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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!”
I’m confused. “Uh, what?” Then: Oh, this can’t possibly be good.
“Your gentleman!” she says, the curve of her smile turning a bit wicked. “He stopped me on my way to the salon and asked me where the pants store was.”
“Oh, crap,” I groan. “What else did he say?”
She laughs. “He said that he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but that he knew my name and when my birthday was. And that smile he gave me….” Her eyelids flutter as she stares dreamily at me. “I didn’t even know you knew when my birthday was. Or that you cared,” she purrs, reaching over to rub her hand over mine.
