Sentinel of Heaven (6 page)

Way to go,
Moira!  You ready to think about the misadventures of the previous evening? 
Well, too bad, because we're gonna scroll through them anyway!

Let's talk
about the very nice man who cooked your dinner, mm?  Remember him?  The one who
was the first person in a dog's age that you can recall ever sitting still for
the sob story that is your life – much less
requesting
to hear it in
the first place!

Then,
realizing that you'd swallowed down some serious PTSD from the car wreck and
generally attempted to repress your neglectful and traumatic childhood, he was
brave enough to try some crude field surgery on your psyche – to rip away your
defenses and bring you right to that terror and helplessness all over again in
a place of safety so you could get it all out
properly
this time...
and how'd you thank him for it?

You threw
yourself at him!

Of course he
turned you down, but as a thirty-something introverted cripple with severe emotional
damage, you've no idea
why
.  You're obviously such a catch!

And even
though he gave you the polite kiss-off with a record amount of gentility –
actually seemed sorry about it, surprisingly enough – you pitched a bitch fit
and stomped off to bed like a child.

Oh, God. 
When's the soonest meteor shower?  Maybe I can get out there and catch the next
rock with my head properly this time.

Yeah, you're a
wretch.  Rightfully so.  But that doesn't change the facts, which are as
follows:

1) You have to
shower, get dressed, go out there, and somehow apologize.

2) You have to
force some food into yourself so you can take some meds, and last but not least

3) You have to
go to Laundry Day because you have no decent towels left.  And you know it's
best that you do it early and you do it
quick
.

Hissing
curse-words under her breath she crawled to the edge of the bed and stood up. 
Her bedroom door was firmly closed and stayed that way, even though she waited
for a long moment and eyed it wistfully.

No, of course
not.  Maybe someday, when you've earned it again... if you can.

She shuffled
into the bathroom and showered as quick and chaste as a nun, then dried off
with the towels from yesterday.

No t-shirts
were ever worn on Laundry Day, not even under a jacket.  She got out the armor:
white cotton sports bra, built like a breastplate; long-sleeve sweater with a
high neckline; long jeans in good repair, fastened with a thick black leather
belt that couldn't be quickly opened.  She slipped her folding knife into her
pocket, clipped to the hem of the opening so it was easily accessible.

She laid out
her socks and heavy black boots but couldn't put them on yet – that much
bending would be forced to wait until after the first meds; her spine was
already twanging a warning.

Don't worry,
Moira – you can have them right after your big ol' breakfast of crow.

She clenched
her jaw and opened the door.  The kitchen was dark and vacant.

Moira turned
and limped down the hall.  Leo's red sweatpants were folded neatly on top of
the clothes pile.  He had changed into the black ones at some point, she saw
momentarily.

The angel sat
in the center of his nest, his broad back to her and his wings trailing out
behind him.  His head was bent over something in his hands.  He made no move to
turn and look at her, although she knew he sensed her presence.

“Don't you
sleep?” she blurted out, then wanted to slap herself.

He shrugged
slightly.  In the silence she could hear the turn of a page.

“Did you find
a good book?” Moira asked, trying to keep her tone soft and friendly.

A slow nod.

She stepped
closer, gradually gaining the courage to come up behind him as close as
possible without touching him.  Over his shoulder she could see he had her
leather-bound “Collected Works of Edgar Allan Poe”; a thrift-store find two
years before she’d left home and still one of her proudest purchases.

Leo had read
all the way through the short stories to the poetry section.  Right above his
left thumb she could see the words:

“I gazed
awhile

On her cold
smile;

Too cold – too
cold for me–”

“That's one of
my favorites,” she whispered.

He shut the
book with a snap and laid it to one side.  She backed away so he could stand
and face her.

He wasn't
particularly haggard.  He showed no evidence of the long white night through
which he'd obviously kept a vigil.  Still, his face was impassive and his deep
blue eyes were distressed.

He let the
silence stretch out, unmoving.

“Please
forgive me,” she said at last.

He tilted his
head.

“You were only
trying to help me... and I misread things.  I took it too far.  I'm sorry.  It
won't happen again.”

That quiet
troubled gaze remained, offering nothing.

“Please – you
don't have to talk.  I won't ask for that.  But please somehow let me know what
I should do to make this right.”

She
straightened her shoulders despite her growing physical pain, determined not to
break down again no matter his answer.

He stepped
forward to stand just within arm's reach, then went down on his knees again. 
She was struck by the fact that, with him kneeling and her standing, they were
almost exactly the same height.

Leo reached
out and took her right hand, extending her index finger  He stretched out his
own and wrapped them around each other until the two of them stood there
together, holding each other's hand by only the one finger.  He gazed at her
expectantly.

She wondered
what he meant.

He tapped the
back of his hand, then the center of her chest.  He tapped her knuckles, then
his own flesh.  He smiled faintly.

We are
together?  We are joined?  We are entwined?

“I'm sorry.  I
don't understand...”

He sliced his
free hand away, then tapped the side of her forehead.  Doesn't matter.  Just
remember.

“I will.  I
promise.”

Moira touched
his arm tentatively – with the dirt and blood cleared away she was now able to
see that his right hand and forearm were covered in a network of shining white
scars, bright against his darker skin. 

“Jesus, look
at these!”  It looked like he'd stuck his limb into a thresher up to the
elbow.  His left arm had some stripes as well but not to the same extent.  Up higher
on his right the gouges got larger and deeper, as wide as her finger in places.

“How did you
get all these?” she asked, her discomfort lost for a moment in her curiosity.

He took his
hands back, curled them lightly into fists and boxed the air for a second,
looking embarrassed.

“You fight,
huh?  With this many scars you must be a fierce warrior.”

He nodded, his
face serious.  He tapped her breastbone again.

Yes.  Just
like you.

Her lips
pressed tight; her smile was twisted.   She hung her head, turning to go to the
kitchen – but Leo captured her wrist and pulled her into a gentle hug instead,
his scarred arms careful around her waist and back.

After a moment
she returned it with her embrace around his shoulders, his neck.  His scent
rose again from his warm grey hair, spicy and sweet.  She swallowed hard
against a welter of conflicting emotions.

“Be my friend,
okay?” Moira managed at last.  “Just... be my friend.”

He nodded
enthusiastically, and when he pulled away to stand up and take her by the hand he
wore his meek little smile.  He squired her into the kitchen and shooed her
into her seat as he got down a clean glass and filled it with water, then
retrieved her medicine.

When he opened
the fridge she spoke up.  “I can't manage anything heavy right now... not
feeling hungry at all.  I think I still had some grapefruit.  Hopefully they've
not all gone bad yet.”

Leo retrieved
one from the crisper drawer, inspected it thoroughly, then rinsed it and sliced
it in half on a plate.  He handed half to her along with the serrated spoon
from the drawer, his expression wry.

“You don't
like grapefruit?  These are the good ones; not too sour.”  He shook his head
and made a face.

“Good, more
for me – assuming I can eat them before they grow legs and walk out of the
kitchen on their own.”

More familiar
now with the dimensions of her house, he was able to flip his wings a bit out
of the way and lean back against the counter, his arms folded across his broad
chest and his ankles crossed.  She speared out a wedge of the juicy flesh and
let it dissolve in her mouth, amused at his scrutiny.

“Is this a
thing for you, to watch humans eat?”

He smiled and
shook his head, dropping his eyes only an instant before focusing on her again.

“Well, I'm
going to take my time on this one and I've got to make myself eat the whole
thing, both halves.  I'm going to need my strength.  It's Laundry Day.”

He cocked his
head, his eyebrows arching.   She sighed and played with the spoon.

“We're way way
out in the boonies here, if you haven't noticed.  I drive a two hour round-trip
every day to get to work and back.  The closest real town is still about thirty
miles away.  It only has one laundromat.

“I go early;
if at all possible, I go during the week.  Jeanine likes to work early, before
her 'stories' come on the TV.”  She ate another bite.  “Jeanine's decent.”

Jeanine looked
to be about mid-sixties, Moira went on to explain.  She cut her hair in a
chin-length bob, and it was a shade of blue-black that Moira was personally
certain came out of a bottle.  She liked to wear white t-shirts; Moira had seen
a tattoo through the fabric of one sleeve but had never quite dared to ask her
what it was.  Jeanine was as tough as a strip of old jerky and meaner than a
rattlesnake but she was polite in her own rough style if you stayed respectful.

The problem
was Chester.

Leo's face
looked like a gathering storm.  He motioned for her to continue.

“I swear to
God, that's actually his name.  Chester, the molester.”

Most people
didn't recognize Moira as the girl that had attended their public school with
them, who had fled at sixteen for parts unknown.  She'd changed a lot in the
intervening years, she told Leo.

But Chester
recognized, and Chester remembered.  He had a shock of short brown hair and
thought wife-beaters and torn khakis were the height of haute couture.  He
couldn't keep other jobs beyond a week or two.  More often than not he smelled
of two-buck-chuck and the blunts he bummed off his friends.

And he didn't
mind that Moira's back and leg were all fucked up.  He'd told her that in so
many words, more than once – in a way that suggested the less running a woman
could do, the better.

Chester was a
man that would gladly torment and misuse anyone he considered weaker than
himself.  On the town totem pole there was probably only one adult woman that
fit that description.

She'd
tolerated the filthy talk, for the most part acting like she didn't even hear
it.  It prompted him to try random gestures in front of her face as if he were
speaking in sign language.

Then he
started getting handsy.

Leo's expression
at this point was certainly a picture; possibly painted by Francisco Goya, late
in life.

She had dodged
him as best she could.  She changed her habits and her timing, always trying to
wind up with Jeanine there instead, who for the most part ignored her and
chewed bubble gum while flipping through the tabloids.

One time and
one time only, she tried to complain to Jeanine.

“I know, doll –
and I
am
sorry,” the older woman had responded dryly.  “I've had
problems with him harassin' the girls before; the younger ones, and the little Mexicans
we get come through sometimes.  I've told him that shit could get him put in
the state penn and then he'd get to see how it felt for someone to go pawin' at
him
.

“And generally
he's about as useless a short streak of diarrhea as I've ever seen.  I know it
and I won't argue that a lick.  But, doll... he's my sister's boy, her only. 
She's spoilt him for anything but someone has to keep his sorry ass off the
streets and I'm the only one that can manage it.  You gotta understand that,
right?”

Sure Moira
did.  Some families actually took care of each other, whether or not the
parties involved deserved it.  So she continued to dodge him, to block him with
her laundry bags, to hustle and shuffle and stay out of his reach.

About six
months ago Chester worked up the resolve to get that pinch he'd never been
brave enough to go for in the high school hallway.  To his great misfortune he
caught her in a rare moment of distraction, measuring out fabric softener for
her load of nicer work blouses.  For the first second or so that she felt his
creeping fingers in the cleft of her ass, his rank breath on the back of her
head, she’d actually frozen in shock.

Then she spun
away on her good leg and lashed out reflexively with her cane, her good sturdy
white ash; baseball bats are often made of the same wood.  It had taken him
across the cheek and nose, brushing him off her like a fly.

He crashed to
the floor onto the seat of his stained old khaki's, completely disoriented. 
She had stood over him then, still brandishing her stick and quivering in
suppressed rage.

“I've got to
tolerate your filthy mouth because I've no other choice,” she ground out, “but
so help me God if you
ever
lay a hand on me again I will beat you
senseless with this cane and I won't stop until your head is pink mush, you
hear me, you low-life disgusting bastard?!”