Guardian (8 page)

Naturally, I don't choose our church. I go to Saint Francis in Margate. I have to cut school, since I'm still grounded. I take two buses to get there, but I know from the newspaper that they serve Mass every day and have two priests, so there's bound to be someone around for me to talk to.

As soon as I see the outside of the church, I think if this angel business eventually turns me into a religious guy, this is the church I'll pick. It has a nice green lawn with a statue of Saint Francis holding his hands out to the birds. There are three statue-birds, cleverly sculpted to look as if they're fluttering around him, and then two real birds, a dove and some kind of blackbird, sitting on his head. I like a saint who's the outdoor type, like me.

I push open the doors and go past the foyer with a tableful of fund-raising literature and pass into the dark, magical part of the church, where the candles are flickering away and old ladies are going through their paces—stand, sit, kneel, mutter, cross, exit. People should be nicer to old ladies. They're the only ones who bother to come out and pray for people. Mowing all these lawns has made me think how nice it would be to have grandparents. The kids at school make fun of their grandparents because they can take them for granted, but I'd love to adopt one of these little praying ladies and take her out for ice cream.

When I see the altar, I know I've picked, or been guided to, the right place. There's a flying Jesus behind the altar and all around him are angels. On his right is clearly Michael, because he has a sword and a mean look on his face. On his left is my man, Gabriel, holding a flower. Once again, they've made the mistake of portraying him blond. Up above Jesus' head is a third angel in flight, looking down on the church with a sweet expression. He's got something that looks like a fishing pole in his hand. I figure he must be Raphael. I stand there awhile, sort of soaking the angels in, and then I look for some kind of side exit. I have to explore a couple of different hallways because this is a big church, but finally I hit pay dirt—a library full of books and a young priest sitting on a window ledge, reading. I'm really happy I caught him this way and not in his office.

“Father?”

He looks up and then looks nervous. Probably he figures I'm a parishioner he's supposed to recognize.

I keep walking toward him, like I have confidence in myself. “My name is Hunter LaSalle. I don't go to your church but I was hoping you could talk to me. I mean, I probably should have called first or come to confession but I really want to just talk. You know?”

He kind of smiles and puts his book down. He holds out his hand. “I'm Father Ruiz. Would you like to see if Father McClure is free to talk to you? He's senior here. I'm just a rookie.”

“No—I'd really rather it was someone … your age.”

He laughs and then frowns again. He probably thinks this will be about sex. “Let's go to my office, Hunter.”

His office is so small he can hardly crowd himself behind the desk, which is a mess. On the wall behind him is a gigantic oil painting of the Madonna. She and her baby glare at me.

“So.” Father Ruiz folds his hands on the desk. “What brings you here today, Hunter?”

I realize there's no gentle way to ease into this. “What do you think about angels, Father?”

“Angels?” I'm used to this counselor's trick. They stall to get you to say more. I stay silent.

“Are you a Catholic, Hunter?”

I guess he has to be careful what he says so he won't violate my civil rights. “I don't go to Mass, but I'm Catholic.”

“You were raised in a Catholic home?”

Here we go. I always hate telling my sad story. “I wasn't really raised at all. I've lived in four foster homes and an orphanage. Two of the homes were Catholic, including the one I'm in now. I can't tell you about my birth family.”

“I'm sorry. I'm just trying to understand the situation, Hunter. If you have a theology question, why aren't you asking your parish priest?”

Baby Jesus looks at me, like,
Yeah, what's wrong with you
? I avoid his gaze.

“I don't want my family to know.… Can I just tell you what's happening to me?”

He sits back. “Sure.”

“I think I'm being contacted by an angel.”

His dark eyes remain steady and calm, but one of his hands clenches up a little. “Contacted? You mean like a Visitation?”

“Yes. Do you think that's possible?”

“I … believe it's possible as an article of faith, but I don't think it happens a lot. Tell me about your Visitation.”

“It's more than one. He's sort of … harassing me, like he's trying to strike up a relationship. I have a real fuzzy memory of when I was really little—right before my birth mother gave me up—that was the first time I saw him. He came into my room and talked to me.”

Father Ruiz is breaking training now, leaning forward, getting interested. “What did he look like?”

“Long black hair …”

“Male? Or without gender?”

“He seemed like a male. He had a male voice. And black wings.”

“Black wings?”

“I think so. Like, black feathery wings. When I first saw him they were spread out, but I think he folded them up later.… I'm not positive about this stuff. I was, like, four.”

“Are you positive it wasn't a dream?”

“No, I know I was awake.”

“Four-year-olds don't always know the difference between fantasy and reality.”

I sit back. “But now I'm thirteen. And he's back.”

“He's back?”

“He's back. My foster father died and this guy—this angel—came to the cemetery on a motorcycle.…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. On a motorcycle?”

“Yes, Father. He stopped a couple of yards from the funeral and he stared at me and I recognized him. And now, when I pray for things to happen, they happen. I think he's protecting me and I want to know—do you think this is possible? Do you think an angel could work this way?”

He hesitates a long time. “Two things,” he says finally. “First, you have to understand where I'm coming from. I'm a priest. It's my duty to defend—to uphold the mysteries of the world. We live in a time, Hunter, when people don't believe in anything they can't buy or sell. I became a priest because I don't agree with that. I believe—I feel—that there are angels and saints and a Heaven. You came to me for a reason. So you already know I'm going to say, Yes, Hunter, I think something like this is possible.”

He said
two
things so I wait.

“But … even though I'm a priest, I'm just a human being, like you, Hunter. There are many, many stories like yours of Visitations and even help and rescue from angels. I believe at least some of them are true. Nothing like that has ever happened to me, and I wasn't there when it happened to you. So I have to tell you in all humility … I don't know what to think. I don't know if you are wishing this into being or if an angel has singled you out for a special blessing. You'll have to pray about it and decide for yourself.”

I'm disappointed, but I have to like his honesty. “Isn't there some kind of test you guys can do, to investigate?”

He makes a face. “Well, kind of, but if we go down that road, Hunter, you're going to have a whole crowd of people in your front yard wanting to be healed and helped by the ‘angel boy.' You'll be on the news. People will try to exploit you. I'm not speaking for the Church now, I'm just telling you man-to-man. If this is a genuine experience, it should be a private matter between you and God. You seem like a pretty smart kid. You can figure this out.”

“My whole life has changed since it happened. I used to be the biggest loser in the world and now I get everything I want.”

“Let me ask you another question, Hunter. Are you in a position to do good?”

“Sir?”

“I'm trying to make an explanation for myself of why this would happen. Maybe this angel is beckoning to you because you're in a position to do some kind of good. Right some wrong, perhaps, or help someone less fortunate than yourself. If this were my situation, I'd be asking, Why is this happening to me?”

Almost as if guided, my mind goes to Stephanie. “If I know of someone—and I think they're—well—evil? Could it be that? Could it be that my angel wants me to fight the evil?”

He frowns again. “You have to be very careful with this, Hunter. You have to pray very hard for guidance and you have to know the difference between your will and God's will. If you have a power, or a gift of some kind, a lot of responsibility goes with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's pray together now.”

I lower my eyes because I'm embarrassed.

“Father, guide Hunter here to know your will and to clearly understand you. Protect him from false ideas and thoughts, and if you have chosen him for a special blessing, help him to understand what it is. If he needs your protection, please grant it to him in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

I look up at him. “Come back and talk anytime you want to, Hunter. I think you should have someone to talk about this to. And also …” He actually blushes.

“What?”

“I want to know the outcome of this for myself. Okay?”

I smile at him. “Okay.”

I practically bump into walls on my way out of the church. I feel so weird. I really, really liked him and thought he handled my questions just right, but when he was praying, it was as if my whole mind went into white noise. I'm still in a daze as I walk into the street. My brain feels like a computer that got knocked off-line by a power surge.

Chapter 8

When I get home, Stephanie is pitching a fit. Happily, she isn't pitching it at me.

“Yes! You can go look it up right now and I'll hold!” She paces up and down the room, her red nails clawed around the portable phone.

I see that all three of my sisters have gathered just outside her pacing range and are staring at her anxiously, which makes me realize it isn't some co-worker or client she's mad at—it's something to do with us.

She lectures us while she's on hold. “This is the way the world works, guys. If you take things lying down, people will screw you for all you're worth. You have to speak up, ask questions, get in somebody's face, and make damn sure—What?” she says to the receiver. “Never received it? That's not possible. That's just not possible.”

Drew looks like she's either going to cry or pee. Jessie is staring straight at me, her eyes like blue torches. Then I get it. Stephanie is talking to the magazine that sponsored the Kindergarten Queens contest. I sweep the room for more info and see the current issue of the magazine splayed in the corner of the room, where Steph must have hurled it when she saw Drew didn't win. I wonder if I can sneak past everyone and get to my room.

“You check again! Don't check your computer! You go through all the entry forms by hand and you call me back! I'll go to the papers and tell them you rigged the goddamn thing! You probably threw away all the entries from the white kids to make sure a minority kid would win. I know how you people operate.”

I'm getting a headache. Stephanie is listening now. She gets a pen. “Okay, I want that person's name and your name and your supervisor's name. The publisher's name I'll get from your masthead. And if I don't hear from you, don't worry, you will definitely hear from me!” She punches the disconnect and stops pacing so fast her hair whirls into her face. She looks at us, trying to figure out how to work off the rest of her rage. Drew starts to cry quietly.

“Stephanie,” says Jessie. “There's something I think you should know.”

Even then, I don't get it. I just look at her, wondering why she would want to draw fire.

Stephanie's mad at her hair now, raking it out of her face with both hands. “What?!”

“That contest never did get the entry form. Hunter took it out of the mailbox and tore it up.”

“Yay, Hunter!” Drew jumps up and down and claps.

Stephanie, like me, is paralyzed at this unexpected turn of events. “Hunter? Jessie, what are you talking about?”

I can hardly hear them over the din of my mind screaming,
Why, Jessie, why
? Would she really sell me out because she's jealous of some girl? Deliberately betray me like this? Break four years of trust between us and hand me over to this madwoman?

“I'm worried about him,” Jessie rushes on. “He wasn't in school today. I think that he's losing his sense of …”

“Did you cut school?” Stephanie asks me. I guess the other crime is too overwhelming for her to process.

I notice how Andrea is smiling. This is front row seats at the Garden for her. She gets to see me killed and her hands aren't even dirty.

“I went and talked to a priest,” I say. “I'm having trouble handling Mike's death.” I look at Jessie.
There, you bitch! Game, set, and match
.

“He showed me the pieces of the entry form. They're in an envelope in his room!”

“It's my fault!” Drew jumps in. “I told him to do it! I don't want to be a queen, Mommy. I don't want to!”

Stephanie is moving toward me slowly now, a predator.

“I didn't!” I hold up both hands. “I swear to you, Stephanie. I did not tear up that form.”

“Look in his room!” Jessie's face is pinched with hatred. She looks like a rodent. “Look in his desk!”

The rest of the scene isn't very pretty.

I remember when I first came to Mike and Stephanie's house, four years ago. I was nine and this was the fourth home they were trying me in. In my first placement, which I hardly remember, the woman left after about a week of taking care of me and the caseworker didn't like that I was sleeping in the same bed as the man. I was only four and my memories are foggy, but I'm pretty sure there was nothing wrong with the poor guy. He was drinking a little, but I think he just missed his wife and wanted somebody there in the room with him, like a dog or something. Maybe I'm blocking out a terrible memory, like about a hundred counselors have tried to tell me, but I really don't think so. I always look back and think how that lonely guy and I might have made it work.