On Unfaithful Wings Read online

  “If you’re an angel, where are your wings?”

  “Angels don’t have wings. Or halos.”

  “Every statue and painting, every depiction of angels show wings. The ornaments on my Christmas tree have wings.” I hadn’t put up a Christmas tree since Rae kicked me out. I missed Christmas--the commercial version, not the religious one. I missed having a family at Christmas.

  “They’re wrong.”

  “All of them?”

  “Every last one.”

  “Well, that’s a pretty big muck up, isn’t it?”

  Thanks to Father Dominic, I didn’t believe anything they taught in Sunday school, but you still get pictures in your head, like Santa dressed in red fur. If someone proved to you he was not only real, but wore black, it’d shake you. Like every kid, I’d believed in Santa, and I guess part of me wanted to believe in angels, maybe in God, too, but not believing was my way of punishing the priest for the treatment I received at his hand. The same part of me wanted to believe this man’s words held a shred of truth, but I couldn’t. Far more likely one or the other of us had lost the ability to connect the dots and form a recognizable picture.

  Mikey’s face turned serious. “We need you, Icarus.”

  “Ric.”

  “We have a position open for which you are the ideal candidate.”

  The puzzled look again. “You’re offering me a job?”

  “You might call it that.”

  “Doing what?”

  A brief pause as he chose his words.

  “Shepherding souls of the dead to Heaven.”

  I laughed. It was apparent whose picnic basket was light a few snacks.

  “Enough. Joke’s over. Where’s the camera?” I scanned the room again looking for wires or the telltale glint of a lens. “Who are you really? Is this some kind of drug thing? A hallucination?”

  He looked at me without speaking.

  “I’m outta here,” I said.

  I threw the blankets aside and climbed out of bed, heading for the door in spite of my nakedness. It’d be difficult to explain wandering the streets in my birthday suit, but stopping to look for my clothes would drain the moment of its drama.

  I didn’t see him move; he just appeared in the short hallway in front of me.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I sneered. “Try and stop me.”

  Normally, a six-foot-six guy bulging with muscles would scare the crap out of me, but this was either a dream or an hallucination and, to the best of my knowledge, neither of those could hurt a man. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but mirages never hurt me.

  Wrong.

  The palm of his hand brushed my breast bone; the contact threw me back against the bed’s wobbly headboard. I gasped, convinced my ribs were shattered and collected in a neat pile at the bottom of my lungs. A few exaggerated blinks dispersed the little birdies twittering around my head, but the hurt in my chest wasn’t so easily convinced to take its leave.

  When my vision cleared, he was back in the chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, watching me like nothing happened. My options seemed limited: he was strong, convinced of the truth of what he said, and it didn’t look like he intended to let me leave. And there was the fact I’d been murdered and yet felt strangely well. Or that a dream just came close to breaking my ribs. The pain in my chest was real, no doubt about it, but nothing else made sense. My head spun the way it did every time I looked at a sudoku puzzle. The urge to cry forced itself into my throat; luckily, I couldn’t breathe, so it had nowhere to go except back to where it came from.

  “Didn’t have to be so rough,” I gasped, breath clawing its way back to my lungs.

  He watched me, no malice in his expression. I shifted to relieve my discomfort and pulled the covers over me in surrender.

  “So, what are you telling me? You want me to be the Angel of Death?”

  A distasteful look tugged the corners of his mouth down, like I’d mentioned the plausibility of evolution over creation. “No, not him, though he likely has something to do with you being here.”

  “So...the Grim Reaper?”

  “Not that, either. Somewhere in between.”

  I stared at him. What the hell did he mean?

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “You’d be more like a chaperone. A bodyguard.”

  “A bodyguard?”

  “Yes.” His expression brightened. “A supernal bodyguard.”

  I didn’t know what supernal meant. “What if I don’t want to?”

  “Then you can go back to being dead and take your chances.”

  “Take my chances?”

  “Not a good bet you’ll be nominated for sainthood, is it, Icarus?”

  No witty comeback jumped to my lips because I couldn’t argue with his assessment. My hands fidgeted in my lap, plucking at a tear in the off-white bedspread. This man couldn’t possibly be who he claimed. No way he spoke the truth, but the rough cloth felt real between my fingers, the smell of mold and cologne captured in its fibers undeniable. I certainly felt alive--a feat not easily accomplished for the sake of a prank. The more I spoke with him, the more likely the most unlikely choice became: the Archangel Michael sat before me in a sleazy hotel room offering me a job.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Mike nodded with satisfaction. “Nothing right now. Someone will contact you.”

  “Okay.” Every time he spoke, a sound like a cuckoo clock echoed in my head, but I nodded along with him so he wouldn’t be offended. A crushed sternum didn’t rank high on my wish list of life experiences. “I guess I can find things to do in the meantime. People to see, that sort of thing.” One guy in particular I wanted to reacquaint myself with: Daniels, Jack Daniels.

  The so-called Archangel shook his head. “No one will know you. Icarus Fell died six months ago.”

  Anger bubbled past the pain in my chest and washed away what little common sense might have remained. “Look, you crazy bastard, I don’t know what’s going on, but you better stop screwing with me.”

  “I know this is difficult, but you were not chosen at random. You were born to this.”

  His words stopped me, drained the anger away as quickly as it had come.

  “Is this...Does this have something to do with my mother?”

  He shook his head slowly and his grin drooped for a moment, something different flashed across his eyes.

  “No. Sister Agnes was a remarkable human, but this has nothing to do with her. It is because of your father.”

  “My father? I don’t even know who my father is.”

  His gaze stayed steady on mine but he didn’t respond to my words. It told me what I needed to know.

  “You know. Who--?”

  He lifted a hand, halting my words and dispensing the thought from my mind.

  “You will be contacted with instructions.”

  My back teeth ground together, bunching the muscles in my jaw. “But I have a son and a wife who need me. You’re telling me I can’t see them?”

  “Ex-wife,” he corrected. “They will be taken care of.”

  “Let me see my son, you bastard.”

  He leaned forward, reached for my hand, presumably to calm me. My right fist lashed out, caught him on the chin. Might as well have punched a wall. I cringed and grabbed my throbbing hand. Before I knew what happened, Mike caught both my wrists and pinned me to the bed, making me suddenly aware of my nakedness under the covers, like I’d taken a bite of Eve’s apple.

  The man radiated heat, though the flesh of his hands against my wrists felt cool. Peacefulness flooded from them, up my arms, forcing anger back into the dark corners where it normally lurked awaiting opportunity for free rein. Doubt followed close behind, tail between its legs.

  “You possess abilities few others do,” he said, his voice a low, insistent rumble. “Since birth, you have been destined to be a harvester of souls.”

  For years, I thought tying a cherr
y stem in a knot with my tongue the lone special ability I possessed. A great party trick, really impressed the ladies, but not worth much in the real world.

  “This is real, isn’t it? You really are who you say you are.”

  He nodded, eyes flickering golden flame, lips twitching into a smile.

  “And I don’t have any choice.”

  His hair brushed the tops of his shoulders as he shook his head. “If you shepherd enough souls, I will return you to life. You will be allowed to start over with a clean slate.”

  My eyes widened.

  A fresh start.

  I imagined accompanying Trevor on school field trips, spending nights cuddled with Rae in front of a fire; camping; sports; loving and caring. All the things I’d let booze and drugs leech from my life.

  I looked at Mikey’s fingers wrapped around my wrists, his grip strong without being hurtful, his skin paler than mine but not sickly. His flesh looked like ivory or alabaster, like he’d been carved rather than born. But if he was to be believed, then he wasn’t a man, was he?

  “What do I do?”

  “Take some time. Reacclimate yourself. A messenger will find you when the time comes.”

  “How will I know this messenger?”

  “You’ll know.” He stood, releasing his grip on my wrists.

  The tranquillity I’d felt went with his touch. A sliver of doubt insinuated itself, bringing along a feeling like I’d been bullied into something. Mikey strode toward the door. Instead of opening it and walking through, he faded away to nothing before reaching it, leaving me looking at a threadbare carpet and a door in need of a paint job.

  I jumped out of bed and wandered the small room, not exactly looking to see where he’d gone but kind of doing exactly that. Not in the bathroom or under the bed, nor was he behind the chair or curled up in a dresser drawer like one of those Japanese hotels. NO camera, no electrical cables, no microphones. I picked up the book he’d been reading and glanced at the cover: the bible, Gideon’s version.

  With Mike gone, the air grew chilly. Minutes passed and, with each that ticked by, I doubted more and more what seemed to have happened. Every splinter of misgiving pushed aside an equal measure of hope. Finally, my shivers ceased and reason returned. If I wanted to find out what was really going on, standing around a cheesy hotel room wouldn’t do it.

  I retrieved my clothes from where I’d found them in a dresser drawer. The shirt was stained pink, the pants stiff with dried mud. I shuddered at the condition of them and pulled my undershirt over my head while wondering if I should be more worried about my sanity or Mikey’s.

  Chapter Three

  When I left the room, I stopped at the hotel’s front counter thinking Michael may have paid for a few nights in advance to give me time to get back on my feet. A balding man in his fifties with stains on the front of his shirt stopped watching a rerun of a Law & Order spinoff long enough to give me a dirty look and tell me no one had rented that room in days.

  I skulked away before he started asking questions.

  What now?

  Every passing moment without the heat of the vanilla gorilla’s presence bearing down on me brought more and more doubt about what had just happened. Dead and brought back to life? By an archangel?

  Hmmm.

  The thoughts made my head ache, so I put them aside in favor of a more pressing concern: somewhere to sleep.

  As I walked, I patted the pockets of my suit which coincidentally looked like it had been lying on the ground during a rain storm. The search revealed my wallet was indeed gone--no cash, no ID, no bank or credit card--but I found keys in the front pocket of my pants. I held them up in front of my face and jingled them together, the sound bringing a smile. I could get into my apartment and, if the place hadn’t been ransacked in my absence--however long that might actually be--I kept a small stash of money hidden in the refrigerator for emergency purposes. I think this qualified.

  On the way to my apartment, I took what would normally have been a shortcut through the park, this time slowed by stopping and gaping. I stood amongst trees bearing red and yellow leaves, staring at bare spots on their limbs as my feet scuffed against brown leaves scattered across the ground. I remembered spring rain plunking in my ear, pattering on the grass as I lay on the ground bleeding.

  Months had passed. At least.

  It felt like my gut slipped down into my groin. Had I become a modern-day Rip Van Winkle? My head spun bringing with it a wave of nausea. The passage of time explained my lack of injury and pain, but how much time had passed? I forced myself on--maybe I could track down answers once I got home.

  At a few minutes before midnight, I stood across the street from the four-story walk-up where I’d managed to keep an apartment. Top floor, right corner. I called it ‘the penthouse’ in a vain attempt to add glamour to my life while living in a place which hadn’t been painted since sometime between the Last Supper and the first Super Bowl. Everything looked the same as I’d left it: the mismatched brick on the front wall where a car drove into the building some years before, the burnt out street light outside the door. Seeing the still-burnt-out bulb allowed me to breathe easier--not enough time had passed for it to get fixed. Of course, it had been burnt out the entire eight months I’d lived there.

  I shivered a little and breathed deep through my nose, getting a whiff of the dumpster behind the restaurant on the corner, same as always. I gritted my teeth, stepped off the curb, and nearly got clipped by a truck. The driver blared his horn and I jumped back, heart hammering against my ribs. After pausing to regain a little composure, I first looked both ways before scurrying across the street.

  My hand shook a little with nervous anticipation as I fumbled my key into the front door lock and was equal parts delighted and shocked to find it still worked. The door swung open onto the musty-smelling area jokingly referred to as the foyer, and I stepped across the threshold. As with the exterior, everything looked the same here, from flaking paint to outdated notices on the corkboard and the mess of flyers strewn across the old-but-not-antique coffee table. By the time the metal safety door clicked shut behind me, I’d already raced past the bank of mail boxes and mounted the steps, taking them two at a time.

  The other key still fit the lock in my apartment door. I shook my head and laughed at myself; surely I couldn’t be gone for six months or more and still expect to have an apartment waiting for me. The trauma of the attack must have short-circuited my memory.

  I unlocked the door and paused, hand on doorknob, breath held. It occurred to me that, though some answers may lie behind this door, other questions remained: What really happened to me? Was Michael telling the truth? I almost let go of the knob, almost backed away down the hall, retracing my steps like walking them again would remove any trace of my having been there. What if I found answers I didn’t like?

  You’ve come this far. Don’t flake out now.

  I pushed the door open, the barest amount of light from the low wattage bulb in the hall illuminating a few feet of familiar-colored carpet and off-white walls. Never before did I feel so relieved to see my ratty apartment. The door clicked shut behind me, cutting off the light. I leaned against the door wondering what might be growing wild in the refrigerator while I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark and noticed a smell, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. It wasn’t the odor of rotting food or a neglected apartment but the smell of soap and clean. My brow wrinkled: soapy and clean were adjectives with only a nodding acquaintance to my lifestyle. Stale and musty, however, were on a first name basis.

  Taking two steps forward, I extended my hand to turn on the hall lamp, but my fingers groped empty air. I chewed my bottom lip: odd smell, no lamp. Nerves danced beneath my skin. Three more paces down the hall, my hand found the ill-placed wall switch and flicked it, spilling light down the hall and into the living room.

  Everything had changed.

  Everything.

  The floral print couch sitting where my worn le
ather sofa should have been looked like it was stolen from a an old folks’ home. An unfamiliar, oriental-looking rug covered the floor, the paintings on the wall sported neither dogs playing poker nor partially undressed women. The television was nicer than mine, though.

  My stomach reacquainted itself with my groin.

  The floor creaked in all the usual places as I crept down the hall and across the living room into the galley kitchen with its ancient, olive-green appliances. In one last corner of my mind, I hoped to throw open the refrigerator door and find the usual pizza box, empty mayonnaise jar and something no longer recognizable in Tupper-Ware. And behind them, way at the back, an empty Arm and Hammer baking soda box hiding a skimpy roll of twenties. A small hope in a small corner completely surrounded by doubt.

  I opened the door and the interior light came on, which hadn’t happened in the time I’d lived In the apartment, though I always intended to replace the bulb. Inside, no shaggy carpets of mould grew anywhere; it held no cans of beer, no half-eaten Chinese take-out in little white boxes. Instead, seemingly color-coded containers organized left-overs on the spotless glass shelves while bottled water with an Italian name--an item which never found its way into my life--crammed one door shelf full. If it didn’t come out of a tap, it wasn’t real water in my book.

  “Damn it.” I slammed the refrigerator door, setting the green water bottles clinking, and stalked back to the living room where I sank down on the floral-print sofa.

  Nothing here belonged to me: not the blue glass vase holding fresh flowers, not the shelf of books I’d never read by authors I’d never heard of, not the framed print that looked like someone threw paint against a canvas instead of taking the time to create a work of art. My things were gone, my emergency fund was gone. The walls in the living room were a different color than they should have been, painted a yellowish-tan to go with the sofa that wasn’t mine. I sniffed deeply but didn’t detect the odor of fresh paint. It hadn’t been done recently.

  What do I do now?

  I leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes darting from big screen TV to patterned rug to the Us and People magazines arrayed across the coffee table. I reached for one, looking for a clue to make sense of this. In my confusion and despair over my situation, I never considered there might be someone in the apartment.