But that’s only a small voice. Inevitably, I’m up and pacing the floor in the living room in the dark, glancing out the front windows every few moments into the night, hoping to see a large figure ambling up the driveway toward Little House. The longer it takes, the more I begin to eye my keys hanging on the rack. What if he’s hurt? I ask myself more than once. What if he’s lost? What if he’s trying to find his way back to Little House and he can’t? What if he needs my help? And, as if he can hear me thinking, as if he understands I’m about to break, that is the moment I see him, a flash of the red rust on his head, his creamy skin illuminated by the moon and stars. Relief washes over me. These are strange feelings, new feelings, feelings I don’t think I can or even should be having. I watch him for a moment as he moves toward me. I think how handsome he is, how strong he looks. I think how the small voice that wants him to leave is undoubtedly right, but I will ignore it for as long as I can, because I don’t think I can go back to the way things were. Being alone, being haunted. I allow myself to think these things for just a moment, because any longer will be too much for me to handle.
As he approaches Little House, I melt back into the dark, down the hall, stepping over his blankets and then shutting the door behind me. I crawl into bed and lie on my side, facing the door. Moments later, I hear footsteps walking down the hall gently, as if he is trying to be quiet so he doesn’t wake me. Shadows shift across the floor as he stands in front of my bedroom door. And then his voice, softly saying, “I’m back, Benji. I’m here.”
The first night he said this, I was sure he’d seen me in the window, that he knew I was awake. But then he said it again the next night. And the one that followed. And the one after that. Finally, on the seventh night, I stayed awake as long as I could, to see if I could hear him when he left. It was just after midnight when he stirred. He stood and leaned against the door. “I’ll be back, Benji. I promise. I will come back.”
But regardless of when he leaves or when he comes back, he knocks on my door shortly before dawn, waking me from a fitful doze I’ve just fallen into. “Benji?” he says. “It’s almost time.” And then he walks down the hall and out the door.
There are moments when I tell myself to stay in bed, that I don’t need to put myself into this any further. It doesn’t mean anything, I argue with myself. It can’t mean anything. But then my feet find the floor and I’m standing before I can even think about it. I walk down the hall. I take my father’s jacket from the coat rack and slip it on. I put on the old work boots by the door. I go outside, the sky already beginning to lighten in the east. The grass is slick with dew. The stars are still visible overhead, though they are now fading.
I reach the ladder and climb up one rung, and then two. There is movement above me and I look up. The angel Calliel is there, hand outstretched. There is no hesitation now as I reach up, his big paw engulfing mine. He pulls me up the rest of the way and then moves back to his perch at the edge of the roof. I sit a few feet away from him, but by the time the sun shoots itself above the horizon, with that first blinding ray over the Cascades, I’m pressed up against him, his arm heavy across my shoulders, my head in the crook of his neck.
I asked him once why he wanted to see the sun rise every morning, what it was that caused him to be out here at the crack of dawn every day. He watched me for a moment before looking back at the horizon. “Its beauty,” he said. “It reminds me every day that there is beauty in the world. That even though it may feel like we are alone sometimes, we are never truly alone.” The sunlight hit his face and his red hair and beard turned to fire. He looked down at me again, pressed up against him. “Why are you here every day?” he asked.
I looked into his dark eyes and said the first thing that came to mind. “Because you’re here.” I immediately blushed, realizing how the words sounded. The smile that bloomed on his face was bright and knowing. I looked away, but not before he pulled me tighter against his chest.
The times he disappears during the day are more difficult, because those are the times I worry most about his visibility. He tells me he’ll be fine, that he isn’t doing anything that will bring more attention to himself, but that does little to calm me. Whenever the threads call, he follows. There are times we’re in the middle of a conversation when he breaks off, staring off into the distance. “I have to go,” he says after a moment of silence. “I’ll come back, I promise.” Sometimes he asks for the keys to the Ford, but most of the time he takes off on foot. I watch him and contemplate following. I even tried to, one time, but he moved so quickly I lost sight of him within minutes.
He never tells me what he did, and I never ask. I don’t feel it is my place to, nor do I think I have a right to know. But things happen around Roseland that I can no longer associate with normalcy. The Wallace family was displaced after their house burned down one night, a freak electrical thing. They escaped through the window. The house burned to the ground, but the Wallaces were safe. Mr. Wallace later said that he’d awoken because of what he thought was a hand on his shoulder, but no one had been there.
How lucky! breathed the town. How fortunate! said its residents. God must have been watching over the Wallace family that night—it’s the only explanation!
I thought there might be another explanation, as Cal had come home that night smelling of smoke.
Little Becky Newhall went missing after she went outside to play two days after the Wallace fire. Her parents were frantic, and a large mass of people gathered, ready to comb the woods for any sign of the girl. But even before they could all set out, she was discovered on the porch swing at her house, covered in a blanket, her arm clutched to her chest. She’d fallen into a small sinkhole, she said later. The fall had broken her arm. She cried for a long time and screamed for someone to get her, but she grew tired and tried to sleep. She woke sometime later and she was being carried by someone who told her everything would be okay. She went back to sleep and when she woke again, she was on her porch at her house.
Who saved her? the town cried. Surely the hero would come forward and receive the praise and blessing of Roseland? No one came forward. It’s the will of God, some said. He works in mysterious ways, others whispered. Little Becky Newhall surely had her guardian angel watching over her, all agreed.
“It’s the threads,” Cal tells me when he comes home, slick with mud and grime. “I follow the threads.”
I say nothing as I turn on the shower, getting the water scorching hot, knowing he likes it that way.
It’s been over a week since Cal arrived. I can’t even tell which way is up anymore,
in a dizzy, antigravity kind of way. Floating is probably the best way to describe it. I feel like I’ve been floating in a haze of deep blue, something that is pleasant and at the same time alarming. It’s been eight days since he fell out of the sky, and I’m already having a hard time imagining the way I lived my life when he wasn’t here. It was routine wrapped in grief. It was monotony disguised as security. I feel like I was blind and am now able to see for the first time in years. Everything is bright. Everything is shiny.
And it scares the hell out of me.
It seems like everyone has met Cal in one way or another. People still stop by the store daily, either to see him and chat him up, or to tell me something that he’s done. Of course, a lot of the news is still of the Wallace fire and little Becky Newhall. I’m waiting for a single person to make the connection between Cal and those two events, but so far no one has said a thing. The people of Roseland will typically say whatever they are thinking, so I don’t believe anyone is trying to hide it, but I still feel some anxiety every time the bell dings in the store.
I can feel the FBI agent’s card burning a hole through my wallet. I’ve taken it out every now and then and stared at it, trying to work up the nerve to dial the phone number and relay what I heard at the sheriff’s house to him. I don’t know why I think it’s important that Agent Corwin knows about Griggs and Walken and Smoker, but the t
iming of the agent’s visit and what I heard can’t be coincidence. What stops me, though, is the sheriff’s voice in my head: Nina’s so trusting, isn’t she? She most certainly is. Why, I bet she’d get in a police car if she was asked. Such a sweet, sweet lady. I see her in my mind, the way she looks at the man she calls Blue every time she sees him, her smile so brilliant, her eyes dancing. I can see the way she waits for us every night, the way she rushes out to hug me first and then him. “Blue,” she always sighs. “Benji and Blue.”
Agent Corwin’s card goes back into my wallet. But I know it’s there.
So almost everyone, it seems, has met Cal, with the exception of the one I knew would probably get the biggest kick out of him. Abe didn’t even call to schedule his usual appointment. Instead he just walks in this morning and looks around, trying to be nonchalant, but failing miserably.
“Looking for something, Abe?” I ask as I unload cartons of cigarettes and slide them into the racks, trying to keep a smile from forming.
“Oh?” he mutters, looking down each aisle. “What was that, dear boy?” I roll my eyes. “Thought you’d be in here a lot sooner than this.”
“Yes, well,” he says distractedly, peering around the counter where I stand. “I had those doctors’ appointments in Eugene, you know. Specialists that need to poke and prod to tell me what I already know so they can charge Medicare up the wazoo: I’m an old man, and I’m not getting any younger.”
I’d forgotten about his appointments. “How’s your blood pressure?” I ask as he opens up the cooler, peering between the shelves to see back into the freezer.
He scowls as he closes the door. “Nothing my lisinopril won’t be able to handle.”
“And your heart?”
“Beating like I’m twenty-five!” He cups his hands to his face and looks through the window into the empty garage.
“And how’s your colon?” I ask, trying to keep from bursting out laughing.
He turns and narrows his eyes at me. “Benji, the day you ask me about the status of my colon is the day I know you are trying to keep something from me.”
I shrug. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Benjamin Edward Green!” he hollers as he walks menacingly toward me. “You are still not so old that I won’t bend you over my knee and tan your hide!”
I can’t hold it in anymore and I bellow out my laughter. “I’d like to see you try it, old man.”
He tries to keep the serious look on his face, but gives himself away when his lips twitch. “It’s different here,” he finally says after he’s regained some control.
“What do you mean?”
He looks around the store before his gaze finds me again. “It feels… lighter. Calmer.”
I snort. “They gave you the good meds this time, huh?”
Abe smiles quietly, seeing right through me. “You seem lighter too, Benji.”
“Abe, I think you might be seeing things.” But even I don’t believe my words. I feel lighter, somehow, and I wonder why I’m just noticing it now.
“So, where is he?”
I sigh. “Getting sandwiches from Rosie. She told me to send him from now on because at least he doesn’t complain about her egg salad.”
Abe arches an eyebrow. “He hasn’t tried it yet?”
“Oh, he did. He just doesn’t complain to her face about it. He told me it was like eating sadness.” I pause, considering. “Word gets around, I guess,” I say, asking a question without actually asking a question.
Abe nods. “Oh, it does. But nothing but good. People seem to be falling all over your Cal.”
My Cal. That thought zings right through me. “He’s not mine,” I mutter, feeling heat rising in my face.
Abe watches me with knowing eyes. “Uh-huh. Is that why you’ve got that dreamy look on your face right now?”
I groan. “Abe, it’s not like that.”
“Really? Who are you trying to convince here, boy? Certainly it’s not me, because I can see right through your bullshit.”
“I’m not—”
The bell rings overhead. “Benji!” Cal booms, bags in hand as he enters the store. “Rosie gave me pie but your mom’s is better. I almost told her that but then I realized that would hurt her feelings so I said it was the greatest ever.”
“That’s great, Cal,” I say, waiting for the inevitable.
He smiles at me, then seems to notice Abe. “Hello,” he rumbles. He furrows his brow, and I know his mind is firing, making the connection. When he does, a grin splits his face and I know what’s about to come out, regardless of how many times we’ve had this talk.
“Cal,” I say, interrupting him, “this is my friend Abe Dufree. Abe, Cal Blue.” Cal shoots me a look over his shoulder, obviously annoyed that he wasn’t able to tell Abe which moon he’d been born under. I shrug.
“Abe!” he says, moving forward and wrapping the old guy in a hug. Abe squawks in surprise, but then he chuckles and brings his arms around Cal’s shoulders and pats his back solidly. He glances at me over Cal’s shoulder, a wry smile on his face.
“Cal!” he exclaims just as loudly.
Calliel sets him down, then steps back and puts his hands on Abe’s shoulders. “It sure is great to meet you!” he says. “You’re probably the fourth or fifth person I wanted to meet the most. Maybe even the third.”
Abe grins up at the big guy. “Maybe even third?” he echoes. “Then I shall count myself as being blessed.”
“You are blessed,” Cal tells him seriously. “Extraordinarily so.”
Abe opens his mouth then closes it, speechless for the first time since I’ve known him.
“And thank you,” Cal continues, his hands still on Abe’ shoulders, “for taking care of Benji as you have. It means more to me than I could ever say.”
Abe shakes his head, and his eyes look brighter. “I didn’t—” His voice cracks and he shakes his head again as he clears his throat. “I didn’t do much,” he tries again. “You’re certainly an odd one, aren’t you?”
Cal glances over his shoulder at me. “I like him,” he says.
I nod, not speaking for fear I’ll break.
He lets go of Abe and picks the plastic bags up off the floor and comes over to me. “Rosie said you need to eat more, and I agree,” he announces. “So you will eat all of the sandwich and the salad I brought, and I will sit here and share mine with Abe and watch you until you finish.”
And he does just that.
“All the mountains here were filled with gold!” Abe says excitedly a little later, talking with the angel like they’re best friends. “And you mark my words, Cal, someone is going to find a nugget the size of your fist up in those hills, and there will be a huge rush of people trying to get rich!”
“I have really big fists,” Cal says, showing Abe and me just how big they really are.
Cal watches me as I put the last bite in my mouth, while he talks to Abe about gold nuggets the size of fists. Then he cleans up our lunch and tells me he’s going to throw it away and take the trash out back while he’s at it. I nod as he pulls the trash bag from the big plastic can near the doors. He winks at me while he walks toward the office in the back.
Abe watches him go. “He’s wonderful,” he says quietly.
I sigh. “You too, huh? Just like most everyone else in town.”
Abe arches an eyebrow at me. “Just like you too, then?”
I shrug and avert my eyes. “He’s my friend,” I say, but who I’m trying to convince, I don’t know. There’s something there, sure, and it sparks in my chest like a mini sun going supernova every time I see him, but it can’t matter. I’m just a guy from a small town in the middle of nowhere who doesn’t plan on doing anything else with his life but what he’s doing now. Cal is… Cal. He’s a guardian angel, for God’s sake. He can’t belong to just one person. He has to belong to everyone, even if they don’t know it. And besides, even if he could just belong to one person, it wouldn’t
be me.
Abe has known me too long, it seems. “Now you listen here,” he says, his voice stern. “I already know what you’re thinking, and you need to knock it off. You’re a better man than most anyone I know, and you learned that from your father. How do you think Big Eddie would feel if he could see you doubting yourself like this?”
“That’s not fair. You can’t bring my father into—”
The bell tinkles overhead as someone walks into the store.
He’s a young man, probably not much older than me. He’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie, both of which look crusted with filth. His skin is pale and sallow, and his eyes look like heated black coals bored into his skull. He’s twitchy, darting nervous looks around the small store, his hands shoved into the front pockets of the hoodie.
Abe glances at me then back at the man.
“Help you find something?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
The guy shakes his head, pursing his cracked lips, and walks down one of the aisles.
“Security cameras still up?” Abe asks under his breath.
“Yeah,” I mutter, relieved that he feels it too. “Why don’t you head out the front door?”
“And leave you alone?” he says. “Hardly. You got your cell phone?”
“It’s back in the office.”
“Gun?”