The youngest angel hesitated. The directions had been explicit. But surely this tippling reprobate could not be intended to wear a halo. The lama hiccuped loudly and reached for another cup of sake and thereby decided the angel, who unfurled his wings and departed with an air of outraged dignity.
Now, in a Midwestern State of North America there is a town called Tibbett. Who can blame the angel if he alighted there, and, after a brief search, discovered a man apparently ripe for sainthood, whose name, as stated on the door of his small suburban home, was K. Young?
“I may have got it wrong,” the youngest angel thought. “They said it was Kai Yung. But this is Tibbett, all right. He must be the man. Looks holy enough, anyway.
“Well,” said the youngest angel, “here goes. Now, where’s that halo?”
Mr. Young sat on the edge of his bed, with head lowered, brooding. A depressing spectacle. At length he arose and donned various garments. This done, and shaved and washed and combed, he descended the stairway to breakfast.
Jill Young, his wife, sat examining the paper and sipping orange juice. She was a small, scarcely middle-aged, and quite pretty woman who had long ago given up trying to understand life. It was, she decided, much too complicated. Strange things were continually happening. Much better to remain a bystander and simply let them happen. As a result of this attitude, she kept her charming face unwrinlded and added numerous gray hairs to her husband’s head.
More will be said presently of Mr. Young’s head. It had, of course, been transfigured during the night. But as yet he was unaware of this, and Jill drank orange juice and placidly approved a silly-looking hat in an advertisement.
“Hello, Filthy,” said Young. “Morning.”
He was not addressing his wife. A small and raffish Scotty had made its appearance, capering hysterically about its master’s feet, and going into a fit of sheer madness when the man pulled its hairy ears. The raffish Scotty flung its head sidewise upon the carpet and skated about the room on its muzzle, uttering strangled s~queaks of delight. Growing tired of this at last, the Scotty, whose name was Filthy McNasty, began thumping its head on the floor with the apparent intention of dashing Out its brains, if any.
Young ignored the familiar sight. He sat down, unfolded his napkin, and examined his food. With a slight grunt of appreciation he began to eat.
He became aware that his wife was eying him with an odd and distrait expression. Hastily he dabbed at his ;lips with the napkin. But Jill still stared.
Young scrutinized his shirt front. It was, if not immaculate, at least free from stray shreds of bacon or egg. He looked at his wife, and realized that she was staring at a point slightly above his head. He looked up.
Jill started slightly. She whispered, “Kenneth, what is that?”
Young smoothed his hair. “Er… what, dear?”
“That thing on your head.”
The man ran exploring fingers across his scalp. “My head? Flow do you mean?”
“It’s shining,” Jill explained. “What on earth have you been doing to yourself?”
Mr. Young felt slightly irritated. “I have been doing nothing to myself. A man grows bald eventually.”
Jill frowned and drank orange juice. Her fascinated gaze crept up again. Finally she said, “Kenneth, I wish you’d—”
“What?”
She pointed to a mirror on the wall.
With a disgusted grunt Young arose and faced the image in the glass. At first he saw nothing unusual. It was the same face he had been seeing in mirrors for years. Not an extraordinary face-not one at which a man could point with pride and say: “Look. My face.” But, on the other hand, certainly not a countenance which would cause consternation. All in all, an ordinary, clean, well-shaved, and rosy face. Long association with it had given Mr. Young a feeling of tolerance, if not of actual admiration.
But topped by a halo it acquired a certain eerieness.
The halo hung unsuspended about five inches from the scalp. It measured perhaps seven inches in diameter, and seemed like a glowing, luminous ring of white light. It was impalpable, and Young passed his hand through it several times in a dazed manner.
“It’s a… halo,” he said at last, and turned to stare at Jill.
The Scotty, Filthy McNasty, noticed the luminous adornment for the first time. He was greatly interested. He did not, of course, know what it was, but there was always a chance that it might be edible. He was not a very bright dog.
Filthy sat up and whined. He was ignored. Barking loudly, he sprang forward and attempted to climb up his master’s body in a mad attempt to reach and rend the halo. Since it had made no hostile move, it was evidently fair prey.
Young defended himself, clutched the Scotty by the nape of its neck, and carried the yelping dog into another room, where he left it. Then he returned and once more looked at Jill.
At length she observed, “Angels wear halos.”
“Do I look like an angel?” Young asked. “It’s a… a scientific manifestation. Like… like that girl whose bed kept bouncing around. You read about that.”
Jill had. “She did it with her muscles.”
“Well, I’m not,” Young said definitely. “How could I? It’s scientific. Lots of things shine by themselves.”
“Oh, yes. Toadstools.”
The man winced and rubbed his head. “Thank you, my dear. I suppose you know you’re being no help at all.”
“Angels have halos,” Jill said with a sort of dreadful insistence.
Young was at the mirror again. “Darling, would you mind keeping your trap shut for a while? I’m scared as hell, and you’re far from encouraging.”
Jill burst into tears, left the room, and was presently heard talking in a low voice to Filthy.
Young finished his coffee, but it was tasteless. He was not as frightened as he had indicated. The manifestation was strange, weird, but in no way terrible. Horns, perhaps, would have caused horror and consternation. But a halo-Mr. Young read the Sunday newspaper supplements, and had learned that everything odd could be attributed to the bizarre workings of science. Somewhere he had heard that all mythology had a basis in scientific fact. This comforted him, until he was ready to leave for the office.
He donned a derby. Unfortunately the halo was too large. The hat seemed to have two brims, the upper one whitely luminous.
“Damn!” said Young in a heartfelt manner. He searched the closet and tried on one hat after another.
None would hide the halo. Certainly he could not enter a crowded bus in such a state.
A large furry object in a corner caught his gaze. He dragged it out and eyed the thing with loathing.
It was a deformed, gigantic woolly headpiece, resembling a shako, which had once formed a part of a masquerade costume. The suit itself had long since vanished, but the hat remained to the comfort of Filthy, who sometimes slept on it.
Yet it would hide the halo. Gingerly Young drew the monstrosity on his head and crept toward the mirror. One glance was enough. Mouthing a brief prayer, he opened the door and fled.
Choosing between two evils is often difficult. More than once during that nightmare ride downtown Young decided he had made the wrong choice. Yet, somehow, he could not bring himself to tear off the hat and stamp it underfoot, though he was longing to do so. Huddled in a corner of the bus, he steadily contemplated his fingernails and wished he was dead. He heard titters and muffled laughter, and was conscious of probing glances riveted on his shrinking head.
A small child tore open the scar tissue on Young’s heart and scrabbled about in the open wound with rosy, ruthless fingers.
“Mamma,” said the small child piercingly, “look at the funny man.”
“Yes, honey,” came a woman’s voice. “Be quiet.”
“What’s that on his head?” the brat demanded.