“And you survived. So she did not go through that ghastly ordeal for nothing. Do you know who killed her?”
“No. I never saw him.”
“You never spoke of this to anyone?”
“No.”
“That would explain a lot.”
“The bruises on Sister Ursula’s shins? She had that coming.”
“I won’t argue that. But you know, there’s a kind of innocence in insanity. Ursula still wonders what you’re up to. If she knew this about your birth mother, she would send up the flames of a thousand candles each night for the rest of her life. You tend to linger in her memory. You have that effect on people.”
“You can’t tell her or anyone.”
“Of course not. Why are you telling me now?”
“I’m confessing. Now what do I do with the guilt? I’ve confessed. What now?”
“You were a blameless child.”
“I don’t want to hear that crap, Father. So let’s say I’m guilty, and I’ve confessed. What now?”
“God forgives you.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Yeah, right.” She hung up on him.
He walked around the roof, occasionally pausing to anchor himself by touching the corner of the table or some object, fearing he might float away if he did not hold on to something solid, something real. He picked up an empty wine bottle and set it down again. At each turn of the roof, he kept his eyes to the design of the plush rugs which carpeted the tarpaper. He avoided looking at the decorative mirror in a small art deco frame, skirting it with a tremor of terror. The last time he had looked at his reflection, it had been like viewing the remains of a familiar corpse.
His eyes, oh his eyes.
There were two dead flies lying on the table, sun-dried and so light, they were carried off on the next breeze. He turned away. His hand worked over his eyes and left them closed, the way that service was done for the deceased.
He sat down on the tarmac and addressed the upholstery of the chair. “I couldn’t stop what happened.”
There was no response from the upholstery.
“There was nothing I could have done.”
He took the chair’s quiet repose for agreement. He opened his eyes and leaned over to touch the brocade arm, as though to gain the chair’s confidence, and then he went on in a louder monotone. “What good would it have done to tell?”
He stood up and walked twice around the chair in the way of a child who believes that the circle has a magical and protective charm. He came to rest beside the chair and put one arm around the back of it. “Oh, what would have been the good of it?” His voice was rising more. Hysteria came stealing up his throat, surprising him and scaring him with a shrillness in his voice. “Well, it’s crazy, that’s all-just crazy!”
One hand clawed through his matted hair. “Am I screaming?” he screamed. “Do I sound a little frantic?”
The chair withdrew into prolonged silence. He turned away, tears running freely.
When he turned around again, a beautiful woman was sitting in the chair. He recognized the moon-gold hair, though in the better light of the standing lamp, it was closer to burnished copper, and her eyes were long slants of green. The tailoring of her blazer was superb. This was definitely his angel.
“Good evening, Andrew,” said the angel, in a soft, silken voice. It was nearly music.
“Good evening.” And now he wished he had paid more attention to the nuns’ instructions on the order of cherubim, seraphim, and assorted supernatural messengers.
“I understand you’ve been praying for a sign.” She perused the labels of a small store of wine on the side table and found a bottle of red that she approved of. “Andrew, I really worry about you, up here all by yourself.” One long red fingernail split the skin of the seal around the cork. “Anyone can get at you…Anyone.”
She held a small silver device, which she now opened to expose a cruel screw of metal. She smiled. Andrew tucked in a breath and held it. She drove the point of the screw into the heart of the bottle cork and began to work it deeper and deeper.
Her blazer opened as she leaned forward to pour the wine into a silver goblet which had suddenly appeared on the low table. He saw the gun in her shoulder holster. Well, that was intriguing.
Now he was afraid.
So this was not his guardian angel at all. She was an avenging angel. He supposed that was only fair. So be it. “I see you carry a gun.”
A vertical line appeared between her eyebrows, only a faint line to show her annoyance. Andrew lowered his foolish eyes to look down at her feet, which were inexplicably encased in rather expensive running shoes. “It’s just surprising to see a gun. I suppose I expected a sword, a great shining sword.”
“Well, the world changed, Andrew.” She replaced the bottle’s cork. “We use revolvers now.”
“I suppose vengeance is vengeance, sword or gun.”
“You got that right.” She brought a handful of communion wafers from her pocket.
“How shall I address you?”
“Mallory-just Mallory is fine.” She set the wafers on the low table near the wine goblet and her cellular telephone.
“Mallory? Is that from the order of Malakim, the Virtues?”
If so, that would be good news. The Virtues liked everybody, and never slew anyone as far as he knew.
“Just Mallory.”
“I don’t know that one. No disrespect intended, but what rank is that?”
“Don’t piss me off, Andrew.”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure it’s a very high rank. I’ll just assume it’s right up there with the archangels.”
“Right. I’m a damn angel.” She picked up one of the wafers and held it out to him. As he took it from her hand, she said, “This is the body. Take this body and eat.” And then she picked up the wine goblet and offered it to him, saying, “This is the blood. Take it and drink.”
He looked down at the wafer and the wine goblet and then looked up at her with a mixture of fear and sadness. “But I can’t take communion. You see, I haven’t made confession for my sins. I can’t even remember the last time I made confession.”
“Yeah, right. That is a problem.”
“Will you hear my confession, Mallory?”
“Oh, sure.”
His speech was slow and slurred as he began to describe his sins. Far into his confession, which she could make nothing of, he fell asleep, and the only sound on the roof was the steady rhythm of his snoring.
The angel brought her fist down on the arm of the chair with enough force to make a loud crack in the wooden frame.
The penitent slept on.
CHAPTER 8
He awoke to a pair of staring eyes, tiny and red.
The angel was gone, the rat was not. The beast was only a foot away from his face. He waved his hand lethargically, but the rat did not move. Andrew felt weaker today than yesterday. Would he be able to fend off the rat when it came for him in earnest?
A loaf of bread lay a few inches from his hand. The angel must have left it for him. He was reaching out for it when he heard a beeping noise. He looked up to see the cellular phone on the table by the chair. She must have left that for him, too. But why?
He picked up the phone and extended the antenna. “Hello?”
“Is Mallory there?” asked the brisk voice of a man in a hurry.
“The Archangel Mallory?”
“The what?”
Now the man recited a telephone number, and Andrew confirmed that this was the same number printed on the phone. “But she’s not here now. Can I take a message?”
“Yeah, my name is Coffey. Tell the little angel to get lost for a few days. Tell her our negotiations have hit a snag. The chief is sending uniforms to pick her up. He wants her now.”
Father Brenner was not wearing his priest’s collar. He had spent the morning working in his garden, and he was still dressed for a day in the soil and the sunlight, wearing a flannel work shirt and a pair of old trousers. He passed through the cordon guard of nurses and receptionists without the protection of a priest’s vestments to elicit their best behavior. Today, he felt very much a man like any other, and perversely, he believed that he was getting away with something. For one guilty moment, he wondered if he hadn’t left his proper dress at home for the sheer pleasure of getting a rise out of Sister Ursula.