Angel Landing

by Alice Hoffman

  THREE

  FINN’S PAIN HAD TRANSFORMED the room; his memory had leapt across the white walls, the frost on the window was the same shade of blue as his eyes. I watched him without daring to breathe: he was still the child bleeding in the emergency room, still that boy listening to the slam of the screen door behind him. Outside, it had begun to snow, but here, in my office, it was as hot as that Indian summer day when Finn ran away for the last time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to that boy who stood above Montauk Point, waiting for night to fall. He was there, in the parking lot edged with freedom, surrounded by a secrecy sweeter than oranges and honey.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Finn said. “I didn’t tell you that for pity. That’s just the way it was. The way it still is,” he said. “When you’re dangerous they can sense it. When you’re angry they know. And they’ll know about Angel Landing, they don’t need any proof.”

  “You can fight them,” I said. “Carter will help.”

  “How do I fight?” Finn asked. “How do I plead? I’m guilty.” He shook his head sadly. “I am.”

  It was true and there was no way to change it, even if he was only guilty of anger in the first degree, guilty of a rage purer than heat.

  “I wish I could just make your anger disappear,” I said. “And maybe, in time, it will.”

  “I think I’ve had it,” Finn said. “I want to stop talking now.”

  I looked at my watch; it was time to meet Carter. “We have to go,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Finn whispered. Beads of light fell across his face, but the scar on his left cheek was hidden; he looked like a man who had been trapped between the darkness and the light.

  I put my files away, reached for my coat, and then went to the door. “We really have to go,” I said. We left Outreach together. On Main Street the snow was heavy; we walked blindly to the lot where Finn’s car was parked, we were close to each other, fighting the wind, inhaling flakes of snow each time we breathed. When we reached the Camaro I waited inside while Finn cleaned off the windshield with his hands. We could have been anyone: friends, a couple, two people who had known each other for years ready to drive to the market, to dinner, to another state.

  Alone in the car, I grew curious. I examined the leftovers from Finn’s life which littered the Camaro. Empty soda cans and crushed cigarette packages, a toolbox on the floor of the rear seat, a woolen blanket. Only the barest signs of life. Quickly, still watching as Finn went around to clean the rear windshield, I opened the glove compartment. There were no clues: a Rolling Stones tape, a map of New York; matches and maps instead of souvenirs and mementos. I clicked the lock shut just as Finn opened the door. When he sat behind the wheel and rubbed his frozen hands together his breath filled the car, it steamed up the mirror, the windows grew foggy and the world outside grew oddly dim. On the way to the Cove Theater the streets were slippery, drifts had already begun to form on the sidewalk. We didn’t say a word until Finn parked in the movie theater lot.

  “Don’t worry,” I said to Finn. “Carter is easy to talk to.”

  Finn held tight to the steering wheel, paralyzed, rooted. I touched his shoulder. I left my hand there, lingering. “I’ll be with you,” I said.

  We walked hand in hand to the ticket booth, but we didn’t dare look at each other; we pretended that our hands were crazy rebels, our fingers had minds of their own, they alone had decided to touch. The film playing was a French drama, subtitled; the price of admission was only a dollar fifty, but I refused to let Finn pay for me. And when I had convinced him that I didn’t mind paying for myself I realized I didn’t have a cent in my pocket; I hadn’t had time to think of anything as practical as money.

  “Just this once,” I whispered as Finn paid for our tickets. As if there would be other times, as if we would continue to go to movies together, monthly, weekly, every night.

  The theater was nearly empty: a few old women in heavy winter coats, a teenaged couple sat in the last row, already whispering and sighing. Carter sat on the left side, his boots propped up on the seat in front of him.

  “That’s him,” I nodded as I led Finn down the aisle. I sat in the middle, between Carter and Finn; introducing them just as the lights went down.

  “I was starting to get worried,” Carter said, stroking my leg. “I thought you two had decided to run out on me.” He reached across and shook Finn’s hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Natalie has told me all about you.”

  “Oh?” Finn said, staring at me.

  “Not all,” I whispered. “Just some basic information.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ve found a lawyer?” Carter said.

  “Have you?” I asked.

  “I haven’t found a lawyer,” Carter grinned. “I’ve found the lawyer. Reno LeKnight.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said. Reno LeKnight had defended some of the most famous criminals on the East Coast; one year he had flown to Utah to defend a man known as the Saline Killer. LeKnight had worked for activists of the left and the right, and although his politics were questionable, his winning streak wasn’t—he played for keeps, his record was a hundred percent.

  “You’re going to have Reno LeKnight defending you!” I beamed at Finn.

  “Who is he?” Finn asked.

  “He defended the Saline Killer,” I said. Michael Finn shook his head. “The antiwar activists in New Haven?” Finn shrugged. “Well, he’s famous,” I said. “And he wins.”

  “How much does he charge?” Finn asked.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Carter told Finn. “Reno will have to contact you. I’ll need your phone number.” Finn wrote his number on a scrap of paper Carter had handed him. “I’ve got to tell you,” Carter said, “I think what you did was terrific. A really courageous act.”

  “Oh yeah?” Finn said cautiously.

  Carter slipped the paper with Finn’s number into his work-boot. “For safekeeping,” he explained. “You know, I can arrange to get you on the Soft Skies speakers’ roster after your trial,” he told Finn. “We might be able to work something out. I’ve been looking for a good assistant. Someone with your sort of background.”

  “I’m not interested,” Finn said quickly.

  “When I think of the political implications of your trial my head spins.” Carter sighed.

  “I’m not interested in politics,” Finn said.

  “Oh?” Carter said, annoyed. “What about the fate of mankind? Interested in that?”

  “Carter,” I warned, “this hasn’t been easy for him.”

  “It hasn’t been easy for any of us,” Carter said. “Do you know anything about radiation?” he asked Finn.

  I could almost see Finn retreating, swallowed up in distrust. It was too much for him to think about the fate of mankind, he could barely stand or examine his own dreams.

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Finn said, too softly for Carter to hear. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “I can give you statistics that will make your hair curl,” Carter went on. “The stillborn children and animals, the deformed lizards and birds; radiation levels that will last forever.”

  “Forever,” Finn said, slowly, as if tasting the word.

  Carter grew more and more excited. As I often did, I now envied Carter his ability to care; somehow he was convinced that he would change the world. “You can really help,” Carter was saying to Finn. “You can get on the witness stand and let people in this town know how easily accidents can happen in a power plant.”

  “Please,” Finn said. “Please.”

  “Your trial is going to blow this town right open,” Carter grinned.

  “Listen,” I said to Carter, “I think we should go home.” As Carter’s voice rose, moviegoers began to notice us. An usher patrolled the aisles, glaring at Carter’s boots resting on the faded velvet seat in front of him.

  “Home?” Carter said. “I’ve got to go to Manhattan to see Reno LeKnight.”


  “Right now?” Finn said. “Tonight?”

  “Can’t you do it tomorrow?” I asked Carter.

  Carter shook his head, then he leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you,” he whispered into my ear. “Thank you for giving him to Soft Skies. You don’t know what this means to me.” Carter threaded a scarf around his neck. “LeKnight will want to meet with you this week,” he told Finn. “Either at his office in Manhattan or his beach house. But don’t worry—I’ll arrange the meeting, I’ll take care of everything.”

  Finn and I both stood to let Carter pass. “You’re terrific,” Carter whispered to me. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he nodded to Finn as the two men shook hands once more.

  When Carter had gone, Finn and I stayed on. We sat side by side, aware of the absence of Carter’s body, the absence of his hope.

  “Do you want some popcorn?” Finn asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered. Carter was out in the parking lot, starting his old MG. Although the roads were treacherous, and the drive would take nearly two hours, Carter would sing all the way into Manhattan, he would step on the gas, a man with a mission.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Finn whispered. “I can’t breathe.”

  The air inside the theater did seem too heavy, as if it was years old, breathed in one too many times.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Finn said.

  We stood and found our way back up the aisle. Once outside, breathing was much easier; the snow came down harder than before.

  “Don’t forget our appointment on Thursday,” I reminded Finn. “At two.”

  “I’ll drive you home,” Finn said to me.

  I shook my head. “Someone could see us together. I have to remain objective if you want me to be a witness at your trial.”

  “But it’s snowing,” Finn said.

  “I can walk.”

  Finn nodded and turned up his collar. I watched as he went to the parking lot; I could see him beside the Camaro, his long hair as wet as if he’d just stepped from a shower. Without bothering to make certain no one was watching, I walked to the car and got in. Finn didn’t look up as I walked across the parking lot, he didn’t smile when he saw me get inside. And when he got in and sat behind the wheel he didn’t flinch or say a word; he started the engine and we left together.

  “Toward the harbor,” I said. “The last house on Main Street belongs to my aunt. That’s where I live.”

  “And Sugarland?” Finn asked as he strained to see the road through the falling snow.

  “Carter lives in his office. That’s where he’s happiest.”

  I borrowed a cigarette from Finn and lit it. “What do you do every day now that the plant is closed?” I asked, still curious about the details of his life.

  Finn glared at me. “I do a lot of things,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said, frightened by his sudden anger.

  “I’ve got every minute of the day planned,” Finn continued. “First, in the morning, I’m nervous. That takes up a lot of time. In the afternoon I’ll start to get anxious and that’ll be good for a couple of hours. And then, by the time night comes, I’m just plain scared.”

  Finn had pulled up in front of Minnie’s house; smoke rose from the chimney. Finn stared straight ahead, on edge, on fire, ready to step on the gas the minute I was out of the car, ready to drive away, racing toward the center of his own dark fears. The car was in neutral and I could have gotten out without looking back. I could have said goodbye, good luck, I’ll see you at the office, I’ll see you in court. I could have asked Finn to stick with the facts and keep his sorrow to himself. Instead, just before opening the car door, I turned to him. “Come in and have a drink,” I said.

  “What?” Finn said, turning to look at me.

  I repeated my offer and then waited for Finn on the sidewalk; the Connecticut wind was still rising, blowing drifts across the front lawn. Inside the Camaro, Finn looked out at me. Then he turned off the engine and took his hands off the wheel. I was facing the other way, but I heard his door slam shut, I heard him follow me across the lawn and up the porch steps. As I opened the front door I saw that Minnie was watching us from the parlor window, but when I took Finn into that room to wait while I went to look for something to drink, the parlor was empty.

  “I’ll be right back,” I told Finn. “I hope Scotch is all right. There’s only that and some sherry.”

  “Scotch?” Finn said, as if the word was terribly foreign, too difficult for his tongue.

  “Wait right here,” I said.

  I found Minnie in the kitchen, washing dishes.

  “What are you doing with a married man?” Minnie asked casually, without bothering to look up.

  “I’m going to borrow some of your Scotch,” I said, reaching for glasses.

  “I don’t like it,” Minnie said. “Not one bit.”

  “The truth is, he’s not married.”

  Minnie scowled. “First you tell me he’s married, now you tell me he’s not. What should I believe?”

  “What’s the difference,” I said, heading for the door. “Married or not, he’s only here for a quick drink.”

  Minnie pointed a finger at me. “He’s the bomber,” she nodded. “I was right. I knew it the minute I saw him.”

  “All right, all right. He’s the accused bomber, although nobody’s actually accused him yet. But he has decided to turn himself in; Carter’s arranging it all.”

  “Carter?” Minnie said. “Couldn’t you find someone a little more reliable?”

  “I want you to keep quiet about all this,” I warned my aunt.

  “Who would I tell?” Minnie said as she poured boiling water into the teapot. “As far as I’m concerned, good luck to him. It’s too bad he didn’t have a bigger bomb, because before you know it they’ll have Angel Landing going again.”

  “It wasn’t a bomb, it was a valve. And the whole thing was really an accident.”

  “An accident?” Minnie shrugged. “Sure. If you want to believe that, sure. But what I want to know is, why are you suddenly going around with a bomber? After everything I told you.”

  “I’m not going around with anyone,” I said as I walked into the hallway. “Except for Carter,” I added.

  Minnie followed me into the hallway, drying her hands with a towel. “Did you invite this bomber into my house or didn’t you?”

  “I’m entitled to have guests, whoever I want. If I want to invite a murderer over for tea, I’m entitled,” I told my aunt. I was afraid that if Minnie approached Finn the way she had in my office she would frighten him away. “You can’t really complain,” I said to Minnie. “I rarely have guests.”

  “Have some guests.” Minnie shrugged.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” I said. “I have no strong connections, no real responsibilities. I should be having more guests than I do, and I should be able to entertain them alone.”

  Minnie turned away from me. There, in the entrance hallway of the empty boarding house, as the cold draft sneaked in beneath the door, Minnie seemed to be shrinking, she was losing inches with every second.

  “Oh come on,” I said, backing down. “Have your tea with us.” Minnie glared at me. “I want you to.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that?” Minnie said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. Join us.”

  Minnie shook her head. “I never had children,” she said, “because I never wanted them. I was busy, I had my husband, what did I need them for?”

  “How often do you get a chance to spend time with a bomber, Minnie,” I said, afraid of what secret sorrow had just been triggered.

  “Of course,” Minnie went on, “even if you have children, there’s no guarantee. I see it all the time. Do children visit their parents at the Mercy Home? Do they even know they’re alive? No,” Minnie shook her head, “there’s never any guarantee.”

  I balanced the Scotch and glasses in one hand, and with my free hand I reached for Minnie. I touched her to reas
sure myself; she wasn’t fading, she was still blood and bones, still Minnie. “What’s gotten into you?” I said. “Come on.”

  When we reached the parlor, Finn was still standing in the spot where I had left him; still wearing his leather jacket, hands in his pockets, ill at ease.

  “Here we are,” I said. “You’ve already met my aunt.”

  “I’m having my tea with you,” Minnie said to Finn as I poured out drinks, “but don’t expect me to talk. You’re my niece’s guest, not mine.” Minnie sat in the easy chair, she leaned her elbows on the frayed lace doilies.

  “Why don’t you take your coat off?” I asked Finn as I handed him his drink.

  “I don’t think so,” Finn said. “I’m nervous all the time,” he explained to me. “I like to be ready to get up and leave.”

  “Nervous,” Minnie laughed. “You should have thought of that before you bombed the power plant.”

  I cringed and tried to smile. “She guessed,” I told Finn.

  “Revolutionaries, criminals, and saints all need a certain sort of character,” Minnie said. “They can’t afford to be nervous.”

  “It wasn’t a bomb,” Finn said. “It was only a valve.”

  “You want to take my advice?” Minnie said. “I’m old, so I know a thing or two. Forget about being nervous, you don’t have any control over what will eventually happen to you. So save your energy, because if you want to know what it is that’s going to happen, I’ll tell you.” Minnie smiled sweetly, as if she had a marvelous secret. “You just get old. That’s what will happen. No way around it.”