With the days
shrouded in holiday cheer, Eloise sought comfort in song and joined a local
gospel choir. At the choir’s annual
ornament exchange she was given an Angel crafted of bent metal. Leaving the Angel hanging on the back of a
pew she went outside to telephone Eli’s rabbi.
Do you believe in Angels? she asked.
We all miss Eli,
the rabbi said.
Companionship
among the bereaved, like the words, better
his heart than the cancer, were not medicinal. Eloise hung up the phone just as an
octogenarian on a bicycle pedaled through the parking lot where Eloise stood.
For the Wages of
Sin, the old man shouted balancing his bicycle between his legs while reaching
his arms towards Eloise.
The tenor, outside
for a smoke, shooed the man away.
Neighborhood kook,
the tenor said.
Do you ever see Angels? Eloise
asked the tenor.
Only when I’m not looking, he
replied.
After choir, Eloise and the tenor went
for coffee.
He told her about a
check that had come in the mail. The
envelope looked like junk, he said, but he retrieved it from the trash
anyway. Insurance moneys, didn’t even
know my mom had a policy.
The weird thing, he said, the amount? Made out
for the exact day of mom’s death in numerals, plus a dollar sign.
At Eli’s funeral,
Eloise said, a niece had whispered Uncle Eli’s
a butterfly. The tenor nodded and a breach rooted across
their sadness until they realized that they were not alone.
The waitress
hovered at their booth with a plated slice of Apple pie.
For you, she said.
Eloise and the
tenor insisted they hadn’t ordered anything but coffee.
Your lucky day,
she said leaving the plate on the table.
Apple pie was
Eli’s favorite, Eloise said to the tenor just before she invited him home.
When the tenor
understood what she didn’t want, there’ll
be other times for that, they stripped to underwear and got under the
covers of Eloise’s king bed.
Sure is comfy, the
tenor said.
They slept front
to back, legs entangled.
Eloise woke in the
night. The tenor smelled musky, like bad
coffee. It was a smell that overpowered
loneliness and would stain Eli’s pillowcases in ways Eloise hadn’t considered.
Sudden Santa Ana
winds roared through the open casement.
Eloise rose to close the window. In a flash, the great Jacarandas
whirled in hypnotic frenzy, dormant branches tipped sweeping the asphalt. The cool air of December hinted at wet earth
and damp leaves. Eloise thought of Eli’s
grave and the empty vials buried in his suit pocket. It had taken her three trips to get the
dosage he wanted.
She had refused
the autopsy.
In a denouement to Angels in the wind, the Jacarandas bowed in unison offering a blessing in these
graceful prostrations. As quickly as it began the trees returned upright. The
tenor never woke in the absolution of fleeting high winds. Eloise thought if
only it were that easy.