Angels of Destruction

by Keith Donohue

  At the mention of her husband, Margaret reclaimed the intervening years. Paul, yes, Paul. They chatted about jobs and kids and aches and joys. She took his number, promised to call when they were in town, though truth be told, we don't come down to D.C. so often anymore, but if so, I will arrange a visit. She hung up the phone just as Erica walked in, sweater tied around her waist, perspiration glistening on her bare neck. So young. She wondered if her daughter was having sex with that boy. His dark curly hair long as a girl's. The loose-limbed way he walks around the house, insouciant, challenging Paul. The fresh brow, bright eyes, the tightness of his skin along the jawline. She could imagine them wild together, but just as quickly banished the image, or at least erased her daughter from the naked picture. Surely, they did it. Things are so different now than when she and Jackson were young like them. Sex was more furtive, fugitive, sudden. Nowadays they take their time, find a place, and imitate what could be seen any night of the week at the movies right in their hometown. She and Jackson had never even been completely naked together. Nowadays they waddle bare as babies in the mud, weave flowers in their lover's hair. Born too early in this misbegotten century. But still. He was wonderful in those days, not that Paul was not passionate in his own way. But Jackson had loved her so, foolishly so.

  At dinner, she dropped the notion into the conversation, and deftly, the idea became his at once. “Diane's got a birthday at the beginning of next month,” she began. “I haven't seen her in ages. Maybe the three of us—”

  “But, Mom, I've got school, and Wiley and I have plans.”

  “Busy time at the clinic, dear,” Paul said, and without missing a beat, “You should feel free to go, though. Have some alone time—”

  “Wouldn't think of it.”

  Erica quickly interjected. “We can take care of ourselves. Go. Have fun.”

  It had been fun, she told herself as the car sped her closer to home, surprised by the sound of her own voice. I would have slept with him had he asked, would have thrilled at his slightest touch, would have done everything we never did. She had forgotten how she had loved him. Would have jumped into bed with Jackson the way Erica hungers for that boy.

  They had shared an innocent lunch. He looked elegant and handsome. Funny how men can get better looking, distinguished, gravitas, even though their heads are as gray, lines as deep, waists as soft, but we just get older. We live more in our bodies than they do. Boys give them up as young men, discarding the body to live inside their minds. But girls and their bodies become women and live in the same skin. Jackson and Margaret's conversation flirted with the edge of feelings, but never too far. In fact, Jackson nearly teared up when talking about his late wife, his son off in college, but she knew by his frantic suppressed joy that he had come to see her again; had she said the right words, they would have ended up in a tangle of blankets and regrets. Turning off the exit in the fading light of dinnertime, she wondered if Wiley loved her daughter so, and perhaps she had been too hard on Erica of late. She should get between her husband and her daughter before one or the other goes too far. Jackson had said, you broke my heart. Not in recrimination, more in sorrow for the passing of all time. And he had said, but it is sure great to see you again, you haven't changed, although they both knew this was a lie or a wish. Why hadn't she leapt yes when he asked her to run away with him when they were kids? How foolish to ask, to say now what should have been said then. She wondered what pledge of love Wiley had promised her daughter. Seized by the notion that she could save Erica some heartbreak, Margaret thought of nothing but her daughter, walking on the sharp edge of change.

  Dusk bowed to darkness. Paul had switched on the porchlight for her. Leaving her bags in the car, she hurried through the door to ask, even before hello, where is Erica?

  5

  It all went down in 1968. In April, a man shot Martin Luther King in Memphis, and he saw the faces black and white steeped in mourning for all hope. Two months later, they killed RFK in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Wiley studied the photographs in Life and Look of the stunned busboy on the floor cradling the fallen man, the flood of light on his face and his right hand closed in a fist, to the somber farewell days later, when the funeral cortege from New York to Washington passed through towns crowded with ordinary people waving goodbye. And later that summer the riots, the burning of the cities, and the police beating the shit out of the protestors in Chicago. The war in Vietnam, and dead bodies on the television set every night during dinner. The old man talking back to Cronkite or Nixon. “Those hippie bastards, look at ‘em, they think they're better than everyone else, think they're better than the boys going over there and getting shot up.” At the dinner table, his father focused past his wife's shoulders to the blaring television in the other room, while she just sat there with the funny pages, working out the puzzles.

  That summer he followed his older brother onto the roof over the carport where Denny had gone to smoke purloined cigarettes without fear of being caught. He'd climb through the open window and shimmy across the gently sloped peak to light up in the August evenings, the days already closing early, the sun setting one minute sooner each night. Wiley caught him just before Labor Day, the soles of his sneakers framed by the curtains, and through threats and cajolery, he was allowed to join his big brother, but Denny swore he'd kill him if he breathed a word.

  Through late summer and into the autumn, they sat on the roof every clear evening after supper. Under the stars, the brothers’ conversations drifted in a desultory way from the fate of the hometown Pirates that season to the petty tyrannies of their father and the depthless mysteries of their mother. Four years older and in high school, Denny controlled the flow of their colloquies, seeking never to ruin the ambience of cigarettes in the blackening evening. He'd blow smoke rings and philosophize on the virtues of the Stones versus the Beatles, Dylan acoustic or electric, and whether Hendrix improved “All Along the Watchtower.” Or the strategies for getting the girls to go all the way—though Wiley understood his brother's monologues to be theoretical rather than experiential. Acolyte on the roof, he was shunned everywhere else by his brother, ignored or picked upon, so that he came to regard these stolen moments together as the only authentic and genuine part of his life. When the subject of politics arose, he listened intently. Denny explained, weeks before the ‘68 election, that while Humphrey might take the North, George Wallace would win enough votes in the South to give the presidency to Nixon. “Crackers will have their day.”

  “What do you mean, crackers?”

  “White people who don't like Negroes. Didn't you know George Wallace is an old-line segregationist? Ever see those pictures of a firehose blasting a bunch of people, just knocking ‘em over into the street? Doesn't like black folk mixing with whites. I'm not sure our old man wouldn't vote for Wallace, if he knew the union would never find out.”

  Wiley considered the possibility for the first time. The notion that his father might have a political life seemed preposterous, but, the more he thought of it, Denny's judgment appeared right. He was, after all, a high school boy.

  “You don't think it's a coincidence, do you? That the people trying to change all that, they're shot dead. JFK and Malcolm X and Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. All shot dead.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the dark sky. “Don't you know the fix is on, man? That the whole scene is rigged?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I'm talking about CIA, man, the Mafia, the FBI. They're watching us all. You don't think it's some whacko with a rifle all by himself, do you? Come right up to the president and bang? No way. You gotta read the real papers, and you'll see. There was more than one gunman at each of those assassinations. All a big conspiracy. Don't you think it's odd that first King, then Kennedy—just when he's on the brink? Keep the black man down, keep the poor man down. Keep the fodder going for Vietnam. Poor boys in body bags.”

  “You're kidding, right?”

  “Wish I was, partner.
Wish I was. Things gotta change, man. You ever hear of the Black Panthers? You thought the riots were bad, wait till the revolution comes.”

  “The revolution?”

  “When the black man and the poor man and every man who has been beaten down will rise up. Going to be wild, and you don't want to be on the wrong side of that war, let me tell you.” Tossing the lit cigarette over the side, Denny watched the glowing ember sink into the neighbor's yard. “Tell you what, though. If you're going to wake the tiger, you better find yourself a long stick.”

  A kind of anger raced through his limbs, and he felt emboldened by the sudden thrill of this new sensation. At eleven years old, Wiley began planning for the revolution.

  6

  Nose to nose with the stolen car, the police cruiser glistened, and a Virginia Commonwealth trooper stood, his booted foot resting on their bumper, as he scanned the woods and deserted country road for some sign of the driver. Blinking, Wiley emerged from between the pines and with one hand waved a friendly hello as he fastened his belt buckle with the other. The policeman did not return his greeting but scrutinized the boy as he climbed the sloping ditch, stopping at the top to pull his long hair into a ponytail and square his shoulders. “Looks like you caught us,” Wiley said.

  “This here your car?” He dropped his foot and removed his stiff-brimmed hat, revealing a docked circle in his crewcut hair. Not much older than Wiley, he looked puzzled by the circumstance.

  “We had to take a break. Call of nature.” Beneath Wiley's feet, the carpet of pine needles felt soft and slippery through his old sneakers. He began to wonder if the policeman had already searched the Pinto. “Sure, this is my car. Well, my brother's actually. Listen, I'm with my sister. She was desperate. Isn't against the law to use the bathroom, is it?”

  The trooper did not drop his stare, though his lips twitched briefly. “Your license and registration, please.”

  As Wiley reached for his wallet, he realized that the registration card lay in the glove compartment, probably just under the barrel of the pistol. He imagined the scenario: beat this hick cop to the draw, hold the gun on him while Erica tied him up. They'd leave him in the woods bound and gagged till someone noticed he hadn't come in from his shift. Be long gone before they found him. If the son of a bitch went for his gun, he'd have to shoot first. Get off a round, their only chance. The trooper sprawling across the road, blood leaking from the hole near his heart. After handing over his driver's license, he stepped around to the passenger side and pretended that the door was jammed.

  Her hello broke the stillness. The men turned their heads as she strode through the high grass below them. Erica brushed twigs and leaves from the seat of her jeans, then waved to the men, and the young policeman took one step in her direction, hand instinctively cocked to his hol-stered sidearm. When he saw her struggling to find a foothold on the grassy bank, he moved to her, one arm outstretched like a lifeline, and as she took his hand, Erica watched Wiley go for the glove compartment. A vision of the gun flashed in her mind. Instead, she saw him grin triumphantly and flash the registration card. She grabbed the policeman's other arm at the top of the incline and hoisted herself to the road, holding on a moment longer than necessary and thanking him. Above his shoulder, high in the cloudless sky, a turkey vulture rode the thermals, circling and inspecting the landscape.

  “I found it.” Wiley walked over to them, carrying the card like it was made of glass. “My brother's car, like I said. Just driving our baby sister back to college.”

  The trooper took the card, bent his head, and strained to read it, unable to concentrate.

  “Hollis,” she said, remembering a girl from their hometown who had gone there.

  “Hollins? Y'all are a far piece off target. Your sister you say?”

  Wiley edged closer. “Came down from Pennsylvania.”

  “Can see that,” the policeman said. “Liberty Bell tags. How'd you all wind up over here if you was going to Hollins? You already missed it.”

  She touched her fingertips to her cheekbone, and his eyes followed the motion. “We got directions from a friend.”

  “Either y'all went too far south, or he ain't much of a friend. You lost. Don't want to be lost in these parts. I come up on your car, thought something bad happened to you when they's nobody inside. These some untraveled roads, miss.”

  Wiley tried to establish a position in the conversation. “We decided on the scenic byways.”

  “Scenic, all right.” The three of them surveyed the horizon. Oak trees showed a touch of brown among the fading green leaves, and the maples burned yellow and red. Framed against the cold blue sky, the colors hinted at the splendor a week or two away. The vulture traced a lazy course, graceful as a kite sailing amid the clouds. Erica looked away to study the two men, and when she returned her gaze to the sky, the bird had vanished, swiftly ascended to the heavens. “Lonesome here,” she said.

  The trooper nodded. “Lonesome, yeah. When you're out by yourself in the middle of nowhere, only soul in the world, just wind and sky. You never gonna meet another body ever again, or you get that heartsick feeling that nobody knows you like you understand yourself, and never will. Lonesome is right, and lost, like you all.” He put on his hat, tamping the crown till it fit snugly.

  “We sure are glad it was you,” Wiley said, “and not someone else coming along to tell us we were lost.”

  “You never know what's coming down the road, which's coming out these hills. Folk here might be called hippie hunters, and take one look at that long hair a-yours, and could be trouble. Down these parts, we got a respect—”

  “Maybe I should get a haircut,” Wiley offered. “War's over, after all.”

  Twisting his mouth to spit, the policeman did not answer at first, but seemed to resurrect a story from the depths of his mind. “On this selfsame road another car stopped ‘cause it was lonesome and private. Two kids, hippie kids, but they was just high school sweethearts, not brother and sister like you. Neckin’ in the car out in the woods there when something unholy come up on them. The boy was mutilated like a catamount caught him, though some say it was the devil hisself You all are in college and don't have much truck with the devil, do you?”

  Erica caught bits of the forest floor in the comb of her fingers. Taking a step toward Wiley, she longed to reach out and take his hand, but sensing her intent, he inched away, a wild uncertainty in his eyes.

  “The girl just vanished. Word is she is a sexual prisoner of a man out there in the mountains, but I say we have ourselves a killer, either in these parts or passing through. But, no ma'am, I wouldn't want to be lost, unprotected so to speak. Ain't nothing worse.”

  The falling angle of sunlight stippled the road with the outlines of leafy branches, and when the breeze blew, the shadows danced across the pavement. The policeman handed back the license and registration and then turned to Erica, holding his gaze upon her features and her hair feathering across her face. She pulled a flyaway length together and tucked it behind her ear, keeping the tresses in place with a crooked finger. His stare alarmed and fascinated her; she had not noticed before how his gray eyes strained toward blue, but perhaps that was a trick of the radiant hour. “Don't get so hankerin’ for lonesome that you find yourself lost.” To an attentive Wiley he gave directions to Roanoke, and as the Pinto eased away they left the trooper in the middle of the road. In the rearview mirror, or so it seemed to her, the young man reflected an unearthly glow that brightened as the figure diminished.

  SHE THOUGHT OF it as their wedding night, or akin in spirit and symbol, the first night they would share a bed to sleep next to each other and wake up together in the morning. In the game she was playing, a great leap forward. Off the highway on the Tennessee side of Bristol, they found a Mom-and-Pop motel that backed onto neighborhood streets where children called and hollered to one another in the early hours of the evening, eking out the last bit of play and nonsense before going to bed. She shut the drapes, wrapped her arm
s around her man. “We made it,” she said. “Despite the freaks, we got away.”

  “The police have seen us. We'll have to get rid of that car,” he told her. “And be more careful. Don't want to be caught.”

  “Still,” she said. “You liked it. Out there in the woods, like a wildcat.”

  He kissed her and began to paw at her clothing, but she pushed away gently and patted him on the chest. “Why don't you stretch out? I want to get a shower, get ready.”

  In the cramped bathroom, she unwrapped a thin bar of soap, inhaling deeply to discern any aroma. There was none. She laid out her cosmetics on the counter, arranging her lipstick and deodorant and tweezers just as she had at home. A small plastic bottle held a few ounces of her mother's lavender shampoo, and Erica caught her scent. She unrolled the red camisole bought just for this evening and hung it on the towel rack, the silk crimson as a wound spilling over the white terrycloth. In the mirror, she pondered an oily patch across her forehead and gazed into her tired eyes, and then cocking her left shoulder to the reflection, she admired the backward tattoo of the intertwined AOD and angel's wings.

  That policeman had liked her, she decided, and the old man at the front desk too. He had leered at her, tried to look down her shirt when she bent to pick up her bag. She was pleased to know that men outside of her hometown, men other than Wiley, found her desirable, and as she stepped into the shower, that knowledge heightened the pleasure of soap and hot water. The lavender would last a few days, and then she would be gone for good. Indulging herself, she stood in a cloud of steam long after she had made herself clean. Wrapped in a towel and brushing her hair in front of a wiped circle in the mirror, she turned the handle and pointed at her reflection. “Pow,” and then the wide smile spread like a bloodstain. She slipped into her camisole and stepped through the doorway. Sprawled across the bed, Wiley snored into his pillow, a slick of dirt where his sneakers scraped the coverlet, his hair twisted over his face and around his neck like a noose. She turned off the overhead light and in the soft glow of the table lamp, she watched him sleep, so much like a child in his dreams, a little boy lost, that she could not bear to wake him.