to know what “the black” is. It’s only been two days since he fell from the sky, but those two days have shown just how little I really know about the world. What would happen if he turned that anger on me or my family? This town? For every story of an angel I’ve ever heard, there’s always been a counter to it, an avenging angel. Dark prophecies. Swords of fire. The devil was an angel at one point. There are things he’s keeping from me, I know. I don’t know how much of it falls under his supposed memory loss. It seems almost too convenient for me. But doubting him shames me. I don’t know if I can trust him, but how can I doubt him?
It’s not helping that my mind is completely jumbled from the conversation I overheard at the sheriff’s house. Maybe I’ve gotten too complacent about what happened to Big Eddie. There was a fire inside of me, after his death, a fire that burned so brilliantly it threatened to consume me. Maybe like any flash fire, it had grown so bright and hot it burned itself out, leaving only charred remains. But buried under my grief, I can feel the remains still smoldering, waiting for a spark to ignite them again.
I’m under no illusions about what the men in Griggs’s house were referring to last night. I might not be the smartest person alive, but the blatant way they referred to me left no room for misinterpretation. I don’t know how their so-called “operation” connects to my father, but it has to. Somehow.
The FBI agent’s card sits in my wallet, hidden away.
Three days ago, life was quiet. Life was routine. Solitary. Secluded, even. I knew what to expect from the world, at least my little corner of it. I knew it had teeth and could bite off my outstretched hand when I wasn’t looking. I knew it was easier to run and hide and bury myself in sorrow. At least there, I could let my soul bleed as much as it needed to. I knew I was drowning, but I was okay with that.
Now? This is how things are now:
Thirty minutes after Cal leaves, I am having serious doubts about letting him go off on his own, kicking myself for even suggesting it. He’s a grown man, I tell myself. A grown man who just had Lucky Charms and took a shower for the first time. I step out in front of the store, looking up and down Poplar, but that already familiar red hair isn’t anywhere to be seen. I go back inside.
And it starts.
Eloise Watkins comes into the store. She had been the librarian until the library closed due to budget cuts. She usually comes in on Fridays for a pack of Virginia Slims 120s, telling me each time this will be her last pack, she’s serious this time. She’ll proceed to smoke the cigarettes through the weekend, finishing the last one on her porch on Sunday evening. Monday she’ll tell everyone she’s quit smoking, that she doesn’t even feel the cravings, and why did people think it was so hard to quit? Friday will come around and she’ll back in for her smokes.
Which is why it’s weird when she comes in on a Wednesday, her eyes sparkling.
“Oh, Benji!” she exclaims, coming up to the counter. “You’ve been talking about me?”
I smile, not sure what she means. “You’re a couple of days early. And what do you mean talking about you?”
“I just had to come see you and say well done,” she says with a grin, reaching over the counter to rub me on my head. “He’s absolutely magnificent!”
I’m confused. “Uh, what?” Then: Oh, this can’t possibly be good.
“Your gentleman!” she says, the curve of her smile turning a bit wicked. “He stopped me on my way to the salon and asked me where the pants store was.”
“Oh, crap,” I groan. “What else did he say?”
She laughs. “He said that he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but that he knew my name and when my birthday was. And that smile he gave me….” Her eyelids flutter as she stares dreamily at me. “I didn’t even know you knew when my birthday was. Or that you cared,” she purrs, reaching over to rub her hand over mine.
I snatch my hand away as if she’ll set it on fire. “Eloise, you are sixty years old. And I’m gay.”