Street of Angels

by Joe Derkacht

  There was a chill in the air, that Saturday morning, with leaves beginning to fall at the tug of autumn winds from off the Gulf. Stella Jo, turning over a new leaf of her own, had risen early to commence upon a program of dusting and vacuuming and straightening. No more waiting a month or more between cleaning days for her! Rev. Johnny was to blame: or perhaps one should instead say he could be credited with this new flurry of activity? Recently, he had begun preaching more than the Baptist doctrine of salvation and was experimenting with thoughts on how salvation should impact the life of the Christian on a daily basis. Was it a good witness for a Christian to live in a slovenly manner? Shouldn’t Mr. or Mrs. Christian’s yard be a credit to the neighborhood?

  Maybe because the McIlhenny property very nearly abutted Flowers Baptist itself, she took his questions more to heart than most other folks in the congregation. Maybe she felt his remarks aimed personally at her because of the eyes that seemed to bore into her from around the congregation as he spoke. Some people, make that many or most people in her situation, would have been offended at such remarks and likely never have darkened the doorway of a church again, considering how people famously take offense in the Church.

  Problem was, she didn’t exactly have the cash to do much about the house at present. A handful of weeks after the trip to Owaloosa, her old two-tone Galaxie 500 had cried uncle and been hauled to the local junkyard, requiring an expenditure for a newer model Ford (a blue LTD with doors wide enough to allow easy access to the front passenger seat for Angel and to accommodate her own sizeable bulk). And what she didn’t spend on Angel, or her own needs, well, that usually went to tithes and offerings and her efforts to help feed the variously needy people of the neighborhood. What remained of her bi-weekly paycheck certainly didn’t suffice to make improvements on the house. More frequent, thoroughgoing cleanings were her only real option, as she saw it.

  As she went about cleaning the living room, she every so often peeked anxiously through the front windows. Maybe she could persuade Angel to work on the yard part of the conviction put upon her by Rev. Willimon’s sermons? He spent the bulk of most days out there anyhow, now that he had made a full recovery from his awful accident. Could he maybe clip the grass around his statues, make things more presentable? She knew he listened to Rev. Willimon’s sermons. What he thought of those sermons, though, and what went on in his mind as he sat through Sunday morning services, was difficult to say, just as it was difficult to say what he thought of anything else happening in the world around him.

  By noon, when she normally would have knocked off for lunch, she felt energized enough by her success at cleaning that she decided to continue for another hour. Once she had a rhythm going, she hated to lose momentum, especially when she seemed to tire so easily anymore. Darn, but her fortieth birthday had come a lot harder than she thought possible. A glance out the windows told her Angel was still working (though he worked slower now at his sculpting than before the accident). Thank God, she really didn’t have to worry about a repeat of metal slivers in the eye; the ruined eye, the eyelids sewn shut, was covered by a black eye patch like those worn in pirate movies, and he now wore plastic safety goggles to protect his “good” eye. Several weeks after his return home from the hospital, she had left the house for work one morning and almost stumbled over a package lying on the porch. Inside it were the goggles--no letter, no note, no signature, no clue as to who had left them. Like the blocks of various kinds of stone delivered to their yard by some unknown benefactor so many years before, they had appeared without a chance of thanking anyone. Which meant she was forced to give thanks to God instead and to pray for whoever sent gifts on Angel’s behalf. Whoever it was, they certainly practiced the scriptural command to give one’s alms in secret, as she thought of these gifts for her son.

  “Now who could that be?” She muttered, noticing a long black limousine parked by her front gate. One didn’t normally see limousines parked on Flowers Avenue, unless one counted the occasional hearse. A pang of anxiety shot through her, as she racked her brain. No, she was quite sure she hadn’t forgotten someone’s funeral service, for which she would have played the role of pianist.

  An hour later, flush with the success of all the work she’d accomplished, she decided it was time for her delayed lunch. She must think of keeping up her strength, and there was Angel to consider, too, who forgot to eat unless food was placed before him. Looking through the screen door to call Angel, she discovered two men in her yard. They were standing next to a statue of Rev. Champion’s son Mason. Captain Odoms, in his usual rumpled suit, she recognized easily, though his back was turned to her. The other man, much shorter and darker, dressed in a suit and a beautifully tailored, unbuttoned camel hair overcoat, was a stranger, stranger still for being an Oriental in Calneh. Holding onto the screen door, she cocked an ear to listen, suddenly too shy to venture from her house.

  Angel labored away with hammer and chisel upon one of his statues, his nose only an inch or two above the surface of the stone, while the two men conversed. Chance and the stranger bowed to one another. The stranger approached Angel and squatted beside him. Stella felt her heart catch in her throat, as her son reached out with one hand and raptly touched the man’s face.

  Stella heard the man say something, whether a single word or phrase meant as farewell, she was unsure, since it was not English. A moment later the man rose and bowed from the waist to both Chance and Angel. Pivoting on one foot, like a soldier performing maneuvers on a parade ground, he retired to the limousine and was met by the chauffeur, who was dressed in black suit, black shirt, and black tie.

  Stella waited until the long black automobile pulled away from the curb before she ventured onto the porch. Chance, oblivious to all else, stared after the car as it disappeared from view.

  “What was that all about, Captain Odoms?” She adjusted the red bandanna covering her hair and buttoned the top buttons of her sweater before she repeated his name.

  “Captain Odoms?”

  He turned slowly, and it was then that she saw a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “If that’s not the funniest thing,” he muttered in her direction.

  She descended the stairs, feeling compelled to go to him, though she had no real idea why. The sheet of paper was magnetic; she must discover its meaning. He held it out to her, ornately beautiful stock about twice the size of a normal bank check.

  “What is it?” She asked, at the same time taking it from his hand.

  “You’d better see for yourself,” he answered.

  The first thing she saw were the words, Bank of Tokyo, printed in gold leaf. The check was written out in beautifully flowing script for Seven Thousand Dollars, and it was addressed to Michael McIlhenny, Sculptor.

  “Wh-wh-what’s this f-for?” She stammered.

  Seeing the blood drain from her face, Chance took her by the elbow and aimed her toward the steps of her house.

  “Perhaps you’d better have a seat first,” he ordered her.

  They sat side-by-side on the lower steps. Her eyes glanced disbelievingly at the check in her hand and then at Angel, sitting in the dirt, still working on his latest project, and then back at the check.

  “What I remember of the Japanese lingo from my year over there isn’t worth--isn’t worth spit anymore, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Chance said. “But as far as I could make out, Angel just sold his first statue.”

  Her eyes bulged, and her jaw dropped, not quite able to take in his words.

  “S-say, what did you say?” She cried incredulously.

  “I said, ‘Angel just sold his first statue.’”

  “This is for one?”

  “Right--that one of Mason, to be precise.”

  She listened, as though struck dumb, eyes riveted to the check, while Chance told her how he had seen the Jap, as he put it, enter their yard. Being naturally curious, a quality any real detective must possess in abunda
nce, he thought he should investigate.

  “It wasn’t long before the negotiations started up,” he said.

  “Negotiations?”

  “Sure. Like any self-respecting businessman, he wanted to dicker. He started out with an offer of $2,500. Of course, he was jabbering at your son, not me.”

  Stella giggled, in her imagination seeing and hearing the man attempting to talk Angel into selling one of his precious works. All in Japanese, no less.

  “When he reached $3,500, that’s when I stepped in.”

  Spellbound, she listened as he detailed how he had flashed his Captain’s badge and used what little Japanese he could dredge up from his memory to convince the man that he would act as agent in the sale.

  “How did you settle on $7,000?”

  “That’s the strangest part of all,” he said.

  Her eyes grew round. “Yeah?”

  “When he hit $7,000, Angel turned in our direction. As clear as day, I heard him with my own two ears, he said, ‘Yes.’ ”

  She shook her head in wonderment.

  “I’m sure I didn’t imagine it,” he said.

  “No,” she said, agreeing with him. “What was that word the man said, though, when he took his leave?”

  “Word?”

  “Yes, I heard him say something but it wasn’t what I always heard they say for goodbye. It wasn’t sayonara.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Samurai,” he said. “He was using it as a term of respect for your son.”

  “Really. What does it mean?”

  “Warrior,” he said.

  She giggled. “Warrior? Well, I never--do you think he was talking about his eye patch?”

  “Maybe,” he said, smiling cryptically. “The question is, though, what do you plan to do with all that money?”

  She glanced down at the check in her hand, her expression one of renewed wonderment.

  “You really think we’ll be able to cash it?” She asked.

  “Oh yes, I wouldn’t worry a lick about that.”

  “Hmmh.” She looked down at it again. “It’s so pretty, I hate to cash the thing. Maybe we should just frame it and hang it in the house somewhere.”

  His eyes narrowed, watching her as she raised the collar of her sweater around her neck and deliberately contemplated the check.

  “You aren’t serious are you?”

  “Well, it is pretty,” she said, pronouncing it as purty. She stared at her son, listened to the noise of hammer and chisel. “Hard to tell what he’d want to do with it.”

  Chance squinted, patience growing thin.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” she told him. “You think I’m crazy, trying to figure out what to do with this money.”

  “Well--”

  “No matter what you think, I’m still gonna weigh it in my mind and pray about it.”

  “All right,” he said, rising and brushing off the seat of his pants. “Can’t argue with that, Stella.”

  He looked back when he reached the gate. She still stared in his direction, surprised he’d actually used her first name, unadorned of any other title.

  “Knowing you, you’ll likely give it all away anyhow,” he called to her.

  She frowned as he started down the sidewalk.

  “We just might do that,” she mumbled to herself. “Just depends.”

  She stood up, perturbed that he would try to tell her what to do with the money. She didn’t care if he did carry a badge and a gun, it wasn’t any of his business. Not that she would have told him that to his face, but she was thinking it. By the time she entered the house and closed the door behind her, she felt her blood rising. She halfway threw the check on the living room coffee table.

  A few dollars come my way, and in five minutes I’m mad at my neighbor, she thought to herself. Can you believe that?

  Suddenly, she remembered why she’d gone outside. She went back, descended the stairs and grabbed Angel by the arm.

  “Time for lunch, Angel,” she said, exasperated with herself. They started toward the house, with her supporting most of his weight.

  “That’s a lot of money, Angel honey. Do you really want it? Do you want to sell your statues?”

  He kept walking, saying and communicating nothing, not even that he had heard her question.

  “Money does funny things to people,” she went right on. “Of course, ‘every good gift and every perfect gift comes down from the Father of Lights above.’”

  She waited until they reached the top of the stairs before continuing her speech. “Thing is, you never know which way a thing will fall.” She looked at him and tenderly brushed dirt from his face. “I guess I mean I wonder where this will lead to. I would just like God to be part of it all.”

  He nodded at her, humming a tune, and she helped him through the door.

  “Not that I can see the devil giving you money. He’s usually in the habit of taking it away.”

  She helped him to the kitchen and turned the water on at the sink for him to wash his hands. The more she thought about it, the better she felt. While $7,000 was an awful lot of money, Angel put a lot of work into his statues, too. Certainly, the laborer was worthy of his hire. It wasn’t like they were stealing the money. Still, something bothered her about it. As she helped Angel dry his hands on a dish towel, she again heard Chance Odoms’ parting shot about her likely giving the money away.

  Maybe giving it away was the best thing to do. Maybe he had said the right thing, something truer than he realized. Maybe it was a sign from heaven?

  “Angel honey, we have some discussin’ to do,” she said, after they finished eating lunch. She wiped her mouth on a napkin and folded her hands on the kitchen table. “Maybe God put this money in our hands right now for a purpose.”

  There was a familiar sounding rap on the front door. Before Stella could rise from the table, there were two sets of footsteps coming through the house, the floor creaking dangerously. Ioletta came in, followed by Hermione.

  “Hey!” “Hey.” “Hey!” They exchanged greetings.

  The two women sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Aren’t you lookin’ racy, in that eyepatch of yours, Angel!” Hermione greeted him happily.

  “You’re too late for lunch,” Stella told them. “But there’s a jar of iced tea in the fridge, if you like.”

  “You can pour the tea, girl,” Ioletta said with a nod. “But you know that ain’t why we’re here.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’m planning supper for tonight, so I don’t know why you’re showing up now,” Stella said. She hid a smile as she pulled out the jar of tea from the refrigerator and picked up glasses from the shelf.

  “Oh, you’re cruel, keeping it from us like this, and you know it,” Ioletta complained.

  “Well, I don’t know what you could be talking about,” she said, handing them their glasses. “Do you know what they’re talking about, Angel?”

  Hermione smiled, and had a sip of tea. “Do you think he’d say, even if he could?”

  “Probably not, just like his momma,” Ioletta commented. “You know we’re talkin’ about that limousine. We just heard about it and thought we better check up.”

  “Limousine?” Stella said, as if struggling with her memory. “What limousine? Do you remember something about a limousine, Angel?”

  “Oh now stop that!” Ioletta cried. “Little Missy Chrissy from down the street was just telling us how she saw a big, long, black limousine leave here with a Chinaman in it, and how Captain Odoms was here, too. We know somethin’ be happenin’.”

  “Chrissy Dawkins can’t be more than ten years old!” Stella exclaimed. “What could she know about limousines and Chinamen--who I think, by the way, call themselves Chinese nowadays?”

  Ioletta frowned. “You’re not gonta tell us, are ya?”

  Hermione grinned, listening to their exchange.

  “Well now, if you ask me nice, Io
letta, I just might,” Stella replied.

  “Hmmph. I’m not sayin’ another word. I’ll just sit here waitin’ until you spill the beans.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  “Jist the same...” Ioletta said, shaking her head.

  Stella poured another glass of iced tea for herself and took a sip. Ioletta’s eyes narrowed with displeasure as she waited.

  “How’s Reverend Champion doing raising money for rebuilding the church?”

  “Brother Champion?” Ioletta cried in exasperation. “What’s he to do with your limousine?”

  “Just the same, I’d like to know,” she said, steadily eyeing both women.

  “I’ll answer that,” Hermione said. “Not so good. You know from the beginning he wanted to auction his car off, but the elders wouldn’t let him. Nobody wants their pastor driving around in a beat up old car or to see his wife walking to the grocery store.”

  “That’s right, talk about embarrassin’,” Ioletta threw in. “You wouldn’t like people pointing at your minister as he drives by in his raggedy old junk heap and saying, ‘There goes the preacher from Flowers Baptist,’ would ya?”

  Stella sat quietly, considering Ioletta’s remark for a few moments. While Rev. Willimon’s car wasn’t a rusty old heap, a shiny green Ambassador sedan was far from the likes of a Cadillac.

  “Still,” she began, “it is the middle of October and all you see over there is the foundation’s been poured.”

  “A lot of people are out of work right now,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s not a good time to be axin’ for money.”

  Stella smiled coyly. “I suppose $7,000 wouldn’t be much help, then?”

  “Hmmph! Seven thousand dollars?” Ioletta muttered. “Girl, if you had that kinda money, don’t you think you should be doin’ something about fixin’ up your own place?”

  Stella glanced at Angel. “It’s not my money.”

  “Well, then what are you talkin’ about?”

  “The limousine?” Hermione asked.

  “Angel made his first real sale today, to a Japanese gentleman, and I think the Lord wants us to give the money to rebuild Alliance.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it!”

  “Ioletta!” Hermione cried, offended for Stella.

  “Angel don’t even talk,” Ioletta pointed out. “How’s he gonta sell one of those statues of his?”