|
CHAPTER 1 Disclaimer Juliana
Messina is a fictional character. In every state in the SEND AN ANGEL Chapter One On the
coldest Christmas Eve Juliana could remember, large white flakes fell straight
down, except when a gust of wind whipped it into corners, around stores, and
into her face. She stood between the Fast Stop Liquor Store and the Rescue
Mission, where dwindling numbers of people passed going to the bus stop from
the market, or to the bar two doors beyond the mission. Once
Juliana had sung and adoring crowds listened entranced to every note. Today,
she and her roommate, Bette, begged for change. She was hungry, and she wanted
a drink. Mostly she wanted a drink. Beneath the
old gray jacket she wore a wool shirt and knit sweater over a winter camisole.
Two pairs of well-worn designer jeans from better days fought to keep the cold
away. Two pairs of socks inside worn sneakers didn't keep her numbed feet from
aching. Maybe she'd
freeze to death; then she wouldn't have to put up with her weakness and
failures any longer. Why couldn't she quit? When she tried hardest to turn off
the self-loathing was when she heard the strident voice of her mother most
strongly: "Look at you. A pitiful alcoholic. Why I thought you'd ever be a
star, I'll never know. The only successes you've had are because I knew how to
manage you." That's when
Juliana drank the heaviest, trying to shut off that voice. A newspaper
tossed about by the wind spread itself on the sidewalk in front of her. The
headline screamed: FORMER SINGING SENSATION, JULIANA MESSINA, SEEN IN NEW
ORLEANS. Under it her face stared at her. Juliana put
one thin shoe in the middle of the photo of her younger self, and twisted her
foot until she shredded it. "The hell she is. She fell into a bottle of
vodka and drowned." Bette,
Juliana's poor-diet-pudgy roommate, glanced at her. "Why you so mad at
that poor newspaper? Ease off." Lining the
sides of the street, dirty snowbanks from the last storm waited to be hauled
off by a city crew. This was the bottom. Skid row. The only place lower was the
cemetery across the street, six feet down. The seediest hotels and cheapest
bars struggled to survive along the street. At one end
of the block was a service station, next the liquor store. The businesses on
the main floor of the run down hotel Juliana called home had given up and hung
sheets of plywood over the windows. In the middle of the line of vacant stores
in the old hotel a dingy stairway, original color anyone's guess, decorated
with graffiti, ran up to the unheated rooms. A man came
out of the liquor store and hurried past the two women toward the bus
stop. Bette intercepted him. "We're
broke and hungry. Got any change?" He stared
at her a moment. Men begged here all the time, but the sight of the two women
seemed to hit him harder. He dug in his pocket and dropped some coins into her
hand. "Sorry, all I got." "Thirty-five
cents," she whined. "Shoulda offered him a blow job. Naw, he'd have
wanted if for five bucks. Cheap skate. What good is thirty-five cents?" "I
need to make a phone call." Juliana reached out for the change. She headed
into the Rescue Mission, next to the store front where they pan-handled. A
meeting in progress, several men and a few women. The cold had brought in more
than usual. She hugged herself a moment, getting warmed. Then she hurried to
the pay phones, in back, near the restrooms. With shaking
fingers, she dialed a number. She held her breath until a woman answered.
" The
operator's voice, cold and impersonal, recited: "Will you accept the
charges for a call from . . . please-speak-your-name?" "Juliana.
Please, Mom, let me talk to Maryann. It's Christmas Eve." Agatha's
voice sounded colder than the operator's impersonal tone. "No!" The
receiver slammed down. The dial
tone roared in Juliana's ears. She wanted to run away. She had. To the end of
the world. She started to wipe her runny nose on her sleeve, and stopped. She
dug out a tissue so used it was disintegrating, but she used it. The aroma
of fresh coffee wafted from the forty-cup pot. She filled two cups of the hot
liquid, added cream and sugar to hers. A
three-year-old Chevy coasted to a stop in front of the Fast Stop, two wheels in
the gutter that ran full of salty slush. A man got out, turned up the collar of
his overcoat against the wind-whipped snow, and slogged through the slush and
snow around the front of his car. His last name was Major; Juliana had seen it
on the gravestone he visited every other Sunday. Bette
nudged Juliana. "Your turn." Bette held the empty cups behind her. In
the last hour she'd approached the few men and women who'd happened by, asking
for money. "See
if he'll kick loose with enough for a bottle of vodka so we don't freeze,"
Bette said. Juliana
hugged herself against a gust of wind that blew into her soul, chilling it, as
she watched Mr. Major reach into the car. I can't do this, she thought. Least
of all from him. I've never begged for anything. Until today. "Go
ahead," Betty said. "We're hungry and cold, and, girl, you look
it." Juliana
steeled herself and approached him. Her smile wouldn't work, and it wasn't the
cold. She couldn't look him in the eyes; she stared at his snow-crusted shoes.
Why couldn't she just die? Her voice
squeaked when she spoke. "Hey, Mister, would you--?" "No,"
the handsome man growled, "I'm not interested in sex-for-hire." "-Have
any spare change." Her mouth dropped open. "Neither am I." He stared
at her. She jerked
her hands out of her pockets. Who did he think he was? What did he think she
was? "No. I
don't have any of that either. Leave me to hell alone." "With
pleasure!" Juliana rammed her cold hands back into her pockets and backed
until her shoulders hit the wall of the abandoned store. Hunched over, feeling
as if she'd been kicked, she stared at the man. Her head vibrated from side to
side; her body shook all over. He'd thought she was a whore. Did she look that
bad? She wanted to hit him, to pound on him, shred him like she had the
newspaper with her picture on it. He got a
bright red poinsettia plant from the back seat, and set it on the hood while he
retrieved a ceramic coffee mug from the front. Carrying both, he tromped
through the slush to cross the street. He didn't look back at her. He brought
bouquets Sundays. This was a Friday, but it was Christmas Eve. He was bringing
a plant for his late wife. And what the hell did she care? He looked
so sad. She felt hurt and angry, but she couldn't hate him. Look what she'd
become. Juliana threw her blonde hair to shake snow from it, and in a gesture
she tried to hide, wiped tears from her cheeks and the corners of her green
eyes with her sleeve. "It's sweet. He really loved her." What would
it be like to have a man love you that much? Piles of
snow on this side of the street were broken where store owners had cleared
parking space for customers. On the other side of the street, the sidewalk by
the cemetery lay hidden beneath a mountain range of crusted snow. Here and
there an icy path, like a frozen stile over an old stone country fence, gave
access to the graveyard. Mr. Major,
who had to be six-two, had no trouble with the snow bank. The power in his
strides and body movements showed, even in his topcoat and hunched against the
storm, She made a silent bet that even naked, he'd have no love handles. She
blushed at the image. He thought that was how she expected to see him, for
money. "How
can you feel sorry for a bastard who yells at you when you only ask him for
change? It's cold. I'm hungry." Bette shivered harder. "Most of all,
I need a drink." "Leave
'im alone." Juliana hugged herself, but it was against a cold deeper than
the storm. "It's Christmas. She's dead. We're alive. And wasted." Bette
stared at Juliana a moment, but didn't speak. She turned just her head and
watched the big man move. Juliana had
seen his eyes when he wasn't angry, gray with flecks of blue. Tonight they were
so cold they made the storm look warm. He never smiled. During the
two months she'd lived in the transient hotel, he'd left a bouquet every other
Sunday. The tombstone showed Susan Major had died two years ago Valentine's
Day. His wife's grave; what a shaft to lose her on the day dedicated to love. He came
alone and wore a suit. But Juliana had seen children's coats in his car.
"Sometimes I wish I was dead, too," she said. Betty
didn't glance at Juliana. "Don't do a crying jag on me, kid." # As Steve
Major got the poinsettia plant he'd bought that day, one of two women, the
pretty blonde he'd noticed before, approached him from the front of the
transient hotel. She asked for money. He thought
she was propositioning him. In the club he managed, he'd just listened to a
thinly veiled suggestion that he accompany a regular couple and her visiting
sister to dinner, then to an out-of-town party. He'd been primed for another
invitation. No thank you. When he was ready to date again, he'd know it. It
certainly wouldn't be a sorry hunk of humanity like the blonde. What right
did she have to waste herself with alcohol while Susan rotted in the ground?
All his frustration broke loose, and he let it whip her. "Leave me to hell
alone!" he snarled and stalked away. The pretty
woman's eyes widened as if she feared he might hit her. She backed until she
ran into the wall. Steve's heart turned over. He hadn't hit her, but he'd
insulted her and bullied her. What was wrong with him? He never treated anyone
like that. With the
plant out, and his mug of coffee in hand, he locked the car. He sipped while he
peered through the swirling snow, checking traffic. The hot coffee tasted good,
but it didn't take the chill out of him. Nothing did. At an
opening in traffic, he crossed to the cemetery. Last Christmas, the first since
Susan's death, had been hell. Would this second one be any easier? Sixteen
Christmases they'd shared, fifteen as husband and wife. He put on a strong
front for their three children. With their mother gone, he had to show that
their dad was resilient and could be relied on, but his insides felt like a
rotted out log in a lonely forest. His heart
had died the night he'd arrived at the hospital and heard the doctor's words:
"I'm sorry, Mr. Major. Her injuries were too extensive . . . ." His
voice had trailed off. Steve wiped
tears from his eyes, tears remembering always brought. Every Christmas Susan
had a poinsettia. He lowered his head against the increasing storm; snow or no
snow, this Christmas would be no exception. He followed
the sidewalks as close to where Susan lay as he could, then waded through
knee-deep snow to her grave. He brushed snow off the headstone and set the
hand-painted ceramic mug on it, where it didn't cover her name. "Merry
Christmas, Darling. I miss you." He kicked
frozen snow and ice from the mound, then knelt and scooped the remaining bits
of ice away so he could wedge in her plant. The poinsettia's bright red blooms
made a curious contrast to the thickly swirling white snow. He tucked his hands
under his arms to warm them. He gazed
down at the mound where she rested, she who had been his life, his soul, his
reason for living. "I'll make Christmas as good for our children as I
can," he promised. He blew his
nose. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. When he
crossed the street, the two women still stood braced against the wall of a
boarded-up store front. Neither looked at him. Female
derelicts, even sadder than their male counterparts. Wasted hulls of humanity.
The brown-haired one had the bloated face and dumpy shape from too much alcohol
and lack of personal care. The blonde was different. Life remained in those
emerald green eyes, and her honey blonde hair fell loose and shiny, as if it'd
been cared for. Below that old jacket, ratty jeans outlined thighs that were
neither sticks with skin over them, nor poor-nutrition-fat like the other
woman's. She was
attractive, despite her shabby clothes. Maybe that was why he'd jumped to the
conclusion she was a hooker. Steve's gaze settled on her eyes. They were fading
to that vacant, hungry look from too much alcohol. Why in hell
couldn't a drunk driver take out one of their own instead of Susan? She'd been
vibrant and caring, a loving wife and the mother of three wonderful children
who needed her. But a man that witnesses described as middle-aged and a reeling
drunk had been speeding, ran a stop sign and plowed into her car. Someone
moved to Steve's left. Watching him was a dark-haired woman in a maroon
uniform, her size and shape were like Susan's, her hair in the style Susan had
worn, though most of her face was in shadow. He glanced again at the two women.
Susan would've given them something. Behind the
uniformed woman, the words "RESCUE MISSION" flashed. In the window a
neon light proclaimed "Jesus Saves." Below it, another sign
announced: "Hot Coffee and Soup during and after meetings." It was
Christmas Eve. It was cold. He shouldn't have yelled at her. As Steve
started toward the Fast Stop Mart, it seemed the dark-haired woman smiled. But
through the snow, from this distance, who could be sure? From the
hot food section, he selected a container of chili and one of beef stew and
popped them into the microwave. He filled two large cups with coffee. He got
creams and sugars while the food heated. Behind the
counter, the man on duty fished out a cardboard to-go tray. "Merry
Christmas, Mister," he said. "Hope the coffee helps." "Yeah.
Me too. Merry Christmas," Steve said. He didn't think he sounded too sad
or cynical when he said it. Outside,
Steve carried the tray to them. He made himself meet the blonde's eyes. "I
made a mistake. I'm sorry." "I'm
not a hooker." "I
realize that. You don't have the walking-dead look of most street people and I
thought you were here for another reason." "You
yelled at me," she said. She neither screamed nor cried. She was tall for
a woman, probably five-eight. Those eyes . . . they weren't empty. Somebody was
still home. "I
really am sorry," he said, and meant it. He held out the food and coffee.
"Here. Merry Christmas. One's chili, the other's stew." The bloated
brown-haired woman glanced at the blonde. But she didn't move toward Steve,
just hugged herself and waited. "Please
take it." Would the younger woman's pride make her refuse his gesture? Or
was she practical enough to forgive his anger and accept the food and coffee?
"This isn't a good night to be cold and hungry." "Or
alone," she said. Her tone and diction were what he'd have expected from a
well-dressed woman in a warm, Holidays-decorated parlor. He took a
step backward. Was she going to come on to him now? He wasn't interested . . .
though there was something vulnerable about her. "First
Christmas without your wife?" she asked. She pulled her cold-reddened
hands from her pockets and accepted the tray. Those deep green eyes held his.
"Thank you." He couldn't
think. "Second," he got out. "It doesn't seem to get any
better." "I'm
sorry." Despite her down-and-out appearance, her voice carried warmth, as
if she cared. "Merry Christmas. I hope. For your children's sakes. Thank
you again." "You're
welcome." Steve backed to his car, got in and headed home. How did she
know he had children? The storm didn't seem as cold as before. He turned on his
radio and got a Christmas Carol. # "Alexandre,"
a resonant voice called. The
dark-haired woman in the maroon uniform glanced at Juliana, then turned. The
feminine shape faded. Alexandre/Alexandra-angels are not male and female as
humans are-became a being of light. "Yes, Peter?" "Michael
asked me to suggest you take on a special project." "Michael,
Himself? I am on assignment. Does he wish me to let this one wait? I think it
is time to reach out to Juliana." "Yes,
Alexandre. He thinks the two will mesh nicely." Saint Peter paused a
moment. "There are children involved." "Then
Michael knows I'll say yes." "Don't
you want to see the project first?" "I
should. But you know how I am about children." "Come.
Let me show you." An eye
blink later the two angels stood beside a bed where a little girl with hair so
perfectly, softly blond that it scarcely looked real, knelt to say her prayers.
Watching her was a woman in her early fifties, blonde hair laced with white,
pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes seemed to squint. ". . .
and bless Mommy, wherever she is," the child finished. "That's
enough, now get into bed." "Yes,
Grandma." The girl sat on her bed and looked up at the older woman. The
little girl's mouth opened and shut. She leaned back on her pillow. "Good
night." "Good
night." The woman backed to the door, turned out the light, and left. She
didn't kiss the child good night. The girl
lay, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. A minute passed. A second. Her eyes
didn't blink. Footsteps in the hall as the older woman walked away. "Interesting,"
said Alexandre. "Wait,"
said Saint Peter. The girl
slipped out of bed. "God, I was naughty today. I heard the phone ring and
picked it up, I fibbed when Grandma asked where I was, and said I was on the
potty. It was Mommy. She sounded sad. I think she needs Your help. Please, if
you can do anything, I really want to see her. Amen." "That's
my second chore? Is this Juliana's daughter?" "Yes.
That's half of your second chore." "There's
more? Lead me, Peter." Seconds
later the two beings stood in another bedroom. Matching twin beds sat at right
angles. His arms folded and a serious look on his face, a fourteen-year old boy
stood in the doorway watching two smaller children. A four year old boy and a
girl of nine. "Come
on, into your jammies." "Then
can we go out and wait until daddy gets home? It's Christmas Eve." "Aunt
Maggie said it was okay. Now move it." The little
boy peeled to his panties and pulled on pajamas with little cowboys all over
them. The little girl pulled a pink flannel nighty from under her pillow and
hesitated. She glanced at the doorway. The bigger
boy stepped aside. She smiled a thank you and hurried across the hall into the
bathroom. Minutes later she returned wearing the nighty. The little
boy knelt by the bed. "Aunty said if we asked, God might send us an angel,
like the one in the story she read. Let's both ask. Right now." "All
right, just get on with it," the older boy said. The girl
knelt next to her little brother and they recited a prayer together. Then the
boy said, "And God, please, if You've got an angel You can spare. We could
really use one." The little
girl said, "We know mommy can't come back, but an angel would help
lots." They finished with "Amen." "They
need a mother-" "The
older child," Saint Peter said. The two
angels watched the older boy, whose body language shouted what his mouth didn't
reveal. "God, if you can hear these two urchins, You know what they need
is a new mom. Dad needs someone worse than they do." "Who
are they?" Alexandre looked quickly at Saint Peter. "Are these
Steve's children?" "Yes.
Will you take on the second project?" "Without
a second thought. Thank you, Peter, and thank Michael. Now if you'll excuse me,
I need to slip back in time. To visit a dying woman." # Juliana
kept her eyes on the Chevy until thick snow swallowed it. "Chili or stew,
Bette?" "Coffee
first. Either's fine, though I prefer stew. He's your boyfriend. You pick
first." Bette grabbed a coffee and gulped it. "Take
the stew." Holding the tray with one hand, Juliana fumbled the lid off the
other cup. Shaking hands poured in two creams and a sugar. In her mind
she reran every move Mr. Major had made. The wonderfully male swing of his body
as he came around his car. Climbing over the snow bank, going into the cemetery
and returning, he moved well. As a dancer, Juliana recognized the type. He'd be
a good dance partner, socially or professionally. He'd make all the right
moves. He
shouldn't be alone tonight, she thought. She was no tramp, let alone a whore,
and the man certainly had no romantic interest in her. But he did move well.
She could at least be with him so he wasn't alone. She opened
the chili. Had anything ever smelled or tasted so good? Bette
wolfed her stew, then took a long drink of coffee. "I may live out the
night. But I still need a drink." "Yeah,"
Juliana said. She didn't want one. She needed one. "I can't stand any more
of this cold. Let's call it a day." "Go
back empty-handed to that room with no heat and no 'antifreeze?' Not until I
got enough money for a bottle." Bette glanced sideways at Juliana, her
eyes becoming mere slits. "Whatever I have to do." "My
royalty check paid the rent. We've eaten. Don't do anything stupid. It's not
worth it." "Speak
for yourself. I need a drink." As they
nursed their coffee, a man with a full white moustache stepped off the bus at
the stop two doors beyond the mission. He came their way. Bette handed her cups
to Juliana. "Hide these." Bette
intercepted the older man. "Excuse me, Sir. You got any change? We're
hungry." The man's
eyes held a twinkle. "If I were twenty years younger, I'd buy you dinner,
and a drink or two." His eyes flicked down her body then back to her eyes.
"I think we'd have fun." Bette chuckled
with him. "I'd take you up on it. You busy tonight? I like mature
men." "Afraid
so, Sweetie, but," he pulled out his wallet and found a five, "this
ought to help. Have the first drink for me. Merry Christmas." "Thank
you, Merry Christmas," Bette answered, but her eyes were glued to the five
dollar bill. Chortling
gleefully, she held it out for Juliana's inspection. "Look at this! We can
get a fifth of vodka." She took her coffee and drained it. "I think I
can. I'll get their biggest, cheapest bottle." She galloped to the store. Juliana
carried the empty cups to the trash can by the mission door, then retreated to
the wall and sipped her coffee. Mr. Major went home to his kids. When would she
see her baby again? Maryann would be eight three days after Christmas. Juliana
would be twenty-nine that day. Bette
returned, the bottle clasped in her arms like a lover. Huddled in
the empty dairy's doorway, Bette opened the bottle. She took the first drink,
sighed, and handed it to Juliana. With shaking fingers Juliana tipped the
bottle for a deep swallow, She savored the taste, then handed the bottle back
to Bette. Why don't I
quit? Why can't I quit? What's wrong with me? "Let's nurse it along,"
Juliana said. "Tomorrow's gonna be a long day." She didn't want to
get drunk. Just enough to take the edge off. "I
dunno. Tastes awful good." Bette took a second pull. "Ready to go
home, or wanna take in a meeting? Get warm." She gestured at the "Hot
Coffee" sign in the mission window. "Maybe some soup?" "Meetings
don't help. I know every word," Juliana said. She looked down at her
coffee cup, then across the street at the cemetery. A memory was forcing its
way into her mind. "I'll be right back." She looked
both ways, then hurried across the street. Like the man, Juliana had no trouble
with the snow bank. Only one
red flower in the graveyard. She slowed as she approached the grave, feeling as
if she should tiptoe. The plant was askew. The ceramic cup sat on the
headstone. She picked up the cup, still warm despite the snow. The coffee was
light. Mr. Major used cream, too. She sipped it. Ambrosia. Real coffee
from a real mug. Good stuff. Better flavor than the deli. That he fixed his the
way she liked hers was a bonus. Fresh snow already covered the stone. She brushed
it off; she'd read the words before: SUSAN MAJOR . . . died Feb. 14 . . . BELOVED WIFE AND
MOTHER. "You
had to leave your kids and husband Valentine's Day. It wasn't fair, lady, uh,
Susan." Juliana
sipped the coffee again. "What happened to me wasn't fair. But I brought
it on myself." She shook her head to drive images away, not willing to
dwell on the past. That would only make her want to get stinking drunk. Again.
Why didn't she just stop? Why couldn't she just stop? The image of the bottle Bette
held beckoned to Juliana. "Hey,
Juli," a male voice called from the sidewalk. "You all right?" Two men,
huddled in frayed coats against the cold and snow, stood on the far side of the
stone cemetery fence. Stan and Frank, two regulars at the bar, the store, and
the mission. She waved.
"Just fine, guys. Thanks." "We're
going t'the mission. Christmas Eve thing. Free coffee," Frank called,
hugging himself. "Hot coffee." "I'm
all right for now." She held up the mug. "Later,"
Stan said. The two men tromped on toward the mission. Juliana set
the mug back on the headstone, exactly where he had placed it, then knelt and
scrapped snow away from the grave. Her hands moved faster and faster with an
energy she couldn't explain. She
gathered the remnants of previous bouquets and stuck them in a trash receptacle
near the gate. She had to stop several times to blow on her hands or hold the
warm cup. Finally she anchored the poinsettia plant firmly, picked up the mug
and stepped back to consider the result. "Much
better. Your man is considerate, Susan, I hope you don't mind if I call you
Susan. Men don't have a 'fussiness' gene to make sure everything is just
right." She raised
her head and gazed in the direction the Chevy had gone. "But they like to
think they're taking care of us. Sometimes they're pretty nice to have around
at that." He needed someone, too. Maybe worse than she did. From behind
her, another voice spoke; though it was a soft, cultured female voice in an
increasing storm, she heard it clearly. "Tonight going to the mission
would help you, Juliana. It's time you came out of the crucible." "What?"
Juliana started. The speaker was the dark-haired woman in the maroon uniform.
Up close, she was a couple of inches shorter than Juliana and her eyes were a
clear beautiful blue. She'd been in front of the mission when he brought them
food. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize anyone was around." "I
didn't mean to frighten you. But I would like to walk with you to the Rescue
Mission. I'd like for you to enter. Please? It's time." Juliana
shrugged. "Time? Whatever that means. Why not? At least hot coffee warms
me." She held onto the mug. "Did
you know Susan? You worked so lovingly on her grave." "Never
met her." Juliana wanted to tell the woman to shut up and leave her alone,
but she sounded sincerely interested. "Her husband seems like a really
wonderful guy. I think she must have been special." "She
was. I was with her when she departed. Her dying thoughts were concern for her
children and worry about Steve." The woman watched Juliana's face after
she spoke. "Steve."
Juliana tasted the name. "You knew her . . . Susan?" "I
talked to her. She left three wonderful children. Her daughter is a year and a
half older than Maryann. Well, here we are." At the door,
the woman stopped to let Juliana enter first. "Thank
you." Juliana wanted to know more about Susan and the children. And Steve.
How did she know Juliana's daughter was named Maryann? How did she know Juliana
had a daughter? She turned to ask the dark-haired woman, but she was gone.
Juliana looked around. Not a sign of her. Weird. Bette
waved. Juliana sat beside her, but her mind wasn't on the meeting. It was on
Maryann, Susan, and Mr. Major. She focused on him so she wouldn't think about
Maryann and start crying. He looked as down and out as she was. Even without an
alcohol addiction. Where was
he right now? Was he all right? He shouldn't be alone; he was too sad. She
should be with him. She felt her color rise. Why would he look at her a second
time? But he did feed her. Maybe if
she held him it would help the hurt from not talking to Maryann. |