Angel Eyes (15 page)
It’s the truth. After an afternoon with Kaylee, some time alone would do me good.
“Are you sure? I can be real quiet when I try,” he says, pretending to lock his lips and throw away the key. I walk over and wrap my arms around him.
“It’s not you, Dad. Really. I’d just like some time alone, and I’ll come back with a movie we can both live with. I promise.”
He squeezes his assent—begrudgingly, I can tell—and I wait until he’s safely in the shower before I take off.
I drive the hundred yards to Jake’s, parking on the far side of the farmhouse so Dad won’t notice Slugger if he steps outside for any reason. Jamming the keys into my pocket, I jump out of the car and make my way up the three steps onto the wrap-around porch.
The Miller place has been here for ages. It has that old, sturdy feel about it—I imagine it was built by contractors who felt the best way to ensure stability was to use as much wood and as many nails as possible. I lean against one of the wooden posts on the porch, a square column that’s easily bigger around than two of me. It’s cool to the touch, and a shiver runs down my back.
I’m . . . excited.
I need to be quick. Dad will be waiting for a gender-neutral movie, and it would be unfair to make him worry two nights running. Still, as I open the screen door, my calves tighten.
Out of habit I knock on the door twice before placing my hand on the knob and turning. I stick my head and shoulders inside as the door squeaks open.
“Hello?”
No one answers. I flex my hands to stop the shaking and step inside.
Not only has Jake left the door unlocked, but the living room light is on. Like Jake, the room is warm and bright. Boxes are stacked thigh-high throughout the room. The only thing that looks unpacked is a gigantic entertainment system. Flush with all the trimmings, it covers an entire wall. The ridiculously oversized speakers are impressive. Dad would go into cardiac arrest if he knew the potential volume of noise this house could generate.
Like Jake, the entertainment system looks out of place in Stratus, but the rest of the house is remarkably conservative. Beneath the boxes is a sparse collection of older furniture. Nothing presumptuous. Nothing expensive. And there, in the center of the room, is a shabby cherry-wood coffee table with a dictionary-sized cigar box as its only ornament.
It couldn’t be more obvious: this is what Jake left me. The table sits wrapped in a swell of heat, the cigar box rippling like a desert mirage. I walk down a wide aisle made by the unpacked boxes. The uneven patter of my footsteps against the hardwood floor and the blood pounding in my head make the silent room seem noisy.
Now I’m standing directly in front of it. Waves of heat emanate from the box, warming my legs. I sink to the floor and reach out hungrily, pulling the box onto my lap. Feeling all the drama of a good mystery, I flip open the lid.
And scratch my head.
I have no idea what I’m looking at.
If forced to call it something, I’d say it was a gold ring, but that doesn’t even begin to explain it. Though it resembles Dad’s wedding band, it’s far too large to be worn on a finger. It’s the width of my thumb, all the way around its twenty-inch circumference, give or take. If it
is
to be worn, it would fit more appropriately on the head, like a metallic headband or a crown.
My face feels flushed with the heat radiating off the thing, and it looks so much like liquid gold that when I reach out to touch it, I half expect the creature Gollum to tackle me. I run my index finger along the top, in a circular fashion, and though fairy tale creatures remain safely in their books, the ring continues to impress.
I’m a bit more courageous now, and knowing it won’t burn me, I lift it gently with two hands. The ring is hard and smooth to the touch. I spin it slowly, feeling the burnished surface. Every bit of light in the room seems both absorbed by it and reflected in it. I suppress an urge to place it on my head, and as quickly as the thought surfaces, the ring acts of its own accord. It contracts upon itself, twisting and flowing like molten lava.
I gasp and release it. It falls into the box, where it lands ever so lightly, having taken the shape of a two-inch-wide arm cuff— the liquid gold surging and flowing, finally solidifying.
As the heat washes over my face and neck, I gaze into the box, my distorted reflection staring back at me from the rounded cuff. It’s a moment or two before I realize the cuff is reflecting something in the lid of the box: another note. I grab and open it in one motion.
This will help.
Jake hasn’t addressed it or signed it, but both are unnecessary. His heat signature is all over the little piece of paper. I have no idea what this magnificent trinket is, but that it’s something beyond technology, beyond human understanding, is entirely plain.
How did Jake come across it? Is this the source of the mystery surrounding him, or just another piece of the puzzle?
He intends me to wear it—that much is obvious—and I want more than anything to make him happy, to honor this borrowed gift by putting it on immediately.
Still, I hesitate.
Never put it on
. Isn’t that what Gandalf told Frodo?
Feeling reckless, and maybe a little brave, I pick up the cuff, fantastically surreal, and slide it onto my left wrist.
Amazing.
It’s like Jake is holding my sleeve again. That same blaze of fire, calm and reassuring, travels up my arm and spreads to the rest of my being. The stress of the day vanishes. The grief that shakes my hands darts away.
I am at peace.
I
need to make good on my commitment to Dad, so I don’t linger at Jake’s house. Tucking the cigar box under my arm and snapping off the lights, I step onto the porch and lock the door behind me. According to Jake’s note, he has no idea how long he’ll be gone, and I can’t imagine leaving the door unlocked one minute longer with that colossal entertainment system in there. Granted, someone would have to rent a moving van to get it all out, but I’ve lived in the city long enough to appreciate the passion of a thief.
The cuff is hidden under the sleeve of my hoodie, but as I go through the motions of driving to and from the video store, I wonder vaguely what I’ll tell Dad if he sees it. I can’t imagine. I’m suddenly grateful for the coming winter and the opportunity to wear long sleeves.
Without much thought I decide on a Steve Carell movie. It’s fairly middle-of-the-road. Not at all bloody, in case I happen to actually catch some of it, and certainly not too girly. I grab some popcorn and am back home in a flash, having taken marginally more time than normal.
Still, Dad notices. He snaps my thigh with the towel he’s using to dry his hair. “I was about to call the sheriff again, kid. What took so long?”
“You just got out of the shower. I could ask you the same thing.” I do my best to sound exasperated, and he lets it go.
We sit side by side on the couch, munching on popcorn, our minds in two different places: his on the raunchy humor and mine on the fascinating turn my life has taken in the past three days. My body’s reaction to the cuff has not subsided. On the contrary, not only is my body entirely heated and at ease, but I can literally feel my muscles relaxing. My shoulders and back unknot. My head bobs forward on excessively relaxed neck muscles, and I have trouble keeping my eyes open.
“Brielle, baby,” I hear Dad say, “you don’t have to stay up with me. Go to bed, little girl.”
I mumble something and wander to my room, leaving him to turn off the lights. I climb under the covers, fully dressed. But somewhere between awake and asleep, I realize that the cuff is getting heavier and heavier on my wrist. Where before it felt light as air, it now feels like it weighs ten pounds and is gaining weight with each passing moment.
Irritated, I tug it off and set it on my lap, where again it feels more like steam, weightless and warm, than a piece of clunky jewelry. I’m not entirely awake, and the idea of parting with it and sinking into a freezing cold, numbing state of unrest does not appeal to me. I nearly break into tears at the thought of it.
Before I consider the predicament any further, the cuff begins to twist and coil and unravel. It’s breathtaking, really—the liquid-gold shine and the precision with which it moves. I watch through sleepy eyes as it reforms into the crown-sized ring.
Should I wear it on my head to sleep? But what if Dad sneaks in to check on me? That could be an awkward conversation. Instead, I decide to try something. I take the ring in both hands and slide it under my pillow. I force myself to stand and leave it, just long enough to change into a tank top and boxers. Then I crawl back under the covers, crossing my fingers that my experiment has worked.
Ever so slowly I lay my head down, and immediately breathe a sigh of relief. The ring has completely warmed my pillow. The reassuring heat moves down the mattress, down my back, my thighs, my calves, until even my toes are toasty warm. I succumb to the ridiculous serenity of it all and allow thoughts of Jake to pull me into unconsciousness.
My dreams are full of nothing but colors—like oil mixing with rain on the blacktop, they swirl in and out of each other, taking no specific shape and never ceasing in their movement. First a palette of dark blue and purple dances before me, and then a passionate wave of orange and red, followed by shocks of gray and black before a bright green and white wash my mind clear.
Over and over again, the colors bow and curve. The heartbreak turning to passion, passion interrupted by mourning, mourning giving birth to new life. It is peace. It is joy. And when I wake ten hours later, I haven’t moved an inch.
Lying in bed, I listen to the sounds of a fast-approaching winter. The wind rattles the trash cans outside, and leaden raindrops tap like Fred Astaire against the roof. What will it be like when I have to give this trinket back to Jake? Will I be able to sleep as naturally without it? Probably not, though I’d gladly trade the undisturbed sleep of this night for a day spent in his company.
I wonder if he’ll be at school today.
I leave the ring under my pillow and shower quickly. Pulling on a sweatshirt and fleece-lined cargo pants, I run to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Dad’s loading his lunch box when I walk through the doorway.
“Hey, baby.”
“Mornin,’ Dad.” I kiss him on the cheek.
He turns suspicious eyes on me again, but I ignore him while I wait for my Pop-Tart to toast.
“I’m outta here,” he says from the door.
“See ya, Dad. Be safe.”
“You seem . . . happy today.”
My Pop-Tart pops.
“Do I?”
“Uh-huh.”
I don’t really have an answer. I wrap my Pop-Tart in a paper towel, kiss him again, and dash back to my room. “Be safe,” I call over my shoulder.
“You said that already.”
A minute later I hear the door swing shut behind him.
I’m alone.
I reach under my pillow, feeling around for the ring. To my surprise I pull out the cuff. I have no idea how it knows what I need, but the prospect of seeing Jake hurries me, so I simply slide it on my wrist and run out the door. I chance a look at his house as I climb into Slugger, but there’s no way of knowing if he’s returned or not.
I’m the first to arrive in calculus, and I busy myself scribbling my name in the front of each of my books. The teacher looks half asleep still and ignores me. Each time the door opens my head snaps up, expecting. Finally the bell rings, and I’m forced to acknowledge that perhaps Jake hasn’t returned.
I stare at the blackboard, at the teacher whose name I cannot remember, and pray for steady hands. Lately all my emotions have been so extreme. After Ali, everything was so dark, so sad, and then with Jake and this strange gold ring came excitement and peace. I don’t trust my emotions to understand he’ll return.
Calculus plods on, though, and I learn something.
Not about mathematics. No, nothing that tedious.
I miss Jake.
Probably more than I should, really.
But without the numbness that had overtaken me before, I’m able to think more clearly. I’m not in pain. I’m just disappointed. I’m not abandoned. I’m just alone. This I can deal with. I slide my right hand inside my left sleeve and grip the cuff. The effect is instantaneous, and my body is aware again of the heat that has not left me.