An Angel On Her Shoulder

by Dan Alatorre

  “Impossible?” I asked.

  Her shoulders slumped, her head hanging low. “For those who choose wrongly, it becomes a habit, then it becomes a way of life. Impossible. Yes, impossible.”

  “That seems a bit harsh.”

  She screamed, grabbing the table and heaving it. The colored scarf sailed through the air as the table crashed into a shelf, sending glass containers to the floor. “Do not mock the truth! Stop denying your aura. This is what make your inside feel sick when you see the policeman at the winery! Taggart.”

  I gasped. “Taggart! How—”

  “You want to puke the whole time you are talking to that policeman. Because inside you feel his corruption, his evil. You know he will make things go away for the old man.”

  My head was spinning. “How . . . how can you know this?”

  “Same as with the man you see in your head at the church,” she roared. “And when you confront with the animal on the tree stump as a child. Always you make your body fight against itself. Against your gift. Stop making yourself not see.”

  I sat there, flinching and exposed in the lone chair, holding my shaking hands up in front of me. Dahlia saw it all, everything inside me.

  “Life and death are real. Decisions are real.” She waved her hands, her bracelets and bangles clashing together. “This is what a thousand generations of seeing have taught us. You must see. Recognize these things and understand them.”

  The rain thumped the old roof in a steady, rhythmic hum.

  “Learn this.” Dahlia rasped, her eyes narrowing. “Do not be a fool when the moment requires you to be something else.”

  Chapter 33

  “Would you kill Hitler?” Jimmy stood with a hand on the tree trunk and the other on a high branch, balancing on a thick limb. When he moved around, it sent little shock waves out to where I sat, bouncing me and making my stomach cringe.

  From our perch in the big oak tree, the crow’s nest, I pretended to ignore his request to start the game. We may have only been twenty feet up, but it always seemed a lot higher. I needed to focus or I’d fall and break my arm the way he did last year. Sitting with my hands on either side of me holding the limb wasn’t the best idea, but the other branches were a little too far away to reach easily.

  Smiling, Jimmy bent his knees and jostled the branch on purpose. I grasped, flailing at twigs and leaves to keep my balance. Once re-secured, I scowled and picked bits of bark from my palms. Jimmy was my best friend, but he was a real jerk sometimes. And he was a better climber than me even if he did break his arm.

  The insides of my legs were red and scraped, bleeding in spots from hugging the tree too tightly while I climbed. Jimmy didn’t get a scratch in his ascent to the crow’s nest. I smacked my stinging hands and licked a finger, running it over the little cuts on my thighs. I should have worn pants, but it was too hot out.

  Not up in the tree, though. Up there, cool breezes washed through like air conditioning.

  “Come on, let’s play,” Jimmy said.

  It was a dumb game, but we thought we were smart for inventing it. I’m not even sure we did invent it. Who can remember after all that time has passed?

  But I know after that day, we never played it again.

  From the crow’s nest, most of my childhood play area was visible. I gazed over at the sand box where we had countless G. I. Joe battles, the creek that hosted our model boat races, the big back yards where we played “army.” We were as likely to play Kick The Can or flashlight tag or Hide and Seek as we were to ride bikes or go hiking.

  Or climb the biggest tree in the yard and play our game.

  “Okay, so even if you were sure you’d get caught, you’d still kill Hitler, right?” Jimmy started off solid.

  “Right,” I said. “No question.”

  “Would you ever kill a person for a dumb reason?”

  “I oughta kill you for telling me it was too hot to wear pants today. Now my legs are all torn up.”

  “You wouldn’t kill the President for a million dollars, though, would you?” It was more of a taunt than a question. I wasn’t sure why he asked it, and there was an odd tone to his voice. “You couldn’t do that.”

  I looked out over the creek to the hillside. It sloped down to the water, but today there was mostly puddles. It hadn’t rained in a while. “For a million dollars, I bet I could.”

  “No, you couldn’t.” Jimmy repositioning himself to a higher branch. I held on tight as twigs dropped past me. “Not you. Never in a million years.”

  “Why not me?” I asked.

  “Because you couldn’t kill anybody.” It wasn’t playful banter. He was driving at something.

  He climbed higher.

  “Why not?” I blinked as fragments of bark and twigs fell on me. He answered, but I didn’t hear him because I was focused on keeping tree crap out of my mouth.

  “What did you say?” I held up my hand to keep the light and falling debris out of my eyes. He was right above me. He could have spit on me just by opening his mouth, and the look on his face made me think he wanted to. My cheeks got hot. I might have expected a crappy stunt like that from my brother or his, but friends or not, if he spit on me, I was going to climb up that tree and knock him out of it.

  The wind blew through his hair as he looked away, squinting in the bright sunlight. “Kill somebody? You couldn’t do it. Not you.” His words were plain, unemotional, matter of fact. “You couldn’t even kill that squirrel that one time when you took your brother’s pump BB gun.”

  That stung. “I—Yes, I could!” My cheeks burned. I didn’t know he knew about the squirrel. “I shot it, didn’t I?”

  “Did you?”

  I looked away. “This is a dumb game.”

  “Did you shoot it? Did you kill that squirrel?” Jimmy stood up on his branch, out of reach.

  I got up, too. To climb down.

  Hugging the tree trunk, I reached out with my foot to step down to the next branch. It was farther than I thought. I moved too fast and lost my balance, dropping instead of stepping. My stomach jolted with adrenaline and fear. For a moment, I thought I’d fall. I clawed at the tree trunk, barely grabbing it, and slamming my face and chest into the hard, rough bark.

  The force from my awkward stumble sent a shiver up the tree, bouncing Jimmy.

  He swayed and grabbed some tree limbs to keep his balance, glaring at me like I’d done it on purpose.

  I quickly moved my eyes away so he wouldn’t see me looking, focusing on anything that wasn’t him, and grabbed the next branch. Getting down took longer than I wanted and ripped up my hands and legs good, but I wasn’t staying.

  I brushed the pieces of tree bark off my forearms and face, not looking up, trying to not listen to his taunts.

  My sights fell on the grassy hillside where our backyards sloped down to the creek. I spied the tall, thin tree stump that had broken off in a storm.

  The one where I had once coaxed a squirrel to sit for me.

  I turned and stormed off to my house, my whole head hot and throbbing, a chant of “Did you kill that squirrel? Did you?” showering down on me from the tree top.

  Halfway through the yard, I stopped. “That’s a dumb game and you’re dumbass!”

  “Screw you!” Jimmy shouted at me. “Coward!”

  “Screw you! I don’t have to kill stuff to enjoy it. Not like you, you stinking redneck!”

  Jimmy exploded. “You didn’t shoot it because you were too afraid!” His face was red with rage. “That makes you a damn coward!”

  “Shut up!” I screamed back. “I’m glad you guys are moving away!” I ran for the back door. I didn’t want him to see me cry. I was too old for that.

  The words, clogging in my throat as tears welled in my eyes, didn’t deliver the forcefulness I wanted, but they delivered the impact. They shot past the tree and across the creek, dissipating over the farmer’s field.

  The argument was over.

  Maybe it was just how young b
oys dealt with their emotions. Jimmy found out that his family was moving. It was only about ten miles away, but to two kids on bicycles, they may as well have been moving across the country. We wouldn’t be next door neighbors anymore. We would eventually stop being friends. Lashing out might have been our way of saying we’d miss each other.

  But I was still mad. Jimmy could sit in that stupid tree all day if he wanted to, I didn’t care. His stupid legs never got tired of the bark digging into them anyway, so let him. Or he could go wander through the stupid woods, like always. Stupid jerk.

  At the back door, I paused. Busying myself with some of my dad’s charcoal grill tools that needed my immediate attention, I faced the house and wiped any evidence of crying from my face. In the reflection of the downstairs windows, I saw Jimmy climb down from the tree and disappear.

  When I was sure he was gone, I put down the grill scraper and went back.

  It was halfway down the hillside, and only part of it remained, but the stump was still there. Lightning had probably been responsible for breaking it off in the first place, and at such an unusual height. From where I stood above it on the grass, it stuck up enough from the slope to almost be at eye level. When the squirrel had stood there that day, on the little flat part, he seemed to look me right in the eye.

  He was amazing. Big eyes, a long fuzzy tail, and a beautiful gray-brown coat covering his fat little belly. He’d had a good summer eating acorns from our oak tree. He sat tall on the stump, his acorn in his hands, as he gnawed it, just like on TV.

  I always had a good way with animals. I could approach any animal—any animal at all—and if I did it right, they would sit there and let me approach. I did it slowly, with one thought foremost in my head. That I was a friend.

  It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.

  It helped to even say it out loud, in soothing tones, so the rabbit or deer would be aware I was making my presence known to them. Predators would never do that. By concentrating and focusing and almost mentally directing my thoughts to them, they could understand I was not a threat. They could feel it.

  It was an amazing trick, but it was something that I rarely shared with anybody.

  Once, while on vacation with my wife in the Canadian Rockies, we spied a distant moose at dusk across Waterfowl Lake. The moose had her baby with her. I spoke to them, calmly and quietly, across the water. They came all the way down to where we were, a place where the cold lake was shallow enough for them to cross. Then, the moose and her baby came over to investigate us before moving on into the dark woods.

  Mallory was dumbfounded.

  I completely expected it. I just kept cooing, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I never doubted they would come.

  I guess like all mothers, the moose wanted to show off her baby.

  I found out later that moose are very protective of their babies, and that such a stunt was insanely dangerous. We could have been seriously hurt, maybe killed.

  It never occurred to me. It never seemed that way, not for an instant. Not to me.

  I think that’s why the squirrel sat there watching me. I had taken my brother’s pump action BB gun rifle, which Jimmy had previously assured me would be enough to do the job. I couldn’t risk taking my dad’s real gun, after all. I wasn’t crazy.

  Maybe the squirrel was deceived by my demeanor. I spoke to him in the low soothing tones that always worked, gently moving closer as I did. Maybe he thought if he didn’t move, I’d lose him in the background brush. Maybe he was scared.

  I placed the stock on my thigh and grabbed the lever pump on the barrel. Twenty or more snaps of the metal pump clattered over the quiet hillside.

  My pulse raced as I raised the rifle and took steady aim, lining up the squirrel between the cross hairs of the scope. I took a full breath like I had been shown, holding the heavy gun as still as best as I could. I pressed the stock into my shoulder and balanced the barrel with my hand. Letting my breath release slowly, I eased my finger onto the cold, metal trigger. I closed one eye, being careful to keep the target in the crosshairs, and squeezed.

  The shot went off with a crack. The squirrel flinched but stayed on the stump. His eyes never left mine. Even if the BB didn’t kill him, it had to sting like hell. Still, he just stood there, staring at me. I felt a momentary letdown, like I had failed in my stupid hunt. His gaze never wavered, seeming almost defiant.

  I felt angry. And embarrassed. My cheeks burned.

  With slow precision, so as not to frighten him, I pumped the rifle again, but always maintaining eye contact. This time, I did twice the pumps I’d done before.

  He sat there, testing me, holding his big furry tail up behind himself. He could have run, but he didn’t. He was waiting, taunting me. Stubborn.

  I leveled the gun and held my breath, firing a second shot.

  He twitched again. I know I hit him. I was a good target shooter. I know he was feeling the impact of the pellets. I know he had to feel the stinging pain.

  But, he didn’t move. He just sat there.

  God damned squirrel. What’s the matter with him?

  Sweat formed on my face and neck. My heart pounded, making my anger and embarrassment grow. I had already committed the childhood crime of sneaking the BB gun out of my brother’s room without permission and deciding to kill an innocent animal. I might as well go all the way. The nuns would say this was a sin, to kill for no reason. I knew that. But I had to finish what I started.

  Sweat dripped off me as I pumped the gun again, compressing the firing chamber with each metal slap of the barrel hinge. It got harder with each pump, reaching maximum pressure. I nodded, catching my breath. I would have my trophy.

  As I tried to force the lever down one last time, the stock slipped on my thigh. The barrel hinge went sideways, snapping shut on my finger.

  “Damn it!” My finger bled from the tiny skin flap hanging off it. I glared at the squirrel. He still sat there. He was either stubborn or terrified, but he was still right there.

  The rifle hissed, losing its pressure. I was taking too long. I wiped my temple with my shoulder and grabbed the barrel hinge, heaving it open and slamming it down. After a few pumps, the hinge went sideways, sliding off my leg and twisting my fingers.

  I lifted the rifle and threw it to the ground, the metal clasp banging open in the grass.

  The squirrel stared at me.

  I ran at him, arms flailing. “Yaaaaahhh!”

  A few feet down the hill, I stopped, exhausted.

  He didn’t move.

  I stood there, gasping, shaking my head. I had messed up the rifle and my hand, and I still hadn’t even killed the stupid squirrel. I took a step backwards up the hill, but I slipped on the leaves and fell, landing on my butt.

  I dropped back on the grass and squeezed my eyes shut, my chest heaving up and down. “I quit. You win.” My finger throbbed. My head ached. My butt hurt. It was too much.

  I swallowed and shook my head. “I can’t do it.”

  An empty feeling welled inside me, aching with a deep, hollow blackness. I rolled onto my side and looked at the vacant stump through watery eyes, choking on my words. “Forgive me.”

  If Jimmy had seen any of that, it probably would have sickened him. I hated to think about him knowing. He was a better shot than me, and a better hunter, but watching his friend fall down and cry over a squirrel, that was something he couldn’t have understood.

  This is what make your inside feel sick when you see the policeman at the winery! Same as with the man you see in your head at the church, and when you confront with the animal.

  Confront with the animal. The mambo had nailed it.

  After the fight in the tree, Jimmy’s attitude toward me changed. We weren’t as close as we used to be.

  A few weeks later, they moved. When we ended up being down such different paths later in life, we’d never know that the first steps were taken that day.

  When I walked back from the creek, I should have hidden the
gun so my mom couldn’t see me with it, but I didn’t care. I had violated a trust, and I had misused a gift. But to me, at that age, it was just supposed to be a trick. A game.

  It didn’t feel like a game anymore, though. The scolding I got from my mom for taking my brother’s gun—even if it was only a pump action BB gun—fell on deaf ears. All I could think about was an innocent squirrel down by the creek, standing there, shot after shot, not moving away.

  That was the worst part. Worse than any scolding or punishment. All because I wanted to prove something.

  I drove up the driveway, gazing at my Tampa home and its large, protective oaks in the headlights. The trees swayed and danced in the strong, rushing winds. Patches of Spanish moss clung to bending limbs or dropped in clumps into the yard.

  “I’m glad you guys are moving away!”

  I pulled into the garage. My dry, tired eyes wanted to close, and the couch was the closest soft spot. Jimmy hadn’t been a thought in my mind for a long time, but now the echoes from the crow’s nest rang in my ears.

  Chapter 34

  I woke up when Sparkles jumped into my lap. I had a few minutes before Mallory came downstairs—a few minutes to decide what to tell her about Tyree or the mambo. Everything? Nothing?

  I had to tell her something eventually.

  Maybe it was time for her to meet Tyree for herself. Then, depending on how that went, we could go meet Dahlia together in Ybor City . . .

  That actually seemed like a good idea. I peered at the clock. It wasn’t 7 A. M. yet, but I wasn’t sure what kind of hours a guy like Tyree kept, anyway.

  I clicked on the TV to get an update on the hurricane. From the constant noise of the wind and rain outside, it had gotten worse, but I wanted to see the storm’s projected track. For days, the meteorologists had been going back and forth as to whether it was coming to Tampa or not. They’d have to make the call pretty soon, and there would probably be an hourly update on the news.

  Sparkles nudged me.

  “Okay, let’s go outside.” I stretched and stood up. He bounded off the couch and ran to the door, wagging his tail. I followed.