the home stretch

holy shit, i think i might actually finish this assignment (she says, knocking frantically on her wooden kitchen table).

general apologies to anyone who's reading this and expecting it to make sense. i'm using characters and a situation that have been knocking around in my head for over ten years, and to get these assignments done i'm having to cut out all the backstory. but this has been incredibly helpful - for me, if for no one else. in between the brainstorming for these monologues and an eye-opening conversation i had with buffy (which grew out of one of lori's notes from the first chapter), i've somehow managed to come up with what i hope is a more coherent structure. it doesn't show here, but shit, i wrote a synopsis this week! which was something i had been dreading for six months or so.

it's been interesting to see whose voices are turning out to be similar and whose are different; who's easy to write, and fun, and who's just completely freaking boring. and i'll be kinda sad to have to go back to 3rd person limited after having spent some time in different heads than my main characters. it's been unexpectedly enlightening. in a good way.

so, progress. and committment. good stuff.

three more posts to go.

~andi

At the funeral, 12

I didn’t expect so many people to come to the committal. At least it’s not as crowded as it was in that church; it’s no wonder Mom got overheated. She’s looking better. She was white as a sheet when they were carrying the coffin out, and I’ve never known her to be squeamish about death. I don’t think it was the funeral. For a moment I thought she might have been having a heart attack, but she recovered so quickly… seeing ghosts, she called it. Trying to laugh it off.

It’s such a damned shame Paxton is up there all alone, though. Except for that guy with her, there’s no one else in the rest of the chairs. No family. Jesus God, at least I’ve got that going for me, even if the rest of my life is fucked up.

Mom was right, this was a quick service. Small miracle. Although with Mom insisting on wearing those crazy heels, it’s going to take forever to get back to the car. Might as well just pick her up and carry her.

Cookie Monster's back. That shaggy blue fucker is just never going to leave me alone, not even at a funeral. He's still there, in the back of my head, singing about sugar cookies. One of these things is not like the other things, one of these things just doesn't belong... like that guy over there hiding next to the Queen's Shrine. That was a nice coat thirty years ago, and I guess you could say the same thing about the guy, although there's no telling with bums. Sometimes they get to be better people the longer they spend outside the system, depending on the system that screwed them in the first place. And sometimes they don't.

Wonder if he knew Mrs. Hollister personally, or if he was just a regular at the Samaritan. Maybe the Lower East Side crowd sent him to pay their collective respects. Day like today, no one would want to be out. Wet and cold can kill you if you live outside, and once you're wet, there's no getting dry. Which explains the boots. Salvation Army special; they look like they could have done time in 'Nam. I'm surprised they couldn't have managed to give the old guy an umbrella, though. Friend of mine had a dog like that, would stand out in the rain getting wet instead of coming inside like a sensible animal, but then that dog had a fur coat, and this guy has a trench.

Yeah, he's hiding, but he hasn't taken his eyes off the tent over the grave. And he's motionless, but there's a tension in the line of his back, like he's about to move forward. Is he hiding a flower to put on Mrs. Hollister's grave? That would be like a lot of the Lower East Siders I've known – can't find a buck for a used umbrella, but they'll all pitch in for something sentimental.

If he's from the shelter or thereabouts, he might know the guy who went after Paxton. It's worth a shot, anyway, because I can't find any other reason for it – guy jumps the woman in broad daylight and doesn't go after her purse, doesn't run when the cops come, it's nuts. But he was waiting for her. And if my guy here has two marbles rolling around in his head, he might know something about why. Hell, I'm a detective. Duty calls.

Kiki Update

Eek! I have a sunburn today, thanks to stupid-ass planning on a trip to White Sands National Monument. I had a great time with my sister, bro-in-law, and the kids, but forgot that springtime sun can be bitch when it bounces off gypsum dunes. Oh well. The cold I just caught isn't helping matters any.

Also -- we just had a great night, all of us, plus my fabulous cousin Chuck, his awesome wife Shannon, my great buddy Dave, and of course the rockin' BF Alex -- can I just say "YouTube karaoke"? If you haven't done it...do. Seriously. Hopefully with copious amounts of alcohol.

My haiku for the night?

Sushi, Sriracha,
and YouTube karaoke:
The best night ever.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 11

I knew I shouldn’ta gone anywhere that night. I was sick as a dog, head all stuffed up and ready to go to bed. Just took a big swig of Nyquil when Little Earl comes in my place ranting about Shelly and I thought, now this is a night at Smitty’s I don’t want to miss. So I hauled my sorry ass off the couch and put my boots back on. You can rest when you’re dead, right?


I figure I might as well save myself a few bucks so I toss back a couple of cold ones before we head out the door. He’s got me all amped up by now and ready for a fight. In the parking lot we run into some old guys suckin on a bottle of Jim Beam and I take a coupla hits off it while we shoot the shit, getting restless to get inside where its warm, but feeling no pain. Then we see JD, who’s supposed to be watchin the door, and that scrawny hippy dude smoking a joint and I can’t resist that either – twist my freakin’ arm man.

So we walk in and the joint is a jumpin.’ I head right for the bar for another cold one, maybe a shot of tequila, but Little Earl man he just goes right for the girl, no foreplay or nothing. Then, shit, it musta been the Nyquil I started out with because usually I can handle a lot more before it all fades to black, you know, but the rest is such a blur. I can’t remember shit after the chairs started flyin around. I know I’m in a shit ton of pain and somehow I managed to get myself home, woke up with my boots still on but in my own house, on my old couch, all the lights still on. Yeah, the lights were on but weren’t nobody at home, so they say.

At the funeral, 11

It’s hard to see who’s who with all these damned umbrellas. I could probably just make a list of important philanthropists in New York City and say they were here – it would be close enough. It's so tempting to get out of this weather. But Bailey sent me here for the research, and maybe some of these people will talk to me after the service. Swear to God, someday I’ll be sending my own little peon out in the rain to interview old do-gooders so I can sit in my corner office drinking stylish blends of organic, free-trade coffee all day. She’ll probably make me write the article, too, although for sure it’ll be her name on the byline.

The rain’s stopping! I’d be doing a happy dance, if it wouldn’t attract attention. The umbrellas are coming down and I can finally get a good look at everyone, even if it’s just from the side. Too bad the casket’s already closed; I’d love to see what Mrs. H looks like after the postmortem work. That’s odd. There are only two people under the tent with the priest. Small family, I guess, although you’d think they would have enough close friends that the tent would be full. There’s the daughter. Don’t know the guy with her. And the typical pimped-out Catholic priest, although he’s not looking so good in this weather either.

There’s quite a mix of people here. She was – what, 65 when she died? She’s been a part of at least two generations of New Yorkers – so it’s not a crowd of geriatrics, at least, although Bailey’s going to want to get those names first for the Sunday paper. I should go back to the church and check the guest book, that’s easy enough to do. Oh, but look at that little clump of people over there – I wonder who they are. They don’t quite fit in, do they? No, they don’t look like a family exactly, although they stand like one. Intimate body language, the blonde girl’s holding hands with the older man, who has his arm around a smaller lady with short, silver curls. She’s so tiny. I think a strong wind could probably blow her away. The boy with them is just adorable, what is he, Korean? Japanese? I can’t tell from here, but it’s too bad he’s not just a little older.

There’s an old man a few feet away from me who looks awfully familiar. Maybe if I heard his voice I could place him And this, ladies and gentlemen, is reason number one why I’m always going to be a shitty reporter. If I could just remember things, real things, not the things that like to dance around in my head – those I remember just fine, it’s the facts that escape me. Poor thing. He looks so sad. His eyes are swollen and red, but I don’t see any tears. Maybe he’s cried himself out in private. No, I don’t think he’s a business acquaintance, he’s taking this hard. There’s something else going on with him. An old lover, maybe? Or unrequited love – he would make such a good story, I have got to write that down, what did I do with that notebook?

No. No, I don’t. I’m not here for short story material, I’m here to get the facts, damn it. Like that brown-haired giant over there. I’d love an excuse to talk to him. Holy shit, is he carrying? I hope he’s a cop; I can’t see any other reason to go to a funeral with a gun. He’s twitchy. He knows he’s supposed to be watching the service but he keeps looking around; what’s he looking for? That must be his mother next to him. She’s tall, like him, although she’s starting to stoop. I’m guessing seventy, maybe seventy-five. Nice hat.

Oh, that’s who he’s keeping an eye on, that ratty-looking guy in the back. Yeah, he’s an odd one, too. That overcoat’s thirty years old if it’s a day, and what the hell is he wearing, galoshes? He couldn’t have brought an umbrella, the guy is totally soaked. And so still. He’s not even shivering. I wouldn’t have even noticed him if I hadn’t been paying attention to the cop.

If only I knew their stories, I could write forever. Then again, who needs the truth when you’ve got a head full of daydreams?

That’s a weird feeling. All the hair on the back of my neck is standing up, and my arms just broke out in goosebumps. What the hell is that about?

The service is over. Time to go to work. There’s reason number two why I’m a lousy reporter; I hate talking to strangers. Especially now, at a funeral, for God’s sake. It’s just rude.

That interesting clump of misfits over there has shifted just a bit. I think they’re about to go up to the gravesite. Maybe they’re friends of the daughter. But that cute Korean kid isn’t moving, he’s turning to – he’s turning to look at me. The goosebumps are all over my body now, and I mean all over, I never thought I could get goosebumps down there, but – no, he’s older than I thought. He’s coming over here. I should walk away. I have other people to talk to, who are probably more important, but look at his eyes sparkle, he’s just fascinating. Yes, walk away, that’s exactly what I’ll do, and quickly, before he makes it all the way over here.

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is deeper than I expected. “I’m Shen. And you are?”

“Jessica,” I tell him.

“Friend of the family?” he asks. He’s smiling, and I can’t see any reason to lie to him.

“Actually, no,” I admit. “I’m with the Times. We’re doing a story about Mrs. Hollister for tomorrow’s paper, and I thought I might get some interviews this afternoon.”

“I see,” he says. “What are you doing after that?”

Pretty much anything you want me to, I think. And that’s a fact.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 10

I’ve never fit in here, never been one of them, even though I’ve lived here my entire life. I never wanted to be one of them, to be honest. But sometimes, I like to watch. They can be…amusing. I’ve never killed any of them, at least not on purpose, although on occasion I have played with them for a bit of sport, to ease my boredom with this place, like a cat playing with a mouse. They fear me. They fear their own stories of me. The truth, I fear, is much worse.


So I watched them down there in their hovel, trying to drink their fears away. Gathering together as if there actually were safety in numbers. Numbing their already worthless minds with alcohol. I’m not sure sometimes if it is hate or pity that I feel for them.

I have to admit that I probably caused the whole thing. A bit of a practical joke. Then sat up here on the hillside just watching all the pieces fall into place in a lovely display of human fireworks. Most people, these ones in particular, are so stupid and easily manipulated, it’s barely even fun anymore. But, it’s something to do on a Saturday night.

And the moon was so stunning that night, casting fantastic shadows from every swaying tree branch, every moving being. I could see the small creatures scuttling beneath the dead leaves, illuminated as they were by the blue glow of the moon’s smiling face. I watched and watched and watched and then pounced! My long sharp teeth punctured the furry little creature, so juicy with warm blood, I nearly forgot about the people below.

Then I saw her come running out into the parking lot – that frantic look of prey on her twisted face and my instincts took over. I was down there before I realized what I was doing but somehow I resisted the hunt – the human part of me still very much alive and aware - and let loose that wonderful howl that feels so good as it reaches out from my throat into the icy night air.

At the funeral, 10

This chill, this damp, it’s killing my hands today, but then it’s been like that for months now. The only respite comes in her presence, and I dearly wish she would bless me by coming now. But Sophia has been silent today. She knows that I cannot give her the attention she deserves and perform this sacrament at the same time. She knows we owe the dead respect. Surely, she is as clement and merciful as God Himself. She demands nothing of me than I am not willing to give. If I could, I would be there with her now, kneeling on hard stone in the darkness and cold, only the sounds of dripping water and the leather of the scourge on naked skin to interrupt our communion. Blood is relevant, but trivial in comparison; I would surrender my miserable, unworthy life, if only she would take it. I envy Catherine her sacrifice, even knowing that her captured soul lingers in agony, waiting to rejoin God in Heaven. I promised her she would go to God, and Sophia will fulfill that promise, once the daughter is delivered from sin.

She looks like her mother. She’s taller, of course, but that comes from the father. What I have heard – from Catherine herself and from others – is that she inherited some dangerous habits from her father as well. I would never have thought her capable of witchcraft until I saw the fear in her eyes that afternoon at the hospice. Then the painting of the shadowed Magdalene, crashing to the floor, glass shattering, shards flying everywhere. The hospice staff apologized repeatedly for the disturbance, blaming it on a poor hanging job, but I don’t believe it was an accident, and from the look on her face, she didn’t either. Of course she didn’t take communion today, just sat there in the first pew looking down at her hands. I’m surprised she came to the church at all, but the pretenders are so often the most dangerous.

The man with her doesn’t touch her, but he stands just behind her chair, his hand on the back of it, the subtle intimacy of a lover obvious to anyone who cares to look. He doesn’t seem to know what she is, or if he does, he doesn’t care, which is worse. When she comes to God at last, I pray that she will bring him with her.

The mourners have finally gathered, huddled together under their black umbrellas. It’s time to start.

At the funeral, 9

The sound of the rain on my umbrella is so soothing; I could close my eyes and imagine it's springtime, finally, after this wretched winter. If only it weren't so cold.

Here comes the cavalcade from the church. Showtime. I breathe deeply, sucking the freezing, damp air all the way into the bottom of my lungs. It's not a pleasant sensation, but I'm starving for oxygen. I remind myself that I can't breathe in auras, and that shallow breaths don't do any good unless I'm on a subway next to a large man with sweaty armpits, in which case they're the best option.

I look for the limousine that follows the hearse; that's the one Paxton will be in. It will take a while for the others to catch up, but it's worth some minutes of solitary discomfort to be the first person here, to get my eyes ready for the show. The hearse stops as close to the gravesite as it can. Well-dressed men get out and begin unloading flowers from the back of the hearse. It takes some time, and while they're unloading I move closer to the covered gravesite, hoping that Paxton will see me when she gets out and know I'm here. It looks like a hundred arrangements have been sent: the requisite chrysanthemums and lilies, white tulips, lushly petaled camellias, gardenias and freesia so fragrant I can smell them from twenty feet away, and as I approach, I can see a tiny bouquet of sweet peas. Where someone managed to find sweet peas this time of the year is anyone's guess. There's a spray of roses that are such a dark shade of red they almost look black in the washed-out light of this rainy afternoon. I can't help but wonder who sent them. Were they sent because Catherine loved red roses, or because someone is still madly in love with her? Both, maybe.

Once they've set up the flowers, they carry the white casket to the sheltered gravesite and set it down on the frame, where it will stay through the interment. Finally, they bring out the spray for the casket, an extravagant arrangement of white roses and stargazer lilies, their dark pink centers romantic and sensual. I think that was probably Paxton's choice.

So far the auras have been manageable, although I may have to move back again after Paxton comes out. I know she'll understand. The last thing anyone needs is a bout of hysterics, for whatever reason. The colors are nowhere near as concentrated as they would have been indoors, and I'm sure there will be fewer people here than there were at the church. I'll be all right. It'll be fine.

Paxton hasn't come out yet, but the priest emerges from his car and heads towards the site. When I get a good look at his colors, I begin to doubt my confidence. I feel a familiar, uncomfortable burn in my stomach and I wish to hell I'd brought some Tums. A dark, dingy gray cloud surrounds him, but it's the other colors that scare me. The gray is shot through with shocking streaks of red and a dark, sickly orange that makes me think of gangrene. He gives the overwhelming impression of deep illness, a sickness of the soul, and it seems obscene that he's about to bless Catherine's body before burial, it's so wrong, and I step forward to protest, but there's a firm grip on my arm and a hard jerk, as I am pulled away from the green tent.

"Jillian. Don't," Robert says, and his tranquil emerald light surrounds me, helping slow the triphammer beating of my heart, letting me breathe again. "Let it go." A whiff of jasmine floats by, and I know that Sara is here, which means that Shen will show up any minute. Thank God. Thank God. I can't do this without my family.

"Can you see it?" I ask him. "Can you see the priest?"

He stands beside me and shakes his head. "I can't see what you see, but he's not striking me as the most appropriate person to be wearing a stole. Not that I would know," he adds, and I finally smile. He doesn't like to talk about it much, but Robert was days away from ordination when he met Sara. The ordination never happened. I wish they would just tell us the damned story, but maybe they're saving it for the next blackout.

The door to the silver limousine opens and a man I don't know steps out. His aura - I've never seen anything like it. Bathed in white iridescence so bright it makes me squint for a moment, the man bends to help Paxton out of the car. His aura shifts when he takes Paxton's hand, pulsing dark rose, divine violet, luscious indigo, and back to white, where it rests for a moment before all those glorious colors burst through again in a rainbow of what looks to me like a deep, sacred love. I turn away for a moment, feeling like a voyeur.

When I look back, Paxton is coming out of the car, carefully not looking at the man beside her. He doesn't offer her his arm, but walks just behind her as she goes to the gravesite. She's not liking the heels, I can tell, and I can't blame her; they're not very practical on wet grass, but it's not like you can wear rain boots to your mother's funeral – not when your mother was Catherine Hollister. Her usually vibrant shades of cobalt, viridian, and shimmering gold are muted today, compared to the man she's with, but I'm not worried. I see occasional pulses of dark red when she has to steady herself, but I see no black, and the aura is more stable than I expected. I send a prayer of thanksgiving to whoever's listening.

"How's she looking?" Shen's voice comes from behind my shoulder, so smooth and soft it's like he's still in church.

"She's OK," I say, my own voice shaky.

"Good," Sara says. "I think you can turn your eyes down now, Jillian. This can't be easy for you." She's right, and I do, the bright colors leeching out of the day, leaving only the brown grass, the harsh, artificial green of the tent, and the silver of the rain and the sky.

"Sara, do you know who that is standing next to her?" I ask. "The man in the dark grey suit?"

She doesn't answer at first, and I am immediately suspicious. I turn to her, my eyebrows raised. She smiles mysteriously, which she knows infuriates me.

"I don't know his name," she says. "But I think he's a new acquaintance. Maybe we'll get to know him sometime."

"I hope so," says Shen. "It looks like he's got some serious intentions about our girl."

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 9

You, and everybody in that place can kiss my hairy ass. That bitch’s been nothing but trouble since the day she walked into this town. Anybody can’t see that needs to get their dang head examined. I aint arguin’ with a hunnert witnesses. Yeah, I hit the bitch. Charge me and let me go home or leave me the fuck alone.


Now Ol’ Jimmy, that one I am sorry about. I wisht the old man had just kept his nose outa things that didn’t concern him. She just made me so mad. You know how she is. But you don’t know what she’s done. Bitch’s been messin’ with me for too long and I’ve about had enough of it.

Fine. I’ll tell you what she did. She went into my cabin and took something of mine. No, I’m not gonna tell you what it was. I knew it was her because she’s the only one I ever showed it to, thinkin’ we had somethin’ special goin’ on. Then I come home from huntin’ Saturday and the cabin’s been tossed and it’s gone. And I just knowed it musta been her.

I heard she took off. Great. I hope she never comes back. Thought somewhere in the back of my mind I heard her scream as I went down, but I don’t reckon I recall too much of any of it. I’d like to get my hands on the motherfucker who smashed me over the head, I’ll tell you that.

Aw, hell. Blame the bitch and blame the tequila. You know I aint a violent man. But every man has his limit and she pushed me to it. Now I suppose Smitty’s pissed at me too. Now where am I going to go for a drink in this town? Goddamn women.

At the funeral, 8

Is it cold? Will I need my coat? Strange not to know what season it is. Last I remember it was winter, and snow was still piled up on the streetcorners where the cleaners couldn't get to it. Now, though, there's no telling. Surely it's not full spring yet. I can't tell from what the priest is wearing. The men carrying the coffin are wearing long, heavy coats. I'm glad I brought the wool, then. I can't remember whose coffin it is. A lady in competent black approaches me. "Ms. Hollister? The procession is ready to leave when you are. If you would follow me please?" It's not exactly a question, and I follow her, obedient, although I'd like to know what the procession is for and what I'm doing here to begin with. It's something about... but I can't quite remember. I hope someone will tell me, sooner or later. It's possible I'm dreaming. It certainly feels like a dream. Surely I wouldn't be at a funeral and not know who died – like being on a stage and not knowing what character you're playing. A dream, then; it's the only explanation. The doors to the church open and I follow the lady out. A vicious gust of wind blows up. I forgot the coat after all, and God, it's so cold all of a sudden; that wind cuts right down to my bones. My eyes are watering and the muscles in my back have seized up. There's a sleek, pearl-gray limousine parked at the curb. The man standing by the door opens it and holds out his hand to help me in. I've got these ridiculous heels on, so I accept the offer before I make a complete fool of myself. The man's hand wraps around mine and the touch sends a painful shock of electricity through me. I stumble and crack my head on the car door. Before I can fall on my ass, the man catches me and pulls me up to my feet, steadying me as I regain my balance. "I'm sorry," I say. "Thank - " I stop short, staring into crystalline blue eyes that belong to no man I know. I can't take my eyes off him, and he's not looking away. We might stay here forever. "Are you ready to go?" he asks, and I don't answer, I can't, because with every moment that passes, I am experiencing the strangest sensation of moving backwards in time, past the service, the lady with the lace, the ride to the church from Queens, where I was waiting with Grendel, looking through a stack of pictures, making coffee, answering the phone, a hundred little things that anyone could be doing any day, until I see a building in my head, on the Upper East Side, and the small plaque on the door with the names of the businesses inside and there's one I recognize, Hummel and Greene, and I'm whooshing upstairs on the elevator then coming to a room where a dead woman lies on a bed and a younger dark-haired woman sits motionless in a chair beside her. The sight of this man is tearing down veils of oblivion and I can almost identify him, he looks so familiar, and...

"Gabriel." It comes back to me now, how I shouted at him the last time I saw him, how I ran from him and from my mother, too. From my mother, who is dead. A wave of dizziness passes over me and I hope I pass out, I'd prefer it, really, but I don't. I fall against him and he guides me into the back seat of the limousine, I smell sandalwood and leather, the heat in the car is delicious and I melt against the far edge, staying away, but he doesn't let me escape, he moves closer to me and reaches for my hair. I try to move away but he tells me to be still. He pulls something from my hair and hands it to me, it's a handkerchief-sized bit of black lace with a brown bobby pin stuck through it. He strokes my head in a businesslike manner, as if trying to smooth my hair down where he pulled the bobby pin out. "Sorry," he says. "I've wrecked your hair."

I can't help it; I laugh inappropriately. "It's fine. You don't have my coat anywhere, do you?" I ask, thinking that if anyone could keep track of someone's coat, it would be Gabriel.

"No," he says. "But you can have mine." He strips off his navy blue pea coat and wraps it around me. It feels as real as anything else does on this strange day.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, pulling the coat tight around me. "Gabriel, anyone could have seen you."

"It's not a problem," he says. "Let's just get you through today." I nod, for once unable to argue with him. "You haven't slept in a while, have you?" he says. Not waiting for an answer, he holds his arm up, inviting me over. "Come on. It's a half an hour to the cemetery. Rest your head, Paxton. I'll wake you when we get there."

He doesn't have to ask twice.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 8

No, I don’t know where Shelly is, but she’ll come back. She always does. Oh yeah, she was workin’ it Saturday night. Every guy in the house had a hard-on for her, and probably most of the women too. Me, jealous? Heck no. I know she’s my girl, got her wrapped around my finger, if you know what I mean. Sure, Smitty asked us to keep it on the downlow and that’s cool with me. Says she’s one of the main attractions and what’s good for Smitty’s business is good for my business.


Last time I saw her, except from across the bar that night, was in the ladies room just before things got busy. We got so slammed that night I couldn’t get out from behind the bar. Talk? We weren’t doin’ a whole lot a talkin’, if you know what I mean. Yes, we sampled some of the product. Did a few lines in the back stall then did each other a little bit and I was ready for the night. She was in rare form too.

I didn’t really get involved in the fight, that’s not my kinda work. As you can see, I’m a pretty small woman. I work the bar. My specialty is getting customers to drink more, and yeah, I recruit my own customers on the side. Smitty knows I deal in the blow too but he pretends to be completely unawares. Smitty knows a lot of things about a lot of people, but he won’t tell you a thing. Does a good job of playin dumb, but he’s a lot smarter than he looks, that’s for sure. Knows when to keep his mouth shut, when to look the other way.

Knows when to walk away, knows when to run. That last line’s from “The Gambler.” Gotta love that song.

At the funeral, 7

Michael is beside me, as he has been for so many countless millenia. He is not pleased.

“Are you going? Tell me you're not going.” he asks. I sense his irritation, like a distant lightning strike, and I am grateful we’re alone, up in the now empty choir loft, looking down on the congregation as they shuffle out. Paxton is in front, behind the pallbearers who are beginning to carry her mother’s white coffin out of the church to the hearse that waits outside. She’ll be leaving for the cemetery in a few moments. I think she’ll be going alone; her friends have gotten caught up in the crowd and can’t reach her.

“Why should it matter to you?” I ask, although it’s a stupid question and we both know it.

“Gabriel, you’re a jackass,” Michael says, and I am shocked by his language, here in the house of God. I tear my eyes away from the solemn procession and glance over, seeing that he has surprised himself as well. “You remember as well as I do what happened last time.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest. “There’s no chance of that. It’s not like the Fallen. This is different.”

“How?” he demands. “Exactly how is it different, Gabriel? It always starts the same way -"

“No, it doesn’t. A friendship does not have to deteriorate into an affair, no matter what the others have done before us. We’re here to help, Michael. How can I let her suffer alone?”

“Then go, fool,” he says. “Hold her hand, do what you think she needs you to do. But for the love of God, don’t expose yourself, Gabriel. And don’t pretend to be human; it never ends well. For any of us.”

I glare at him. “I won’t pretend to be anything I’m not,” I say. “And I’m –“

“Smitten, is what you are,” Michael says, almost spitting with disgust. “With a human, and a witch, of all people.”

“There is no reason for this conversation to continue,” I say, with less heat than I expect. I'm no longer angry. I am adrift, hopeless. “Whatever I feel for this woman cannot manifest in anything other than friendship – you and I both know that.”

Michael seems to have decided that bombast is getting him nowhere. “Does she know that?” he asks, his voice low. "How can she help but want you, Gabriel? And what happens to her, when you regain your sanity, when you see that your mission calls you to other souls than hers?”

"She is stronger than that," I say.

"I doubt it. Or maybe she sees through you, maybe she knows that you want her; have you considered that? You may not know her as well as you think you do."

"That's enough, Michael," I say. In the space of a thought, I move to the church foyer, where the altar boy is opening the doors to allow the funeral party to leave the sanctuary. Michael follows, and I'm not surprised. He knows he's getting to me.

"Greater beings than you have attempted many kinds of unions with humans and failed. Jesus and the Magdalene were doomed from the start, He knew it, and still he tried."

"Michael," I hiss. "She is alone. She is in pain. Deserting her would be a sin against the nature that God gave me. There is nothing else you can do here. Go."

Michael stares at me with furious exasperation. "What will you do?"

I look away from him, at the pallbearers carrying the white coffin through the double doors. Paxton is a few steps behind them. The woman who sat with her during the mass is gone; perhaps she was caught up in the crowd as well. Paxton's eyes are blank and empty; I have seen dolls with more expressive faces. I wonder if the woman I know is even in there anymore. She passes by me without even glancing up, though a week ago she would have known I was there before the doors even opened. The bit of lace she wears in her hair has come halfway out, and it seems shameful to me that there is no one there to fix it for her.

"I don't know," I admit.

Michael sighs. "Good luck, Gabriel," he says, resigned. "And try not to be more of an idiot than you already are."

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 7

Nah, I don’t remember nuthin’ after I hit Little Earl with my pool cue. I know that he deserved it and Shelly’s always been sweet’r’n pie to me and I don’t abide no man hittin’ a woman like that, ‘specially out in a public place. What happens behind closed doors is a man’s own bidnis, I ‘spose, but what he did that night, well that just aint right. And I said so right before I broke my favorite cue over his big dumb head, and that’s how I ended up here, I guess. We was just minding our own bidnis, havin a nice friendly game until he had to go and show up.


Listen man, my head hurts real bad and I don’t feel like talkin’ no more. Yeah, I heard things got busted up pretty good over there and I guess I’m lucky to be alive today, but it don’t feel like it right now, no sir, it hurts like hell and I don’t like your tone, to be honest. Shelly aint done nuthin’ wrong if’n she wants to take a ride then I ‘spose that’s her own bidnis too.

Hey, you got a smoke? I can’t think right without a smoke and these damn nurses won’t even let a man take a piss without holdin’ his hand, I pert near shrivel up ever time, standin there with stagefright too ‘scart to even let ‘em see the ol’ one eyed monster.

I need one of Smitty’s burgers too. Get me them things and maybe you got yerself some more information, mister. All I did was to defend the lady’s honor, and got my head all busted up fer my troubles. Just let me be, man. You aint gittin nothing more from me. Somebody call me that nurse, the cute lil redhead, cuz I gots to piss like a friggin racehorse.

haiku near midnight

writing to a wall
a solitary nightmare
can i wake up now?

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 6

Its nights like this make me think of quitting the whole scene, sell the bar and head on down to Mexico. But I know that’ll never happen. I’ll die right here in the only place that’s ever felt like home to me, here at my bar. You know, the one with the shattered overhead light from last night’s shotgun blast, wide plank wood floors still splattered with beer and glass.


Today I’m taking the day off. They say the doors are never closed here, but not today. Seems like everyone in town was here last night and that was good for business until they all started in on each other. Now Ol’ Jimmy and JD are both in the hospital, Little Earl is in jail, and no one seems to know where Shelly ran off too.

The weirdest thing though was that howling. When people started smashing up the place I had to call a stop to the mass destruction of property and I did it the only way I knew how, since JD wasn’t helping too much. (Remind me what I pay him for?) So I had to take out the shotgun and shoot up my own goddamn place. Everybody stopped at that and for that one moment they were all quiet, I know we all heard it. It was the weirdest thing that it happened at just that time. It was kind of like a wolf, that high pitched lonesome song, but then at the end it turned into something more like a woman’s scream, sending chills down more than a few spines by the looks of the clientele.

Then everybody split, leaving me this freakin’ mess to clean up. Truth is, I’m just tired. I’m tired of the drunks I’ve built my life around. I just need a rest. I don’t know what I heard or saw. I just know I need some time.

At the funeral, 6

“As awful as the weather is outside, I can’t wait to get back out in it,” my son whispers. He sits next to me on the pew, doing a better job than he used to at sitting still, but for a thirty-five-year-old man, he’s very fidgety. I tell him so, and he glares at me out of the corner of his eyes. I try not to smile; it’s a solemn occasion, after all, but I enjoy teasing him, and I hope I always will.

There might be two hundred souls in this church, not including the ghosts. I don’t think I’m the only one who can see them, but if a ghost-watcher were anything like me, she certainly wouldn’t be mentioning it to strangers anyway. Although it’s tempting – I can see it now, leaning over to share the peace of Christ with the older gentleman behind us and saying, “That’s a lovely boy sitting next to you; do you know him?” Once again, I try not to smile.

The ghosts make the church seem almost oppressive – but watching the people around me is so entertaining that I can hardly mind them. They’re not bothering anyone – not today, anyway – which I appreciate, given the circumstances. So many of the younger ones these days refuse to show any respect for the newly dead, especially if the person has already passed on.

I should have called. I should have visited. She wouldn’t have agreed to see me, but I’m sure I’m stubborn enough to have gotten through the doorman and up to her apartment. I’m old, but I’m not that old yet. At the very least, I might have met her daughter, which would have been such a comfort. It’s selfish, I know, and at the moment I don’t care in the slightest.

Alex nudges me and hands me a slightly wrinkled tissue. He really is the sweetest thing sometimes. I wipe my nose and let the tears run. There’s no point in stopping them; they’re going to flow whether I want them to or not. At least I’m not the only one crying. Even some of the ghosts are looking terribly sad, and of course they would – some of them would have known her like they knew their own family. After all, Catherine went to confession regularly and I’ve never known a ghost who wouldn’t eavesdrop given half a chance.

It’s very strange how they’re all looking at the priest today. In a church, they’re usually more interested in the congregation, especially if they’re strangers. I’m sure it must be like watching a new TV show or opening a new book – a good way to pass the time. But now they’re all watching him. He has sprinkled the coffin with holy water, blessed it with incense, and is finishing up the last prayer, I think. The ghosts begin to surge forward en masse. Even the ones in the choir loft are floating down; it’s very lovely, but I wouldn’t want to be in that priest’s position right now. Some of them look very resentful, and there are one or two who seem to be actively enraged. Can he walk through that crowd of souls and not feel it?

Apparently he can.

Oh. Goodness. That hurts very badly indeed. I clutch my son’s arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Headache?” he whispers.

I nod, because it’s the only thing he’ll understand, but this is more than a headache; it’s a pressure on the inside of my brain, and it goes all the way down into my belly. Like a stake through the heart, but I think if it were just through the heart it wouldn’t be quite as bad. I gasp. Curling up only makes it hurt worse.

Alex puts his arm around me and says he’ll get us out soon, and I lay my head on the soft wool of his suit jacket and breathe it in, finding some comfort in the smells of dry-cleaning, coffee, and my son’s light sweat.

A blessedly cool puff of air passes over the back of my bare neck and the pain begins to let up a bit. I think it’s Alex, but when I look up, I realize my mistake. The ghosts have come to me. They stand close around me, their translucent colors superimposed over the faces of the people around me; it’s very unnerving. I’ve never been this close to so many of them and I try, very hard, not to let my fright show on my face. I doubt I’m successful.

The smallest one, the boy I saw sitting next to the older man, looks at me intently, as if to make sure he has my full attention, which of course he does.

He raises his arm and points to the priest, who is walking in front of the pallbearers who are carrying Catherine’s coffin. Every ghost around me does the same thing, until I am surrounded by a crowd of undead beings who are pointing their fingers straight at the priest, their arms tracking him as he walks slowly out the door.

I don’t know exactly what they’re trying to tell me, except that there’s something they need me to do, and it obviously has to do with that priest. But I nod briefly to the boy, who blinks in response, and moves away. The crowd of spirits separates into individual souls, and they return to what are probably their accustomed places in the church.*

I consider it for a moment, but the pain has receded and I can finally get a full breath again. “No,” I say, and I smile, because he’s so genuinely concerned, and so handsome I can still barely believe he’s my son, even after all these years. “I’m fine. Let’s go on to Mount Saint Mary’s. I’m sure the interment will be short, and then we can go get some ice cream.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Ice cream. I’m not ten anymore, Mom. Can we compromise and go to Mona Lisa? You can get your sugar fix and I can get a decent plate of ravioli.”

“Perfect.”

*I revised the end of this scene today (3/30/10) to keep this lady around - she and her son need to be at the graveside ceremony.

doncha just hate it when...

you're reading a really good book about characters and viewpoint and suchlike and then you remember that the guy who wrote it is a screaming batfuck mad supercalifragilibertarian even though he's a pretty good writer?

i fucking HATE it when that happens.

At the funeral, 5

Why why why didn’t I just meet Jillian in Queens? We could have had coffee, gone to the cemetery together, skipped all this Catholic craziness. I could have slept in. Could have gone to temple and lit some joss sticks instead faking it for these lunatics and their death cult.

Doors are closed. It’s a sign, right? Wouldn’t want to interrupt the service; there’s no telling what they’re doing. I’d probably walk in right in the middle of a moment of silence. I should just call Jill and go to Queens now; we still have time to hit that coffeehouse on 33rd, and there’s that incredibly hot barrista, she might be working today. Man, the ass on that woman, a guy could go nuts just thinking about it.

But it’s Paxton. She’s in there somewhere, up at the front, and maybe her mom’s in a coffin a few feet away. Does she have any family coming? I never thought to ask Sara. I hate to think of her up there by herself. No, surely she’s got someone with her. Maybe even Sara and Robert; she’ll be fine, she’s a rock.

I could just sit here on this hard bench and wear holes in my butt cheeks for the next hour. Then I can catch her on the way out, at least so she knows I’m here, that I showed up. Or I could go in. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like I’m going to be struck by lighting. They’re not going to come after me with pitchforks. They’re not all going to turn around and stare at me – maybe a couple of people will, but not all of them.

No. This is bullshit. What it comes down to is that Paxton may or may not know I’m here, but the least I can do is go in and be there. Not because she might need me – I know she won’t – but because she’s practically a sister to me, and that’s what you do for your sister. I’d walk through fire for her. I can walk through those doors. And if I do nothing else, I can at least bear witness.

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 5

We could see the full moon, and we were joking about how it makes people crazy. JD handed me the joint as he blew a long stream of smoke toward the sky. It seemed to go on forever. Even when he started talking his words came out in puffs of smoke. Then I realized it was the steam of his breath in the cold night air. He was talking about the loggers, how restless they are since the sawmill closed down and there’s not enough work.


I was feeling pretty restless myself, itching to be on the road again, tired of this town and all the people in it. I liked Smitty’s better on quiet nights, when me and Smitty could just hang out and shoot the shit. Even Smitty seemed on edge tonight. I pulled out a smoke and offered one to JD. He took one with a massive, rugged hand. “I really ought to get back to the door,” he said, and I agreed. I needed another cold one. We could hear the volume of noise rising as we got closer to the front door, and I noticed JD pick up the pace a bit.

When he opened the door in front of us, all I saw was a blurr of bodies and I didn’t go any further. JD had to go in, it was his job, and I didn’t envy him any of it. I saw some guy punch a woman in the face, and another woman pick up a chair and smash it over the guy’s head. Then JD started going around with the bat, trying to break up the fights, but he didn’t get a chance to use it – somebody came up behind him and smashed him over the head. I saw him fall over on top of a woman who looked like she was trying to crawl out of there. That’s when I knew it was definitely time to hit the road again. I stuck out my thumb and haven’t looked back since.

At the funeral, 4

There are veils upon veils of illusion in this place. With this many people, they're changing all the time, overlapping each other. It's getting hard for me to see through them. We're right in the middle of the congregation; there's no getting out until the mass is over. Robert said when his grandfather died, the mass went on for what felt like half the day, but then he was eleven at the time. He guessed it was more like an hour. I can manage for that long. If I close my eyes and bow my head, it will look like I'm praying. And maybe I should pray – although it makes me uncomfortable to pray to Lady Brigid when I'm in a Catholic church. I don't know why – in the side chapel is a lovely statue of the Virgin Mary and I don't think she would mind. Still, it seems disrespectful to pray to a Goddess in a house where only one God is acknowledged. Not that it matters what you call it --

That's odd. There's a dark, shadowy corner of the church towards the back chapel, but something's glowing there. It's a familiar sort of light – I can't be entirely sure, but it might well be the same one I saw in Paxton's apartment during the ritual, the one she didn't want to tell the others about.

"Robert," I whisper. And Lady bless him, he's so tuned into me that he hears, even though I've barely made a sound. He doesn't say anything; unlike me, he has manners, and he wouldn't interrupt the service. But he looks at me and raises an eyebrow. "Look," I say, nodding toward the light.

"What is it?" he says. "I don't see anything."

"Oh. I wondered if you would," I say. "I think I have to go find out what that is."

"What what is? Sara, look, there's Paxton coming in. They'll be starting soon. Can it wait?"

"Probably not," I say. "I'll be back in a bit."

Robert sighs with no little exasperation, but there's love in it, too, and he lets me go. He knows I'll tell him all about it later. I push my way out of the pew as politely as I can, although it's hard to do this when the larger people don't notice I'm here. I don't mind my height, or lack thereof, except in situations like this. I do so hate crowds.

I circle around the back of the church and approach the light from behind. I don't want to scare it off, whatever it is. There are, of course, many possibilities I can eliminate – no fairy would be found dead in a church, and elementals don't usually like company.

The light is brighter the closer I get, shifting, folding in on itself, and it's definitely the same one I saw before. The colors are the same – transclucent blue, aquamarine, silver, like watching a frozen waterfall in impossible motion. I'm feeling slightly giddy.

"Hello," I say, and in less than a moment, the light is gone. In its place stands a tall, well-made young man, his eyes narrowing at me with suspicion. Even though I know the eyes are an illusion, the sentiment is real.

"You're Sara," he says, and his voice is like a low bell.

"Yes. And you are...?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and turns towards the front of the church, where Paxton is finally sitting down in the first pew. The lady with her is very kindly pinning a bit of black lace into her hair – of course Paxton would have forgotten a veil. I would give a lot to be there with her right now, holding her hand.

I look back at the young man – or whatever he is – and I see that he's feeling exactly the same thing.

"Why don't you go to her?" I ask. "I'm sure she would welcome your company."

"I don't think so," he says, and although I can't tell what color his eyes are, the desperate sorrow in them unbalances me, and my own eyes begin to well with tears. But I don't know why. "She doesn't want me there."

"May I ask why?" I say. "No, I'm sorry, of course I don't mean to pry."

"She doesn't want me there because I'm not real. Not in the sense that she's real, and that you are real. I'm not exactly -"

"Human, yes, that much is evident. But – real? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The last time I saw her, the day before her mother died, she told me that I was just pretending. That I didn't know what the stakes are, that I didn't know what it means to feel something so deeply it consumes you, what it means to be human," he says, his eyes never leaving the front of the church. "She told me to go away."

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing – it's not the first time I've fought the urge to laugh at an inappropriate time. Robert says it's nerves, and I'm sure he's right.

"And you thought she meant it," I say, once I can be sure of my composure.

"Of course she did," he says. "She's not the kind of person to say things she doesn't mean."

"Not on purpose, I'm sure," I say. "But we all – even you, I suspect – say things that don't show what we really feel. And things have changed for her since she last saw you."

"Yes," he says. "But I don't want to take advantage of that."

"Of course not," I agree. "But I think you're not being as brave as you could be."

He straightens, and his eyes meet mine. They aren't as dark as they were before, as if the light of his being is beginning to radiate through his body, dissolving the illusion. In moments, the human figure is gone, and the glorious light of his being is back beside me. It pulses once, then disappears. I wonder if he was saying good-bye.

I breathe deeply, but the incense in the church is almost more than I can bear. I want to leave, to consider this alone, to get out of the press of people and their layers upon layers of masks. But I need Robert more.

I wait for a moment when the congregation is standing, then I make my way back to Robert. I hold his hand tightly. My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I think he must hear it, because he looks down at me, concerned.

I pull him down to me and whisper directly into his ear.

"I think I've just met an angel."