River Angel (9 page)

“I guess I could take you to my house,” she said. “You could have a sandwich or something.”

“What kind of sandwich?” the boy asked.

“Tell me your name,” Janey said, “and I'll tell you what kind of sandwich.”

The boy considered this seriously. He shivered, and Janey turned up the heater, aimed the vents at his face. What kind of parents let a child this age go out without a scarf or a proper pair of mittens? And instead of a hat, all the boy had was the hood
of his coat. No wonder he was freezing. It struck Janey, as it often did, how unfair it was that such people could have children and she could not. Three miscarriages, then eight years of ovulation charts, hormone injections, mood swings and bleeding, and, finally, the loss of bleeding altogether. She and Harper looked into adoption, but it was too expensive; besides, the wait would have been years. “I'm sorry,” Harp had finally said. “All I've ever wanted was a family of my own.” And though Janey's friends had all sided with her, in her heart she knew she'd have done the same thing.

“My name,” the boy said, startling Janey from her thoughts, “is Shawn.”

“Well, Shawn,” Janey said, “we have bologna, or peanut butter, or cold meat loaf with ketchup.”

“Meat loaf,” the boy said, “but I don't want any ketchup on it.”

“OK,” Janey said, slowing for her turn onto the D road. Her parents' house was behind the Solomon strip on the Saw Whet Road, in one of the few original neighborhoods that remained in Solomon. Janey had grown up with a best friend who lived next door, and each of them had dated the boy across the street, Danny Hope, all elbows and shins. Tonight was the night of the neighborhood block party Danny's parents hosted each year. It was always held in the dead of winter, and in recent years it had gotten pretty wild. Men wore their wives' sundresses, summer gowns, and bikinis; women wore their husbands' short-sleeve bowling shirts, neckties and boxers and skimpy tees. There were summery foods and tropical drinks; the Hopes turned up the heat and set out fans and buckets of ice. The
Ambient Weekly
took pictures. At midnight, members of the Polar Bear Club stripped as naked as they dared, rushed out of the house, and rolled in the snow until Chief Pranke arrived to hustle them back inside. Both Mum and Daddy had been trying to get Janey to go to the Hopes'
party, especially now that Danny, a successful chiropractor, had divorced his wife and come back home from Houston to think things over.

“You don't even have to dress up,” Daddy had said at lunch. “You can be the chaperone.”

“And once you see the dress Daddy's going to wear, you'll know he's going to
need
a chaperone,” Mum said, and she waggled a scolding finger at Daddy until he kissed it, kissed it again. They were worse than newlyweds. They took classes in ballroom dancing at the community center. They were planning a Carnival cruise. Nights, they watched TV on the couch, cuddled up under the afghan like teenagers. If Janey came downstairs, they'd sit up quick and make room, Mum patting the space between them. “Come join the old folks,” she'd say.
Wheel of Fortune
was their favorite show. They'd yell at the contestants, urge them to spin, buy another vowel, while Janey slumped deeper into the cushions, feeling like an intruder. Her brothers had gone into insurance: Lee had an Allstate office in Minneapolis; Matt had one in Saint Paul. They came home with their wives and children twice a year.

Janey was the only one who hadn't made good. After ten years of marriage, she was right back where she'd started: single, childless, dependent on her parents. At first, she'd seen doctor friends of Daddy's, who prescribed hormones to start her monthly bleeding, pills to cure her sorrow. But her sorrow deepened, her bleeding still did not return, and some days she wept for hours on end. Things might have gone on this way if Mum hadn't thought of the Circle of Faith. Mum had attended meetings herself before Daddy retired and they'd fallen in love again. Janey would never forget the day that Ruthie came to the house like an old-fashioned doctor, her black satchel filled with gifts: a journal for Janey to record positive thoughts, a small china angel that was also a night
light, three white candles she asked Janey to light whenever she felt the dark thoughts closing in.

“What's the matter?” the boy asked. They were parked in the driveway, but Janey didn't remember pulling up to the house. When the dark thoughts came, she'd lose time that way—not a lot, not like that TV girl with all the personalities. Just a blip. She'd drive to a Faith meeting, and when she arrived, she'd realize she couldn't remember a thing she'd seen along the way. Or she'd be doing something like folding laundry, and then it would all be folded.

“Nothing's wrong,” Janey said. “This is where I live.”

She led him through the garage and brought him through the back door into the sudden warmth of the house. Mum was vacuuming; the cord stretched down the hall and disappeared into the living room. She'd used the same Hoover for twenty-five years, and it sounded as if she was driving a tractor back and forth.

“Hello?” Janey shouted, and when Daddy called back, “Down here!” she led the boy downstairs into the basement den, where the noise was absorbed into the wall-to-wall carpet. The den was spanking new, one of Daddy's retirement projects.

“A visitor!” Daddy said, clearly delighted. He was busy combing Rusty. Rusty woofed once when he saw the boy, but he was even-tempered and never barked at anyone for long.

“I found him along County O,” Janey said. “His name is Shawn, but that's all he'll tell me.”

“What did you do to your face there, pal?” Daddy said, as if Janey brought stray children home every day. He let go of Rusty, who wagged his tail so hard it made his whole backside swing to and fro.

The boy shrugged. “Got beat up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Daddy said. He took the boy's face in his hands, tipped his chin up to the light. “By who?”

“Just some kids,” the boy said. When Daddy released his face, he let Rusty lick his hands. “This is a very nice house.”

“Thank you,” Daddy said, pleased. “Tell you what. Why don't you tell me your dad's name, and we'll just call him up and have him give those kids a talking to.”

“Can I have something to eat?” the boy replied.

Daddy looked a little surprised. “Sure, why not?” he said, and he turned to Janey. “Wipe him down with Merthiolate and then bring him up to the kitchen. I'll see if Mum knows where he belongs.” He headed for the stairs, Rusty dancing happily underfoot.
Kitchen
was one of the words he knew, like
walk
and
treat
and
Rusty
. Janey often thought it would be wonderful to be a dog like Rusty, with so few words to be responsible for, all of them pleasant and promising.

She led the boy into the utility bathroom, gave him a washcloth from the linen closet, then opened the medicine chest, where Mum kept first-aid supplies and a collection of tiny wrapped hotel soaps. Janey's antidepressants and hormone tablets were on the bottom shelf, in full deliberate view, so Mum and Daddy wouldn't suspect she'd stopped taking them. Every night, she'd flush another batch down the toilet. Only God had the power to heal, and Janey was determined to put her faith in Him. Still, she couldn't help but wish for a sign, some small thing that would let her know that He was watching. Ruthie said God spoke to people nowadays as often as He had during Bible times—it was just that the modern mind wasn't trained to understand. Janey wondered if she'd recognize a sign if it came. Upstairs, the sound of the vacuum cleaner stopped, and suddenly all the little sounds around her seemed too loud: the closing of the cabinet, the scuff of her feet on the tile floor, the boy's thick breathing as he lathered his face and hands.

“What were you doing with those boys?” Janey said. “Where
were they taking you? You can tell me. You don't have to be afraid.”

She handed him a towel, and he patted his face dry. His chin was still a little puffy, but with the blood washed away, it didn't look too bad. There was only one small cut, more of a scratch really, under his mouth.

“I don't want any of that stuff on me,” he said, eyeing the Merthiolate.

“Just on the cut,” she said. “To keep it from getting infected.”

“It won't get infected,” he said.

“It might,” Janey said.

“No, it won't,” the boy said. “God will make it heal. God can do anything if you believe He can.”

His words took Janey by surprise. A strange thing happened: She felt the cross at her throat begin to move, tap-tapping like a heartbeat. She grabbed for it—dropped it! It was hot! Then the bathroom door swung open, clipping her hip. “Knock-knock,” Mum said, which was what she always said whenever she came into a room. She wore one of Daddy's old baby-blue seersucker suits, and she'd darkened the space between her eyebrows, so it looked as if one long eyebrow stretched across her forehead. Her tie was fat and black, with the word
DANGEROUS
spelled down the front in red letters. “Daddy's upstairs doing his nails. Oh, goodness,” she said, noticing the boy's wide eyes, “you must think I've escaped from the loony bin! It's just that I'm on my way to a party where everyone dresses silly. Do I look silly?”

The boy nodded hesitantly. Mum laughed, delighted. “There's an honest answer,” she said. “I'm Kathryn. And you're Shawn?”

The boy didn't answer.

“Don't be afraid, love. Where do you live?” She turned to Janey. “Do we know anything about him?”

“He believes in the power of God,” Janey said, and when Mum gave her a funny look, she wished she hadn't said anything. At
lunch, when Janey had told Mum for the hundredth time that, no, she didn't want to go to the Hopes' party, Mum said she was concerned that Janey was getting too religious, that she spent too much time with Faith members and not enough with other people. Back in Mum's day, they didn't meet at the Fair Mile Crossroads—they just sat around in Ruthie's living room, played cards, and talked, and maybe they each had a splash of kümmel in a shot glass. “Of course, we prayed,” Mum said. “And a few times we went on retreat. But there wasn't all this talk about angels and goodness and—I don't know—miracles.”

“You and Daddy are a miracle,” Janey said, “compared to how you used to be.”

Daddy said agreeably, “So we are. So we are.”

“And there certainly weren't any vows of silence,” Mum continued, as if she hadn't heard. “What's so secret that you can't tell your own parents what you pray for?”

“Nothing,” Janey said, trying not to sound irritable. “It's just that we pray for personal things sometimes. Like, if somebody has a problem, they bring it to a meeting and we talk about it and then we pray about it. Like, when it's time to pray for me”—Janey paused; it was OK to talk about your own requests—“we pray that someday I'll meet somebody again and have a family.” She had to whisper to keep from crying.

“But, sweetheart,” Mum said, her eyes filling with sympathetic tears, “how can God answer a prayer like that if you stay hidden away in the house?”

“Aw, she'll venture out again when she's ready.” Daddy was trying to smooth things over; now he changed the subject. “Boy, would I love to be a fly on the wall during one of those meetings!” he said, nudging Janey's shoulder in a playful way. “Bet I'd learn a thing or two.” Men were always saying things like that; it was just because they weren't invited. They thought that meant you were talking about sex. Or else that you were talking about them.

Now Mum took the boy by the hand. “I hear you've been asking for a snack,” she said, and Janey followed them up the stairs. Mum had been cleaning since early this morning, and everything smelled of lemons. The curtains were freshly ironed, and the floors were waxed. She'd even raked the old shag rug in the living room. Janey hadn't offered to do anything, because no matter how carefully she washed or waxed or dusted, Mum would do it all over again. She said she couldn't help herself. “It's just that I have my routine,” she said. “Relax, Pumpkin. Think of yourself as our special guest.”

Daddy was in the kitchen. He'd changed into a peach muumuu splashed with yellow flowers. He had flip-flops on his feet. Rhinestone clip-ons hung from his earlobes. “What do you think?” he said, and he turned in a lavish circle. Rusty circled with him, toenails click-clicking on the linoleum.

“Darling,” Mum said. “You'll be the belle of the ball.”

The boy giggled.

They kissed, and in that casual gesture Janey saw everything her own life lacked. Harper had already remarried, and now he was the father of a baby girl. Month after month, when her bleeding did not come, she prayed the same prayer:
Only say the word, Lord, and I shall be healed
. Sometimes she watched
Praise the Lord!
on TV, listening closely to the testimonies of everyday people who'd witnessed the supernatural. Christ had appeared to one man in the form of a very young boy; another man had been in a plane crash and heard God's voice saying he would be OK. Even people in Ambient had experienced things that could not be explained. There was a family who saw the ghost of a girl in their living room every New Year's Eve. At the Faith house one time, as they'd prayed for Shelley Beuchel, a blue light had descended from the ceiling, slid down the walls and across the floor and up her body, where it rested on her forehead like a kiss.

“I'm going to find out what to do with our visitor,” Daddy
said, and he headed down the hall toward the phone. Mum sat the boy at the kitchen counter and made him hold a washcloth of crushed ice against his chin while she fixed a meat loaf sandwich. The boy bowed his head before he took a single bite. Janey fingered her cross; it was still warm, though not the way it had been.
God can do anything if you believe
. “Tell me,” she begged him. “Why were you out in the field with those boys?”