The Angels' Share

by James Markert

  At City Hall he told two officers he’d heard rumors in the newsroom that Tommy Borduchi was hiding out at Shippingport or the Seelbach Hotel. He said that Borduchi recently harassed Tanner and Bethany Finn about the Potter’s Field Christ. They nodded, promised to look into it. “Why’s this so important to you anyway?”

  “I told you, he came to the distillery. He visited Asher Keating’s grave.”

  “And he left?”

  “But that doesn’t mean he won’t come back.”

  “Then the men we have on-site will take care of it.”

  “Take care of it? They let him waltz right in and out,” said William. “Thank God we . . .” He trailed off before revealing Barley’s old boys were guarding their house.

  “Look, kid, you work for the paper. Leave investigating to those in the know-how. The Feds are sweeping the city. Borduchi’s cornered and he’s running out of hidey-holes.”

  The trees in the gardened courtyard at the Sisters for the Aged and Infirm bloomed gold and red above trimmed shrubbery and a gurgling central pond. Four nuns sat on benches, praying on rosaries. William leaned back on his simple concrete perch, closed his eyes, and allowed the daylight to warm his face.

  “Mr. McFee?”

  William sat up straight and blinked. He’d nearly dozed off. “Yes, Miss Borduchi. I mean, Sister Borduchi. Sister Mary?”

  “Sister Mary is fine.”

  She sat beside him. She was more striking than he’d imagined; she had a youthful yet sculpted face. Because of her white, brown, and black head and neck garments, he couldn’t see her hair color, but her eyes were bright blue. The sister shared physical characteristics with her twin, but while Tommy made William’s heart race, Sister Mary’s presence calmed him.

  “Thank you for taking time to see me, Sister.”

  “We get two hours of recreation each day. Some sew and knit. Some make rosaries. I prefer on nice days like this to sit in the courtyard and listen to the pond.” Her smile was kind, though her lip tilted similarly to her brother’s. “Incorporate conversation into the fold, Mr. McFee, and it makes for a lovely day. So what can I do for you? You’re a reporter?”

  He fought back the sweats. “I wrote the article on the Potter’s Field Christ. But I’d be content with never writing about it again.”

  “We’re cloistered here to prevent distraction from prayer, but some news can’t be shielded by these walls. I know about Asher Keating.”

  “If I tell you some things, can it be just between you and me?”

  “Well, of course. What’s on your mind?”

  “My little brother, Henry, he was killed in a car wreck.” William looked around. No one was close enough to overhear them, but he lowered his voice anyway. “Asher Keating was buried in the field next to our house on the one-year anniversary of his death. To the day. When my brother died, his shoes were missing. Well, they showed up in Asher’s bindle. Turns out Asher and Henry had a connection.”

  William paused to study her reaction; it wasn’t one of surprise.

  “Henry had a talent.” William looked over his shoulder again. “He could dance like an adult. Better, in fact. Had the talent before he learned to walk. Like it was God given. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  She folded her hands. “Should I?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid you’ll think me crazy.”

  “No crazier than choosing a life of prayer and solitude.”

  They shared a laugh. He liked the ease he felt with her. “Okay, well, I’d figured Henry was a prodigy. I’ve learned that Asher Keating watched over my brother, like a guardian angel. That he was a prodigy himself. But more so. Henry wasn’t the only one he watched over.”

  She adjusted the brown scapular around her neck, then faced him with a serious look in her eyes. “When I sat down, you were wondering what color my hair is? It’s brown. As a kid, during the summer, it would turn the color of sand. Not now, of course. I also know you’re here about my twin brother.”

  “Sister . . . can you read my mind?”

  “And your heart,” she said warmly. “And it’s in a good place, William.”

  It was the first time she’d called him by his first name.

  “And yes, I was one Asher watched over. I was three when I first surprised my mother by saying what she was just about to do. But a gift can also be a curse. Not everyone’s thoughts are kind. I was a gangly and long-nosed child. The other girls teased me without saying a word. Passing them on the sidewalk, I knew what they thought.”

  “A friend of Asher’s told me that you had visions of Mary and Jesus.”

  “You’re in love with this friend. You’ve yet to kiss her and this drives you batty.” She patted his hand. “You’re worried that you won’t know how to do it and she’ll laugh.”

  “I’m more worried now that a nun knows this about me.” William blushed.

  “Don’t be. Your wait will soon be over, I predict.” She watched water trickle across the pond stones. “I did see visions of Mary and Jesus. Five times.”

  “How well did you know Asher Keating?”

  “He was younger than me by several years. We spoke a handful of times, mostly kind greetings in passing. He took up for me on the street on the sly, although I knew. One afternoon I fell running after a ball. I skinned my knees bloody. There was a car coming. Asher hustled me from the pavement to the grass, although I was twice his size. I thanked him and he nodded ‘you’re welcome.’ And that was it. Until, around the age of ten, he got the courage to talk to me in more depth.” She chuckled as she reminisced. “He told me he loved me. Loved me like the days are long. And then he just stood there.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I was flattered, but that was not the path chosen for us.”

  “And?”

  “And he agreed. He wished me a good afternoon. Two days later he was in an orphanage. We never spoke again, but I knew he watched over me, all the way up until he died.”

  “What do you think of him now? I mean, with everything that’s being said?”

  “I think Asher Keating was a very special man. A kind man. A flawed man. An especially gifted man.” She shrugged, pursed her lips. “Could he have been the second coming of Jesus Christ? That I can’t answer with certainty. But the fact that a woman of the cloth gives pause is one kind of answer.”

  “You mentioned the paths chosen for you. You knew that you’d become a nun?”

  “I knew I wanted to serve the Lord. I knew I wanted to be in a place where people didn’t have mean thoughts.” She motioned toward the courtyard. “And I’ve found that here. I came as soon as I could. Joined at sixteen. You don’t know what it was like living with Tommy, being able to read his mind. Tommy once spotted a cat snooping for scraps around our porch. He ran into the house. I just knew it was to get his bat. I shooed the poor thing away before Tommy could get to it. He would have beaten it to death, he was in such an ornery mood. He glared at me, knowing what I’d done. Wanted to take the bat to me, and probably would have tried had I not walked away.”

  William felt sick to his stomach. “They say he’s found Christ. In prison.”

  “I pray that he has. I’ve prayed for him all of my life, but I’m hard-pressed to believe he’s changed.” She shook her head. “Or that he’ll ever change.”

  “He came to visit Asher’s grave. He wants my father dead, but he thinks my father is somebody else. I’m not making sense—”

  “I understand you perfectly, William.” She sighed, touched the scapular around her neck again. “I will add you to my afternoon prayers.”

  “But do you think . . . ?” He trailed off, started over. “Asher felt your presence on the street. You and Tommy, he felt it. I know it has to do about how we’re brought up, but is it possible . . . ?”

  “To be born evil?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m asking. My little brother, he said sometimes the bad stuff gets in.”

  Sister Mary e
xhaled. “My mother told me she once woke to the smell of smoke and singed fabric. She sat up, and there was Tommy hunkered like a troll, sitting on the foot of the bed with a lit candle. She asked him what in the world he was doing. He said he was thinking about when he was born. He wanted to know if there were any more babies in there. ‘Why?’ my mother asked. ‘Better not be,’ he said.” Sister Mary kissed her rosary and then motioned the sign of the cross. “He was two years old.”

  An aroma of boiled corn and rye escaped the cooking mill, and the air of the fermentation house was thick with yeasty mash. Mr. Browder was the center of attention amid the whiskey-tree crowd, handing small samples of Ronald’s Ghost to anyone willing to try it.

  “He’s on his second barrel,” Polly told William as they faced the crowd. “The Klansmen barked their disapproval of the Demon Rum. And they don’t like the fact that a Negro is handing it out to white folks.”

  Polly had spent the morning collecting stories.

  Kenneth Smart, after visiting the grave, found a dollar alongside the road. He took it as a sign to reopen his hardware store. He started removing the plywood from the windows at lunchtime.

  Mario Benvito, a widower of five years, found his wife’s wedding ring. He’d lost it months ago. At the grave he’d prayed on whether or not to close his restaurant. Moments after he found the ring—in the restaurant, near the cash register—a woman entered and he served her spaghetti and a glass of wine. He even sat with her while she dined. She was a widow herself and looking for work. She could wait tables, she’d told him, to which he responded that he didn’t have the business. Two minutes later two families from the crowded main road arrived with empty bellies and pocket change. The woman stood and grabbed a dusty apron from a hook on the wall.

  Taking advantage of the cars continuously coming in and out of Twisted Tree, Charlie Pipes’s Gas & Taff corner store was seeing more business than it had in the past two years. He dropped his gas to eight cents a gallon and gave his taffy away free on fill-ups.

  Brooks Madden found his old hot-dog stand in the garage and set up shop alongside the main road. He’d visited Asher’s grave the day before. His hot dogs with chili and cheese were a hit—especially with Margie Fitzgerald, because he’d gotten all his ingredients from her Twisted Tree food store, which itself had seen a resurgence of customers of late—and those who couldn’t afford to pay for the hot dog were asked to do something kind for a stranger.

  George and Hope Sparrow, who’d for the most part lived a loveless marriage, had prayed at the grave for God to rekindle their flame. That night, according to George, he’d kept Hope awake all night long.

  Dr. Lewis knocked on the McFees’ front door shortly before lunchtime, fidgeting with his hat when Samantha opened the door. She’d asked him inside for coffee, but Dr. Lewis declined. Couldn’t stay long. He’d visited his wife at the Waverly Sanatorium, and she’d made a remarkable turn for the better. The doctors said her breathing was stronger and even mentioned her “making the walk” soon. The sanatorium sat upon a tall hill. If the patients could make the walk up and down, they were healthy enough to go home. Dr. Lewis thanked Samantha for praying for his wife and apologized for some of the things he’d said about Annie.

  They shook hands and Dr. Lewis went on his way.

  “I believe,” William admitted. “I trust in it all like I trust the sun to rise every morning.”

  Polly slid her arm around his. “Did you find Sister Mary?”

  “I did. And now I’m confused. When I was little, my mother explained why we’re baptized as infants. To cleanse ourselves from original sin. The repercussions of Adam and Eve eating the fruit off the tree. Our entire family was baptized. But I’m wondering now. Does it really matter at all?”

  “William, what are you saying?”

  “That I think it’s all a sting, Polly. Tommy and Mary Borduchi were baptized. One became a nun and the other a monster. Maybe God put a little extra into the recipe with Henry and Sister Mary. But sometimes the bad stuff gets in and there’s nothin’ to be done about it.”

  “Which is exactly why I pray.”

  A letter from Nashville arrived in the afternoon mail, dated two days prior. The Fancannons were sad to report that their son had passed, overwhelmed with a fever the doctors were still trying to explain. It was their son’s wish that the letter be written in thanks. The short time he spent at the grave, the boy said, had given him “confidence to walk the long road.” And he was “no longer afraid.” Mr. Fancannon added a postscript, stating that the boy, after he’d returned home to their estate in Nashville, seemed to understand more than they ever would about life and the hereafter.

  “Negroes should have their own line,” a man shouted along the front line of whiskey trees, waving his right arm in the air. He was yelling at a black man and his family who’d just returned from the grave. He was a mean drunk, and a racist to boot.

  Bancroft was there with his camera; probably said something to instigate it all. Around him stood hooded Klansmen.

  Mr. Browder and his son-in-law, Max, came hurrying from the fermentation house as scuffles broke out. Barley fired his Colt into the air. Blackbirds scattered and leaves filtered down in golden drops. Everyone stopped. The Negro family who had been accosted packed their tent quickly.

  “Take your time,” Barley told them calmly. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

  “Negroes should have their own line,” the drunk said again, now that he’d gotten the attention he craved. “Don’t you reckon, Mr. McFee?”

  Barley didn’t answer, but William said, “What I reckon is you should get on out of Twisted Tree. There’s no room for your kind here.”

  “My kind?” the man asked, offended. “Look at’chu, boy. Our kind, you mean. Huh?” The Klansmen behind him nodded. “And I ain’t yet got my turn to pray, boy.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Negroes in their own line!” the bigot chanted, trying to get others to join in.

  “Christ is white!” one of the Klansmen shouted. “The Devil has taken root here!”

  William didn’t like the icy feeling sweeping through the woods. It was obvious how segregated the crowd had become. Barley spoke as if a revelation had hit him. “Anyone opposed to having two lines? Speak up.”

  More people toed up to the imaginary line between them as if to face off. Like they’d all been waiting for a reason.

  “Then it’s agreed,” shouted Barley. “Two lines it will be.”

  William’s heart sank.

  Barley punched the drunk loudmouth, knocking the man out cold like a felled tree. The crowd was stunned. Whispers spread through the trees, then became louder as Barley grabbed him by the collar. “Here you go, ladies and gentlemen. A most-needed second line. For palookas.”

  The crowd cheered.

  Bancroft raised his camera and got a perfect shot of Barley’s face.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Son, we’re going out on the town.”

  At first, Barley’s words had come as a shock. But he had been strutting around like a peacock since he’d pasted the drunk and created that second line. And now Barley, dressed to the nines in freshly shined shoes, slapped Samantha gently on the rump. She smoothed her knee-length dress and did a bad job concealing her pleasure.

  “We’re going out,” Barley repeated. “Me and your mother.”

  “Now?” William grinned.

  “There’s potato soup on the stove,” said Samantha. “Make sure Annie’s in bed by nine. And I invited Polly to the house for soup.”

  Barley nudged William’s shoulder and winked.

  After the dishes were done, the sun looked like half an orange sliding into the woods. The temperature was dropping, so William offered Polly one of Samantha’s sweaters. They walked in a clear arc around the whiskey trees. Would she allow him a kiss before the night was over? She was so beautiful, her fiery hair pulled back in a braided plait. He held her hand as they walked. Leaves crunched underfoot and
bats fluttered through the naked trees overhead. Campfires burned in the distance and a few tents had broken out into foreign song.

  “It’s Polish, that tune,” Polly remarked. “Your parents were cute tonight, weren’t they?”

  “You never knew my father before Asher. Cute wasn’t the word to describe him.”

  “Your mother told me Henry kicked so much inside her belly she should have guessed he was a dancer.” She’d begun to swing their arms a little.

  “When did he start wearing Henry’s shoes?”

  Polly grew silent for a few steps. “The night he died. He . . . we all noticed the new shoes. The next morning . . . we read the paper, about the car accident. Asher said, ‘I tried to stop him.’”

  “Tried to stop who?”

  “Don’t know.” She kicked a twig across the footpath. “That’s all he said.”

  They walked over deadfall and navigated a half-cleared path that curved around a narrow creek bed. Polly let go of his hand and reached inside her sweater for the flask. She unscrewed the top and took a drink. She offered William a nip but he declined.

  She took another and pointed at him with the flask. “I’m not a boozehound. But I came back because the distillery was running again. I thought I could get a job as a taster so I’d never have to beg or steal for booze again.”

  “Really?”

  “No, William. Not really.” She took another sip, wiped her mouth. “But there’s that word again. Really. Now, would you like a nip or not? Are you afraid I have cooties?”

  William reached for the flask and took a quick swig.

  “It calms my nerves. Helps me forget.”

  “My father told me about the cooties,” said William as they continued through the woods. “During the war he and his doughboys were walking a road in France. Muddy from their heads to the hobnails of their boots. Grouchy and scratching themselves. They came to a wooded shack with steam pouring out the chimney. It was a disinfecting plant set up by the American Red Cross. My father told the guard he’d caught all the cooties France had to offer. The guard called him a liar. My father said, ‘I thought this was a graveyard for cooties, not a session of Congress.’”