Seraphim

by Jon Michael Kelley

  “Katherine Bently,” he whispered. She’d been his second angel.

  Now, why would the courier suddenly become obsessed with a photograph of a girl long dead? he wondered.

  Then the most alarming thought struck him.

  His right fist shot out violently, punching the creature across the side of its snout. “Just what the fuck are you trying to tell me?”

  Cocking its head, the creature considered Eli with an expression that was nearly human; a look that said: Do that again, chum, and I’ll take it off at the elbow. Then it began to slowly, demonstratively, flap its wings.

  With avaricious eyes, Eli critiqued the display. Then: “She’s back?”

  The creature turned its muzzle back to the photograph and growled in the affirmative.

  “Where?” Eli demanded.

  Using the blood engendered by Eli’s right hook, the creature leaned forward and, with a long, thin tongue, licked two crimson letters upon the face of the angel: L A

  3.

  “Hemorrhoids?” Duncan McNeil said, maintaining his composure. He removed his gray corduroy jacket, hung it on the brass coat tree standing beside the kitchen doorway, then loosened the knot in his tie.

  Wednesday was his shortest day of the academic week, his last class usually extending no farther into the afternoon than one o’clock. Today’s had ended mercifully at noon. He had seen to it. He liked teaching Criminal Justice, but it never failed to bring back memories, some good, some bad.

  Today’s had been bad, one of his Reliving days. And The Wounds were still throbbing.

  The kitchen smelled strongly of sauerkraut, behind which his nose espied the presence of Kielbasa sausage. He shook his head. He hated that dish, but what infuriated him was that Juanita Santiago, the maid from hell, knew it, too, but kept on stuffing it into the oven anyway.

  This, of course, was just one of her many and none-too-subtle ways of telling him that she was in charge.

  Puta loco.

  If it wasn’t for the close relationship Juanita shared with his daughter Amy, he would have long ago Federal-Expressed the wench back to Tampico, Juarez, or whatever impoverished Mexican borough she was from.

  He turned to his wife. “Hemorrhoids?” he said again, his poise quickly losing altitude.

  “It’s a job,” Rachel said, absolving herself.

  Duncan scratched his nose, as if that might stunt the grin forming below it. “Yeah, but…a hemorrhoid commercial?”

  “Look, Dunc,” she said defensively, “everyone’s gotta start out somewhere.”

  Duncan lifted his shoulders. “Why not toilet paper, tampons, stuff for yeast infections? Hell, I can even see you pushing Midol. The afflicted housewife. God knows that would be a challenging role,” he clucked. “But, geez, hon—hemorrhoids?” Then, in a pleading tone: “Tell me they’re just going to dub in your voice, use only your hands to hold the—”

  “Full frontal nudity,” she declared.

  He moaned. “Cable or Network?”

  “Both. Networks don’t make commercials anymore, unless they’re plugging a show.”

  “Ointment or suppository?”

  “Again, both.”

  He slumped against the refrigerator. “Holy inflatable seat donuts, Batman.”

  “Very funny,” she said, drumming her long, manicured nails atop the dining room table. “I should have known this was coming.”

  Duncan finally sat down at the opposite end, facing her. Elbows on the table, he then bowed his head into his hands, feigning ruin. “What will the guys at the lodge say?” he whimpered. “The neighbors? Reverend Williams? Mom?”

  A smile was slinking beneath her cool exterior. “Reverend Williams? Not in this lifetime.”

  He looked up at her, horror in his eyes. “You don’t have to demonstrate its…application! Do you?”

  She leaned forward. “Dammit, Dunc! Are you proud of me, or not?”

  He straightened, the mischief in his voice waning. “Oh, of course I am, sweetheart.” And he truly was, proud as punch, but this was just too grand an opportunity to let fully pass without some rib-poking.

  He got up, walked over to her, put his arms around her shoulders. “Congratulations.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just don’t make an ass out of yourself.”

  She finally laughed. “My big break finally comes, and suddenly I’m feeling like Sally Struthers.”

  He started for the refrigerator. “Now there’s an actress who could point you in the right direction, give you some up-front advice on the do’s and don’ts of commercial making.”

  She lit a cigarette. “Pu-leese.” She blew a cloud of blue smoke in his direction. “Did I mention the hefty paycheck?”

  He popped open a can of beer and said, “You mean you’re doing it just for the money?”

  “We’re talking a hell of a start on Amy’s college education,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. She pulled the contract from her purse, pointing to the figures that ran the full length of the right margin. “See?”

  Perplexed, he said, “I thought we’d already pigeonholed enough for Amy’s college tuition.”

  “Well, not graduate school, we haven’t.”

  “My daughter, the doctor,” he said, smiling proudly. “I can hear her now at the graduation ceremonies: ‘And to my dear mother, who literally sold her ass so that I might one day—’”

  “Enough with the butt jokes already,” she warned, handing him the contract.

  “Wow,” he said. “Press hard for nine copies.” He perused the legal jargon, nodding now and again, as if in agreement.

  “Careful,” she said, “the ink’s still wet. And don’t dribble any beer on it. I have to sign it and give it back to Stills first thing tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of Stills, I see here that your esteemed agent won’t have to worry about his kids’ college education, either.”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “Roughly thirty-percent, but that’s standard. It’s a fair arrangement.”

  His eyes bore down upon the paper. “Really? Let’s see here: after Still’s cut, there’s the Screen Actors Guild, Uncle Sam—”

  “Gawd, Duncan,” she whined, “can’t you for once just find the bright side to something?”

  He gave her back the contract. “You’re right. I’m being a poop—er, tease.” He downed the rest of his beer, then belched wetly.

  “Charming,” she said.

  “Okay, this is truly cause for celebration. Let’s you, me, and Amy go out to dinner tonight. Any restaurant you want.”

  “But ... Juanita has din—”

  “Let her eat it,” he said, not hiding his revulsion. “By the way, where is the old hunchback?”

  “Grocery store, then she’ll swing by and pick Amy up from school.” Rachel, her eleven years of residency in LA having made her overly cautious, did not allow Amy to take the bus when at all possible. “And, as her employer,” she continued, “I don’t think it’s very sporting of you to name-call behind her back.” She crushed out her cigarette. “I wish to hell you two would kiss and make up.”

  Duncan winced at the thought, then said, “Hey, isn’t Amy getting her school picture taken today?”

  “Fifth grade,” Rachel said, her voice awed by the swift passage of time.

  “Yeah,” he fondly agreed. “Seems like it was just yesterday she was making presents in her diapers for Daddy.”

  “Oh? If they were your presents, then why did I always have the pleasure of opening them?”

  “Woman’s work,” he said, waving it off, then quickly changed the subject. “Hey, your TV commercial reminds me of a joke.”

  “Oh, no,” she moaned.

  “There’s these three missionaries in the jungle, see, and they get captured by this Amazon tribe of men. After taking them to their camp, the chief of the tribe says to the first missionary, ‘The penalty for trespassing is either death or Bongo. Which do you chose?’ ‘Well,’ the missionary says, ‘I’ll take Bongo. It can’t possibly
be as bad as death.’ ‘Bongo!’ the chief shouts. The tribe cheers, and ten of these scary-looking natives line up behind the first missionary and start taking turns throwing him the ol’ bologna pony.” Duncan illustratively grabbed the air and pumped his hips. “After they’ve all finished, the first missionary says, ‘Wow! That was pretty bad! But I guess it wasn’t as bad as death.’ Then it was the second missionary’s turn. ‘Death? Or Bongo?’ the chief says to him. The second missionary says, ‘Well, Bongo’s pretty bad—but not as bad as death. I’ll take Bongo.’ The chief shouts, ‘Bongo!’ and the tribe cheers, but this time twenty natives take turns corn-holing him,” he said, again pantomiming for her.

  “Oh, please.”

  He continued. “When they were through, the second missionary goes, ‘Oh, man! That was horrible! I should have chose death!’ Then the chief looks at the third missionary, and says, ‘Death? Or Bongo?’ The third missionary says, ‘No way am I taking Bongo. Give me death!’ ‘Death!’ the chief shouts, ‘—by Bongo!’”

  She just shook her head. “I saw that one coming a mile back.”

  “Oh, well,” Duncan said, shrugging his shoulders. “They can’t all be riots. Besides, it’s in the lesson plan. See, I tell my students that joke on the very first day of every new semester, then explain to them that it’s a paragon of futility. In other words, just when we think we’ve outwitted those who would screw us—whammo! We discover that we were screwed all along.”

  “Ya know what, Dunc?” Rachel calmly observed. “I used to think you were just cynical, pessimistic. But I’m beginning to see that you’re far beyond that now. You’ve become totally misanthropic.”

  “Miss-and-what?”

  “When did you become so, so…paranoid?”

  Duncan shrugged. “When everyone started plotting against me. Anyway, I’m not letting any student of mine, badge-wearing or otherwise, loose on the streets still thinking he or she can make a difference.”

  Smiling, Rachel rose from her chair, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “You’re a desolate man, Duncan McNeil. But I love you anyway.”

  Duncan hugged her, softly kissed her ear, and whispered, “I love me, too.”

  She pushed away from him, and goosed his ribs. “I take it back. I don’t even like you.”

  He laughed. “So, what’ll it be for dinner? Korean? Mexican? LA-ian?”

  “Curry,” she said definitively.

  “You’re on the rag again, aren’t you?” he said. “Seems lately that every time Aunt Flow comes to visit, your taste buds jet off to Calcutta.” He shrugged then.

  She shook her head. “Always the clown.”

  *****

  But he was right, she had to admit. She’d not even realized it herself until just now—but yeah, those cravings had been nagging her for the last couple of months, yet had somehow managed to remain inconspicuous enough that she’d not connected them to her menstrual cycles. Of course, there were always those heightened desires for chocolates and their ilk, victuals that were strictly taboo as long as she remained an aspiring actress and part-time model. Sweet stuff. And maybe that was why she hadn’t made the connection earlier. What she’d been craving lately was everything but sweet.

  Still, there was nothing odd about women having cravings, she reminded herself. Like mood swings, they came with the territory. And Duncan, candid as blunt trauma, never failed to bring to her attention those certain times of the month when her disposition was approaching shrewish levels. But…to have recognized something as esoteric as her departure from sweets to curries—even before she had?

  Well, she supposed not. That was the funny thing about her husband. Beneath his facetious, if not downright cynical, exterior there lurked keen intuition; a perception of people and situations that, at times, seemed to border clairvoyant. She’d long ago come to the conclusion that his years as a law officer had primed his awareness; that he’d acquired the “Blue Sense.”

  Sometimes, though, she wondered if it went deeper than that. Like now.

  She sighed. Living with Duncan McNeil was like sharing a swamp with a herbivorous crocodile: you know it won’t eat you, but it can still give you a start when it unexpectedly drifts by.

  4.

  “Tilt your head a little to the right, sweetheart,” the photographer instructed. “There, right there. Hold it! Okay, now, smile big.”

  The girl tried to smile, but the effort was apparently too great. She nervously looked away.

  The photographer bolted up from the viewfinder and sighed loudly. His patience, although always taxed when dealing with schoolchildren, was beginning to deteriorate this afternoon at a much faster rate than usual. He wondered if it was due to the heat combined with the lateness of the day. Since having begun at eight that morning, he’d soaked two handkerchiefs and gone through more than seventy-five fidgeting adolescents. Most had been eager, receptive, cooperative, but there were always those few...

  At last count, there were five kids left in the hallway, their homeroom teacher slouched against the wall, looking in desperate need of a bar stool.

  Frustrated, he pulled a hand down over his face. Maybe it was time to change careers, he thought. Sixteen years of portrait photography had not only caused deep, permanent creases on both sides of his mouth from demonstrating the correct smile, but had recently begun to strain his ego, as well. Lately, it seemed the only place people ever smiled was in front of his camera, and he behind it, both always fraudulently. And the clown-like tricks he’d been using over the years to extract those plastic simpers now seemed eager to surrender to less humorous kinds of coercion. Like brandishing an AK-47, for instance.

  “Look, honey,” he said tersely, “this isn’t gonna hurt a bit.”

  He adjusted the two standing lights beside her and spread out a few wrinkles in the backdrop draped across the wall.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Amy McNeil.”

  “How old are you, Amy?”

  “Ten-and-a-half.”

  “Certainly you’ve had your picture taken before. Right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well then,” he assured, “this is no different than when your grandma or mommy takes your picture with their little pocket brownies. Nothin’ to it.”

  Yeah, right, pocket brownies, he thought. Christ, he was well into the 21st Century yet he continued to spout off comparisons as antiquated as his own equipment and techniques.

  Seeing that she didn’t have a clue as to what a brownie was, he said, “You know, digital cameras and such.”

  *****

  Amy was reminded that she never liked having those kinds of pictures taken of herself either. Seeing her face in snapshots had always given her the creepy feeling that she was not really looking at herself, but at a twin sister who had been born—and continued to live and grow—in those glossy, rectangular patches of still life. A twin whose face always stared back at her with sad, haunted eyes. And she did not like seeing herself represented that way.

  She was happy, always had been. At least she thought so.

  Life had, so far, been good to her. She had a wonderful mom and dad, a nice big house, awesome clothes, had visited Disneyland and Knots Berry Farm and Sea World more times than she could count, always got straight A’s (an achievement requiring little, if any, effort, and one that caused her occasional guilt), and a weekly allowance that confirmed her own suspicions that she was spoiled rotten. But she’d been careful never to flaunt her good fortune, and she attributed this bit of humility to an abundance of honest, well-intentioned friends. She was, in fact, instantly liked by nearly every person she met, adult and child alike. And to give thanks, she always knelt in prayer at bedtime—a nightly ritual encouraged by her best friend and family’s live-in maid, Juanita Santiago.

  Amy’s parents weren’t as outwardly religious, if they were religious at all, and they certainly didn’t go around knocking on people’s doors “pushing Christ like a vacuum cleaner,�
� as her dad was fond of saying. They never attended church, much to Juanita’s disapproval, but Amy felt that they all led a clean life. One without of any major sins, at least.

  There was only one thing in the whole world that she hated (a word not often heard in her above-average vocabulary) and that was having her picture taken. She’d always felt the need to duck whenever a camera was pointed in her direction, to quickly glance away at the last second as if the shutter’s intention was to capture more than just a moment in time. And more than a few of the snapshots taken of her (mostly the ones where she was three and older) were, from the neck up, blurred by this phobia.

  To Amy, photographs were like silent lies. They quietly led the viewer away from the real truth with beguiling expressions; a concept, she imagined, that was certainly familiar to the sweating, rankled photographer before her.

  She hated cameras, what they produced. And, strangely, always had. But today, that profound dislike was quickly turning into a kind of smothering fear, and she had no idea why. She wanted desperately to hop down from this wobbly stool and run. Run home. Already her heart was strumming in her ears. Her hands were trembling, and her knees felt cold and rubbery. She’d also begun to sweat and was aware of an awful odor coming from her armpits—a strong, skunk smell, much more powerful than the kind she sometimes noticed in gym class.

  Frightened and ashamed, she pulled her arms tightly against her body.

  “Let’s try this one more time,” said the photographer. “C’mon, how about a pretty smile.”

  Just as she was about to tell him that she wasn’t feeling well, and that she would like to leave, he tripped the shutter.

  The flash seared through her eyes and into her brain, exploding there like a balloon filled with silver helium. She blinked frantically, trying to reestablish her eyesight. She wobbled on the stool, then began to fall. But what should have only been a two-foot drop to the floor began to seem incredibly long. She could actually feel the wind rushing around her, powerfully so, as if she were falling from a skyscraper rather than a chair.