My Book of Life By Angel (6 page)

A
fter the man in the expensive suit,

Widow said, take this baby home,

you're too sick to work.

She said, I'll give you all my cash if you can guess my name.

So I said,

Ruby?

Elsie?

Yvonne?

Sharon?

Tania?

Widow bit down on each one

and said,

no

no

no

no

no.

She said, ­here's my cash anyway

just for trying

and don't think I'll ever do this again.

I thought of Serena's money under my mattress,

but I ­couldn't use it because what if she came for it?

So I said, thanks Widow.

She pointed to the line

and my toe which she owned.

I said thank you and took her hard-­work money

and that gave me more shame

than all the money I took from men.

O
n the way back to Call's place,

holding Melli's hand

we passed where Sarah ­wasn't there anymore

and she wrote poems and drew unicorns crying always crying.

We passed where Janet ­wasn't there anymore

and she was a member of a champion softball team.

They both liked things

before they came to Hastings and Main.

Now they ­were missing

like Serena,

and they never came back.

My bones creaked while I thought,

Serena
.
.
.

bone on bone,

while my stomach folded up

and all the shiny, slimy stuff

that should have been in my brain

was running out of my face—

but I knew then, I knew then

that Widow was right.

Serena ­wasn't coming back.

M
elli and I came in

and I gave the money to Call

shaking, my ­whole body shaking and aching.

I threw up again so hard

I thought I threw up a bit of liver,

a piece of me sliding invisible

out of my mouth

and down the drain.

Call said, you want your candy now?

and I said, in a minute,

but I thought, no no no not yet.

I drank some water

and threw it up with what felt like a piece of lung

and I drank some more

and rinsed my face

and brushed my teeth

and why didn't Serena's body wash up on shore?

why didn't joggers find her bones in the woods?

why didn't garbagemen find her in a dumpster

all red with blood and ketchup?

I knew why now.

It was because our girls

all went to the same place to die—

the secret place,

they dropped down to the underplace,

with bones and worms and rot—

Serena was dead.

I
lay down on the bed

and I said, Melli, Serena is dead.

She didn't answer. Surprise.

I said, they never come back,

somebody should tell the police they never come back.

Melli didn't answer.

I said, you think someone is going to save you?

my voice shaking the snot out of me,

you think if you just sit there all big blue eyes

and blue tears coming out

not swearing, not stealing,

keeping the commandments like jewels in a box

like they're made of gold

you think an angel is going to save you?

you think that?

A
nd then I hugged her and said,

don't be sad, Melli, don't be sad, don't—

I told her about Serena

and how she said, friend, you are welcome

for hot dogs and church.

I said,

Serena—I bet she's serene now.

I bet she's not hungry in heaven.

I bet God gave her a good address:

Cloud Nine, even.

T
he worst thing was

Serena ending up being stolen

by someone ­else's story—

just a character in his story,

and the ending she wanted to have

got him instead,

just a part of his stupid story
.
.
.

that was the worst thing of all.

I threw up again,

maybe with a chunk of heart,

and Call came in and I said,

do you see any bits of heart in there?

He said, you're losing it,

said, this could all be over in a minute

if you take your candy,

and I forgot to answer because I was thinking,

he ­can't have her anymore,

I'm writing a new end to her story,

I'm taking Serena's story back.

I
lay by Melli, yawning, yawning, and my legs jumping,

trying to be still and not cough or shake.

I whispered, Dad must have my letter by now

and what if he came for us?

Because I knew a girl whose family did that—

I didn't tell Melli

that when that girl got home people looked at her

like they look at people whose faces have been burned off,

whose faces have melted,

people looked at her like they wondered

why she would want to live—

so she came back to Hastings and Main.

But what will not ambition and revenge descend to?

M
elli and I woke up

and I made breakfast for her,

cream of wheat, which I ate a little.

Call was stroking the pages of names on his petition

signed by people who want us off the streets,

people who worry about their children.

He said, see, Angel?

I can do this.

He said some of the names out loud,

read them like poetry,

admired their curly t's and y's,

did not fold the pages.

He was in a good mood

like the Call I met at the mall

like the one who gave me my first kiss

so I said,

Call, maybe there are angels.

He ran his fingers down the list of names

and didn't answer, so I said,

maybe we should take Melli back

because of possible angels,

because an angel would mean God

and he would want us to give Melli back.

Call said, you are crazy dopesick.

H
e sat on the broken-­bone couch

trying to be patient with me.

He said, you think there's God?

You think when you die you go to a good place?

You get to meet the head universe maker?

Get real, he said, get real.

He said, God is a crutch.

He said, religion causes all the wars.

I said, what religion was Hitler?

He said, I ­can't have a conversation with you.

God is an imaginary friend for grownups.

P
eople like you will believe anything, Call said.

I bet you believe people went to the moon.

But that was a trick to explain

what they did with all that money.

Look at the footage, he said—­the flag is waving
.
.
.

What's wrong with that picture, Angel?

No air, that's what. There's no air on the moon

for a flag to wave in.

He said, I'm glad we had this talk.

T
hen Asia came over to see Call's name collection

and show him his.

I did not understand what they ­were talking about,

something trying to get backing

from a member of the taxation committee,

something imposing an entertainment tax

in exchange for movement toward regulation,

something the right to advertise the product

which would normalize the business.

They could give complimentary ser­vices to legislators
.
.
.

They started laughing together

and Call shouted at me,

Supply! you're in demand.

I said, Melli and me, can we go for milk and bread?

And he said, hey it's okay between us, right, Angel?

I can trust you, right?

He plumped up Jeremy's rhino,

said, I know you're my girl,

buy me some ham while you're there,

said, why don't you stop by the library.

Which was weird.

W
e walked downstairs

and I held Melli's hand because I wobbled

and I explained to Melli with coughs

and my face on fire

and my hips out of joint

about why I ­couldn't run away.

I said, if I leave, Call will hurt my brother Jeremy.

And if I saw Jeremy in heaven

I would be so sorry,

I would say, it was all my fault.

Melli, I would die of Jeremy

if anything happened to him.

But there's that letter to my dad,

in which I told him about Serena and my vow.

I checked the mailbox,

but nothing.

Not yet, Melli, I said.

Just not yet.

But soon.

I
n the window of the store where we bought milk

we saw a missing children's poster,

each little child in her own square

as herself and as the computer aged her

and with new computer hair.

Melli's picture ­wasn't on it.

Neither was mine. None of the faces ­were mine.

I wondered how those kids felt,

stars of the missing children's poster club,

but not being anywhere, just missing.

I wondered if they ever said,

I would never wear my hair like that.

A
fter we bought milk and white bread

and tomatoes because Call is allergic,

I took Melli on the coal harbour walk.

Showed her my favourite gingerbread ­house­boat

and told her about how I dreamed of floating it out to sea

and how I would have kelp for my garden

and waves for my winter.

I showed her how to feed the pigeons

with our bread,

and they let her touch them,

let her stroke their necks

shiny as purple-­glitter nail polish.

The pigeons never let anyone touch them
.
.
.

It's a wing thing, I guess.

She held my hand while we walked,

held me up,

and I didn't throw up once.

I
n a vacant lot

some people ­were making

a pop-­up storybook park

all out of throwaways

and scraps and string,

all out of finders keepers

and losers weepers,

out of duct tape and rags,

cartons and castoffs
.
.
.

Melli and I looked at it through the fence.

O
n the way back

we stopped at the library

and I showed her Mr. Milton

in stained glass.

I checked the message board without belief

but then I almost screamed

because there was the note

with my name on it!

I opened it, shaking,

and it said,

Nice try.

Call

W
hen we got back

Call said, did you stop by the library?

I said, no I never go there.

He laughed and held up his candy

and said, this is going to be a long day for you

without candy,

said, get ready for work.

I said, it's not time yet,

I have to sleep,

and he said, get ready.

Before you do the streets today

I need you to be nice to one of my backers,

one of my money men, at his place of business.

He said, you think I like this?

all you think about is you,

you never think about what this is doing to me
.
.
.

He said, Angel, do you love me?

Just do this for me, for us—

soon we'll be taxpayers,

we'll have the neighbours over, we'll volunteer.

You with me, baby?

I
got up to go because he ­wasn't really asking,

and Call locked Melli in

and I found out Call's backer was a baby dentist

with goldfish in his wall

and little couches for kids to sit in.

Call said, I don't care how sick you are,

you smile and be sweet

or I'll stuff that candy down your throat.

T
he baby dentist put me in that chair

that turned me almost upside down

and said, is this your first time?

Don't be scared,

I'm just going to have a little look,

just open your mouth like an O

and say ahhh
.
.
.

He didn't even have to give me freezing

because I was already numb.

While he did his backer business

I thought about Serena,

wondering if she danced in heaven

and if God said, may I?

and spun her a galaxy,

and if he said, ­haven't I always taken care of you?

and she said no

and he said sorry.

I thought about something I heard

about a skydiver whose parachute didn't open

but he lived.

He remembered hitting the ground

like it was all pillows

because the unconscious part

came before the hurting part.

Maybe it was that way for Serena
.
.
.

it would be just like God to do it that way.

I
n a dentist chair

when you're so upside down

and you don't have anything ­else to hang on to

you want to believe maybe this isn't all you get—

when so many people try to beat the angel out of you,

you hang on for dear life.

And then the baby dentist was done

and I lived.

I always live.

W
hen I got home

Melli was playing solitaire—

she smiled when we came in and I said,

Call, Melli has such nice teeth,

good thing she'll never have to go to the baby dentist.

He knew what I meant

and he knew how much I meant it.

He said, I'm going out,

and he locked us in.

I got my notebook

and figured out

when you start to write a poem

you don't know where it might go.

It's an act of faith to write a book of you,

to believe a poem

is something you could do.

When you write a poem

you get to be a baby god-­girl

and in you is a tiny universe, a doll­house universe

with planets the size of peas and suns like marbles

all inside you
.
.
.

and if you write it good enough

you could maybe spin the world backwards—

maybe I could watch myself walking backwards

walking away from Call and all the men

and putting the shoes back on the display shelf

and walking backwards until I was a dot

and disappeared.