On Unfaithful Wings (6 page)

“You okay? Look like you saw a ghost.”

“Fine.”

He wiped his hands on his apron and eyed me a moment longer, probably wondering if I’d turn out to be trouble, then wandered to the far end of the bar to serve a balding guy in a Packers jersey with Favre’s number on the sleeve. I stared past the glass of vodka with its lime wedge clinging to the edge, past the pail of peanuts, looking at the back bar and its array of liquors, at the mirror behind them. I shifted, trying to see what Sully saw, but there were too many bottles for me to see myself clearly until the barkeep came and plucked a bottle of Cinzano red off the shelf to make a drink for the balding guy. I shuffled to the left to get a look at myself.

I looked like me.

My hair was longer, scruffier, and my shirt and jacket were in dire need of dry cleaning and pressing, but the face looking back was undeniably mine. Hope glimmered in my chest; surely the guys would recognize me. They’d be elated to find me still alive, happy to offer me a place to stay while I figured out what was going on.

But what if they don’t?

I gathered my refreshment and my nerves--the former in better supply than the latter--slid off the stool and headed for their table.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s the Vikes’ year. They look good.” Marty had gained weight. Sitting in the same chair day after day quaffing beer could have that effect.

“You don’t know nothing,” Todd said slamming his half-empty mug of beer down on the table, the impact shuddering the football-shaped salt and pepper shakers against one another. He wore the same Yankees cap he always wore, like it had been grafted to his head. “The Giants all the way.”

Marty gagged on a mouthful of dark ale. I grinned as familiarity and comfort crept back in, hiding anxiety under a healthy-looking top coat. How many times had I heard this argument? For years, I sat in the fourth chair, arguing in favor of the Patriots; they hated me for it because my team won too much.

“Tell him, Phil.” Marty wiped foam off his upper lip with the sleeve of his shirt. “Tell him the Giants suck.”

Every extra pound on Marty’s body seemed to have been carved from Phil’s frame. Dark circles under his eyes spilled down sunken cheeks, giving his face the look of a pathetic-not-scary Halloween mask. Hardly enough hair remained on his head to qualify as a comb-over. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped his beer, preparing to answer Marty’s challenge. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what was going on; cancer killed Rae’s father, so I knew how it looked.

“I don’t know, Marty. They don’t look bad.”

I took a swig of vodka to reinforce my courage and stepped up to the table. Their conversation stopped and they looked at me, their expressions blank.

“The Pats. No one can beat the Pats.”

“Can we help you?” Marty’s tone lacked both friendliness and recognition. My vodka-backed nerves faltered. I considered walking away without another word but gritted my teeth, determined to push on.

“It’s me. Ric.” I spread my arms in a gesture like a man expecting a welcome-home hug. No one stirred.

“I think you’ve confused us with someone else.”

“Come on guys, I know it’s been a while, but you know me.”

“Maybe you need to slow down on the drinks a little, friend,” Todd said.

“Icarus. Icarus Fell. Don’t you recognize me?”

Marty slammed his fist on the table, the impact slopping beer over the edge of Phil’s mug.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but you ain’t funny.” He pushed his chair away from the table, bumping the edge with his belly as he wobbled to his feet, spilling more of Phil’s drink. “Ric Fell’s dead. He may have been a bastard, but I still won’t let you steal his name.”

My already-sagging smile melted away.

Bastard?

How many times did I cover for him when he went to the massage parlor instead of going home? My hand curled into a fist but I resisted the urge to pop him in the mouth.

“Phil, you know me. Tell him you know me.”

“I don’t,” he said. The bulge in his throat rose and fell as he swallowed hard. “How do you know my name?”

“He was listening in, that’s all, “ Marty said, stern look on his face. “What are you playing at, mister?”

“Nothing. I just...” My head spun. I didn’t know what to say. “You know me, Marty. I’m Icarus.”

“That’s enough. It’s time to pack up your sideshow and get the hell out of here.” As he stepped toward me, his heel caught the chair leg, sending it clattering to the floor.

“Is everything all right, boys?” Sully called, hands hidden below the bar where he kept a baseball bat for such occasions.

“Everything’s fine, Sully,” Marty replied without glancing away, his tone implying things weren’t actually fine. “This fella was just leaving.”

“Marty, we’ve known each other for years.” I held my hands out toward him, desperate, searching my mind for a way to prove myself. “Remember Super Bowl a few years ago? You won that set of inflatable goal posts and gave them to me for Trevor.”

They’d never made it to Trevor--I’d passed out on my way home and woken in the drunk tank with no inflatable goal posts.

The muscles behind Marty’s sagging jowls clenched and released, his face turned a light shade of red.

“I don’t know how you know that,” he said, voice raised a couple decibels in volume, “but you better get the fuck out of here. Now.”

I opened my mouth but closed it without speaking, choosing to back away instead. Marty didn’t follow, but he didn’t right his chair and sit down, either.

I glanced at the others: Todd’s face twisted into an angry look, backing up his friend without getting up from his beer; Phil looked sad. For a moment, I thought a glimmer of recognition showed in his eyes, but, if it did, he didn’t say anything or act on it. Before turning away, I noticed what looked like a dim halo around his head, like in an out-of-focus photograph. I stopped, intrigued, but a hand gripping my bicep spun me away.

“Time to go,” Sully said half-dragging me across the room. I stumbled after him, looking over my shoulder at Phil as we went.

“But I--”

“But nothing. No one upsets my regulars.” We arrived at the door and he pulled it open for me, not out of politeness. “Go quietly and your drinks are on me.”

I looked into the big Irishman’s eyes, wanting to try once more to convince him he knew me, should recognize me, but the cant of his shaggy eyebrows suggested it an unwise strategy. He ushered me across the threshold into the chilly night and, before I strode away in search of a place to sleep, I caught one more glimpse of my old drinking buddies before the door closed. Marty had righted his chair and sat, arms crossed, staring daggers at me; Todd held beer mug to lips, but Phil’s eyes remained on me. My stomach twisted into a knot, but only partially because they didn’t know me. It was the way Phil looked: his leathery cheeks and rheumy eyes, the wan glow.

Phil would be dead in less than a month, I was certain of it.

Chapter Four

I spent that night and the next day wandering the streets visiting places I knew, searching for someone to recognize me: the barber I’d gone to for years, the girl at the coffee shop where I nursed daily hangovers in preparation for creating another. None of them knew me. With each person who didn’t, my spirits dipped closer to the soles of my shoes. I wanted to go to Rae’s and find her and Trevor, show them I was alive, but didn’t think I could bear it if they didn’t recognize me, either. Each place I visited, each person who didn’t know me, stripped away another bit of hope I could recreate any semblance of a life.

Maybe I didn’t deserve one.

I stopped at the public washrooms in the park, scrubbed my face and stared at the mirror, water dripping from the tip of my nose. The face in the silvered glass was unequivocally the one I’d been looking at for thirty-seven years: my brown hair with its widow’s peak, my hazel eyes with one eyelid sagging slightly compared to the other--everything mine down to the scar above my lip: the one mark Father Dominic had left.

Why didn’t they know me?

I scrutinized my face until a man came in, interrupting my frustration. I dried off hastily, rough paper towel raking my cheeks, as the man entered the stall, looking at me sideways, probably expecting me to either beg for change or mug him. Before he emerged and caught me still staring at myself, I took my leave .

As the sun dipped below the city’s skyline, I refocused my search on a place to sleep. Still two months until winter, but the nights held a reminder of its approach and I harbored no desire to stay up all night again. With thoughts of a pillow and warm blankets, I stepped onto the churchyard, the site of my death.

I stopped inside the gate, exhaling a cloud of mist as my pulse raced. Ahead on my left, the oak tree loomed, its naked branches scratching the night sky. Unconsciously, my eyes searched the deeper shadows beneath, half-expecting to see two men in raincoats with their hoods up and a knife at the ready.

Stop being a pussy.

I breathed deeply and forced myself on, veering right at the fork in the path, away from the spot where my blood spilled, headed instead for the hall behind the church. As I strode down the path beside the church, I felt eyes staring through the stained glass windows, heard footsteps padding softly behind me. I shoulder-checked: nothing; and no one watched through the decorative glass--nothing but the ghosts of my past glaring at me, wondering why I’d come back. A shiver ran up my spine.

I quickened my pace and the detached meeting hall came into view. A murmur rose from the line of shabby-looking men running down the cement steps onto the path, each awaiting their chance to plead their case and get a bed for the night. I joined the end of the queue, feeling like I fit in wearing the ratty suit and rundown shoes I’d worn the night I died. The smell of the people around me was intoxicating, but not in the ‘where did you get that wonderful cologne’ kind of way. If odor determined who got a bed, my meager two days on the street would have me curling up on a park bench with a newspaper for a blanket tonight.

The line inched forward. I hugged my suit jacket tight and shivered, doing my best to look desperate for a place to stay as, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, my eyes darted from oak tree to windows to graveyard and back. The woman at the door chatted briefly with each man before allowing them inside. Despite all the awful experiences this church supplied through my life and including my death, I couldn’t possibly get through the door and away from the feel of eyes upon me fast enough.

Finally, my turn came. The woman looked up into my eyes, her wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the light shining through the church door. Time’s irresistible passage had changed her features, added more lines etched into her face even since I saw her at the hospital, but there was no mistaking Sister Mary-Therese. Her eyes held mine a moment and I held my breath. Her lips drew into a taut line across her face; I thought I’d done something wrong and she was going to banish me.

“Icarus Fell?”

My mouth dropped open.

“Is that you?”

I nodded but couldn’t speak.

“Are you all right, child?”

“You...you know me?”

“Of course I do, Icarus.” She put her liver-spotted hand on my cheek. “Are you in need of a bed?”

I nodded again and felt the tips of her fingers brush against my stubble.

“Go on in,” she said dropping her hand from my face; she leaned in and spoke more quietly. “When I’m done, I’ll come find you.”

“Thank you, Sister.” I strode through the door, glancing back at the woman who once saved my life, but she’d moved on to the next man in need of help. I found the first available bed and sat on the squeaky cot, fighting to calm the hungry pterodactyls gnawing the inside of my stomach.

Men smelling of dirt and sweat slumped past seeking empty bunks as I waited for the sister to complete her duties. My knee bounced with nervous excitement; I shifted and fidgeted. Did I expect to come here and not find Sister Mary-Therese? Only death would keep her away. I didn’t want to think about the things that had happened, but seeing her brought up old memories. In spite of the bad feelings contained on these grounds, of my life and of my death, I’d still ended up here of all the shelters in the city. I guess I’d hoped to find her, though I expected she wouldn’t know me.

The clamor of people settling into bed echoed into the lofty ceiling and bounced off the stone walls. Built a century after the church, the hall’s builders did their best to mimic the church’s architecture on a limited budget. Gold-colored paint instead of gold-leaf; the artisan commissioned to create the two stained-glass windows at the front of the building did a fine job making it look like his first attempt at the medium. I was distracting myself with the glass version of the madonna--who looked more like the pop star than the mother of Christ--when I looked up to see Sister Mary-Therese crossing the room towards me.

I held my breath.

***

Icarus Fell.

Six months to the day--almost to the hour--since she found him bleeding to death on the church lawn. She looked at him perched on the edge of the cot as she crossed the room, his gaze flitting nervously until coming to rest on her. She tried to smile but memories of riding with him in the ambulance, of pacing, agonized and weeping, while awaiting word from the doctors, made the expression feel fake, so she abandoned it.