Street of Angels

by Joe Derkacht

  Mertie’s letters had always taken twice as long as any other letters to reach Mark John, which for a normal letter could be anywhere from days to weeks because of the prison’s mail censors. Undoubtedly, her handwriting gave the censors fits. For different reasons, he now found reading her letter gave him fits, too. Crumpling the letter into a ball that first time way over a year ago, and then mashing it flat, further obscured what she’d written. Spotty to begin with, ink vanished in the hills and valleys of the wrinkled paper. Crumpling it a second time had only worsened matters. Back at his duties in the Prison Laundry, he gingerly laid the letter out on a steam press to iron it flat, hoping to read it again, this time in its entirety. Fortunately the first part, the most difficult to make out, was what he had already read and still remembered.

  Feb. 26

  Dear Marky John,

  This is your Mama writing to you. I know you don’t know, but this is the hardest thing I ever had to say in my whole life, honey. I just hope you will understand and accept what I have to say. I never thought a person could change--but since Jesus healed me of my cancer--

  Grief wrenched at his gut. If Jesus healed, why had she died? How many times had she told people she was dying of cancer, and now it had come true? He blinked several times, attempting to clear what seemed to be a cloud over his vision, before he went on reading.

  You know it’s only right to make peace with your Maker before you die, don’t you? That’s what I’ve done honey, but I want to make peace with you, too, finally tell the truth. I guess you probably always knew all along that you weren’t my son or Bert’s either. We did an awful thing, stealing you from that lady in Calneh. I just thank God she has forgiven me and Jesus has forgiven me. Write me and tell me you forgive me too. The day we took you off the street you told me your name was Duane, but to me it will always be Marky John.

  Love You Forever,

  Your Mama (the one who stole you)

  Mark John felt suddenly dizzy. Without warning, he doubled over and threw up. Oscar Lederer came rushing from his office in time to see him puke violently into a canvas clothes bin piled high with clean bed sheets.

  Peppering the air with curses, he threw down his cigar. “Haul him out of here!” He shouted. “Take him to the infirmary! I want this mess cleaned up!”

  #

  The prison orderly, an inmate trained for the job, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, and commented, “Not feeling so hot, huh, Mr. Davies?”

  Mark John couldn’t think of anything but the letters Mertie had written to him in the past few months. In every one of them she had babbled about Jesus and had begged him to write to Mrs. McIlhenny. There hadn’t been a word about why she wanted him to write to the woman.

  “Mr. Davies?” The prison orderly repeated.

  “Davies!” He blurted, looking wonderingly at the man. Suddenly, his vision seemed much clearer. “Not Davies,” he said. “It’s McIlhenny, Duane McIlhenny.”

  The orderly inflated the cuff extra tightly. “Yeah, sure, whatever floats your boat, pal,” he muttered.

  ****

  Part Seven

  Chapter 47

  A yellow Checker cab let him off at the curb. He stood reluctantly outside the rusty gate, looking in, a used but good brown suit on his back and a cheap suitcase beside him, both sent to him by his mother. The house had been freshly painted but its ramshackle condition could not be hidden by a few coats of white paint alone. To one side there was a stand-alone shed that looked as though it might fall down if anyone breathed too heavily upon it. But what caught the eye of the man with the suitcase first (or any sightseer passing by) was the yard dotted with statues.

  To some the first impression was rightly of a cemetery or one of those monument places devoted to making headstones for the dearly departed. But to him there was something much more, some pervasive quality beyond even the sacredness of a burial ground. It was almost as if this was Bethel, a house of God like Jacob had found upon his journey to Paddan Aram, and the angelic statues, in their variety of stone and color, just might be ranks of otherworldly warriors silently awaiting the call to ascend the golden ladder into the heavens. Here was a place where one could communicate with God.

  The moment passed. Epiphanies never last, but memories of them do. Once he opened the gate, he knew, he would step from one chapter of his life into another. Behind lay chiefly misery. But when he thought about it, and he had thought about it a lot, the years in jail had been a new start all their own, too. At least there he had learned again who he was, and he did not consider his years of personal study with his cellie a loss. Ahead? He was beginning again, making a fresh start, embarking upon a new chapter and a second chance at life. He didn’t doubt it. The hope was that this chapter would be something even better, something actually good and joyful.

  He opened the gate and stepped inside, closing it behind him. The pathway to the house had been newly sprinkled with white rock, which crunched pleasantly under his feet. The lawn was more bright green moss than grass, and interspersed among the statues were varieties of shrubs he couldn’t name. While the stone statues were obviously the product of a master, the shrubs displayed a more inexpert hand at topiary. The whimsy of the one and the sacredness of the other brought a smile to his lips.

  The door of the house opened before he reached the porch steps. A pretty black woman, tall and lithe, came out but halted as soon as she saw him. Behind her were the sounds of a party in full swing, with strains of gospel music and happy voices. Saying nothing to him but smiling one of those glowing smiles that come easily to some people, she turned and rushed back inside. No one else saw him climb the stairs.

  A towering black man emerged, with the woman hanging back. The man with the suitcase smiled tentatively. He wasn’t sure, but he felt he had met the man before. Certainly, it would have been a long time ago and not under the best of circumstances. He extended a hand, and the black man did likewise.

  “I’m Lamarr,” the taller man said, grinning. “Your mother’s in the kitchen, waiting for you, Duane.”

  “Why are you so late?” The woman asked.

  “Oh, by the way, this is my wife, Kyla,” Lamarr said.

  Duane was ushered inside before he could answer, and the door was left ajar to share music and light with passersby. If the party had been exuberant before, it was more so now. But the neighbors didn’t complain. Most of them were inside, awaiting his arrival like his mother, and even if anyone had complained about the noise, the cops wouldn’t have done anything because Chance Odoms was there, as well.

  ****

  Chapter 48

  Stella Jo’s bedroom door opened slowly. Rev. Willimon, in his weekday garb of jeans and checked shirt, held a tray with her lunch, the dishes covered by a blue and white tea towel. A tall glass of iced tea in hand, behind him stood Rev. Champion resplendent as always in black suit, white shirt and black tie.

  Stella opened her eyes. A smile spread slowly across her ravaged face.

  “Two of my favorite men,” she said.

  John Willimon looked hurt. “Not the favorite, Sister Stella?”

  Apologetically, she said, “Well, there are my twins, Angel and Duane. They would kinda have to come before you.”

  “Then I suppose that’s all right, don’t you think, Brother Cedric?” He asked, setting the tray aside on a dresser bureau.

  Cedric set the tea on a familiar-looking doily next to the tray. Ioletta’s handmade doilies decorated his own bureau at home.

  “Oh, I think I can understand her favoring her two sons,” he answered.

  Both men helped to fluff up her pillows and to situate them against the padded headboard for her to sit up in bed.

  “To be honest,” she said, squinting at them in mock trepidation, “besides the two of them, I would have to put Lamarr in there ahead of the likes of you, too.”

  “Lamarr!” Willimon exclaimed. “Can
you believe that, Cedric? She’s just like everybody else. I bet she could come up with a whole long list of people she prefers above her own pastor. And can you believe the disrespect, the likes of you?”

  “It does hurt, John,” Cedric replied, his eyes twinkling. “But it is what I’ve come to expect from people. Of course, I’ve learned to bless those who curse me and to pray for those who despitefully use me.”

  “You two...” she said. “I suppose you mean to take your revenge by keeping my lunch from me?”

  The white minister primly folded his hands in front of his chest. “What better way to convince you of the error of your ways?”

  “Oh, you men!” Ioletta said from the doorway. “Don’t you know the poor woman’s dyin’? Let her eat in peace, why don’t you? Your lame horsin’ around is enough to ’bout kill me.”

  She didn’t wait for their reaction, but turned and withdrew into the kitchen. The three of them stared at one another in momentary shock, and burst into laughter.

  “I hear that, and I don’t like it!” Ioletta called.

  “Spoken in love,” Cedric said, winking to the others. Not entirely sure, John Willimon shrugged and, at Stella’s glance toward her dresser, moved the tray over to her bed. Under the tea towel were a steaming hot bowl of chicken gumbo and a thin wedge of buttered cornbread.

  “Do you need help?”

  She shook her head at her pastor in a no, evidently conserving her strength. The soup spoon remained unused in her hand. The two men exchanged glances.

  “Did you have something you wanted to tell us?” Willimon asked.

  “About the funeral,” she said, raising one hand to forestall his protests. This time there was no sense in denying that she was dying. All three of them felt she had made her last rally, that the time for miraculous recoveries was past. They had come this far numerous times in the last ten years and seen her brought back from the brink of death through medicine and prayers, yet deep down something told them this time was different.

  “I want Reverend Champion for my services,” she said quietly.

  “Sister Stella--” Cedric started, glancing worriedly at his fellow minister.

  “He--won’t--mind,” she said, her strength suddenly reduced to dribs and drabs “He doesn’t like--doing funerals. I want someone who won’t make a dirge out of it.”

  Grimly, he turned to Willimon, who cautiously lowered himself to a sitting position on the bed. His expression looked for all the world, to Cedric, like relief.

  “Sister Stella,” he said, covering her hand with his own.

  Her gaze shifted, only her eyes moving in his direction.

  Gently, he asked, “How’s your walk with the Lord?” If Ioletta had heard Willimon, she would have uttered a disapproving snort. Ask such a question of Stella Jo McIlhenny? But as long as he drew breath he would ask that question or one like it: “Are you saved, brother?” “Are you saved, sister?” “Do you know if you’ll go to heaven when you die?” He might not be the one-note preacher of his younger days, when week in, week out, every sermon had pounded home the need to be saved, but it was best not to wander far from themes of salvation as you sat at the death bed of a loved one.

  The way he saw it, which was not the way you or I would necessarily see it, not being preachers, he didn’t want anyone’s blood on his hands. He couldn’t endure the thought of one day standing before God, God asking, “Did you tell William Robert about my gift of eternal life to those who have their sins washed away by the blood of my Son? If you couldn’t do it at his death bed, when did you plan on doing it? How about Mary Margaret? Or Bertha Lee?”

  There was an additional benefit, too, as he saw it. It was good for the dying person, especially reassuring, for the believer, to once again acknowledge that he or she was saved. With the heart one believes and with the mouth one confesses. What better way to go through death’s door and enter Heaven’s gates? None of that junk about fingering a pagan rosary.

  “It is well,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering with weariness. He leaned closer. “Believin’ and receivin’,” she said.

  Her head sagged to one side. He stared anxiously. Truth to tell, in John Willimon’s dozen or so years of pastoring, he had not sat beside all that many death beds. Not many Billy Bobs, Mary Margarets (who would naturally have preferred a priest at their bedside, considering that sort of name), or Bertha Lees.

  “Is she gone?” He blurted. “She didn’t eat her soup.”

  Cedric smiled, restraining a laugh. Where she was going, he figured she wouldn’t exactly need soup. He looked, saw that the counterpane over her chest rose and fell slightly. The pulse at her throat was barely perceptible.

  No, he shook his head. “Just resting, I think.”

  Quietly, almost in a whisper, Willimon asked, “What do we do now?”

  From the doorway, Ioletta whispered, “You two couldn’t even persuade her into eatin’ a little soup?”

  “John, I think we’ll let her rest, now,” Cedric told Willimon, patting him on the shoulder, knowing that Stella’s passing might take hours or that today might not be the day. To Ioletta, he said, “If you need us, give us a call.”

  Ioletta shook her head at the backs of the departing ministers. How was Stella Jo to build her strength up, when she wouldn’t eat? She carried the tray back to the kitchen and set it on the counter. Maybe she would be hungry later. Feeling at loose ends, she looked around, searching inside the lower cabinets and the refrigerator for something to do.

  She wouldn’t have expected it, him being an ex-con, but Duane was a neat young man, of the stripe who doesn’t care to find anything out of place. Everything was sorted and stacked properly, had its own place, and was spotless besides, which her friend had never been able to manage by herself.

  His clothing was the same way. If it didn’t have a proper crease, he wouldn’t wear it, including his blue jeans. Probably the only thing he didn’t iron, when it came to his personal clothing, was his socks. Likely, she thought, he had learned all those things in prison. Angel and he might be twins, but when it came to neatness, they were opposites; the only perfection his brother demanded of himself was in his art.

  Ioletta was scrubbing the kitchen sink with Bon Ami and a yellow Dobie pad, when Duane came in from outside. Most sinks, no matter how much you scrub them, can use a little more.

  “Is she all right?” He asked.

  “See for yo’self,” she said, bearing down hard on the scouring pad.

  Perhaps ten minutes more passed by, before the sink finally began to take on the polish she expected of it. Duane was neat, but her standards were higher. It was about then that Duane spoke to her from the bedroom doorway. Engrossed in her work of refining something he certainly should have done himself, she didn’t much pay attention.

  The white porcelain glowed, contrasting nicely with her black arms. She toweled out the sink and draped the towel on its metal rack to dry, satisfied she had done all she could do. Nobody best use the kitchen sink for the next week or two, or she would be upset!

  Careful of stray water drops, she filled a glass from the tap.

  “You want a little drink of water, Stella Jo?” She called out. Her heart dropped, as she walked into the bedroom. The bedcovers were neatly in place, but Stella had vanished! Thoughts of the Rapture flashed through her mind, of men, women and children shooting heavenward, out of their clothes, like ICBM missiles shaking free from their silos, at the blessed event of His Second Coming. She had missed it. She had been left behind!

  Her free hand to her bosom, she wondered if that had been the loud noise she’d heard earlier, a house rattling boom! She’d thought it was a jet overhead. Funny. She hadn’t heard any trumpets sounding. Wasn’t there supposed to be a trumpet? Suddenly, she remembered she had heard the loud booming noise much earlier in the day.

  Probably not the Rapture, not just yet. Glancing down, she saw that Stella’s
slippers were gone. Water glass still in hand, she leaned over and pulled the bed covers back with her other hand. No sign of Stella’s flannel nightgown, either. If the Lord Jesus had come for her, she had done gone along for the ride in her pyjamas and slippers.

  Constrained by her sense of orderliness, she set the water glass on the dresser, beside the tea left by Rev. Champion, and neatly resettled the bedcovers. She recovered quickly. Obviously, Duane had taken her somewhere, likely outside to the porch swing, which he had recently installed. The boy was handy; in that regard, he was a lot like her Lamarr, always working on the place. Still, he shouldn’t be taking his mother outside, not in her condition, even in the warm weather.

  Anxious, Ioletta went to the living room. One glance through the windows told her that Duane had not taken his mother outside to the porch swing; it hung emptily by its chains from the rafters, a slight breeze pushing it back and forth as if ghosts occupied its vinyl cushions.

  She ran down the stairs, looking first one way and then another, her eyes as big as blackberry pies, as her stepmother used to say so many years ago. Save for the statues, the yard was empty. As she neared the street, walking briskly, she felt chills run up and down her spine. No traffic, either. No children playing on the sidewalks. No other human being in sight.

  Rev. Champion had been preaching on Bible prophecy for the past two months on Sunday evenings. That was why she thought of the Rapture when she first saw Stella and Duane were gone. Rev. Champion had shot down all the popular theories that sold a lot of books but didn’t, he felt, have much to do with what the Bible really taught. Still, the thought of one taken in the field and one left behind, of one taken from the bed and another left behind (the latter so close to her own situation), understandably had a chilling effect upon her heart and mind.