insisted he do two extracurricular activities--one physical and one artsy-fartsy. I hoped drama was working better for him.

  The game ended fifteen minutes after my arrival. Trevor touched the ball once in that time, intercepting an errant pass and clearing it up-field without looking. The other team brought it back down and scored, but, as the saying goes, it’s not whether you win or lose, it’s that you play because your mother told you to. Trevor plodded to the bleachers and looked disgusted when Rae ruffled his shaggy hair. I shuffled a couple levels closer to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  “You were fine,” Rae said. She’d lost weight--too skinny. The sound of her voice made the back of my neck prickle.

  “No, Mom. I cost us the game. Were you even watching?” He looked at his feet and kicked at an imaginary pebble in the grass.

  “Winning isn’t everything, Trevor.”

  “That’s not what Ric would have said.”

  My heart swelled, but I could practically hear her face go stony as she replied.

  “Ric didn’t know anything about winning.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that, Mom.”

  She sighed. “It’s how you play the game, Trevor. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Her words made my jaw clench. Platitudes and clichés were a trademarked commodity of Rae’s, the kind of habit that’s endearing when you’re falling in love with someone, but becomes a wedge between you when things go south. Like revealing your son’s not really yours does.

  Or like drinking too much.

  Damn conscience.

  Does he miss me?

  After Rae and I split, I did my best to keep things close with Trevor, but she didn’t make it easy. Neither did my drinking. The missed birthday before I died was the last in a string of disappointments. Why would he miss me? Rae’s revelation hung over all our interactions like a toxic fog. After eleven years believing otherwise, someone else was his biological father. I’d never asked Trevor how it made him feel, never told him how I felt.

  “You have to play,” Rae said in response to something Trevor mumbled.

  He muttered again in the teenage language intelligible only when standing close and paying rapt attention. Whatever he said, Rae didn’t like it. She flapped her arms, an exasperated gesture I’d seen enough times that, if you strung them all together, she’d have taken flight. When she spoke, her voice carried the angry edge that always accompanied the arm flap.

  “Just gather your stuff and meet me at the car.”

  She left, stomping across the grass toward the parking lot, an angry gesture rendered impotent by the damp soil. Trevor watched her go for a second before sitting to remove his cleats. I seized the opportunity, the bleachers shaking as I descended to sit beside him--not too close.

  “Good game,” I said.

  “Right.” He looked sideways at me, scooted away six inches. “Do I know you?”

  “Uh, no. I knew your dad.”

  Trevor slipped off his cleats, vainly attempted to brush mud from his white socks, then pulled his street shoes out of his backpack and stowed the soccer shoes.

  “Oh yeah? Which one?”

  Someone poked a hat pin through my left ventricle. “Ric.”

  “He’s dead,” he said, too matter-of-fact for my liking.

  “I know.” I resisted the urge to put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him. To comfort me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.”

  My chest shuddered; a million things to say flooded my mind. When was the last time I told him I loved him? Too long ago.

  “Ric cared for you very much, you know.”

  He stood and pulled the pack onto his shoulder.

  “Why did he leave then?”

  I looked into his face, past his long bangs into his eyes and saw the hurt in them, the pain caused not just by my death, but by my selfishness before that. A knot lodged itself in the back of my throat, holding back the words of apology and explanation threatening to pour from my mouth.

  “Trevor!”

  We both looked across the field at Rae standing beside the green GMC Jimmy we bought together ten years before. It had been old and rusted when we got it. There was a crack in the windshield now, too.

  “Let’s go!”

  Without another word, Trevor trudged toward his mom. I suppressed the urge to wave at her.

  “I didn’t leave,” I said as he went.

  ***

  I found Poe lying stomach-down on the bed in my motel room, feet on the pillows and head at the foot, watching television. Any other woman, I might have considered her showing up in my room unexpectedly a come-on, but angels must be above that sort of thing. Too bad.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “I’m an angel.”

  No more answer necessary. She punched the power button on the remote and set it on the bedside table. Her ponytail swung as she maneuvered herself around to sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

  “What are you doing here? Am I in danger?”

  “Not sure.” She grabbed a newspaper from the pillow and tossed it at me. I’d noticed her demeanor change, become more self-assured, since nursing me through my turbo-charged withdrawal. The change suited her. “Have you seen this?”

  “I don’t do news.” I looked down at the paper. “Didn’t pay attention when I was alive. It’s never good news.”

  “No. Neither’s this.”

  I picked it up, indulging her.

  “Another school shooting? Am I supposed to harvest those souls?” Every time I saw a story like that, my guts clenched. What if it happened at Trevor’s school?

  “No, the other side.”

  I flipped it over to a story titled: Revelations Reaper Strikes Again and skimmed it. Some wacko was killing people, carving biblical references into their flesh. Like Phil. “What’s the world coming to?”

  “Including your friend Phil, four deaths in the last two weeks.”

  I looked up from the story. “How come I didn’t get scrolls?”

  “Because they were unplanned deaths, Icarus.”

  “Ric.” My eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like: we didn’t expect these people to die.”

  My head felt like it turned into a helium balloon threatening to float off my neck.

  Why do angels talk in riddles?

  “I don’t get it. Aren’t you guys in charge of this stuff?”

  Poe sighed and shuffled across the bed to sit on the edge closest to me. “When you get a scroll, it’s because the committee decided it’s that person’s time.”

  “Committee?”

  “Never mind. Doesn’t matter right now.” She tapped the newspaper in my hand. “These killings weren’t sanctioned.”

  “Is that the case with all murders? Was my death--?”

  “Planned.”

  I frowned. “Who’s on this committee?”

  “Murder is a tool. Just because someone kills someone else, it doesn’t make them evil. You’re all instruments of God.”

  “What about suicides?”

  “That belongs to the other side. Listen to the bible on that one.”

  I glanced at the paper again and rubbed my chin with my free hand. Stubbly; time for a shave.

  “What about Phil? This looks like the same guy, but I got a scroll about Phil.”

  “Survived the attack. Since his time was coming, anyway, it was decided to collect him early and save him the pain.”

  “Considerate.”

  “Unplanned deaths happen, but not often.” She tapped the paper again. “Read it. Look at the names of the victims.”

  I did
what she said. I glanced up from the paper at Poe, then read the names again and felt the flesh on my arms go cold.

  I knew them all.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Poe shook her head, concern on her face. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean ‘we don’t know’?” I tapped the story with my knuckle as I read off the names. “Phil Taggart, drinking buddy. Elizabeth Elton, upstairs neighbor at my first apartment. Tony McSweeny, youth league soccer coach. Orlando Albert, drug supplier.”

  The last name gave me pause. A vision of the yellow-toothed, shaggy-bearded man who gave me drugs flashed through my mind and I realized why he’d seemed so familiar. He didn’t have a beard before, and his teeth had been better, but the same man who supplied me drugs in life did it after my death. Shame kept me from telling Poe.

  “I know all these people. What the hell, Poe?”

  “Coincidence?”

  I threw the paper onto the bed. “This is no coincidence. Someone’s targeting people I know.”

  “Fallout. Sometimes, when there’s a new harvester, the other guys try to convince them they shouldn’t be doing it.”

  The bed creaked when I sat down beside her. “It might work.”

  “No.” She grabbed my shoulder. “You can’t stop. There are souls who need you.”

  My gut hurt on two levels: that my friends were dying--probably because of me--and because there went three more souls that could have gotten me closer to having Trevor back. She was right: I couldn’t stop.

  “How many do I need, Poe?”

  “How many what?”

  “Souls. How many before I get my life back?”

  She looked at me with a blank expression before answering. “I don’t know.”

  A long moment passed. I stared at the old carpet under my feet, fighting to ignore Poe’s hand on my shoulder and the feeling it spilled down my arm. This was no time to think about how long it had been since a woman last touched me. But Poe wasn’t really a woman, was she? She took her hand from my shoulder as though sensing my thoughts. Could she read them like the archangels?

  “What happens to the souls after an unplanned death?”

  “You know what happens if the Carrions get them.”