Sentinel of Heaven (10 page)

The first
dryer buzzed.

Moira had Leo
dump the load of fresh clothes onto the nearest washers and showed him how to
fold jeans and shirts, taking the smaller garments herself.  He was a quick
study.

“The rest is
not much to tell:  I came home.  I set about making the house livable, as much
as I could.  Re-caulked all the windows, plugged some holes, had the roof
patched although it really needs to be replaced by now.  I threw out or sold a
lot of the old stuff that had been here.”

Got a new
mattress, splurged on a decent memory foam one because I can't take metal
springs anymore; that and I wasn't about to use the one Mother had died on.

“I bought a
good laptop and enrolled in classes.  I hired a physical therapist who was also
willing to help me run errands once or twice a week.  I took drivers' ed and I
bought a decent used car, learned how to drive it.  Even when I was in the
wheelchair I could
move
my right leg, just couldn't stand up or walk
for long.  Driving was the only way I could truly be independent out here.

“I lived off
the funds from the sale of the family land for almost two years; long enough to
complete my CPA cert, long enough to basically get my body back as good as it
was going to be, and then I was able to find a job in the city.  Been working
there ever since.  It doesn't pay as much as I'd like, but I get by – I don't
need much.  Boring, like I said.”

Leo was
folding towels from the second dryer into squares and shook his head silently
at her words.  She didn't argue with him, just opened the canvas laundry sacks
as wide as she could to set the stacks of folded clothing inside.  Even though
some of the work might come apart in transport, folding them now still meant
less wrinkles later than if she'd just wadded them all back up and pushed them
back in the bags.

Even on a good
day she could only lift one bag at a time – usually wound up dragging them
across the last few feet of the sidewalk to her car, thus the investment in
canvas.  It was so much easier with him here, on many different levels.

When
everything was packed to their satisfaction, Leo handed her the laundry
supplies and hefted the bags onto his shoulder again, indicating she should
lead the way.  Chester looked up to watch them go.  As Leo held the door open
for her, he barked “Hey, big dude!”

Leo looked
down at him, his profile calm and composed.

“Killer ink,”
Chester muttered.

Leo smiled. 
With his free hand he pushed Moira gently through the door, closing it behind
her and locking the latch with a snap.  Moira felt a flush of anger rise up to
the roots of her hair. 

I'm not
going to make a scene; it's nearly lunch hour now and Main Street is getting
too busy.  If I have a conniption right now my name will be all over town by
sundown.

Leo spread his
hand dispassionately on the old Formica of the laundromat counter – through the
window she could see him leaning forward, mouth moving in a rhythmic cadence. 
She couldn't hear his words but their effect on Chester was startling.

Pale as a
sheet, the man leaned as far away from Leo as the space would permit.  If the
wall hadn't stopped his shoulders he would have fallen completely off his
stool.  Before her startled eyes he began to quake all over like a leaf in high
wind.

And still Leo
was murmuring or chanting.  His face was as pleasant as if he were merely
discussing the weather.  Slowly a red bubble formed under Chester's right
nostril, expanded to about the size of a quarter and burst messily, streaming
down into his patchy facial hair.

Far from
shocked by that outcome, Leo smiled.  He nodded once as he closed his mouth again,
then unlocked the door and ducked under the lintel to stand next to her on the
pavement.

“To the car. 
Right this minute,” Moira grated.  She waited until everything was stowed and
the doors were shut before she spoke again.

“You will
explain
now
, soldier.”

Still as
pleased as a cat in the cream, Leo held up his open hand.  Five days, he
mouthed.  Then he drew his finger across his throat and showed all his teeth.

“In five days
he will die,” Moira translated, staring into her rear-view mirror.  From here
she could see that Chester had not moved except to touch his fingers to the
mess on his face and stare at his red-tipped hand, mesmerized.

Leo touched
his bottom lip, then pointed back at the laundromat.  I told him.  Or rather
more literally Moira could translate it as: from my mouth to his ears.

“How did you
know he's going to die in five days?”

Leo repeated
the gesture happily.

“Wait just a
goddamn minute, I'm not sure I'm understanding you completely,” she growled.  “It's
not that you told him he's going to die in five days... it's that you said
something to him that will
make
him die in five days.”

Leo nodded
absolute affirmative.

“I am one
hundred percent sure this falls under the realm of 'doing anything to him',
Leo.”

The angel in
the seat beside her flexed his hands, glanced at them uncertainly, then looked
at her.  He shook his head and reached out to cup her temple.

A rush of
emotion filled her; it coalesced into a sense of apology, and the distinct idea
that the importance of the concept was too much to allow for more crude sign
language.  With a start she realized he was communicating directly through
emotion sent via his fingers on her flesh – like telepathy but with no sense of
words, only feeling.

He impressed
upon her mind a picture that rather reminded her of a watercolor painting on
the level of her old Golden Books: a small yappy dog with a shock of brown hair
on its head, obviously meant to represent Chester.  It was snapping and
snarling at the tail of a huge lion who had a face like one of the kabuki demon
masks, although its eyes were blue – Leo the lion, then.  In the protective
curl of one of the lion's forepaws was a sleek Siamese cat with blond fire
markings and green eyes: herself.

He focused the
picture on the dog's jaws and where they threatened the lion's tail.

“He doesn't
have enough sense not to yank the tail of someone far more dangerous than him,”
Moira translated distantly.  True; he couldn't even keep himself from that one
last remark, even though it was patently obvious Leo was huge and protective of
Moira and bore Chester no love whatsoever.

Leo wiped the
lion out of the picture and moved the remaining two animals closer – now it
looked like the yappy dog was menacing the sleek Siamese directly.

“And you think
that if you're not here, he'll be dumb enough to try something again.  Not even
thinking about the fact that you might be not too far away and would come kill
him for it.”

Not simply
'thought'; Leo's expression convinced her he was certain of it.  She could
never have a safe interaction alone with Chester because he didn't register the
idea of consequences unless they were right in his face and ready to dispense
pain.

“One more
question... why didn't you tell me you could do this?”

Another welter
of feeling, one that indicated that he felt what he had done was not quite rude
but certainly taboo.  He took his hand away, his eyes strangely sad.

Moira put her
palm lightly on his arm again.  “It's not something I've experienced before
obviously, but I don't mind it.  I think I could get to like it.  So if you
need to do it to get your point understood on something in the future, it's
okay.”

He nodded
solemnly.  She looked in the rear-view mirror again.  Chester was wiping his
nose on a dirty rag, looking back to his disgusting self.  I'm okay with him
dying, Moira realized.  More than okay.  And I'm okay with Leo having been the
one to kill him, if that's really how it winds up.

She felt a
rush of liquid heat flash through all her limbs and let it happen; maybe there
was a girl out there who
wouldn't
have her head turned by a handsome
man murdering someone on her behalf, but Moira was not that girl.

“You are
not
a nice person either,” she told Leo.  He returned her satisfied smile and
reached over to twine his index finger around hers again.

“We're two of
a kind... we belong together,” she translated softly, finally understanding. 
The look he gave her was as warm as a sunrise.

Moira turned
the car towards home. 
Don't fall in love,
she told herself. 
Oh,
don't fall in love.

“Can
loneliness be something you don't notice?” she mused, murmuring into the chilly
wind through the open car window.  Her voice was quiet but Leo stirred when she
broke the comfortable silence between them; she knew he could hear her.

“I don't have
any pets... I don't have the strength to take care of a pet most days.  I'm not
home enough to keep it company, between my job and the commute.  I'd have to
get two dogs or two cats so they can keep each other company and that's double
the effort.  I guess I could get some fish or lizards or a snake but they're
not really companion animals, you know?  They don't snuggle.

“I don't go out
often.  Going out costs money.  That's horrible to say but it's true.  My money
has to go to the important things... I sock a fair amount away in savings, all
I can, and I stay ahead of the medical bills so they don't send the strong-arms
after me or garnish my checks.  I'm doing good to have that much breathing
room.  I have to save money because if something else happens – if there's
another wreck or I get sicker or something – there's no one else here to catch
me.  I have to try to be prepared.

“When I have
money I usually buy books.  You've seen my living room, it's full of them.  The
old parlor's full of junk I haven't moved out yet but it's also got some boxes
in it.  Old pulps I don't have bookcases for yet.  Sometimes I wish I could
just put shelves up all over that parlor and unpack them all.  Maybe have a
bonfire of that old furniture; don't want to have to pay to have it hauled
away.”

She knew it
was a babbling stream of consciousness but she didn't care; Leo's silence was
like a cup waiting to be filled, and he didn't seem to mind.

“I try
sometimes to be friends with the girls at work, but it's hard.  There are the
ones that are so fashion-forward they wear four-inch heels and sundresses to
the office, for crying out loud.  How can this frumpy little old lady with the
cane ever identify with teenyboppers like that?  The other women all are
married or have children or are married and have children... and that's all
they talk about.  What's your husband like?  What're your kids like?  What was
your baby's last bowel movement like?”

She made a
face.  “Not conversations I'm qualified to have.  Never been married, thank
God, and never had children.  Pretty sure I don't want any.  I guess some women
here would be horrified to hear me say it.  But I'm doing decent just to get
myself
through the world in one piece – I can't imagine trying to bring along someone
more vulnerable than myself.  You're responsible for everything in a kid's
world, same as a pet.

“It's not what
I want for my life, but then... what is?  Can I even bother to stop and think
about what I want in life, when all I've been able to get and keep is what I'm
clinging to with both hands?  This crumbling little house in Podunk, Nowhere –
and a job I hate?  Most nights I come home exhausted: eight hours of work, one
hour of lunch break, two hours of transit, that's eleven right there.  Toss in
another one hour to shower, make my lunch and get ready to go.  That's twelve
hours I spend, each work day.  With eight hours of sleep or so that's less than
four hours a day that I could have just for myself.

“Usually I
read.  I like to read, obviously.  I get cheap books when I can and they
practically all know me by name at the library.

“That's the
weekdays... Saturday and Sunday I can't do much.  I putter around, trying to
upkeep here as much as I can, as much as my body will let me.  Trying to keep
the house clean, not turn it into some filthy little hovel.  Seems like I spend
most of my weekend free from work just dreading going back to work.

“And men.” 
Moira gave a laugh devoid of humor.

“I haven't
really bothered to date since Taylor.  I feel like I'm damaged goods, you
know?  Like any man really worth having would be getting a raw deal by being
with me.  I mean, I'm not getting any better.  This is it.  And as I get older,
it's probably going to get worse.  What guy wants to be with a bitchy old
cripple?

“No, wait, I
take that back – What
normal
guy wants to be with a bitchy old
cripple?  I've met most of the abnormal ones in the area.”

She gave Leo a
wry glance.

“There are
guys online that dig a girl with scars.  They like a girl who's in a wheelchair
or who has amputations or who is very damaged in some other way.  It's like a
fetish, I guess.  They advertise on internet forums and personals, looking for women
like me.

“I won't lie,
so don't judge me for it – but I've met a few, now and again.  Out in other
cities, in hotel rooms.  They're not the type of guys I want knowing where I
live.  Most of them were superficially nice but very intense; thoughtless and
selfish in a lot of ways.  Couldn't wait to get me naked and count the suture
marks.  Actual intercourse was almost an afterthought.”

Moira sighed. 
“One guy said he was disappointed I'd kept the leg,” she whispered.  “I quit,
after him.  Just couldn't do it anymore, not even for the comfort of touch. 
That was it, really.  You hold a better conversation than all of these guys,
for fuck's sake – and you don't even talk!  But to feel close to another living
being for a while...  To feel warmth and flesh and pleasure of a sort, I
guess.  Sensation that wasn't pain.