A Flight of Storks and Angels

by Robert Devereaux

  “But I say to you, my friends, it is urgent that we commune with the angels of the Lord. Wipe clean from your minds the mild creatures on a Hallmark greeting card. Fix instead upon the death of Herod.

  “He was a ruler, a tetrarch, the ultimate power in Galilee. They dressed him in finery. They led him with great pomp to his throne and felt the force of his words. And on that day Herod made no misstep in his oration; the eyes of his listeners lit up. As in love with himself as he was, on that day his self-love knew no bounds. Picture Herod here before this altar, a man in his prime, elevated in gem-encrusted splendor. You are his adoring crowd of admirers and he has roused your passions to such a fever pitch that you join your neighbors in calling him a god and not a man. You wash him in praise. He has made you feel important and you are returning the favor. It’s the high point of his life and of yours as well.

  “But suddenly a creature not described any further than to say it was an angel of the Lord appears, and the angel strikes Herod for his presumption, strikes him so decisively, that he is at once worm-eaten and dead. How terrible that angel must have looked. Was it so huge as to bump against the high ceilings of the palace? Did it glower the crowd into madness? Behold. The exalted ruler falls from his throne. The trappings of power drop from his head and arms. His flesh sprouts pale, eyeless worms. He putrefies as you gaze upon him, all his finery encasing . . . nothing but a corpse. Can you see it? Do you feel the horror of that moment?”

  He had gone overboard. He would hear from Tilly Mason about this one, a stern aside. He would apologize to her as usual, and she would as usual accept.

  “Yes, angels will be a comfort. But they may also be a terror. God knows this world needs both. Can you say for sure which sort of angel will come to you? Herod knew not God, he refused to know Him except to reject Him, to mock Him in the person of Our Lord Jesus Christ. You are more fortunate. You know God, and you have faith in Him, remembering always, I hope and I pray, to give what glory falls into your life to God. If together we believe hard enough, then I believe the angels will come. Let us pray they come not too late to save humankind from its own folly, its self-love, its presumed greatness.”

  He folded his hands, hearing the rustle of cloth and the crack of a few necks as his flock humbled themselves before the Lord. When all was still, he prayed.

  *****

  At first, Ward thought he would faint. His head began to seethe and pound as Big Mike vised his arm, the knife-blade so close to his face he didn’t dare struggle. Timothy went wild, flitting everywhere, unable to fix on a form. As Ward’s knees buckled and he was thrust backward, a chair came up to meet him, slamming at his back, and Big Mike’s stream of sounds narrowing into words he could understand: “. . . your hands. You deaf, sucker? Put ‘em behind the chair or I’ll cut you a new mouth.”

  “Don’t hurt him, Mikey,” said Patti.

  Ward said, “Sorry, I . . ,” and let the rest drop, glimpsing her standing behind Big Mike, her hands a-flutter, worry lines on her forehead, her mouth working a wad of gum. Ward’s knuckles knocked against the curved armrests as he hustled his hands behind the chair. Don’t worry, don’t worry. Timothy hovered at his left, more ghost than angel, but his efforts to find a shape seemed to be working. “Take this. Hold it on him,” Mike said, entrusting Patti with the switchblade.

  “But I can’t—”

  “Just do it!” He scooped up something from the bed, a thin tie whipping about, dark blue with stripes of red, and a bathrobe sash, pilled in places. Cool cloth sawed at Ward’s wrists, rough hands pinning his arms against the chair while Big Mike tied. There was an oppressive smell in the room, nothing Ward could identify but it held his face like a moist hand. The bathrobe sash whipped around his chest and drew tight, the chair lifting off its front legs with Big Mike’s exertions. It was hard to breathe. Past Patti, beyond the bed, sat a switched-off TV tube looking like a fishbowl shiny with night. “That oughta hold him.”

  “Can I put this down now?” She held the knife awkwardly at her side, careful not to let it touch her. She wore a brown leather skirt that broke above the knees and a tan sweater tugged askew from being buttoned wrong.

  No call for alarm, stay calm.

  From behind, Mike’s left hand gripped Ward’s jaw. Was he going to break his neck? Then his right cheek frosted and burned with the sudden smack of Mike’s right hand. His ear stung where the blow caught it.

  “Give it here,” Mike said, a cool breeze as he passed by. For someone who didn’t work out, Big Mike was stocky and tightly packed, a faded black t-shirt veeing into his jeans behind a wide leather belt. Looking straight into Patti’s eyes, he clicked the knife closed and tossed it on the bed. Ward saw a pink bra hanging on the bedpost, hints of nipple beneath Patti’s sweater.

  Big Mike slid behind her. His hands met at her waist. She rested her arms on his, hooking her fingers through Mike’s fingers and leaning back against his neck. Mike’s eyes locked on Ward. “Hey, jerk-off,” he said, “you want to grow up real fast?”

  Apologize. Timothy didn’t look at all sure it would work. “Please, I’m sorry about . . . about the cafeteria, I wasn’t thinking straight—”

  “Fuck that shit.” It sounded like a moist frog croak coming from his mouth. Patti’s ice-pink lips moved to the rhythm of her gum. In her eyes, curiosity mingling with concern. “That stuck in my craw, all right. But what got you noticed in a big way was all that guardian angel shit. You make a fool of my brother, I come after you.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “He was eight and tagging after Frome. Fuck it, that was okay. Wimp kids want to believe in the sandman, fuck ‘em, they’re kids, know what I mean?” He undid a sweater button. “But you spout that shit when you’re eleven? Christ, Keeshan, I gotta wonder about you.” Another button. Patti raised her hands but he brushed them off. Her midriff, flat and firm, peeked out. “You’re what, thirteen?”

  Ward nodded. “Tomorrow.” It was hard to get it out. The air stifled. The bathrobe sash hurt his chest. There seemed no leeway at his wrists.

  “I bet you still see angels, right?” Another button eased out of its hole. Mike’s hands now met across his girlfriend’s belly, his fingers dishragging the sweater.

  “Mikey, don’t.” Patti whined like a child.

  He ignored her. “Well, Keeshan?”

  Say no. Ward glanced at Timothy, looking worried and pale. “Just . . . just my own. Look, my arms, I won’t run away if you just—”

  “I don’t see no fucking angels.” His hands clenched the sweater below Patti’s breasts. From the look in his eyes, Ward was afraid he might take up the switchblade again. “That’s cuz angels don’t exist. Didn’t your doctor-momma never tell you that? No angels, no Santa Claus, no fairies except for faggots.” His hands relaxed, started unbuttoning again. The sunless undersides of her breasts smiled from beneath the angles of her sweater.

  “Mikey.” Gentle pleading. “Stop.”

  “You want to see an angel, I’ll show you an angel.”

  The last button popped open and Mike’s hands peeled the cloth back and away. Be strong. Ward gave Timothy a look of panic, moisture on his forehead. Patti tried to tug her sweater back on, but Mike wrenched it off and dropped it to the floor, wrapping his arms around her. He whispered in her ear. Her body swayed as he did so and Ward felt thick and earthen at the sight of her. He’d stolen glimpses at magazines. They’d been bad enough. But the reality, moving before him, was overwhelming. It’s all right. But the distance in Timothy’s head-voice alarmed him. Ward turned to find his companion pale, wavering, panicked himself.

  “I can’t do that,” Patti pleaded. “C’mon, Mikey, let me cover up. This is embarrassing.” Her hands went to her breasts, but Mike pushed them away.

  “You’re my girl, you do what I say.” He took a nipple between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, tugging down until she went to her knees, one leg, then the other, her hand on his thigh for balance. She hid her face from
Ward, jawline flexing at her bubblegum, and placed a hand on Mike’s zipper. It sounded like a toy race-car lazing down a stretch of track.

  “Take a good look, Keeshan,” Mike said, eyes as black as olives. “There’s no spirits in this world. Only bodies mixing it up, hitting or cutting or getting it on, and you can fuck that angel-devil shit—do it, Patti—cuz that’s bullshit. It’s all just happening, Keeshan, and getting shit to happen’s what it’s all about; no gods, no devils, just flesh moving around.”

  “Timothy, help me,” Ward gasped under his breath. A pink bubble inflated out of Patti’s mouth, pushing Mike’s purple thing away. He’s wrong. It was a struggle to hear him. He seemed to be breaking up, like Princess Leia bending to R2D2. One continuum, spirit and flesh not disjoint, all spirit. Ward’s alien flesh was blood-stiff and disgusting. Not alien, seeds of life, flame and fuel, hear it, listen to me, the flame needs the candle. Patti drew the pink bubble back into her mouth, blew another. Timothy shrank in at chin level. Pinching himself off at the neck, he squeezed up into Timothy-as-flame, down into Ward-as-candle, a naked Ward, all beautiful, even the penis—stiff and bowed above its new-tufted hair—part of the whole, all fodder for the flame. And the flame, though it sat on top, whickering at the dark wick, sank roots deep into the candle straight to its base, making it glow brighter and warmer than pumpkin light. Yes, you see! And Timothy grew strong again, strong in voice and vision, seeming to be more distinct than before, though Ward supposed it more like health returning after long sickness.

  “Lose the gum,” Mike said.

  But Patti grabbed her sweater and moved away, yanking out of Mike’s grasp. “I can’t, I won’t.”

  “Come back here!” Mike went for her, but she had the door open and shuddered closed before he made it halfway across the room. “Fucking bitch.” His hand went for the knob. He looked back: “No bullshit, no screams, or you’re one dead motherfucker.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

  This way. Timothy twisted about to suggest hand struggles. Ward mimicked his movements and found the tie more yielding than its angry knot had at first suggested. Even with the sash limiting him, Ward was able to free his hands quickly. Hurry. Taking a full breath was impossible, but Ward found that if he exhaled as completely as he could and husbanded his movements, he was able, again following Timothy’s lead, to work the right side of the sash up to his shoulder and past it, the sudden release of tension like a stretch of twine worked around the corner of a parcel. He tried to stand but tottered into the chair from the exertion and lack of oxygen, loud voices coming back, hurry, calm it down, a glance at the switchblade. No, he could never pick that up. From the shouting in the hallway, even over the blast of music from the tape player, Big Mike had clearly grabbed Patti and was yanking her, protesting, toward his bedroom. “Get the fuck in there!” Ward heard, then a door slam and a doorknob being rattled, the pounding of an angry fist. Now, Ward, do it now. He bolted from the chair and ran for the door, Timothy swirling majestically about him. He swung it back and tore off left, not stopping to locate Mike, just finding the stairs and barreling down them, letting the banister guide his moves, fearing grabs at his collar, the sudden choke of a neck button. But no, there was nothing rushing up behind him, nothing impeding him, just the downstairs angling up, a front door and freedom coming closer, Timothy’s yes! in his ear, and something, someone, heading him off on the left.

  “Hey, what’s going on up there?” Mr. DeSario, a fat red face, then a smile as he recognized Ward. “Wait, I know you,” shaking a finger. “Keeshan, Ward Keeshan, the angel kid, right? But what’s . . . how come you’re . . . I could have sworn you were glowing. My eyes must be pooping out on me.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Please may I go?”

  “Oh sure, sure, no problem, I . . . there it is again, I swear. What is that, a freaking flashback? Some kind of aura? You use fluorescent soap or something?”

  “Bye.” Ward went for the door. Daylight opened to him. Mr. DeSario’s voice moved off: “Kitty, you’re not going to believe this . . .” But the chunk of the door sealed him in, and Ward took off on a run, putting as much distance as he could between him and Big Mike.

  Halfway home, the shock of what he’d undergone caught up with him. He found an empty playground and collapsed into a black swing, his arms raised along the chains, his chest hitching, tears moist upon his cheeks. Timothy, wise as ever, offered empathy though he understood that venting was needed and let it happen. Ward had never felt closer to his companion than at that moment.

  *****

  Not bad, not bad at all.

  “Oh, don’t rub it in,” grumbled Grampa, better known to his readers as T. E. Jameson. “It would have worked just as well my way, and you know it.”

  Grampa felt her impatience. She had branched upward and to his left, not that he could see her (hearing her spout off in his head all the time was quite enough), though he’d tried focusing on her from time to time and found it too much like staring at a painting that’s both landscape and face: dizzying and unnerving. Thalia triumphs over the thought goons, topples the law that forces books, once conceived, to fruition, then jettisons the novel germinating in her mind? What kind of an ending is that?

  “It could have worked if you’d cooperated. Instead, as usual, you’ve got this raft of bees buzzing in your bonnet—do you wear a bonnet, by the way?—”

  —I’ll never tell—

  “No, I thought not—and what do we end up with: In true, wimpy, bestseller fashion, Thalia—whom, I must tell you, I absolutely adore—”

  —thank you—

  “—decides, because she is now indeed free to choose, to subject her brain to the bloat of gestation and see the book through to completion anyway!”

  So?

  She could be dense. “So it’s the same damned formula used by every trashy TV show and movie we’ve had the misfortune to see: Come out foursquare for free will, but heaven forbid your main characters should ever decide that heavy petting is for them; or that psychoactive substances can be both sacred and sexy under the right conditions; or that Christianity is fine for other folks, but atheism and a brush with a pagan fertility rite or two suits them to a tee. No, they can only flirt with the vast anarchy of the soul if you have them turn away at last and find true happiness and the utter contentment of bland bovinity in their own backyards—bah, humbug, and balderdash!”

  You’re beautiful when you’re angry. A dark blot of a beetle backed with lemon-yellow spots ambled along a twig to his right.

  “I’m beautiful always, Esme sweet. You too, and don’t you forget it. My fans don’t know the half of it.”

  They love your mind, not your body.

  “They are wise folk, that’s for sure. But if only—”

  —never, put it out of your mind—

  “—I had the guts to insist—”

  It’d kill your career. Let it be posthumous, and one or two generations down the pike.

  Grampa, having saved the final edit of his epilogue to both hard disk and floppy, exited WordPerfect, shut off the laptop, and swung the dead screen down upon the keyboard with a dual click. “You fought me every step, didn’t you, on that novel: my night-time, six-year, in-the-treehouse-instead-of-above-it masterpiece.”

  Thank God it’s done and out of your system.

  “The book’s got balls.”

  Yes, yes, and every other bit of private anatomy, male and female, many times over.

  “It’s young Oedipus fresh from Delphi, for chrissake. It’s Corinth, a seaport. The Temple of Aphrodite with its thousand sacred prostitutes. It’s the Festival of Demeter the fertility goddess, tangled up with Laius and Jocasta’s state visit, Oedipus pussyfooting around his supposed mom and dad, and all kinds of incest, bedtricks, and babyswaps in the mountains of ancient Greece.”

  Right.

  “Yes, I’m tired of arguing about it too, tell you the truth.” Yanking out the orange extension cord, he wrapped the plug in a
baggie secured with a twist-tie, and tucked it into its Y of branches. From there, it ran like an orange artery down one thick oak branch and, secured at irregular intervals with electrician’s tape, at last disappeared behind the treehouse roof. “I’ll start printing Thalia of the Swelled Head tonight—that is the title we agreed on, yes?”

  Ugh. It’ll do for now.

  “Darn tootin’ it will, toots. Anyway, you can bet that my editor and her new flunky, that Leon guy, will hit on something better, if better there be. One quick read per chapter, adjust the pagination, print the sucker off—you’ll be there looking over my shoulder—?”

  Comedian. As if I have a choice.

  Slipping the laptop into its black carrying case, he brought the twin zippers about and together. “I’d guess eight hundred pages of sizzling pot-boiling prose. We ought to be ready to mail it Thursday morning, take three days to celebrate, then Monday, we can decide which idea on our shortlist will be our next millionaire, Mike.”

  I knew John Beresford Tipton. He was a friend of mine. And frankly, Grampa, you’re no John Beresford Tipton.

  “I’m also not your grampa,” he said. “That’s Ward’s honor.” Shouldering the laptop, Grampa eased out of the padded hammocked lawn chair and found his footing on the neighboring branches. The rustle set off a bird or two, leaves exploding outward with wings and diminishing bird bodies. “It’s clear how you’re related to me and what I’d call you if I didn’t know your name—”

  Made up a name, you mean.

  “—but it’s not so clear what you’d call me.”

  How about Museum?

  “Apt, I guess. Old, stuffy, plenty of intriguing relics on display.” Grampa paused to look beyond Esme, a leap over his neighbors’ homes into untouched wild and, past that, hints of an apple orchard. Above, riots of bifurcation guided his eye along leaf-laden paths into heaven. Below, and it never ceased to thrill, the plunge of one misstep at once terrified and tempted him, the soft grassy swirl of earth a crippling fifty feet down through a freefall slash of branches.