Sinfully Supernatural

by Multiple

  I am a life sculptor. She was good at helping them to take that most important step into the light away from the darkness, but by their own free will. She could show them anything from her imagination, but she couldn’t make them take that step.

  Yet, every single one of her charges made that step. She knew Daniel would be no different.

  The local junior college’s planetarium was one of her favorite places to go, the show like a movie of Heaven, or at least the only part humans saw from below. She was touched by how humans were always searching the heavens, trying to make sense of it all.

  The twinkly lights in the sky were like angels looking down on her—her friends up above awaiting her return and her stories. She imagined that as a real child she must have laid out on warm summer nights and stared at the stars and the beauty of the sparkling sky, listening for some kind of sound, waiting for something to happen in her life, as if her calling was up there among the stars.

  “Twinkle, twinkle little star,

  How I wonder what you are,

  Up above the world so high,

  Like a diamond in the sky,”

  She remembered this little childhood song humans sang to their children. Did my mother sing this to me at night?

  To Claire, the galaxies were unfinished projects, other worlds with stars like earth’s own sun, where life was being created, mixing light, combining it, like a painter. As far as she knew, there was no limit to creativity. She didn’t need to know everything about the universe; her little part of it was enough. And since she would live forever, there was no rush to learn all its secrets any faster.

  She regularly took Daniel to the planetarium in his dream state. She left out an audience so she could have him all alone and fully to herself. Though dangerous, she preferred to remain in human form, leaning forward to smell the scent of his clean hair.

  And she wanted Daniel to have a sense of someone looking down upon him and his life, someone who cared and protected him.

  So, on this particular night, he dreamed about the trees overhanging the flower garden he abandoned in his back yard. This was the perfect segue to taking him to Lake Ozette and the mighty forest that awaited them. She chose the bright green time of late April.

  Chapter 10

  She could see Daniel’s curiosity as he stood at the trailhead next to the ranger station. He began the journey down the forested trail. Within a few yards, except for the wooden planks, no evidence of man existed before him. There was no sound but the wet dripping of the mist off the huge canopy of trees, to ferns and shiny leaves below, resting at last on the brown, loamy soil. One big drop of water fell on his face as if it took a century to fall from the bow of a very tall tree poking at the underbelly of Heaven itself.

  He called forth his easel and chalky paints and sat working over the pages in the forest at the edge of a large, golden-lit meadow. The mist and droplets of water created the moisture needed for his pencils and watercolor chalk. He blended them with the pads of his long fingers. In his dream state, he seemed to work easily and happily alone, drinking in the glory of the forest, producing an impression that captured a glimpse of this great story.

  A magic love affair lay somewhere between the pads of his fingers and the smooth white paper. He pressed into the paper the chalky substance, smoothing just here, shading just there, like a lover deciding which portion of his sweetheart’s body he would grace with the warmth of his lips.

  There she is again. He looked up, slowly glancing around.

  Careful.

  Claire could hear his thoughts. She must have made her presence known somehow. But it was so hard to distance herself from Daniel as he painted. She could watch forever, she thought. Perhaps sweeter to her was the fact that Daniel, unlike her, did not have forever. This made his life more urgent and precious. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she reminded herself to breathe.

  Daniel worked intently on a jungle scene, this morning incorporating bright tropical flowers and dark towering jungle greenery. He drew little scratches in pencil with two or three colors, and then added chalk to bring out more intense pigment. He added a dab or two of water from his rinse glass. He coaxed the color over the page with the pads of his third and fourth fingers.

  Claire felt the intimate act of painting like fingers on her own skin. Sometimes he put his lips up to the paper and blew, drying it just so and just enough so more layers of color could be added. He then removed half the intensity of the color with a soft stroke of his finger or tiny wet sponge on a stick. It was a give and take of color and form, a sensuous meal of both light and dark.

  Sometimes when Claire studied him painting, it was difficult for her to breathe, like right now. She felt the little fluttering in her heart like tiny harps with strings made of fuzzy yarn that resonated and deferred to him in some ancient harmony. It wasn’t really music; it was a vibration of her soul. In his presence, she could completely lose herself.

  She liked to put her face close to his to watch every little change in his eye movements, and to absorb the smell of his hair and the trace of lime cologne he put behind his ears. She loved the feel and smell of his breath as it bounced off the page. She would close her eyes and inhale the warm sweet scent of him. On this day he smelled a little like limes and warm, fresh earth.

  Daniel stood back now, examining his work. After another adjustment and another step back to double check, he seemed pleased with the end result. He smiled faintly as he moved his head from one angle to the other.

  He was prolific in his new commission for the children’s book. This was perhaps the tenth or so painting he’d completed in as many days. She felt a rush of warmth flow through her body—pleasure in Daniel’s success.

  Daniel whipped his head up and looked around, as if he could sense her—see her. She tamped down the human emotions inside of her. He was her charge, and she was to do a job—heal his soul. That was all.

  She wondered how Daniel would paint her story, if he knew she existed. How would he paint her face, her countenance? What colors would he use to show her emotions, and the depth of the love she had for her work in the human world? Would he be able to draw all the exquisite things she remembered from Heaven: the golden pink valleys and mountains of clouds; the sky that could go from pale blue to a deep midnight, almost black; the way everything sparkled with diamond dust? Would he be able to draw how happy it made her to sit and watch him sleep, or how wonderful it smelled when he was shampooing his hair? She wondered if all of that could be captured on paper.

  She was an angel helping real humans live in the real world through the fantasy of their dreams. Claire understood that fantasy could create reality, but could the opposite happen? Could Daniel’s experiences change her? Am I becoming changed?

  She thought about the Brownings. Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning had fallen in love—not by the physicality of their being, but first with each other’s words, poems, and letters; then their fantasy love became real. Could two people fall in love through art, color? Would Father deny me just a taste of this?

  Perhaps a real and lasting love like Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning had shared could be made a part of Heaven and that love could live forever.

  Daniel washed up his paints and laid the brushes out to dry on the table. His final act was to wash his hands. Claire noticed his third and fourth fingers now always had a stain, half purple, half brown, even after washing. Anyone who knew him as well as she did would be able to tell how inspired he’d been lately by this one telltale sign.

  He made dinner and sipped a glass of red wine, with soft guitar music playing in the background. If she were human, these would be the times she would enjoy the most. He was very still and usually quiet at night. She especially liked one effect of the red wine he drank: it made his cheeks blush a bit and gave a wonderful redness to his full lips. What would his lips feel like on my skin?

  Claire liked to sit next to him in the overstuffed ch
air, watching the lights flicker from the fireplace on his smooth masculine face. She would trace the little laugh lines, the wispy part of his hair at his temples, where it was unruly. She knew he would be very striking at any age.

  The flickering firelight brought Daniel’s paintings to life, as if created to be watched near a flame. The pink and yellow leopards and multi-colored birds almost danced in and out of the profusion of green strokes that had been made by his fingers and brushes to create the jungle foliage of the painting. Their wide eyes stared as if startled at being discovered and followed Claire around the room as she moved. Do they think I am stealing him away?

  She’d never steal him away. Where would she take him? Something tugged on her heartstrings. Her time here was finite. There would come a day when she would need to leave this charge to the beauty of his human world. And she would go home to the vanilla world of Heaven.

  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if somehow this could last forever? For the first time in her angel life, Claire sensed that in being an angel, she was missing something.

  I don’t want to go home!

  Her disobedient thought shocked her. What would that look like? Feel like? What if she could eat and sleep? What if she could…

  No. Stop. You can’t do this. She needed to gain control over her rebellious side before those in Heaven heard her thoughts.

  Daniel had gone upstairs. Claire went back to his easel. She shifted out of disappear into human form, touching the chalks, the watercolor crayons and acrylic paints. She picked up a blue crayon and wrote across the surface of a fresh white sheet of watercolor paper, C-L-A-I-R-E.

  She used residue water in Daniel’s paint tray to brush over the letters the watercolor crayon had made, which bled and blended into the white paper. But her name was still visible underneath. Her finger still wet, she made a thumbprint in the upper right corner of the paper, and then carefully tore it out of the tablet. She blew on it like Daniel did with his work.

  In her hands, she held evidence that she existed in the human world. She had changed the physical human world with something uniquely her own creation.

  “You are never to let them know you ever exist,” Mother had said. That was the hardest part, for she knew she did exist. She was proud of her work. Why shouldn’t she show Daniel, let him know he was being watched over? What could it hurt, really?

  In the universe Father had created, with all the variety and free will afforded angels and humans, surely there was room for one little angel to show a tiny part of herself, and how much she loved her job, particularly how much she enjoyed the company of one human above all others.

  Claire wanted to save the paper with her name on it, so she waited until she thought Daniel was fully asleep to ascend the attic stairs at the end of the second story hallway. Although she could will herself up there, the paper would not be able to follow her, being of the human world. The small door creaked as she opened it.

  Claire carefully tiptoed up the narrow stairwell to her little attic space, her private sanctuary. The few clothes she brought from Heaven were neatly folded in the dresser. She had hung the crystal from her dorm room over the single window, which sparkled rainbows over the bare studs and walls in the daytime. But at night, one flat side of the crystal caught a glint of the moonlight, illuminating the space. Claire laid the white paper on the empty trundle bed frame, spreading over her written name with the tips of her fingers. The paper felt completely dry.

  Just then, she heard a creaking of the stairs. Someone was coming up.

  Chapter 11

  Daniel peered around the side of the doorframe, but it was pitch black. Expecting an intruder, he gripped a baseball bat in between his hands, steeling himself for a quick swing. He tiptoed into the room and scanned it, eyes glancing over the four corners illuminated by moonlight.

  No one was there. He looked behind the dresser with the cracked mirror. Nothing. But yet he sensed something watching him.

  “Who’s here? Show yourself.” The wind outside shook the rafters and whistled. The hairs at the back of his neck stood at attention. After a few more silent moments, he released his hold on the bat, dangling it with his right hand and started to leave the room, but a sheet of his drawing paper resting on the wire bed frame caught his attention. He quickly turned around, to see if it was some kind of trick to distract him, but seeing no one there, went back to the paper. He bent over and brushed his fingers over the top, sensing slight dampness only his fingers would be able to feel. He traced the letters he saw there in blue.

  “Claire,” he whispered. “Who is Claire?”

  He picked up the paper, brought it to his nose and sniffed. A slight floral scent remained.

  My muse. She paints.

  He set the paper back down, scratching the back of his head with one hand. Some movement caught his eye and he immediately looked to the window, noticing the crystal blinking on and off, caught in the rays of the moon.

  He approached the window, and with his forefinger, touched the crystal hanging there, watching it twinkle and dance.

  Was this here before?

  He scanned the top of the dresser, seeing a small sample perfume bottle. He picked up the bottle, smelled the delicate floral scent remaining and sprayed it into the air. Tiny glistening particles softly fell like magic rain.

  What is this?

  He wiped his hands on his pajama bottoms, then stuck the spray bottle in his pocket. With another careful glance around, he called out, “Show yourself.” He waited.

  This is ridiculous. But he glanced around the room one more time, then he silently left the attic, closed the door behind him, and locked it with a resounding “click.” He made his way slowly down the stairwell, touching the sides of the wall with the fingertips of his left hand. The bottom two steps groaned under his weight. He closed the lower door and locked the latch as well.

  Back in his room, Daniel stared up at the ceiling in his bedroom with a smile on his face.

  It was completely insane to believe that a muse lived in his attic. But it was a pleasant vision. And one he decided to entertain.

  Though the baseball bat was leaned against the bed by his head, he doubted he’d need it tonight. He liked the idea he had captured his muse and locked her in his attic.

  Sleep well, my little one. Show yourself to me and I will let you out.

  Daniel shopped at the organic grocery store on Friday afternoon, sorting through the extensive wine section. He held the green plastic basket casually in his left hand, brushing it near his thigh against the black knee-length raincoat with the slit up the back. His right hand moved across the labels in the red section. He had no idea what he came to the store to buy.

  “This is what you’re looking for?” Josh handed him a dark shiny bottle of Ravenswood Meritage without smiling. They looked at each other carefully. Daniel saw a slight challenge in Josh’s dark face.

  Daniel held the bottle by the neck and slid it back on the shelf. Not going there again. Ever.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll try a different brand. I’m not fond of the memories.” Daniel selected a Sin Zin, showing the label to Josh, who beamed.

  “Nice, very nice choice,” Josh said.

  Both men continued shuffling down the wine and beer aisle.

  “So, where did you crawl off to?” Josh cocked his head, watching.

  “I’ve been working,” Daniel responded flatly.

  “Yes, I can see. Too much, I fear.”

  Wondering why his agent and friend wasn’t happier, Daniel asked, “You’re not pleased, then?”

  “All work and no play…well, you know how it goes,” Josh answered.

  Daniel shrugged and stepped away from the wine section towards the meat counter, across the wide aisle. Josh followed. Daniel looked over the cuts of lamb, pork, and beef, arranged in pink rows silently lined with little borders of green plastic imitation grass, then requested a large New York steak.

&nb
sp; “Go for the rib eye,” Josh leaned in and whispered in his ear.

  Daniel felt a calmness travel down his spine. He’d missed his friend. “If you want to come over, I can get another one.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Sure. Or tomorrow, whatever works.”

  “You still don’t have much of a social life, my friend,” Josh said as he leaned over and put his arm around Daniel’s shoulders.

  The camaraderie made him happy. “I’m in love with my painting right now, Josh. That’s probably hard for you to believe. I almost can’t believe it myself.”

  Josh dropped his arm and stared at the ground, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I’d say you’ve made a rather remarkable recovery, Daniel. You went from despair to inspiration all in the space of what, little over a week?”

  The butcher was waiting with the New York on a piece of white-waxed tissue held in the palm of his hand, tapping his fingers against the counter with his other hand. He looked pointedly at the line of customers behind Daniel and Josh. “You want another one or not?” He said loud enough for three waiting women shoppers to hear.

  “Ah, sir, if you would, we’ll have those two rib eyes,” Josh spoke up, pointing to two large steaks toward the front of the tray. The butcher sighed, slapping two pieces of the marbled meat unceremoniously onto the scale, then wrapped them in pink butcher paper. He handed the package to Josh with grim determination, not asking if he could help them with something else, and wiped his gloved hands on his bloody apron. They’d been dismissed.

  The two men walked down the dairy isle.

  “Tonight.” Josh said after a long silence.

  “What?” Daniel didn’t understand.

  “I’ll come over tonight. We’ll have our steaks—then I want to take you out for a little R and R.”

  Daniel nodded in agreement. Perhaps it was time for a break.