“I honestly don’t know.” She wrapped her arm around me again, and I leaned up against her. “But watching him in the ring tonight, live, seeing how much the fans adore him, I realize that your father was born to be the Angel of Death. Destiny gave him that opportunity, and I have no right to try to take it away from him.”
“But what about his foot?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It’s just another injury. He’ll recover from it in time. He always has. Your dad’s had more work done on his body than Frankenstein’s monster.” She chuckled at her joke. “As soon as he gets well, I promise you he’ll forget about everything he said in the ambulance. And you know what?” She sat up straight and gazed into my eyes. “I’ll never again say or do anything to discourage him. If he wants to continue to wrestle, then I’ll just have to learn to be more accepting of his career.”
I realized that I would have to be more accepting of it, too. At least I had a father. Poor Wendell would have to grow up without his.
Some fathers were meant to be construction workers, office managers, teachers, police officers, or grocery store clerks. Mine just happened to be the black-clad, skeletonface behemoth called the Angel of Death.
EPILOGUE
“You’re not going to chicken out, are you, champ?” my father teased. We headed toward the small speed boat.
“No way.” I gazed up at the sky at the huge parachutes hovering above the tropical waters of Kaanapali Beach. I’d never been parasailing, but ever since we arrived in Maui and I’d seen the flyers riding the skies, I knew at once that it was something I wanted to try. My mom was planning to videotape the whole experience. I couldn’t wait to show it to Sara when we got back to San Antonio.
“Aloha!” a large, richly tanned Polynesian man warmly greeted us. He took my mom by the arm and helped her into the boat.
I took my father’s cane and helped him climb aboard. I hopped in after him.
“I am Captain Kimo,” said the man, “and this is my number one crew member, Afa.”
His number one crew member was a muscled teenager with a tan that rivaled Captain Kimo’s. I guessed he was Captain Kimo’s son.
“Aloha,” said Afa. He smiled broadly, exposing a gold upper front tooth. “How many will be parasailing today?”
“Just our son,” my father said. “Unless he chickens out,” he added, giving Afa a quick wink. He leaned his weight on his cane as he gingerly lowered himself down and sat next to my mom.
Afa squinted as he stared at my father with a hint of recognition. “Say, you wouldn’t by any chance be . . . ”
“My name is Mark Baron,” my father said quickly, interrupting the number one crew member. “My family and I are here on vacation from San Antonio, Texas.”
“Oh,” said Afa, slightly embarrassed. “I thought . . . never mind.” Then he muttered, “San Antonio, Texas. Home of the Alamo . . . and the San Antonio Spurs.” He flashed his gold tooth once again.
Captain Kimo switched on the engine. The boat coughed a couple of times. It gave a quick jerk. Then it surged forward. A breeze sent splashes of saltwater in my face. I didn’t mind, though. It felt pleasant to be cooled down from the mid-June Hawaiian sun.
Captain Kimo drove the boat about a mile and a half from shore. He stopped the boat long enough for Afa to strap the harness around my body.
“If he starts to cry, ignore him,” my father jokingly told Afa.
“Waaa!” I wailed.
My mom readied the video camera.
Captain Kimo restarted the boat. As we sped away, he flipped the switch that released the cable wire to the parasail canopy.
The line was unreeled, and I ascended to the sky. Higher and higher I soared.
Within seconds the boat below me was just a tiny speck in the water. I reached a height of eight hundred feet. I was flying!
It was an exhilarating experience to be gliding across the sky. The view was breathtaking. On one side the beach, the hotels, and the mountains made up the Maui landscape. The other side was an endless view of the turquoise-blue Pacific Ocean.
I had thought parasailing would be scary, like riding a roller coaster, but it was soothing and peaceful. I couldn’t recall the last time I felt so relaxed. But then again, our whole vacation to Hawaii was that way. Even my headaches seemed to have disappeared completely.
My mom finally took me to see a doctor about them. He diagnosed them as migraine headaches that, as she had guessed, were stress induced. The doctor prescribed some medicine for them. But if we took more vacations like this one, I’d probably never have to take another pill again. My mom had suggested the trip as soon as my father was able to walk again.
He never did make an appearance at my school. Mrs. Petrosky seemed to have lost interest in inviting him after he was injured. She had wanted the Angel of Death, the “emissary from the lower regions of the Netherworld” to visit her classroom, not Mark Baron, a crippled dad of one of her students. It didn’t matter. As things turned out, I developed a real love for Texas history. My grades jumped up in no time at all.
While he was still in the hospital, my father tried to submit his resignation to the ACW, but Frank Collins talked him out of it. Instead, he offered to place my father on an inactive roster. I guess he’s hoping my father will change his mind about returning to the ring as soon as his ankle is 100 percent healed.
Who knows? Every time we watch Monday Night Mayhem, I see that sparkle in his eye. I can sense that he wishes he were there along with the boys, entertaining the fans.
For now, it’s just great to have him home. My monkey’s paw wish didn’t appear to be a curse after all.
Afa finally began to reel me back down to the boat. My short flight to heaven was over. As I approached the boat, I could see my father flapping his arms and clucking like a chicken. My mom was having difficulty steadying the video camera, she was laughing so hard.
Maybe my trip to heaven isn’t over, I thought.
Maybe it’s just beginning.
Ray Villareal was born in Dallas, Texas, where he lives with his wife Sylvia and their children, Mateo and Ana. He graduated from Southern Methodist University and currently works as a reading coach for the Dallas Independent School District. Ray has written and directed numerous children’s plays. My Father, the Angel of Death is his first book.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the author
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 14
