by Anna King
AS a little girl, I was a bit of a monkey, hanging by my knees upside down from the parallel bars, scrambling backwards up the slide or, conversely, sliding down head first. Of course, I was covered by bruises and scars from hurling myself around. I was particularly taken with climbing trees. A tall furry pine tree stood outside my father’s office on the Smith College campus. I would clamber high enough so that I perched at the same level as his window. Then I would spy on him.
My fascination for my father was endless. He was a man unto himself, which automatically conferred mystery, but mostly it was because he was crippled. He got polio during the last epidemic, in 1954, just before the breakthrough discovery of the Salk vaccine. He walked with crutches, though he didn’t use braces on his legs.
The truth was that I couldn’t see all that much from the tree, and I certainly didn’t overhear his conversations. In the summer, with his windows wide open, there were more opportunities for eavesdropping, but then there were no students and fewer visitors. Apparently, though, I was quite fascinated by the back of his head. I can’t understand, when I think about it now, what I found so riveting. My spot on the tree was fortuitously comfortable, with a big broad branch beneath my bottom, and an even thicker trunk for me to lean against. But, after all, he was a friggin’ academic, who spent hours at his desk reading and writing. He didn’t even go to the bathroom much; he probably limited his fluid intake because the effort for him to actually get himself to the toilet was significant, or significant compared to the rest of the non-crippled world.
Maybe, in fact, I fell asleep in the tree. That would explain why I fell out one fall afternoon. I remembered being midair, or mid-flight, to put a more positive spin on it. I was astonished to find myself launched in the air. I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I felt like my flying dreams had finally come true, though in my usual dream I was always running down the road, my legs circling madly, faster and faster, until, bam, liftoff! So, out of the tree, I did what came logically. Or, perhaps I was still half-asleep.
I spread my arms and flapped.
Of course, it worked. I flew. Not for long. But I stayed aloft and then I rose. Was it my child’s imagination, like seeing Santa Claus for real? I didn’t think so. Eventually, I plummeted. Something about the brief flight, or my outspread arms, helped me. I landed with my legs pedaling, and I ran for several feet before tumbling forward and smashing my cheek into the ground. It felt like my brain crashed against my skull. Then, asleep again. I woke up to find a small clutch of students around me.
“It’s Professor Marley‘s kid,” one of them said.
I began to cry and pretty soon, my Dad was there. He tossed his crutches to the ground and collapsed next to me.
“Rose?”
I opened one eye. “My head hurts.”
He nodded. “An ambulance is coming. Don’t move and keep your eyes open. Talk to me, honey.”
I cried some more.
“You’re fine,” he said. His hand stroked my back. “Tell me what happened.”
“I flew.” I peeked at him with the one eye not tucked into the ground.
He tried to bite back his smile. “Was it fun?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think maybe flying once was enough and you won’t try it again?”
I ended up with a mild concussion, but nothing else. They kept me overnight in the hospital, though I remember nothing of that. Just the flying and the way my cheek slammed into the earth. I should have broken every bone in my body.
AL whispered, “You cunt.”
“Fuck-head,” I said back.
“Pussy.”
I started to laugh and he moved faster, oiled and slick. I came first, in a burst of laughter. He guffawed, and I thought for a moment that that would prevent his own orgasm. Nope. We couldn’t stop laughing. I stuck my head in his armpit and while he tried to squirm away, I licked whatever was closest, underarm hair or skin. Al ducked his head to my neck and slobbered there, bringing me to hysterics.
Calming down, he still kept his legs wrapped around me, holding me tight. He said, “It’s never been like this with anyone before.”
“Never?” I tried to shift away from him. He didn’t allow it and I was glad.
“You’ve never had it like this with anyone else either.”
I thought about it. “Sex is unique between two people. It’s never the same.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” Now he held me tight with his eyes, wide open and gazing into mine without a hint of discomfort.
“You mean it’s good with us.”
“Uh-huh.” Al’s head nodded up and down dramatically.
“Why?”
“You ask that a lot, the Why thing.”
“I gotta pee.” I squirmed away and his legs let me go.
When I stood up, I almost lost my balance. One hand shot out and grabbed the four-poster at the head of the bed. On the way downstairs, I turned on the light and held onto the bannister. The bathroom caught my nakedness in the mirror and I squinted my eyes at the sight. For an older woman, I knew I looked pretty good, but I was still an older woman. My skin shivered and I preferred not to look at my breasts for any longer than was strictly necessary. I felt this way whether or not a man had told me, or better yet, showed me that I was desirable.
After I’d peed, I couldn’t resist stopping at the computer, though I knew I was really avoiding the intimacy waiting for me upstairs. Al was, apparently, my ultimate match. He didn’t bore me intellectually, he was fabulous in bed (no, I’d never had sex quite like it before), and he was loving. And let’s not forget: utterly divine to look at.
He puzzled me. Or, my reaction to him puzzled me.
There was an e-mail from Rabbitfish, the first in months. Somehow, given the message left on my cell phone earlier, and even the strange goings-on with that dancing blue light, I wasn’t surprised.
You should be ashamed of yourself.
The man had a disgraceful ability to rev my engines, even when I’d just had terrific sex with a living God, who happened to still be keeping my bed hot. I hit the reply button.
I am.
Upstairs, Al had turned back to his customary position along the edge of the bed. Vague snoring noises whistled in the air. When I lay down, I kept my back to him, but allowed my butt to touch his. I punched the pillow and tucked my left arm under it. The words in my head. Then I fell asleep.I am, I am, I am reverberated
I woke up late the next morning and wandered outside in my nightgown to find Al planted under the sweet gum tree, cradling a mug of coffee in his lap. He smiled. “Want me to get you a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah.” I sat on the top step, waiting for him to bring it out to me. The birds were singing and carrying on, and the sun was already so strong that I knew it was going to be a brutally hot day.
Behind me, the screen door opened, then slammed shut. So, he wasn’t perfect. He slammed the screen door. When he handed me my coffee, I realized that he’d been carrying two mugs. Hence, the slamming door. Al sat down next to me, and his left leg fell open so that it leaned against mine. He was wearing boxer shorts and the hairs on his leg twinkled in the sun.
“Wanna get married?” he said.
“Sure.”
I knocked my leg twice against his, acknowledging the joke.
The good news was that I had no desire to get married, even though the relationship with Al was fun. My marrying days were over, I was sure of that.
He said, “I was married once, you know.”
“Really?” I sipped my coffee.
“Umm.” He sighed and brought the mug to his mouth. “You seem so curious.”
I might not have fallen in love with Al, but I was fond of him, and I certainly didn’t want the relationship to end. I said, “I am curious—you took me by surprise, like it was some kind of big secret.”
“Actually, part of the divorce agreement was that I’m never allowed to talk about the fact that we were married.”
/> I slurped some coffee, not answering. Figured he was kidding.
“She’s an actress, now mortified that she married the likes of me.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
He nodded.
“Is she famous?”
“Yeah.” He lifted the mug to his lips.
“Who the hell is she?”
“That’s the point—I can’t tell you. I’m legally forbidden to talk about it.”
“Why would you sign something so idiotic?”
His leg banged against mine again.
“She paid you off.” I saw his lips curl up briefly before settling back into a straight line.
“You could’ve made more by writing a tell-all memoir.”
He put the mug down and raised his arms in a languid stretch. “That would’ve been morally reprehensible.”
“But it wasn’t to take her money?”
He laughed.
I put my left hand on his thigh and lightly played with the hairs on his leg. Al’s shoulder gave a little shiver.
Obviously, I was compelled to find out the identity of Al’s famous former wife. “If I guess correctly, and all you do is tap your foot, then you haven’t actually said anything.”
“Good plan, except you’ll never guess.”
“If she’s famous, it can’t be all that hard.”
He tapped his foot energetically against the bottom step.
“Hey, no fair!”
Tap, tap, tap went his foot, like a wind-up toy.
“Jodie Foster?”
“She’s a lesbian.”
“Winona Ryder, Alicia Silverstone, Cameron Diaz, Kirsten Dunst, Lisa Kudrow, Liv Tyler, Maria Bello, Courtney Cox, Meg Ryan, Mary-Louise Parker—,”
As I reeled off the names, Al kept tapping his foot. So, naturally, I finally ran out of steam and clamped my mouth shut.
His foot grew still, except for the big toe twitching from time to time. I burst out laughing.
“So what do you say?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Getting married.”
Now that I knew Al had been married to someone famous, I felt myself falling in love with him. Terrible Rose Marley. Because someone else of value had found him valuable, now I, too, found him valuable?
“It’s way too early to talk about marriage,” I said, “plus, you know I have a terrible track record.”
“You’re afraid.”
“I’m right to be afraid.”
“Naw, it’s never right to be afraid.”
I stuck my legs out to catch more of the sun and hiked up my nightgown.
“You won’t marry me, yet you seduce me. Talk about morally reprehensible.”
I slid my nightgown higher. His hand snaked its way up my thigh. The hot sun, smelling of earth, heated my lap like I was an oven. I started to close my eyes, but just before the lids had completely descended I saw a figure standing in the garden, not more than ten feet away. I jumped. Eyes shot open. Al’s hand leapt away from my leg and he turned to look to where I was staring.
“What?” he said.
“There was a man standing right there.” My voice trembled.
We both gazed into the empty garden. Al gave me a quick look, his expression neutral. “What did he look like?”
Months later, I would remember his question, when I finally realized how extraordinary it had been. He didn’t say, There’s no man there, or, You must be hallucinating. Instead, he asked what this nonexistent man looked like.
I said, “A little scruffy, squat, bushy eyebrows.”
“Tall or short?”
“I think medium.” I swallowed. “Or maybe more short.”
We both stopped talking. I tried to conjure up the man in my imagination.
I whispered. “He had wings.”
“Really?” said Al.
“Dirty wings.”
“Holy mackerel.”
I turned my head slowly and looked at Al’s profile until he, too, swiveled his head in my direction.
“He was some kind of funny old angel.”
Al reached for my left hand and took it between the two of his. He massaged it gently, still not speaking.
“Maybe it’s because I’m not writing,” I said.
“You saw an angel because you’re not writing?”
“No, no.” I pulled away my hand and yanked the nightgown over my knees. “I must have thought of something very odd because my imagination is starved for a workout.”
“I gotta tell you,” Al said, “your reaction seemed real, not like it was a fantasy or a dream.”
I was reminded of that time when I fell out of the tree and I’d, briefly, flown upwards before plunging down. Even now, utterly rational and mature, I knew that I had actually flown. Although I was putting a good face on it for Al, I also knew that I hadn’t imagined what I’d seen. If a person had argued with me about this conviction, pointing out some scientific evidence for the way the mind can create convincing hallucinations in, for example, schizophrenics, I’d have agreed that this was an entirely plausible explanation. Because it was. But, at the same time, that didn’t mean it was true in my case. As far as I knew, I had zero symptoms of any mental illness. I had seen a very weird-looking angel. Period. End of discussion.
“Whatever.” I shrugged. “Nothing’s there now.”
Al stood up, placed both hands on the small of his back, and arched backwards, letting out a small groan. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I wondered when he planned on leaving and whether I’d have to give him a subtle hint. “Okay,” I said.
When I heard the sounds of the shower coming on through the second floor bathroom window, I thought of going inside to check my e-mail. But, at the same time, I felt nailed to the steps. I couldn’t resist staring at the place where the angel had stood.
And there he was. Deep baggy circles under swimmy green eyes. A wobbly grin. I could even see his chocolate-brown wings trembling. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be scared, not you.”
The wobbly grin grew bigger, though it still had a tentative quality. I looked him up and down, trying to grab all the details of his appearance. He wore dark blue jeans, with a stiff ironed pleat running down each leg. There didn’t seem to be any feet or shoes. Around his upper body, or chest, was a poncho-type garment made of squares of silk.
“You look kind of strange for an angel,” I said. To my amazement, his eyes filled with tears. A second later, he was transformed into a shimmering vision of white, the classic angel get-up, including glossy white wings, except that his head and face remained exactly the same, which was extremely incongruous. Not to mention, off-putting.
I said, “Can you talk?”
He shook his head, no.
I closed my eyes tight. You have an illness. You will go to see a professional, who will prescribe powerful anti-psychotics. They might have unpleasant side-effects, but you will have to deal with them bravely because, otherwise, you will start to hallucinate even stranger visions than this one, which will be scary and disturbing. So, Rose Marley, get a fucking grip on yourself.
Then I burst into tears.
4
HOW LONG HAS IT been since you’ve come to see me?” Dr. Patel said.
I screwed up my face, trying to remember. Then I couldn’t imagine how I’d forgotten. “When Isaac and I split up.”
“Right.” He nodded, his face blank.
I was pretty sure that therapists now used Botox to achieve their poker faces. Maybe even poker players used Botox, come to think of it. “So that’s almost three years.” I smiled at him, eager to keep the subject away from my real reason for the appointment. “I was celibate for a really long time—”
“Was that okay for you?”
“Much better than I would’ve predicted.”
I let my gaze wander around his familiar office. Even the film of dust seemed to be exactly the same. I was sure that a dead spider, curled by the leg of Dr. Patel
’s chair, had been there many moons ago. It made me nostalgic and sad. I talked for twenty minutes, catching him up on all the changed circumstances in my life. When I told him I was no longer writing and, instead, had become a bartender, his still face actually moved, albeit briefly. I’d surprised Dr. Patel more than I’d surprised myself.
“Is it going well? The bar tending, I mean,” he said.
I nodded.
Silence.
“Seems like everything’s quite,—” he paused, searching for the right word, “—comfortable.”
“Something unusual has happened.” I could feel tears massing in my chest, climbing up my throat, eager and hot. I saw Dr. Patel’s right hand move. He’d almost reached to hand me the box of tissues before I’d actually started to cry.
The tears burst out with the words, so it was all garbled and indistinct. “I saw an angel.”
Dr. Patel leaned forward in his chair. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t understand you.”
Naturally that made me cry even harder. I’d said it, and I really didn’t want to say it again. So I cried for as long as I could.
Dr. Patel didn’t seem so much impatient as curious. I suspected that he thought he’d heard me correctly, and he was simply dying to know. Had she really said that? The words every shrink must secretly dread and, yet, crave. Okay, I was probably doing a terrible disservice to the mental illness profession. My excuse? I wasn’t in my right mind.
I sniffed dramatically. The thought ‘Oh fuck it,’ drifted through my head. This time, I almost yelled. “I—saw—an—angel.”
I had to admit that I expected to be hauled off to the looney bin right away. I most definitely didn’t expect the whisper of a smile to dance across Dr. Patel’s lips. I must have been hallucinating again.
Dr. Patel said, “How did you know it was an angel?”
“Wings.”
He nodded, then waited.
I continued, “Otherwise, at first, he wasn’t at all like any angel I’ve heard about.”
“Have you heard about many angels?”
“Just the usual.” I looked at him and, assuming that he might not be Christian, I decided I ought to elaborate. “Like the angel Gabriel who came to Mary to tell her she would be giving birth to the son of God.”
