Angels

My wife Marty, 46, died on a Tuesday, 548 days ago. She was struck by a car at 9:32 PM, near our house at 3613 Yale Drive, and her body was discovered the next morning by one of our neighbors, Betty Waterman, who was out retrieving the Wednesday paper. At the funeral, held ten days later,I heard my nephew and his girlfriend talk about the ordeal. "Why didn't your uncle look for her?" "I guess they got in a fight and she took off." "Does he blame himself for her being on the street that night?" "No one has the balls to ask him."

In truth, I did blame myself, and I blamed God, and I blamed Marty for leaving me in the middle of the night. I blamed the neighbors for not being outside when she was hit, and I blamed Betty for waiting so long to get her newspaper in the morning. Strangely enough, I blamed the anonymous driver who hit her least of all because I couldn't picture him. What kind of face would a monster have? Was he an old man, or a young man? Was he careless or a drunk? What compelled him to keep going and what stopped him from calling for help?

The police didn't have any leads because there were no witnesses, but they encouraged me to hold a press conference in hopes that the driver would feel guilty and turn himself in.

That was 518 days ago, and still no one had come forward.

**

Since Marty's death, I spent a lot of time in our living room, which she had converted into a painting studio. She had set up two easels, and her dirty brushes and palettes still sit on the floor, although now dried up and collecting dust. I hadn't moved anything since her passing, and today, I stood in front of the first easel and stared at the canvas. I saw the pencil scratches,forming the beginning ofa self-portrait, and I'm amazed at how she captured her eyes. Large, expressive and almond-shaped. Marty really had the most beautiful chocolate-colored eyes, and she used to stare at me, her lids slightly lowered, her head tilted downward, right before she would kiss me. She left a CD inside of the player next to the second easel, and I pushed play. I listened to Joni Mitchell's Blue as I sat on the floor, staring out the windows of the patio doors, thinking about the fight Marty and I had the night she died. It was about me being gone all the time, neglecting her. She wanted to adopt a baby because we couldn't have one of our own, but I had given up on the idea of a child when we learned she was infertile ten years ago. As Marty filled her days, working part-time in the admissions office at the University of Kansas, painting portraits, and waiting to hear from the adoption agency, I was in my office at KU, Number 1210 of Westwood Hall, avoiding her and her incessant talks about "our baby." "I don't want to be a gray-haired old man at our son's graduation," I would say. "What if we had a girl? I could teach her art, or you could teach her music..." "So that she'll grow up, give it up, and become boring, like us?" I exasperated and hurt her with my cynicism, which was unfair. After all, she encouraged me to quit my job, which I hated, and she encouraged me to try to make a career in music, but I told her that was a dumb idea. "Bitterness doesn't suit you," she said as her voice slightly cracked.

When I was twenty and a student at KU, I was in a rock band called The Beets. We played at bars and coffee shops around town, but my parents hated my music and hated even more that I wasn't studying hard enough or thinking about my future. They wanted me to get an engineering degree so that I'd be guaranteed a good job after graduation, but I hated the classes. They wanted me to date the daughters of their family friends, but I wasn't attracted to any of them. They wanted me to take an internship, but I didn't have time because of the band. A manager from Kansas City came to one of our shows and told us he wanted to take us to the next level. He filled me and my buddies' heads with dreams of drunken nights on the road, music videos, and mansions in Hollywood. Three months later, when we figured out he was a phony who took twenty percent of our gig money, we fired him, and our singer Brent, a philosophy major, asked, "What's the point?" We still hung out and played every so often, but we changed our focus from our music to our studies, and each of us graduated from the honors program two years later. My parents were still disappointed that I wasn't an engineer, but I thought it would make them happy if I got a physics P.h.D. at Columbia University. It took me ten miserable years to earn that degree (for my classmates, eight), and I had hoped that the department would ask me to stay, but they said there was no position available. They seemed apologetic, but I knew better. My advisor didn't like me, and when I snuck a peek at my file, I saw his evaluation of me during my final year. He wrote, "Although a pleasant fellow, Will Fan seems to lack potential for success or growth." After graduation, I found a lecturer position at my alma mater, returned to Kansas, and met Marty, who was four years older than me and divorced once before. We dated for eight months, then married at the courthouse, and she was able to pay for our house at 3613 Yale Drive with money she inherited from her grandfather.

There was a loud knock on my front door. I closed my eyes and hoped that it would stop, but whoever was doing it was relentless.Annoyed, I trudged to the door.

"Hey, Professor Fan," a young voice said. I saw it was Shae Bentley, a waifish but pretty girl who lived down the street. Years past, her parents had essentially abandoned their house and moved to a condo in San Diego, and Shae moved in two years ago to get her life together. She couldn't get a job after dropping out of Kansas State, and from an outsiders POV, Shae did nothing but hang out, drink, and spend her parents' money. I didn't know her too well even though I thought she was sweet, but that was the neighborhood gossip. She accompanied some of those gossipy neighbors to Marty's funeral, and every once in a while, she'd drop by the house with treats."I brought these for you," she said, shoving brownies into my arms. They looked dry, as if they were burnt little cakes, but I thanked her and tried to signal for her to go. "What're you up to?" she asked. "I'm working," I lied. "On your lesson plans?" she asked. "Yes." She had told me once that she was thinking of going back to school and that she heard I taught physics. "That's really cool you're a professor," she said with her raspy drawl. "Thanks," I replied, not wanting to correct her that I was not technically a professor, but only a lecturer.

"Thanks for the brownies," I said. Shae smiled shyly at me, wanting something, but I just wanted her to go. She continued to standon my doorstep, like she had so many times before, but I was not ready to let her in.

"Oh, okay, then," she said with disappointment, and I shut the door.

**

Every Tuesday, I head to Mass Street, which was now decorated for Christmas, and I would meet with a psychic named Cleopatra who had a shop below her one bedroom apartment. She would take me into a purple room in the back, where there were two cushy chairs and a round table covered with cloth. She would light a vanilla candle and hold my hands. "I can feel her," Cleopatra would say in a fake "gypsy" accent. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she tilted her head to the ceiling. "She wants you to find peace." The things she said were complete bullshit, but I kept returning because of the feeling in the air. Whenever she would roll back her eyes and mumble her jibberish, I would feel a chill, a presence that made my hairs stand and goose bumps rise on my arms. It was almost like a whisper on my neck, and once, I thought I heard Marty, who with the softest of whispers told me to, "Stay..."

Today, I sat with Cleopatra who wore a turban,giant feather earrings and a myriad of gold necklaces. She looked like a caricature of a fortuneteller with a crystal ball, but I didn't care. I forked over my hundred bucks, and she reached for my hands and we closed our eyes. "She's asking about you," she said. "She wants to know why you haven't moved on..."

I pictured Marty, who was tall and strong like a warrior woman. She had dark hair and dark skin, and I imagined her the first night we met. We were at a campus mixer, essentially acting like chaperones at a high school prom to the incoming freshman, and she had seen me across the lawn and smiled. I was captivated by her presence, and she looked so beautiful and carefree in her white summer dress. When she walked over, she stuck out her hand, "I'm Marty," she said. I introduced myself, and for a few seconds we stood in awkward silence. "I like your hair," she said to break the ice. I had longer curls back then, and I remember how she used to put her fingers through them.

"Marty wants you to go back to work," Cleopatra said. "She knows how much science means to you..."

The room suddenly turned black and the temperature dropped. Cleopatra moved like a wax figure with inaudible mumbling lips, and as she put on her show, I saw a hole appear in the wall behind her. It started off the size of a dime and grew to a quarter, and then a burst of light broke through and the room filled with white.

My heart slowed down from the cold, and the hairs on my exposed skin raised. I felt as if I had stopped breathing, but then...

I saw her. I saw Marty in her white sundress, and she had angel wings. With grace, she reached out her arms to me. I wanted to reach back but my body was paralyzed, and then I saw I was still holding Cleopatra's hands. It was as if my soul had left my body to meet her, who again whispered, "Stay..."

"How do you feel?" Cleopatra asked, breaking me from my trance. She bored into me with her saucer-like eyes, and my goose bumps disappeared and my breathing returned to normal. The heavenly light disappeared and the room returned to its tacky beginnings. "I'm fine," I said, taking a deep swallow, "Thank you."

**

I left Cleopatra's and headed next door to Armand's Coffee, a dark, dive of a coffee shop decorated inside with white Christmas lights. It smelled like espresso and bundt cake, and I ordered an iced cap and said hello to the barista Amy, who knew me from my days of playing there, over two decades ago. "We started an open mic night. You should sign up," she offered, but I shook my head. "I don't do that anymore," I replied, and I took out a stack of fliers from my messenger bag. She cringed when she saw them. "Hey, sorry, Will, but Kevin doesn't want you putting those up anymore." They were flyers reminding people of the reward I was giving in return for information about Marty's killer. I looked to the bulletin board, which had postings for band listings, roommates wanted, and Athiest soccer clubs, but my old flyers were no where to be found. "Was he the one who took them down?" I asked. She nodded, and I thanked her and stuffed the papers away.

I exited Armand's and was immediately hit with the winter winds of Lawrence, Kansas. The sidewalks were slick with compounded snow and salt, and the piles of snowdrifts engulfed the parking meters where they almost disappeared. "Professor Fan?" I heard. I looked over and saw Shae next to a silver BMW, a car I had seen in the neighborhood but didn't know was hers. "I thought you had a red convertible?" I asked. "I traded it in a long time ago," she said. "It's nice," I replied, and then I noticed how hard she shivered in her thermal shirt and a cute pink hat and scarf. "You should be wearing a jacket," I said. "I'm fine," she lied as she rubbed her shoulders to keep warm. "I'm heading to Thai Roma for lunch." "That's two blocks away. Here," I said. I took off my coat and gently wrapped it around her shoulders. She smiled at me, and her blue eyes twinkled underneath her thick lashes. I suddenly wanted to kiss her, so I stepped away.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" she asked. My first reaction was to tell her I was busy. After a year and a half of solitude, it was hard to be around people even if I wanted to be. "I'm going to stay at home and work on stuff." The rejection showed on her face, but she tried her best to hide it. "Oh," she said, "Maybe next time."

**

It has been 562 days since Marty's death, and still no one has come forward. I entered the Lawrence Police Station and met with the mousy Detective Lopez. She was an empathetic woman who had been with the case since the very beginning, but she wasn't aggressive enough. She questioned people on the block and studied the crime scene photos, but that was it before she essentially gave up and advised me to hold a press conference.

I found the experience to be humiliating. I sat at a table next to Lopez in front of a room full of folding chairs with two newspaper reporters, a representative from the city, and a small news crew. "Are you offering a reward?" the Lawrence Journal World reporter asked. "I'm prepared to give one to anyone who offers information that could bring my wife's killer to justice." "Do the police have any leads?" "Judging by the paint residue on Mrs. Fan's body, we concluded that the vehicle was a red sedan," Detective Lopez said,"We also know that Mrs. Fan was struck at 9:32 PM." The news camera zoomed in on my face, tired, gaunt, aged greatly in only a matter of days. I watched the segment later, which aired on the six o'clock news. They gave me less than sixty seconds and focused mostly on the reward. After the conference, I received condolence letters from strangers, and Detective Lopez waded through dozens of calls with false leads, which resulted in nothing but frustrations. Two months later, a little girl was abducted at a Wal-Mart in Kansas City, and no one cared anymore about Marty or me.

I sat across from Lopez in her office, and she offered me stale coffee, which I didn't drink. Without looking at the file, she said, "I'm sorry, but there aren't any new revelations with your case." "You can't do forensics or some CSI stuff to uncover the truth?" Her look offered me sympathy but nothing more. "I wish we had that kind of technology, but it doesn't exist...Our only option at this point is for someone to come forward."

I rose from my seat.

"Mr. Fan," she called before I could leave. "Have you thought about throwing another conference?" I stared at her. Are you kidding me?

"I'll think about it," I said and walked out.

**

I entered Gilham's Liquor, which was two blocks away from my house. As "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" blasted on the PA system, I bought a bottle of Jack Daniels, and the frat guy cashier placed it into a brown paper bag and cheekily told me to, "Have a good night." I walked home, bundled up but my face still freezing, and when I passed Shae's home, I stopped to look at it. It was a plain-looking ranch-style that was too big for a 21-year-old girl.

The other houses in the neighborhood had Christmas lights up and trees visible in their window, but not Shae's. She and I were the only ones who didn't care anymore, and I liked that about her. I looked at my paper bag, and I got an idea.

I trekked up the sidewalk to Shae's front porch, and I knocked on the door. I heard the TV in the living room, so I knocked again but there was no response.

Figuring she was asleep, I turned to walk away, but then there was a click of the door unlocking.

"Professor Fan?"

A tired-looking Shae looked at me. Her chestnut hair was a mess, and there were bags under her eyes. By the way she spoke, I wondered if she had been drinking.

"I wanted to see if you wanted to have a drink," I said, motioning to my paper bag. She gazed at it, assessing the situation.

"I'll get my coat," she said, about to shut the door. "Why don't we just hang out at your place?" I asked. "It's a mess," she replied. I tried to peek in, but she blocked my view. "Oh, come on," I said. She rubbed at her eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them. After a moment of thinking, she stepped back, allowing me in.

**

I imagined Shae's parents' house to have light-colored, country-style furniture. I imagined a beautiful fireplace with a family portrait hanging above it, or maybe an original painting of the ocean, and I imagined it to smell like cookies or brownies, which she was so fond of making me. To my surprise, there was barely any furniture, just some electronics, a cheap futon from Wal-Mart, and some bar stools. "My parents took most of the stuff when they moved," she explained at my reaction. She was watching The Real Housewives of Orange County, and the room stank of oldness and alcohol. She swatted an empty pizza box off of the futon and offered me a seat. When I sat, my foot knocked over a half-finished glass of wine onto the hardwood floor. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said, embarrassed. She rushed to get a sauce-stained towel from the kitchen and mopped it up. "What if I squeezed the rest of this wine into my mouth?" she joked, and I weakly smiled at her, unfamiliar with her humor.

She retrieved two glasses of ice, and I poured us some Jack. I took my time sipping it, but she downed it quickly and poured herself another. Her face reddened slightly with her inebriation, and I was amazed how someone so small could consume so much. "I'm not a drunk," she said, not slurring but her face giving it away, "I just like to enjoy myself." "Do you miss your parents?" I asked. "No." "No?" "I barely saw them when I was a kid. It's not that different now." "Oh," I said and I turned my attention to the TV, where a trashy natural blonde woman fought with an equally trashy bleached blonde.

"Are you hungry?" Shae asked, "I can order us a pizza." "Do you not cook?" I asked. "Not really." "You make all those treats for me." She got quiet for a second, wondering whether or not to reveal a secret. "I only make things for you."

I was touched, and as I looked at her, this young, confused creature, I felt the same attraction to her the day I saw her on Mass Street. As she took another drink of her Jack, I wondered if the feeling was mutual. All signs pointed to yes, but I was still fearful that my loneliness and isolation from human connection ruined my radar. I sat at the other end of the futon, nursing my drink and avoiding her eye contact.

"Do you want to go ice skating?" she asked. "I thought you wanted pizza," I replied. "No, let's go skating." "It's kinda late..." She sighed and accepted this, but the way she pouted made me feel like an old man, or worse, like her father. "I'll drive," I said, and she smiled.

**

Near the KU campus, there was a small body of water called Potter's Lake. In early December when more students were around, it was a popular skating destination, and on the nearby hills, you could feel the rush of excitement as people sped downward on their sleds. Today, it was much quieter, darker, and colder. The sun was still out, but it was about to set, and the shadows from the nearby trees almost appeared to dance against the snow.

Shae nearly slipped on the icy sidewalk as we made our way to the lake, and she grabbed my arm to steady herself. "Whoa!" I said as I bent to catch her, and she shyly laughed as she wobbled to get back on balance. We locked eyes then and she looked away. "I'm such a klutz," she said and we continued walking, separated by a foot of distance.

We approached the edge of the pond, where bits of reed poked out from the snow. "I don't know if that's a good sign," I said. She didn't understand what I meant. "I'm not sure if the ice will be thick enough." We looked to the pond which was solid and white. There was no water visible, and Shae took that to mean we were safe. "Why don't we ease over there and see?" she asked.

"I don't know..." I said but she was already on the ice, moving slowly. She had no skates on, just her winter boots, and she slid with them, almost as if they were skis. I watched as she stood in the middle of the lake, waving for me to come over. "Come on, Professor Fan. It's not a big deal." I wish she would've called me Will, but that was the least of my concerns. "Look!" she yelled before taking a giant leap into the sky. I held my breath as she came crashing down onto the ice, and when I exhaled, she stood there, waiting for me to overcome my fear.

I took a deep breath, which I could see like cigarette smoke, and I stepped onto the ice. She was right. It was solid. I skied over to her, but I moved too fast and slipped. She gasped and rushed to help me. "We're both klutzes today," she said. "Yeah," I replied stupidly and she helped me stay on balance as she led me to the center of the ice.

"Look what I can do!" she said, and she sped to the other side of the pond where she did a double axel. When she landed, hard, I gasped, but then she did a tiny bow. Flecks of ice splashed from her feet, but she smiled. "Stop being so uptight, Professor Fan!" "You can call me, Will!" I yelled back. She smiled again. "Okay, Will!" She hurried to the other side of the pond, turned, and skied back to attempt another double axel. Her foot stepped in front of the other, and her body took off into the air, where she spun twice before extending her right leg. I stood in awe of her. Her other leg straightened, and she returned to the ice. Upon impact, the ice's surface branched out into a million white spider webs, and there was a loud crack before she screamed and plummeted into the water.

I ran. Harder than I had ever in my life.

Shae's hands struggled to push her up to the surface, but the cold water pulled her under. As my feet led me closer to the hole in the ice, I was suddenly pushed back by a blast of light. I laid on the surface, shielding my eyes, and the light expanded until it engulfed me, pushing at my lids until they closed shut and I blacked out.

**

I heard angelic breathing next to me, short huffs and quiet exhales, and I felt a hand reach for mine. Expecting to see whiteness and clouds, I opened my eyes to see the stars in the night sky. I blinked again, wondering how long I had been out.

I was lying in the snow beside my car. Shae sat next to me, shivering, a blanket from my car around her shoulders. I examined her, and she appeared to be fine and I was surprised that she was only shivering slightly and not suffering from hypothermic shock.

"Are you okay?" I asked and tried to hold her hand that reached for me. She pulled it away, and her skin was paler than usual. "I can take you to the hospital."

She stared off into space as if she had just seen a ghost. "Shae," I said.

She emerged from her funk but remained slightly in a daze. "Do you want me to take you home?" I asked. She looked me in the eyes, her pleading expression telling me she didn't want to be alone tonight.

**

I opened the door to my house and turned on the lights. I invited Shae inside, and she stepped in tentatively. "Do you want some tea?" I asked, and she nodded yes. Her lips were purple, and the blanket around her shoulders wasn't keeping her warm enough. She moved cautiously, wandering from the foyer into the kitchen, and then the living room caught her eye. "What's there?" she asked. I put the kettle onto the burner and saw her staring at the easels. "It's nothing. Just some paintings my wife was working on."

She entered the living room, and the winds howled outside. The water in the kettle would take a few minutes to boil, so I followed her into the room, where she was lost in the details as if I wasn't there. She stared at the dust collecting on the furniture, the easels, and the dried paint on the brushes and palette. She smelled the staleness in the air and felt the history in the room. However, what held her attention most was Marty's self-portrait. She stared at the pencil strokes that formed Marty's eyes, and she put her fingertips to the canvas, millimeters from touching the surface. "She was so beautiful," Shae said, and before I could agree, she burst into tears.

"It's okay," I said and instinctively, I rushed to hold her in my arms. Her face pressed against my chest, and her tears warmed my shirt. I gently stroked her hair as I felt her body sob against me. "I'm so sorry," she said. "It's okay," I said. I felt bad that someone so young had to be exposed to my sadness and loss, but I appreciated her sympathy. She looked up at me, begging me to understand her. "I'm sorry," she said again, and I kissed her.

Her mouth was warm and wet and tasted like wine. I pulled her closer; my hands greedily clawing at her back as her fingers grabbed my hair. As our kissing intensified, the porch doors flew open from the wind, and I felt the cold air against my exposed skin. Again it whispered, "Stay." Shae stared out into the cold with fear in her eyes as I rushed to shut the door.

She stepped back towards the self-portrait, and she was mesmerized by Marty's eyes. She slowly pointed at her. "I saw your wife tonight," she said. I stared at her, unsure. "When I fell into the water, I thought I was going to die, and everything went white. Then there she was. She pulled me from the water and set me next to you."

I remembered when I was on the ice, rushing to help, and I remembered the light that shot me back. It made sense that it was Marty, pushing me to safety. I glanced at Shae, who looked as if she had a lot on her mind.

The doors swung open again, and the wind screamed now, "Stay! Stay!" Shae's skin paled and I hurried over to shut the doors, annoyed and confused as to why they wouldn't stay locked. "What the hell's wrong with these things?" I said as I pushed them into place.

"I did it!" she screamed. I looked over at her, and she stared at me, scared and trembling.

"What're you talking about?" I asked. The wind continued to beat against the glass, almost as if to encourage her.

"I'm the one who hit your wife," she whispered. The words filled the air, but my mind wouldn't digest them. Instead, my eyes pleaded with her to say, "I'm joking" because even a cruel joke would be better than this. To my dismay, she wasn't. "I'd been drinking all day, and I ran out of wine so I went out. Your wife was heading into the street, and I wasn't paying attention and I slammed into her." She was sobbing now, recalling that night. "I stopped. I did. I stopped. But she wasn't moving and there was blood everywhere so I got scared and drove away..." She continued to speak, but her words were blurred with images. I pictured her that night, riding around in her red convertible, swerving. Marty, crying about our fight, stepping out into the road, not knowing that this would be her last night alive. "When you offered that reward, it made the whole thing even more real..." Shae continued. "I heard that detective say they knew a red car did it, so I traded mine in." My lips curled in disgust, and she moved to console me but I jerked my arm away.

"And that's why you came over so much..." I said, putting the pieces together. The wind outside continued to speak, but now she was louder and I could finally hear her clearly.

She said, "Shae."

"I'm going to call the police," I said, and she nodded. The room silenced and the wind stopped blowing. She had already found her culprit.

"Your wife told me something tonight," Shae whispered after I made the call. I didn't want to look at her, but I forced myself to meet her eyes. "She said she misses your music." I couldn't believe it but the tears began to fall. I said nothing, and the kettle whistled, signaling it was time for tea.

-----

ANGELS will be included in the short story compilation THE OTHER SIDE, which will be available on Amazon.com in the winter of 2011. Please check www.tloclub.com for updates and more information.

Copyright Teresa Lo 2010. All rights reserved by Bart Enigma Books 2011.