Queen of Angels

  Nadine had always exhibited a remarkable ability to ignore reality or see only what she wished to see. She had played her therapy games with him. She deserved to reap the consequences. Surely the powers that be would allow him that. Surely the example of Emanuel Goldsmith who had attracted so much attention pointed his way clearly.

  Richard did not care to solve the conundrum of Goldsmith now. He did not want to think or puzzle at all.

  He rolled over again in bed to observe Nadine’s sleeping form. She had tried to get him to make love to her an hour earlier, telling him it would ease his tensions. She seemed to find his distress attractive; it aroused some perverse mothering instinct.

  He had painfully worked his way out of that trap. Now he looked upon her warm and quiet and saw only flesh that needed to be stilled.

  + Sick. Really need therapy now not hers professional. Over the edge. Beyond the beyond. Write a poem about her flesh passing from sleeping life to stillness disorder beneath my fingers. Selectors read the poem come to put me through hell worse than what I experience now? Doesn’t seem possible. Therapists cluck cluck over me probe my mind mandatory revision of my soul shift this over here what’s that? Don’t touch that; poison, a mental virus infect us all, he must have caught it from Goldsmith. One last chance; burn his mind his body to ashes sift the ashes reassemble them into a new man New Man send him forth into the world shining of face prepared to behave boy scout honorable fit for society perhaps even seeking employment going to an agency and all he has to do is touch her neck smooth warm feel the birdbreath pulse of blood there

  She moved. He withdrew his hand, put it back. Would she awake before dying. Could he ease her gently into disorder.

  + Still kindness in me. Something gentle still there. Purge it or they will. Do this thing now and the world will beat a path to my door my brain let us help you. Curious about how you came to be this way. Do you blame it on your upbringing? No, on a friend who disappointed me. Merely disappointed? Cluck. Disappointment not sufficient to cause all this. No he betrayed what he stood for. Stood for in me. Cluck. Betrayal is serious thing. She wants to betray you by therapying you. In the shade who needs therapy I do you do we all do but that’s not important. What is important is stopping the misery. Could vomit out all my thoughts personality memory just throw them through my eyes onto the bed. They would stand up on their own feet scamper crawl over the sheets they would kill her then. Eat her like monstrous insects. Cluck. Disturbed images. Most upsetting for normal people to peer into your head see such thoughts. You are so unclean therapy would be futile. Bring on the Selectors. Punishment is the only answer. Purging fire with a fusion flame of greater misery.

  He continued to stroke Nadine’s neck softly.

  + Another kind of seduction. Make death with me. It will relax you.

  That tickled him and he had to subdue a chuckle.

  + Sounding most maniacal now. Really over the border. Goldsmith’s example. Did he laugh gleefully as he cut their throats unsuspecting sacrificial lambs one by bloody disordered one.

  But the fingers would not tighten. He could still feel that subservient person within gentle and undemanding, resisting these impulses with an iron determination that seemed uncharacteristic.

  Richard rolled on his back, stared up at the dark ceiling, traced the ancient earthquake crack in the ancient plaster.

  He had once lain in this bed and watched a ghostly drift of shadows around the light fixture, hair rising on his neck and arms, convinced he was seeing something supernatural. The awe he had felt at that moment had been religious, had given a chill meaning to the few moments he remained deceived. Gradually, he had gathered courage of two kinds: courage to investigate this perhaps spookish phenomenon and courage to discover the truth and possibly be disappointed. He had stood up on his bed, approached the light fixture by rising on crane knees, reached out with a hand to touch a shadow.

  Cobwebs. Great loose strands casting shadows outward from the light fixture. No ghosts, no awe. Heat from the antique electric furnace rising and blowing along the ceiling.

  + This misery and funk heat rising from within, blowing cobweb self, casting bogeyman shadows nothing more.

  All he had to do was reach out and undeceive himself.

  + Go back to being the iron willed reluctant to kill gentle Richard Fettle, Los Angeles’s shade common man. Betrayed enraged abused.

  He was wide awake but his body had exhausted itself in the counterpoise of tensions. He could feel his breathing slow, hitch in and out of regularity. His hands tingled slightly then his legs. If he could just drift.

  + Let it all go. Die.

  He half opened his eyes. A tunnel floated above him, its black lip carved with words he could not read.

  His body grew numb, his breathing passed beyond his control. Exhaustion had finally claimed him yet he was thinking and seeing. This was not what he wanted; sleep was supposed to bring oblivion. For a moment he tried to struggle upward, fearful of spending the entire night in a horrible trance staring down the throat of a nightmare. With each willful surge upward his breathing hitched, he seemed to emerge from the trance and then a contrary fear struck him; he was more comfortable more peaceful now than he had been. If he struggled further the complete misery would return; better this than what had come before.

  Richard stopped his inner struggle. He observed the tunnel calmly, waiting to see if anything would change. He could see the room only in hazy outlines; his eyes were not half open after all but completely closed, he was sure of that; yet the room remained visible like an afterimage from some momentary flash, its planes and forms glowing somber green. He saw both the tunnel and the electric light fixture it obscured; one could pass through the other. He seemed to be in control of a microscope moving through levels of focus, revealing more and more details of a world suspended in fixative.

  The effect was so fascinating that for a moment he completely forgot his misery. He had heard friends describe the experience of “eyeball movies”—had heard it called lucid dreaming many decades ago—but had never experienced it until now. This was like the gateway to an interior universe.

  But thinking of that returned him to his waking problems and the scene suspended above him muddied. His breathing hitched again.

  —Lord no. Like riding a horse. Learn how to stay in the saddle. Steady and calm.

  The regularity returned. He controlled his awareness until he could see the tunnel.—Might as well.

  He moved himself into the tunnel. The words were still not comprehensible; the letters grew more complicated then fled as he approached. Abruptly the tunnel was gone and a voice said to him as clearly as if it spoke in his waking ear, Here is what you need Richard Fettle.

  He stood in the old apartment in Long Beach. Outside the daylight was bright but somehow somber; the coloring of dream. Yet this could just as easily be memory; everything was correct. He walked around the apartment, arms folded, feeling his dream body, his dream breathing. This was real yet the apartment no longer existed; the century old building had been razed a decade or more ago.

  With sudden alarm he wondered whether Gina would walk through the door, dropped off for a visit by Dione. Could he stand to see a perfectly convincing dream image of the dead?

  Richard looked at the palms of his hands.

  —Dream emotions. Everything’s safe. You’re in control. Try something.

  —Try flying.

  He willed himself to lift from the floor. His feet remained on the floor.

  —Can’t do everything.

  He tried to will a beautiful woman not Nadine to come through the door dressed in provocative clothes.

  —How real can this get.

  No woman entered through the door.

  The voice again: This is what you need Richard Fettle.

  Chastised, he realized he was not here to play or experiment. A gate had indeed been opened but for a specific reason.

  —What do I need?

  As a
utomatically as the distant sleep rhythm of his breath he walked toward a chair, sat and felt a cloud of sadness drift over him. He struggled to get up but could not. He could not dispel the cloud.

  —Not this again. No.

  Protests ignored.

  A younger Emanuel Goldsmith stood in the doorway carrying a plastic bag wrapped around a bottle, a manuscript in a box under his other arm. He closed the door behind him.

  Richard watched this apparition hair black no salt and pepper out of fashion clothes, smoother face. Gentle smile.

  “Thought you could use company. If you don’t want any…” Goldsmith gestured to the door. “I’ll go.”

  Automatically: “Thank you. Stay. I don’t have much for lunch…”

  “Liquid lunch or I’ll call out. Got a royalty check yesterday. Video play production residuals. Moses.” Goldsmith sat on a threadbare couch, avoiding a red wine stain where Dione had knocked over a glass some time ago. He set the manuscript down over the stain.

  Gina and Dione would not be coming through the door.

  In this time frame, in this dream memory, Gina and Dione were already dead. Richard was observing a playback; he could do nothing but watch.

  This is what you need Richard Fettle.

  “What kind of liquid?” Richard asked.

  “Unblended single malt scotch. To celebrate paying my debts.” He raised his eyebrows, pulled out the bottle, cradled its neck between two fingers and thumb and let Richard inspect the warm amber contents. From the bag he also produced two shot glasses. “Because you’re not a drinking man you’re not likely to have a couple of these lying around.”

  “I’ve never tasted unblended scotch,” Richard said.

  “Unblended single malt.”

  —Everything stored away. How much of this really happened? Am I making it up as I dream? I remember Goldsmith visiting. Two weeks after, maybe a week and a half.

  Goldsmith poured two drinks and handed one to Richard. “For denizens of the shade, which gets longer as twilight approaches.”

  “To Götterdämmerung.” Richard tasted the scotch; it was smoky and smooth and unexpectedly seductive. “I don’t think I want to get drunk. It would be easy to drown myself in this.”

  “I only bought one bottle and it wasn’t to drown your sorrows,” Goldsmith said. “You’ll never be a drinking man, anyway. You may not believe this, Dick”—only Goldsmith called him Dick—“but you’ve got your head screwed on pretty straight. One of my few acquaintances who does.”

  “Not screwed on. It just feels screwed now.”

  “You’ve taken an awful blow,” Goldsmith said softly. “If I were you I’d be pissing tears.”

  Richard shrugged.

  “You haven’t left the apartment in a week. You don’t have any food. Harriet’s buying food for you now.”

  —Harriet, Harriet…Goldsmith once had a girlfriend by that name.

  “I don’t need help,” Richard said.

  “The hell you say.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “We need to get you out of here, into whatever sun the bastards are leaving us. Go to the state beach. Breathe some fresh air.”

  “Please.” Richard waved his hand. “I’ll be all right.”

  —Both of us so young. I see him as he was then bright and happy successful wanted everybody to be happy.

  “Life does go on,” Goldsmith suggested. “It really does, Dick. Harriet and I, we like you. We want to see you recover from this. Dione wasn’t even your wife, Dick.”

  Richard leaped to his feet, extremely agitated. “Jesus Christ. The divorce isn’t wasn’t final and Gina will always be my daughter. Do you want to take everything away? Even my…” Waving hands violently. “All that I have left. My goddamned pain…”

  “No. Not taking it away. How long since we met, Dick?”

  Richard didn’t answer. He stood trembling, fists clenched.

  “Two and a half months,” Goldsmith answered for him. “I consider you already maybe the best friend I’ve ever had. I just hate to see life grind anybody. Especially you.”

  “It’s something I have to go through.”

  “I’ve never married. I’d hate to lose something so important. I think it would kill me. Maybe you’re stronger than I am.”

  “Bullshit,” Richard said.

  “I mean it. I’m not strong inside. I look at you, you’re like a rock. Inside I’m just clay. I’ve always known that. I accept it.” Goldsmith stood, lifted his arms and turned once for inspection. “I look solid, don’t I.”

  “Stop it, please,” Richard said, looking down. “I’m not going to starve myself but right now I don’t need your help. I just don’t care.”

  Goldsmith sat. “Harriet says someone should be sleeping here to keep you company.”

  “I haven’t had anybody sleeping here in five months. I’ve been alone except for.” He didn’t finish. Goldsmith waited.

  “All right,” Goldsmith said.

  “When Gina.”

  “Yeah.”

  Richard sat and picked up the glass. “Stayed here.” He sipped again. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Yeah,” Goldsmith said. “Don’t feel like we don’t care. I care. Harriet. All the folks.”

  “I know,” Richard said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll stay if you want.”

  “Good scotch. Maybe I can become a drinking man.”

  “No, brother, you don’t want to get messed up with this shit.” Goldsmith lifted the bottle, stood and approached him. “Give me your glass. I’ll toss it. The hell with celebrations.”

  Richard resisted his efforts to remove the glass. Goldsmith backed away, ran his hand through his hair, looked at the curtained window. “Let’s go outside and hunt some sunshine, Dick. Whatever we can find. Pure bright white light.”

  Richard felt tears on his cheeks.

  —Complete. No details missing.

  “Go ahead, man,” Goldsmith encouraged gently. “Talk.”

  Richard wiped his cheeks. “I really did love her. I couldn’t live with her but I loved her. And Gina…Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything on this Earth like I love that girl. There’s a big crater here, Emanuel.” He tapped his head. “A bomb blast. I’m not all here.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No really. I can’t do anything. I can’t think, I can’t talk straight, I can’t write. I can’t cry.”

  “You’re crying now, man. Don’t mistake grief for losing your soul. You’ve still got everything. You’re rock.”

  The sob began as a muscle cramp deep inside. It worked its way up, acquiring an intensity that seemed to fragment his chest, until he sat on the couch shaking moaning holding his hands outstretched, grabbing at something.

  —Feel it. Awful. This is it all over again. Worse even.

  Goldsmith came to the couch, kneeled in front of Richard and hugged him fiercely. Goldsmith wept with him rocked with him, black eyes staring at the wall behind Richard. “You say it, man. Get it out. Tell the whole fucking world.”

  The sob turned into a scream. Goldsmith held Richard to the couch as if he might leap away. Legs and arms thrashing, feeling all the unfairness and the pain and the necessity of feeling the unfairness and pain to honor his dead he must suffer. Would be cheap and lessen their value not to suffer as much as he possibly could. Goldsmith hung on. Finally they lay embraced on the couch, Richard holding Goldsmith, Goldsmith lying half on half off, still clutching him.

  “Rock. Stone, man. Feel your strength inside. I know it’s there. I couldn’t take this. But you can, Dick. Hold on.”

  “All right,” Richard moaned. “All right.”

  “We love you, man. Hold on to it.”

  —Goldsmith. The real one.

  Goldsmith pulled back and his hair was gray, his face lined. “I’m clay. When you grieve for me, my friend, remember…You don’t owe me anything but what you give me when I’m alive. That’s it. Debt cleared.”

/>   Richard nodded. Swallowed an agonizing knot in his throat. He had had enough. With a jerk he floated free of the memory and dream, felt a pressure as if he were confined in gray cotton, then a simple drift, bits and pieces of other dreams cascading and reassembling, dissolving. He opened his eyes and sat up on the side of the bed. Trembling, he hung his hands over his knees and leaned forward. Beside him Nadine moaned in her sleep and rolled over.

  Richard stood slowly and went to the window.

  + How much buried. Dig it up, bury it again. He helped me. Was kind to me. A friend. Now he’s dead he must be. I can’t feel his presence.

  Richard’s memory of that day was not clear. The dream hadn’t conveyed the whole story, not the conclusion. Goldsmith’s friend Harriet had come through the door without knocking while Goldsmith and Richard held each other on the couch. She had asked “What’s this?” and dropped a box of groceries on the floor. Then she had broken down in tears while Goldsmith tried to explain that Richard and he were not lovers. Harriet had never really understood; she and Goldsmith had ended their relationship a few weeks later.

  Richard parted the window curtains, rubbed his eyes and shook his head, smiling. That had embarrassed the hell out of Goldsmith.

  He glanced at the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. Three hundred. In a few hours the sun would rise over the hills and the combs would mete it out to those in their shadow, mirrors spreading the winter dawn, echoing from tower to tower second third and fourth hand, but still sun.

  “Let’s go hunt some sunshine,” he whispered.

  55

  Mary Choy had pulled a chair across her spacious bedroom to the eastfacing window. Then she had sat and waited for sunrise. The sun had come up an hour after she had awakened, the dawn brief and beautiful from the mansion’s perspective high in the mountains of Hispaniola. With daylight guards and soldiers had gathered in the garden below the window, standing in groups of three or four until they were replaced by the morning watch.