by Susanne Beck
After the shock came disbelief. Which was in no way surprising, in that Ice had by that time attained immortal status among the Amazons. More logical minds pointed out that there simply wasn’t enough evidence to conclude anything, no matter what the FBI and the local police were stating with such surety.
Critter, Pony, Cowgirl and Cheeto made the immediate decision to investigate the matter themselves. They left without packing. The rest of us remained behind, too shocked to speak, even among ourselves.
What they found wasn’t revealed to me until well after the fact. My last clear memory of that night was drifting off into a somewhat fitful sleep.
That sleep was indeed a long one, for when I awakened next, it was fully two weeks later, and I found myself staring at a vast, if rather bewildering, array of medical equipment which surrounded me. I had, apparently, had another stroke, my recovery from which was compounded by what the doctors said was a "rather massive" heart attack. I was told that I was lucky to have survived it.
One look in Critter’s eyes told me that such ‘luck’ was a cursed, wretched thing indeed.
I heard the story in tiny increments, in between shots of Morphine to keep me calm and tests which caused far more agony than my life, such that it is, is worth.
The Amazons managed to track down what few witness to the accident there were, including, most importantly, the young woman whose life had been saved by the timely and heroic intervention of two strangers in a white car.
Her description of the woman who had encouraged her to flee was unwavering. Attractive, short blonde hair and brilliant green eyes. As that description also fit a rather large number of women, Pony and the others weren’t unduly concerned.
They had brought with them some pictures; some of Angel, some of other women of similar description.
It had all happened so fast, the witness related, though she pointed out the pictures of Angel as bearing the most resemblance to the woman in the car. She couldn’t be positive, she warned. She hoped they understood.
But then she saw another picture, and I’m told she stiffened and the color drained from her face.
"That’s her," she said. "That’s the driver of the car. Those eyes. I’ve never seen a color of blue like that before, and they were so angry! I still have nightmares about them."
After that, Pony reported, the woman became closed-mouthed and wouldn’t utter another word, no matter how much they pleaded with her.
Armed with no further information, they left and drove to the scene of what was euphemistically being touted as an ‘accident’.
"There’s no way they could have survived it, Corinne," Pony told me after she returned, much against doctor’s orders, and with tears streaming down her face. "No way. And even if they did, they couldn’t have outrun the fire. It’s just impossible. They’re gone. Both of them. For good."
I’ve afraid I underwent a moment of insanity then, though I don’t remember very much of it, except for the memory of a brilliant rage which consumed me, rendering me, even in my weakened state, insensate and all but impervious to the pain I knew I must have been feeling. I hated them all in that moment. Hated Pony for giving up, hated Ice and Angel for dying, and hated myself most of all, for living.
It matters little, however, for that brief lapse into insanity garnered me nothing but the need to be restrained against the possibility of ‘hurting myself’ again.
If it is true that the human species can die simply by willing it so, that fact must have been left out of my genetic make-up, for I believe no person ever willed themselves away from life as strongly as I did during that time.
Yet my traitorous body ignored my wishes and became stronger, until the time came when I was well enough to be released from the hospital.
And the world continued to turn on, uncaring.
As my body continued to heal, I withdrew into myself, and refused to speak, even to those closest to me. I remained, however, acutely aware of life going on around me. And, in particular, the events transpiring in Pennsylvania.
The wheels of justice do indeed turn slowly, but eventually, the inevitable occurred. Cavallo was given his day in court, and a government crumbled as a result. Several high-ranking officials went to prison for an entire laundry list of crimes, and others resigned in disgrace, preferring such ignominy to facing the prospect of a long prison term, or worse.
And, thanks to Donita, both Ice and Angel were remembered for their part in lending aid. With firm political pressure, aided by the ever-present news media, the Governor was finally pressured into honoring the plea agreement and issuing posthumous pardons to both women as well as ordering their criminal records expunged.
Ice had finally made full restitution for her crimes.
If only she were alive to know of it.
Donita sent me those pardons two weeks ago. They now hang, framed, on the living room wall for all to see. I never pass by without stopping to look at them and run my fingers against the bold, floridly written names of the two women I love. Those scraps of paper, so insignificant to most, are the only memorial I have, save for the journals and the scrapbooks and my own fading memories.
Montana, Critter, Pony and the rest keep in contact with me, and the weekly phone calls are the only time I consent to speak, aside from brief conversations with Nia. They are all doing as well as can be expected.
The world turns, and the living move on.
Only the old and the sick seemed trapped by time’s immovable weight, maudlin a thought as that is.
Donita keeps in contact as well, though her busy life limits the number of phone calls she has time to make. We communicate mostly by letters, which I find comforting, in some ways. Letter writing is a lost art, and I was sad to see its passing.
She often tries to brighten my mood with various and sundry bits of nonsense, and constantly chastises me for allowing myself to give up on life. Her threats, of course, hold little sway over me, though I do appreciate that she has taken the time to voice them. I sometimes regret the stony front I put up, but I believe that she understands.
We are bound by our love and respect for two extraordinary women, and a bond of that nature forgives flaws.
I received another such letter--a small packet, really--from her just today, and the contents, though by no means exceptional, caused this entire sojourn into memories past and painful. And though my hand is stiff and aching, perhaps this solitary journey into the past has helped somewhat to ease the demons of pain and guilt which plague me still.
The envelope contained a photograph of the sun setting over some tropical paradise or other. I suppose the setting could be considered beautiful if you enjoy that sort of thing. The photograph was wrapped within a small sheet of unlined paper which contained a plane ticket, and two words.
Small words. Simple ones, really. Insignificant, when taken apart, but when put together, containing enough power to rekindle the flame of hope dancing weakly in a heart weary of living.
Perhaps I’m nothing but a fool for believing in them. But if I am, I shall bear the title of ‘fool’ proudly and damn all who would hope to think otherwise.
The ticket is to an island called Bonaire, someplace in the Southern Caribbean. I imagine that that island is the one shown in the picture in my hand.
And the words?
Simple enough to write, even with an aching hand.
But wondrous enough that I would break my long vow of silence and shout them at the very top of my lungs.
Come home.
EPILOGUE
I SIT IN THE warm, dry sand, the trunk of a tall, stately palm doing double duty as an uncomplaining backrest as I write out my thoughts on a simple pad of paper. The brim of my floppy straw hat helps to shade my eyes from the low, westering sun whose heat warms my mostly bare body in the most wonderful of ways.
The breeze is likewise warm, and brings with it the ever-present scent of the sea. Overhead, seabirds whirl and dive for their dinners against the brill
iant backdrop of a sky bursting with a kaleidoscope of colors as the sun plays out its last over the open ocean, gilding it in rose and gold.
Thoroughly content in a way I have never before been, I stretch complacent muscles, pleased when they respond quickly and without pain. My broken arm, courtesy of our unfortunate encounter with a runaway truck, is fully healed, and I’m near to being ecstatic that I can write again.
I hear a sound off to my left, and turn my head to see Corinne heading my way with a glass pitcher of iced tea and two large tumblers. Her colorful caftan flutters in the breeze and I don’t even bother holding in my laughter as her hat, nearly identical to my own, flies off of her head like some new species of wingless bird.
She scowls at me, but can’t hold the expression for long before the grin, which has become a nearly permanent fixture, reappears on her face.
Gone is the gray, sickly pallor that colored her skin when she first arrived. Gone too is the stiffness of a body grown weak with age and infirmity. She almost glows now, and appears nearly half her age, as if Bonaire housed the mythical Fountain of Youth and she has drunk her fill from it.
The guilt, heartache and tears that plagued our first meeting are things of the past as well. She understands why events played out as they did, and accepts the need we had to continue the charade of our deaths until the final pardons came through. She also says that she understands why we have chosen a place so far away to call our home, and I have no reason to disbelieve her.
"I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do an old woman a favor and chase down my hat, would you?"
I laugh again, shaking my head as I accept the chilled glass of tea which she hands me. "We’ll get another one tomorrow."
"I could well be dead by then, you know," she replies, lowering her body to the sand next to me.
"Well, then you won’t need it anymore, now will you," I reply cheekily.
"The youth these days are so very rude," she tsks in the tone of a true martyr.
"Yeah, but you wouldn’t trade me for the world," I reply, taking my own hat off and plunking it down on her head.
She adjusts the hat primly before clinking her glass with mine. We sit together in a comfortable silence as the sun continues its final journey to the west.
I look up, and my eyes track the ungainly flight of a flamingo as it moves to the south toward the fresh water lake not far from our home. If there is a god, he or she certainly must be blessed with a wicked sense of humor to create such a creature.
"Mother Mary, have mercy on the soul of this poor sinner."
Corinne’s nearly breathless whisper distracts me and I turn to see her, wide eyed and clutching at her chest.
"Corinne?" I ask, alarmed. "What’s wrong?"
She doesn’t answer, just continues staring out to sea.
I turn my head slowly, and am then struck with the same affliction.
Out from the water my lover comes as if birthed from the sea itself.
A mask and snorkel are clasped loosely in one hand, swim fins in the other, and the only covering on her body is her deep tan and the sheets of seawater which glide down her magnificent form in iridescent droplets of shimmering fire. Backlit by the setting sun, she is beauty incarnate. Wild, and untamed, and as free as the sea behind her.
I jump to my feet before my mind even realizes my body’s intentions, and fly across the sand faster than I have ever run before.
She drops her gear and opens her arms just as I jump into them. With a joyful shout, she twirls me around and around. The sound of our laughter mingles with the sound of the sea.
Then she sets me down, and I am breathless as I look into eyes the exact color of the water behind me. So beautiful they are, so clear and unfettered and filled with the joy of living. No black shadows mar their pristine depths; no guilt mutes their brilliant hue.
I can see right down to her very soul, and what I see is peace and love and joy, and it is so very beautiful.
Her teeth are uncommonly white against the deep, burnished tan of her face as she smiles openly at me, looking very much like the young girl in the picture I so treasure, radiating an innocence once so cruelly stripped away from her. Her body is warm and pliant and taut with muscle and we glide together on the beads of water still dotting her skin.
Our lips come together without pretext or warning. She tastes of the sea, and of passion, and of promise.
I respond, melding my body to hers. My heart and soul follow effortlessly.
The kiss leaves us both breathless as we finally break apart, and we stare at one another, the smiles threatening to shatter our faces.
"I love you, Morgan Steele."
"And I love you, Tyler Moore." A damp hand tenderly cups my cheek as a strong thumb brushes across my lips. "My Angel."
Still embracing, we turn slightly so that we both face the sea, and I lay my head on her chest as the last crescent of the sun dips below the gilded ocean, setting it aflame.
Our journey has been a long one, filled with danger and heartache and angst. But at the end of it, we have both come to find what it was we were searching for all along.
Love.
Peace.
Freedom.
Joy.
And standing on the precipice of this new life we’ve won, I find that despite the hardships and despite the grief, I am, and always have been, the luckiest woman in the world.
Angel
THE END
AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD
And with that, ladies and germs, we conclude (for now) the tale of Morgan Steele and Tyler Moore, better known as Ice and Angel.
Thanks to everyone who took time out of their busy lives to drop me a note. Each and every one was very much appreciated by me, and I can only hope I’ve given you something to enjoy over the last two weeks of posting.
Keep an eye out for the continuation of Desert Storm (yes, I’ve picked it up again), and a new little number I’m working on with the tentative title of Full Circle which will be my first attempt at a pre-Uber.
As for whether Ice and Angel will be making a comeback, all I can say is not in the near future. But sometime, in the depths of If, on a dark night, if Angel happens to whisper in my ear, I’ll more than happily listen.
I’d be curious to know what people thought of both the ending/epilogue and the story as a whole, so if you have some extra time after reading this, drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you.
[email protected]
Ciao for now!
And thanks again.
Sue
3/27/01
