Angel by Shawn Michel de Montaigne

Author:Shawn Michel de Montaigne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: faith, angel, redemption, belief, salvation, heaven, life after death

Chapter Eleven

The Ace

~~*~~

SIRENS SURROUNDED the block. Cop cars and other emergency vehicles parked on the west and north sides of the stadium. From there tiny shadowy figures of police and others made their way towards the carnage. Calliel didn’t turn to look back at them, not even after they kicked on the stadium lights. He went through the gap in the fence and walked east. He didn’t stumble or trip or belch. If he was drunk, he hid it well.

It began to drizzle again. I knew his home was miles off, and admonished, “Damnit, man, call yourself a taxi.”

He stopped, looked up like the idea just came to him. “Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“There’s a cab right there. See it? It’s parked right there at that 7-11 two blocks up on the right.”

He looked up the street, then crossed it, walking quickly. “Thanks, partner.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The cab was empty, but its engine was still going. The driver was inside talking to the night clerk, a bony middle-aged woman who busied herself by stocking cigarettes.

“I’m lookin’ to give you a bit of ferryin’ business,” said Calliel. “How ‘bout it?”

The driver chuckled genially. “This ain’t the Mississippi. Where do you need ‘ferryin’ ’ to?”

“Home. Just a few miles from here.”

“Well, then, let’s go. I’m off, Irma …”

The clerk waved and went back to her stocking. Calliel hopped in the back of the cab. The air was warm and smelled of stale cigarettes. He gave the address and the cabbie pulled out of the parking lot.

I considered the violence I’d witnessed this night. Somewhere more of it was taking place (or had already happened) as a jealous bartender took bloody revenge upon his cheating girlfriend and his boss, who would no longer get to smirk at cameras as more notoriety came his way. At the fulcrum of the carnage was the angel below me, who sighed and settled into his seat.

He wanted me to be an angel like him. That sounded absurd on its face. I didn’t have his strength, for one. I had no idea how to handle myself in a fight, for another. I remembered the last fistfight I got in; I was in sixth grade. The bully beating me didn’t have much of a challenge. He made quick work of me, then kicked dirt in my face and spat on me before the teachers got there. He promised a regular beating each and every week after that, but never got the chance to make good. On a family outing just a few days later, as I recall, the stationwagon he was in was sideswiped by a semi, killing him and his family instantly.

The entire school came to a halt to deal with the tragedy. Everyone was in tears. Everyone except me. I remember feeling nothing but relief and, to be completely honest, a sense of justice. I remember hiding that deep inside myself, and feeling horribly guilty for feeling it. The bully was a very popular boy, well liked by everyone.

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