River Angel (24 page)

“No,” Ruthie said. “Give it another chance.”

“I should have closed my eyes,” Cherish said. “I can't stop telling myself that—if only I'd closed my eyes. Then I could believe in everything you do. I'd think Dad was in heaven. I'd think some angel rescued Gabriel and that there was a God who could forgive us for what we did.”

Gwendolyn's cheekbones. Gwendolyn's face. But Ruthie had
never once seen her mother cry. She gripped her daughter's hand, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. “You didn't do anything.”

“I was there.” They were coming into Eau Claire. “Mom, I just want to start over again. I want to get everything right.”

“We all want that,” Ruthie finally said. “It isn't only you.”

They followed the general flow of traffic to the campus, where thousands of parents were already unloading their children in front of a series of box-shaped dorms. “Mine's further down the circle,” Cherish said, but there wasn't any way to pull closer, and already they were parked in, people springing from their cars, cutting bicycles and lamps from roof racks. So much commotion—radios blaring, returning students shrieking at the sight of old friends, dorm counselors shouting instructions on bullhorns, and above it all, thousands of parents arguing over the best way to unpack, unload, register. After so many months of dreading the moment of separation from Cherish, Ruthie actually found herself eager to leave. Instead she waited at the car for nearly two hours—“Do not leave your vehicle unattended!” the counselors bellowed—while Cherish got her keys, carried her suitcases up the steps into the building and then, as it turned out, up another four flights of stairs. The roommate was already present—actually, Cherish had two roommates. A counselor had promised a third bed was on the way.

“I don't know where we'll put it,” Cherish said. Already she looked at home here, on this campus, with these people—all of them waving hasty goodbyes to crestfallen families, setting off with newfound groups of friends. Even as Cherish checked the truck to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, someone was hollering, “Hey, Cher? When you're finished, we're going to check out the union!”

“I guess you're all set, then,” Ruthie said.

“I guess,” Cherish said. “Should I call you tonight?”

“No,” Ruthie said, surprising herself. “Take your time, settle in. Call me when you're ready.”

“OK.” Cherish gave her a quick, tentative hug, and Ruthie smelled the sweet shampoo in her hair.

“I wish I had something I could give you,” she said. “A goodbye present.”

“Cash?” Cherish said, smiling.

“How about this?” Ruthie said, and she reached up and unhooked the Faith cross that had hung from her neck since the Circle's first meeting. Cherish took it, watched it dangle from her hand. “It's beautiful,” she said, “but it isn't for me. I'm sorry, Mom, I really am.”

“I'll wear it for you, then,” Ruthie said, and Cherish bent to fasten it back in its place. Then she straightened up, turned around, and walked away.

Driving home, Ruthie forced herself not to think about the empty house. It would be late afternoon by the time she arrived, shadows leaking over the courtyard from the barn. She tried to make plans: She'd have a fried egg sandwich, homemade applesauce for dessert. Maybe she'd go down to the cellar, open one of the few bottles of dandelion wine that remained from before Tom's death. She'd call a few Faith members, ask them over to join her. They'd been talking about refurbishing the milk house for their meetings—this might be the time to sketch out some plans. But she kept thinking about Cherish on the bridge, the question Cherish could not stop asking:
What if I'd only closed my eyes?
It was the same question Ruthie had asked herself so many times since that morning in the barn.
What if I'd simply shaken my head, dismissed what I'd seen as exhaustion? What if I'd simply called 911, said only, “I found him, come quickly
”? But the fact was, she had seen. The fact was, she believed. She'd been called to bear witness—to what, she did not know. Perhaps that was what Cherish was trying to do: bear witness to something Ruthie
could not see. Maybe the act, in itself, was its own salvation. Hadn't Cherish's book said something like that? Ruthie couldn't remember. She told herself she could always look it up when she got home. But she knew that she wouldn't, at least not now, the way she'd known that Cherish wouldn't accept the cross she'd offered her.

A fried egg sandwich. A glass of Tom's wine. Maybe she wouldn't call anybody. Maybe she'd pull the curtains and sip her wine, and it would be as if Tom were still alive and she was just waiting for him to come home. Cherish would be in the barn, starting chores; there'd be fresh peach ice cream chilling in the freezer. As soon as the Bobcat rattled into the courtyard, she'd stick a stuffed summer squash in the oven, a tray of corn muffins to go with it. She'd greet Tom with a kiss, and they'd put on their boots and smocks and go out to the barn together, dreaming even then of the time when he could finally quit the post office and work the farm full time. How happy he would have been to see the land preserved for others to enjoy in his name. How proud he would have been to see Cherish on this day, and how unfair—Ruthie caught herself, tried, but could not block the thought—how wrong, dear Lord, that he couldn't have been there, just this once, to see her walk away so steadily, to wave along with the other parents shouting, “Goodbye! Goodbye!”

What I remember
most about the River Angel Shrine is how dark it was inside, and the dance of the candles in their little glass cups, and the animal odor of the old wooden floors. There was snow on the ground, though not much. I sat in a folding chair, listening to the music of the pigeons in the eaves. Every now and then, one would launch into the dusky air, flap-flap-flapping between the rafters. There was a single shaft of light slicing down from the apex of the barn, illuminating the cold face of the statue—an ugly face, I thought, with its pupilless eyes, its thin-lipped mouth. The stony curve of each wing ended in a knifelike point. It was said the boy's ashes were buried here. I imagined how it would be to lie on my back in this barn, on a night much colder than this day, encircled by the warm breathing of sheep.

I got up and walked around, fingering mementos others had left. A few stuffed animals, a plastic rosary, pack after pack of cigarettes. Mostly, there were photographs, and one in particular caught my eye. A newborn infant—boy or girl, I couldn't tell—who already wore the wise and faraway look of the dead.
Scrawled on the back were the words
Remember me
. I walked out into the light. The house across the courtyard looked abandoned, but I could smell woodsmoke from the fireplace, and there were bath towels and sheets hanging from the clothesline. I left a dollar donation, took a little gold angel from the basket. Then I put it back. Then I picked it up again, slipped it into the pocket of my jeans. Another car came slowly up the driveway. Two women were inside. As I drove away, I noticed they had Minnesota tags. One of the women waved.

Later, I found the bridge. The spot the boy had fallen from was marked with a small white cross, and there were a dozen faded plastic bouquets, some of them partially buried in snow, that had been pushed off the highway by plows. I wished I had thought to bring something with me. I walked onto the bridge, looked out over the railing. The water was a clear, cold blue, and I could see the public park, the empty swings rocking just a little, as if occupied by ghosts.

I don't know what I expected to see, there at the bridge or, earlier, in the barn. Several weeks passed before I discovered the little gold angel I'd tucked in my pocket. Now it hangs above my writing desk from a piece of fishing line. The gold is flaking from its back and wings. Why do I keep it? I cannot pretend to believe that transcendence lies beyond the mind, that the soul is more than memory, which is neither fiction nor fact, but a country all its own. Still, as I type these words, the vibrations cause the angel to tremble on its slender thread, and how eager I am to forget, if only for a moment, that I am the source of its fear. I visit the shrines. I walk into the churches, the temples and mosques, the tent revivals and palm reader's shops, and even, once, a Wiccan ceremony in a starlit field of wheat. My love for this world is great enough, at times, to shatter my heart. But what does it matter? Someday I'll slip beneath its surface without a ripple.

And yet I pray for the boy, whom I've chosen to call Gabriel. I pray for the infant in the photograph, its mouth like a tear in a pale piece of cloth.
Remember me
. Remember us. Let the end be more than that unwieldy plunge into ice and darkness. Let there be someone waiting to catch us when we fall.