Angelic Remembrance

People ask why I limp. I tell them it's none of their concern. That’s enough to stop most people from asking further. Still, there are those ignorant few that can't stand their ignorance. They've got to know. My next statement goes along these lines: "You know how when you clap, an angel gets its wings? I limp because I killed an angel."

Once, I was walking with my mother, my chubby hand raised to grasp her dry, steady seamstress hand. I didn’t really know then that she sewed. I just knew the only thing I ever had to shop for, clothing-wise, were shoes and hats, and that was fine with me. Actually, I think that’s why we were going out that day, to get me a new pair of shoes. Had to be, I started limping after that day. Although, there were other reasons for it.

It must have been Harbor Street. There was so much traffic, and the pedestrians crowded onto the sidewalks, a thick briar patch of overcoats and caps that entrapped you, but still kept you moving, very slowly. Mom held my hand tight, just to the point of it starting to hurt. I tried to wriggle my now-white fingers free, but she just wouldn’t let go. Then, she stopped walking, but I kept going a few more steps. I looked back, and she just had this look on her face. Her mouth guppy-gaped, eyes fixed on something past the sky-high group of jackets. Like a basket of apples, she swung me into her arms, held me tight, turned my head in the opposite direction as she backed us towards the street. Her heart pounded so fast, it felt like she’d trapped a hummingbird beneath her coat. The cars had also stopped, and not because of traffic lights. A few of those drivers, passengers too, they all shared my mom’s stupefied look.

What she didn’t realize was that I could see in some of the car and windows a warped reflection. The indistinct sun hung overhead, casting a subtle glow over everything. Tens of misaligned images reflected in the windows and mirrors, all at different angles. Most of them just showed me the backs of people on the street. A tantalizing few hinted at something more alluring, though I didn’t know then what those giant sleep-black feathers portended.

Even though I was five or six, I was still just a fussy baby. I squirmed and struggled in mom’s grasp, trying to gain purchase against her shoulder to spin around. Her thin arms usually grappled with spindles and jammed sewing machines; I was little more than a fidgety annoyance she would have none of. Mom took another step back, and her feet balanced half over the curb. Somehow, she’d managed to stand at the gap between two parked cars, and I thought she was going to start running soon, but she didn’t. I kept shifting.

All you have to do to realize I was a big kid is look at my fingers. I’ll never be a small guy, and that’s fine. At the same time, I’ve shed a lot of weight, and with it, a lot of insecurity. Still, I hate showing people my hands, or holding peoples’ hands. It feels like, when Jenny runs her fingers over mine, she’s lingering on the pudge, thinking about what a “cute kid” I must have been. Looking at me, looking in my eyes, and envisioning a fatter version of me. What if.

What if things were different? I hate that game, but let's play for a little while. There was a parking meter to my left, and my right leg swung loose while I sat in the crook of her arm. Let's say I didn't kick off of that meter. Suppose I hadn't pushed with both my arms against my mother. If she wasn't backing up, if you change any detail, would that have been enough to throw her into the street? It was my foot, my fault, my foot-fault. Trouble is, we don't get a second serve.

When she landed, the crack sounded like the world rent in two. Now that I look back, maybe it really did. It almost hurts more now than it did then. Back then, all I knew was that I broke my foot. Today, I realize that set in motion the destruction of a people. I looked around, fire streaking through my poor foot. Mom started undoing the shoelace, her fingers unweaving the chunky knots my stubby fingers barely laced together. Those giant child crocodile tears streamed down my face, and everything went blurry, but I looked back into the sidewalk, at all the faces looking back at me. Most of them, men and women bundled tight, also doing their shopping, their day ruined. Two of them had to be policemen performing their civic duty. Dark uniforms, blue caps, and they were leading the winged man by the hand. He happened to be walking past at that moment, and people drew their own conclusions.

Him. Alison Gerald Murphy. Yeah, I was there. I couldn’t really see his face then, but I’ve seen the pictures now. Well, the pictures after his arrest. Objective viewpoint, he looked pitiful. Thinning black hair, a once-wide face losing its fat stores, now starting to sag like a pitbull. A thick nose, almost clownishly red, blood vessels boiled to the surface. Eagle-wide eyes, pale grey. Tattered clothing that he seemed to wear only because no one else could bear to take it. The only things that saved him from being consigned to historical irrelevance were those magnificent dark angel’s wings.

Even now, I can see how they ruffled, how each feather gleamed, despite his tattered coat and unwashed form, despite the lack of sunlight. Those sharp feathers seemed to catch every last bolt of sunshine and throw it back into the world with ten times the intensity. They looked like they could carve thick wedges from clouds, and the cloudlets would tumble downwards, falling cotton balls. Despite the elephant-thick manacles banded around the base of his wings, Alison looked innocent. He was innocent, at least where I was concerned.

A man stepped out from the crowd, took me and Mom into the street, through the tangled traffic, around the block, away from the event. Mom pressed my head into her breast, her hand muffling any sounds from the outside world. Still, I heard three things as we went away. The hummingbird trapped beneath mom’s coat. My high-pitched screams. Al’s last words: “No, please, mercy,” and a scream, fading as simply as a forgotten dream. Too bad I can’t forget him that easily. Every time I stumble when I get out of the car, or walking up the stairs, or dancing, I remember how easy it was to kill an angel.

***

I'm not enamored with the title, but felt I should put something down. Ideally this would lead into a longer interlude concerning how our narrator's life continued to intersect with the wild, soaring path these angels also took. Really, it's just a story about hating those different from you, and we've got so many historical instances, you can tell where this is all going.

As of late, I've been starting and stopping multiple short stories, and editing intermittently (both my own work and the more academic work of others). The net result is that there's very little publishable (postable?) work. Since I basically get one shot at you reading what I write, I'd rather polish it a bit than just slap up whatever. For now, we're going to aim for a weekly posting during Sunday Night (Football).