“Fucking faggots,” Smoker spits.
“Quite,” Walken says, sounding amused. “We’ll keep an eye on him, and this
Cal Blue. Actions can be taken if necessary. I’ve sunk too much money into this…
venture… to let it fail.”
“I say we just take them out now,” Smoker snarls. “Kill the fucking faggot
before he goes any further with this. He’s already—” He’s cut off suddenly, a gurgle
coming from his throat.
There’s movement above me from the window, and, for a moment, my panic is
bright and all-consuming; I’m sure I’ve been spotted, that people are staring down at
me from above. I snap my gaze upward and see the back of a balding head pressed
against the window sill, a hand wrapped around his throat. I recognize the mayor’s
ring as it flashes in the dark, a gaudy ruby on his pinkie finger. The hand is squeezed
tight, but no one is looking down at me.
“You seem to forget, Traynor, that you are operating in my town, with my
permission, which makes me your boss. You would do well to remember that. I’d
hate to think that you’d do anything outside the scope of your employment.
Remember, while you are here, I own you. Do you understand this?”
Smoker—or Traynor, I guess—nods, unable to speak.
“Good,” the mayor says as he releases the other man’s neck. Traynor takes in a
gasping breath. “Besides, I’d hate to think of what my boss would do if you acted
without authorization. Doesn’t seem like a good idea for any of us. I will say, though,
that if there are any… issues with the boy, I believe getting permission to hunt him
down won’t be as hard as we all think. Until then, we watch. Is that understood?” “Yes, sir,” voices rumble in agreement.
“And you,” he says, though I can’t tell to whom he’s speaking. “I expect you to
keep a close eye out. Are we clear?”
A grunt of consent.
“Now, then, shall we check the maps? I’m sure there are plenty of places we
could look at should we have to move. Sheriff, would you do the honors?” The voices and footsteps fade as they start to move away. I release the breath I
hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
And then I run.
I don’t turn on the headlights until I’m almost back to Poplar Street. I consider,
for a moment, still trying to find Cal, but he could be anywhere. He could be gone, for all I know. If he’s going to come back, he’ll go to Little House and I need to return anyway to make sure no one else is there.
I pull up the driveway at almost two in the morning. Big House still stands. My mom’s little car is parked out front. I know the Trio’s vehicles are parked in back. The house is dark, no movement. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. I stop in front of the house, consider knocking on the door and waking them up, but then decide against it. Much, I’m sure, can be seen on my face at the moment, and I haven’t had time to process any of it. I put the truck in drive and head toward Little House.
The lights catch a flash, like animal eyes, on the roof.
Cal.
I release a trembling breath and grip the steering wheel, trying to ignore the
overwhelming relief I feel at finding him safe and sound. With so much else screaming through my head, I can’t even begin to understand why I feel such relief, or why I have to stop myself from tearing out of the Ford and demanding he stand before me so I can make sure he is okay. This is something I don’t yet comprehend, but it seems to be growing stronger.
I switch off the truck and open the door. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I lock it behind me. I glance up at him; his body is tense, his dark eyes bright with something I can’t quite make out. He seems rigid. His gaze follows me as I move to the ladder. I take a deep breath and start climbing. I look up when I get halfway. He’s not there, waiting to pull me up with him. I sigh and climb the rest of the way.
He’s perched at the edge of the roof, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. If he got them from the house, then they are my father’s old clothes. The muscles of his arms strain against the sleeves of his shirt. The red stubble on his head and face looks dark in the starlight. I walk the few steps it takes to reach him, unsure if I should touch him in some way. Surely he’s aware of my presence. I decide against it and sit down on the roof, a few feet away. I’m suddenly very, very tired. I have to be up in a few hours.
We sit in silence for a while. Then, in a deep-throated grumble tinged with anger, he says, “Where were you?”
“Looking for you. Where did you go?”
He doesn’t look at me. “A thread called to me. I had to follow it to make sure I did my duty. When I returned, you were gone.” This last comes out as a harsh accusation.
I’m getting angry. “When I woke up, you were gone,” I snap. “I thought you’d gone away. What was I supposed to do?”
“I have a job to do, Benji,” he snaps. “Even if I am here for you, that doesn’t mean I can neglect my other duties.”
“I never asked you to. I was just… worried. I needed to make sure you were okay.”
“I am fine,” Cal says stiffly. “Except for when I returned. You were not here and I could not find your thread. I panicked. There is still a lot I can’t remember about the day you called, or even the time before. I don’t know why I can see certain things and not see others, why I can remember pieces but not the whole.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I feel so ashamed.
“Do you know what I did, Benji? Do you want to know what I did when I could not find you?”
“What?”
He finally turns to look at me. Much is said in that look, but I can’t decipher any of it. “I prayed,” he says. “I prayed for the first time since I’ve been here. And you know what response I received?”
“No.”
“None. I didn’t receive a response. It was like no one heard me. It was like my Father wasn’t listening. I prayed as hard as I could, asking for help to find you. And no one answered my prayer. It feels like I’m being tested. Or being punished, but I don’t know why. I can’t remember why. I can’t remember what I did. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. All I know is I prayed and he didn’t answer. When I was watching Roseland from above, I would pray and he would be there. Even at my loneliest, I would get a response. Now? Now there is nothing.”
“But… maybe you did get an answer,” I say slowly.
He looks at me sharply. “How do you mean?”
“I’m here, right? With you? We may have gotten separated, but I’m here now. Maybe you were heard after all.”
Calliel looks like he wants to argue with me, like I’ve completely missed the point he was trying to make. Instead, he sighs, then chuckles to himself as he shakes his head. “You are here,” he agrees quietly.
“And can you see my thread?” This is the weirdest conversation of my life.
He nods. “I can see it well.” The relief in his voice is a palpable thing and it almost knocks me flat.
“And you’re okay, and the person you had to help tonight is okay, right?”
“Yes, Benji. She is fine.”
I want to know who it is and what he did, but it doesn’t feel like it’s my place to ask. “Okay, then.”
“Are you?”
“What?”
“Are you okay? Where did you go tonight?”
For a moment, I think about telling him everything, just to see what he says, or what he thinks. I want to see if he knows anything. If he’s the guardian of Roseland, then he might have an idea about what happened in the sheriff’s house tonight. The worst he could tell me is that he can’t remember. I’m about to ask, but then I catch the worried spark in his eyes, the way he starts to frown. He’s got too much on him already
, I realize, probably something more significant than I could ever understand. To him, my problems would be nothing because, in the reality of the cosmos from which he comes, I am nothing.
“I’m okay,” I say, my voice steady.
He starts to say something, but then shakes his head.
So we sit there, on the roof, he and I. Every now and then, I feel his hand graze against mine. Eventually, my head starts to bob, my eyes heavy. I don’t protest when a strong arm wraps around me and pulls me over. He is so warm, and I bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe deeply, smelling earth. He keeps his arm around me as he rubs his chin on the top of my head. Eventually, I drift off to sleep.
I do not dream.
Sometime later, I awaken to a gentle voice. “Benji. Benji. Open your eyes.
Open your eyes and see.” I do. He’s staring down at me, cradling me in his arms, a small smile on his face. “The sun is about to rise. You must see this. It is a beautiful thing.” He looks toward the horizon.
But all I can see is him.
a man about town
I make him shower before we leave (a scowling “I don’t think I’m going to like
this” turns into a loud “Hey, this is pretty neat!”). He dresses in the same clothes he had on before, the white T-shirt and jeans, pulling on an old pair of work boots. I tell him with no small amount of dread that while I’m at work he’s going to need to go shopping for some new clothes.
“Why?” he says, looking down at what he’s wearing. “Is there something wrong with this? I don’t think I’m going to like shopping.”
“You know, you say you aren’t going to like anything, yet you end up liking everything,” I remind him. “I haven’t yet steered you wrong, right?”
“Do you like shopping?” he asks innocently enough.
I’m unable to stop the look of disgust on my face. I try to hide it and say, “Sure. Well, some of the time.”
He nods. “I wish someone had told you that you’re a terrible liar so I wouldn’t have to be the first one. I feel bad now.”
“You don’t feel bad at all,” I growl at him.
Cal’s eyes dance. “I do,” he promises. “But I’m not going to go shopping. I will stay with you until it is time to leave. But if there are any threads, I will follow them and then come back.”
“You have to go,” I sigh. “You can’t keep wearing that.”
“Why?”
I struggle with the answer. “Those are… my father’s. It’s just… weird for me. To see it.”
His eyes go wide as he looks down at himself. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding wounded. “I did not think. Benji, please forgive me.” He starts to lift the shirt over his head, and I catch a glimpse of his stomach, wonderfully muscled under the auburn curls. I almost think about letting him continue, but that probably makes me a bit of a pervert, so I stop him, pulling the shirt back down.
“It’s okay for now,” I assure him, even though he’s trying to unbutton the jeans. I slap his hands away. “It can wait until you’re done shopping.”
His face turns red and he looks down at the ground and mumbles something.
“I can’t hear you,” I tell him.
He speaks up. “I don’t have currency,” he grumbles, glancing up at me before looking away. “I can’t buy things without it, right? That’s how it always is. You need money and I don’t have any.”
“You mean God doesn’t pay you?” I tease.
He looks horrified. “No! All I do is for him. He is the Creator; he is my father. His will is word and I must follow for he is divine—”
“Right, okay,” I cut him off before he goes into a sermon. “I’ve got money, no worries.”
He looks miserable again. “I haven’t a way to pay you back.”
I shrug. “We’re friends, right?”
He hesitates, but then he nods.
“And you’re going to be sticking around? At least for a while?”
He nods again, quicker this time. I ignore the relief I feel.
“Well, then, my friend, you’re going to need new clothes. And since you are my friend, there is no need to pay me back.”
He looks suspicious. “I don’t know,” he says.
“I’ll let you drive the truck into town today.”
His eyes light up. “You will? Wow. That truck sure is cherry. You’ll let me drive it and all I have to do is take your money that I can’t repay and go shopping, which I’ll probably end up hating because you don’t like it, to buy clothes like the ones I’m already wearing?”
Jesus Christ. “Uh. Sure.”
He grins. “Alright, hey, that’s great! Thanks, Benji. I sure do love that truck. It’s so cherry, right?”
I smile back. “So cherry.”
It’s four hours later and I’m regretting letting Cal out of my sight.
I sent him off with strict instructions ( You can’t go up to people you don’t know and spout off their names and birthdays and families and whatever else you want to say. Why not? People will just find it weird. But that’s how I remember everyone! I know, but if the whole idea is for you to remain incognito, then you can’t give yourself away on the first day. Let people introduce themselves to you should they want to. You act like I don’t know how to talk to people, Benji. Cal, you don’t know how to talk to people. Have a little faith, huh? Coming from an angel, that’s hilarious.) I found him an old wallet that I hadn’t used in years and gave him a wad of cash. I knew I was hovering when I asked him if he knew how to use money. “Oh, I don’t know, Benji; I’ve only watched humans for two centuries.” The bastard can be very sarcastic when he wants to be.
Which in and of itself is a paradox. Even after two days, I can see that there are so many sides to him. Maybe too many. There’s times he exudes such strength that it threatens to knock me flat. Push him into a corner and he will lash out. Make him angry and you will see it on his face, and God help you should it be directed toward you. Those are the times that I do believe he is an angel, that I do believe he guards us as he says he does.
Then there are his other sides, most specifically when he seems unsure, hesitant. While most of his insecurity has to do with things that I take for granted, it’s strangely amusing watching his attempts to adapt. His wonder is almost childlike in its mien. He sees things I no longer can because it is as if he’s experiencing everything for the first time. And what catches his eye seems to be inconsequential at first: marshmallows, a sunrise. The look on his face as the sun breaks over the horizon is one of pure wonder, and he closes his eyes as the sun’s rays first strike and warm his face. I try not to think about what his life must have been like On High. It sounds like it’s a cold, lonely place, even if he is working for God.
And then there’s the darker part of him. I will send you and yours into the black. I don’t want to think about that part. I don’t want to know what “the black” is. It’s only been two days since he fell from the sky, but those two days have shown just how little I really know about the world. What would happen if he turned that anger on me or my family? This town? For every story of an angel I’ve ever heard, there’s always been a counter to it, an avenging angel. Dark prophecies. Swords of fire. The devil was an angel at one point. There are things he’s keeping from me, I know. I don’t know how much of it falls under his supposed memory loss. It seems almost too convenient for me. But doubting him shames me. I don’t know if I can trust him, but how can I doubt him?
It’s not helping that my mind is completely jumbled from the conversation I overheard at the sheriff’s house. Maybe I’ve gotten too complacent about what happened to Big Eddie. There was a fire inside of me, after his death, a fire that burned so brilliantly it threatened to consume me. Maybe like any flash fire, it had grown so bright and hot it burned itself out, leaving only charred remains. But buried under my grief, I can feel the remains still smoldering, waiting for a spark to ignite them again.
I’m under no illusions about
what the men in Griggs’s house were referring to last night. I might not be the smartest person alive, but the blatant way they referred to me left no room for misinterpretation. I don’t know how their so-called “operation” connects to my father, but it has to. Somehow.
The FBI agent’s card sits in my wallet, hidden away.
Three days ago, life was quiet. Life was routine. Solitary. Secluded, even. I knew what to expect from the world, at least my little corner of it. I knew it had teeth and could bite off my outstretched hand when I wasn’t looking. I knew it was easier to run and hide and bury myself in sorrow. At least there, I could let my soul bleed as much as it needed to. I knew I was drowning, but I was okay with that.
Now? This is how things are now:
Thirty minutes after Cal leaves, I am having serious doubts about letting him go off on his own, kicking myself for even suggesting it. He’s a grown man, I tell myself. A grown man who just had Lucky Charms and took a shower for the first time. I step out in front of the store, looking up and down Poplar, but that already familiar red hair isn’t anywhere to be seen. I go back inside.
And it starts.
Eloise Watkins comes into the store. She had been the librarian until the library closed due to budget cuts. She usually comes in on Fridays for a pack of Virginia Slims 120s, telling me each time this will be her last pack, she’s serious this time. She’ll proceed to smoke the cigarettes through the weekend, finishing the last one on her porch on Sunday evening. Monday she’ll tell everyone she’s quit smoking, that she doesn’t even feel the cravings, and why did people think it was so hard to quit? Friday will come around and she’ll back in for her smokes.
Which is why it’s weird when she comes in on a Wednesday, her eyes sparkling.
“Oh, Benji!” she exclaims, coming up to the counter. “You’ve been talking about me?”
I smile, not sure what she means. “You’re a couple of days early. And what do you mean talking about you?”
“I just had to come see you and say well done,” she says with a grin, reaching over the counter to rub me on my head. “He’s absolutely magnificent!”