The Miracles of Ordinary Men (21 page)

Roberta holds her hand and says nothing. Eventually she falls asleep and Lilah leaves again. She goes back to Roberta's house to find the sheets still crumpled on the bedroom floor. She dumps them in the washing machine and throws in detergent and bleach, and then she takes a spare sheet from the closet and spreads it on the mattress. She falls asleep on this bed, in this room, away from the green macramé. She dreams of nothing.

It is dark outside when she wakes. She has enough time to catch the last ferry, so she waters the plants, locks the front door. She smokes out the window of the car. She thinks about Roberta as she boards the ferry — Roberta, and Timothy, and this mess they call a life. Could she sedate Timothy long enough to bring him back across the water? Would he forgive her, eventually? Ever?

Seated, she prays as she did in the bedroom — quickly and without thought. Except that it's not praying so much as asking, or begging. An imaginary conversation with someone who isn't there. The ferry moves through the water and people move around her and still she sits, and her thoughts bounce from her mother to her brother and back again, and nothing happens.

Three

Within hours of that first meeting, he found himself mirroring Timothy — or maybe it wasn't the boy he was mirroring but just this shade of his new self, this final slide into strangeness.
Things that had once been ordinary were now odd and new. The whisper of cloth against his skin, the tap of a toothbrush against the inside of his mouth. The click of Father Jim's pipe against his teeth. All these memories suddenly so hazy, so out-of-focus. What was it, that bush by the side of the road? That bright spot of colour in the air, following the child and parents who skipped over the bridge? Balloon. Yellow balloon.

He forgot words, forgot things. The veins in his arms and across his torso grew darker. Migraines came, went away, came back again. The world shimmered green and blue and gold.

The next day, they left Father Jim to his lunchtime whiskey and once more walked into the city. The day was cold and clear and the air carried a faint hint of snow. Timothy scuffed his shoes as they walked, and mumbled softly to the ground.

“Who are you talking to?” Sam asked when he couldn't take it anymore.

Timothy started, stopped. Flushed pink. “My sister,” he said, his voice small. “I'm sorry. I know it's crazy.”

“It's not crazy.” He moved in step with Timothy so that the two of them spanned the sidewalk. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a small line of black dust trailing behind them, so fine that it was almost invisible against the cement. Dust. Blur. Nothing. “I'm sure she talks to you too.”

“Maybe,” the boy said. Then he shrugged. “I don't think so. We're — we're too far apart, now.”

“Because of the wings?”

Timothy shook his head. “We were apart before. It's been that way for years.”

Julie, standing before him at the funeral. White lily in the dark twist of her hair. The memory flickered, faded.

“My sister always wanted something
else,” Timothy continued. “Another city. Another life. It drove our mother crazy.
Drives
,” and Sam remembered his words from the night before.
My mother is dying.

“And now?” Sam asked. “What does she do?”

The boy shrugged. “She works in the city. She comes to find me on the street. She still isn't happy.” He picked at a thread hanging off the cuff of his sweater. “Looks like
I
ended up with
something else
,
instead.”

“What's her name?”

“Delilah.”

“That's pretty.”

Timothy laughed. “She hates
it. She always said our mother named her after the most famous whore in history.” He scuffed a shoe and started walking again. “She went to the hospital, yesterday. In Victoria. She wanted me to come, but I couldn't go. I couldn't.” Then he said something, too low for Sam to hear.

“What?”

“Lilah,” he said. “That's what I call her. When I speak to her in person, and even when she isn't there.”

“Oh,” Sam said. They kept walking. Men with wings, melting into the landscape. They walked along the edges of Granville Island, through the markets, through the colour. Even in these last days of November the island was busy, though for all the attention paid to the two of them, it could have been a ghost town.

“I still can't believe,” Sam said, neatly sidestepping a young boy intent on walking and playing his videogame at the same time, “that hardly anyone can see us.”

“It doesn't surprise me,” said the boy. “No one sees God anymore.”

“But we're not God. Not even close.”

Timothy shrugged again. “Maybe not. Probably not.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means whatever it means,” said the boy. “Not God — but we're not us anymore, either. We exist in between now.”

—

It came on him suddenly, inexplicably — that bone-jarring need for caffeine. Surprised that he could still want something, that the tastes of Sam Connor had not completely disappeared, he waited until they reached a coffee shop and then tugged on Timothy's shirt.

“What do you want?” he asked, nodding to the café window. “I'll buy.”

Timothy laughed, mischief sudden on his face. “I'm a penniless beggar. Of course you'll buy.”

“Yeah, well. Espresso? Latté?”

“Hot chocolate. With whipped cream.”

“No problem.” Sam pressed against the café door, then paused. “Do you want to come in?”

“No.” The boy shook his head. “Too many people. I'll wait. Here.”

“Okay.” Sam walked into the café and took his place in line. He held the wings close around his shoulders and shuffled with the others as everyone moved forward. When his turn came, he watched the barista blink, just as that girl had blinked at Timothy a few days ago. As though he was almost, not-quite there. Then she shook her head and smiled.

“Latté, you said? And a hot chocolate?”

“With whipped cream.” He watched her fiddle with the knobs on the espresso machine. Someone knocked into him from behind, pushed into the left wing. A jostle, a nudge. Unintentional. He felt the pain slice into and down through his arm.

“Sorry,” said a voice. A woman's voice. She sounded frazzled, embarrassed. He heard a child's giggle.

“It's fine.” He didn't look back. The barista slid his drinks across the counter.

Then it came.
Sam. Sam
,
help me.
A voice out of nowhere, filled with terror. He looked up and saw Timothy, on the other side of the glass, speaking to a man in a long dark coat. A tall, balding man with a high forehead and dark eyes. That was all. He frowned, passed money across the counter, and glanced around — no one else had stirred. The child behind him smiled with white, shiny teeth. The call came again.
Sam.
He turned to the window and saw the sky darken, ever so slightly, saw the air shimmer and swirl around the man, whose elegant hands reached for Timothy. Everything went still.

Panic slammed into him like nausea, hard enough to make his fingers shake. He grabbed the drinks and sprinted for the exit. There were suddenly too many people in the coffee shop — his turn to jostle the crowd now and push his way ahead. When he finally got to the door and heaved it open with his shoulder, the answering rush of cold wind was sharp enough to make him dizzy.

Timothy stood on the sidewalk, alone.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked. He put their cups on the garbage can and balled his fists.

“That man,” Timothy said, staring down the street. “He — knew.” He blinked and turned his head slowly to Sam. “He
saw
me.”

“What?” Sam turned sharply around, but the street was empty. “He saw the wings?”

Timothy nodded. “He just . . . walked up to me. Out of nowhere. He touched my forehead — ” and the boy's hand went up, mimicking “ — and he said,
Timothy. Ah
,
I see. I see you now
.”
Even as Timothy spoke his voice grew darker, richer, more hypnotic. “
You have no place here. You have no power.
“
He blinked. ”Then he
reached his hand out and he held the wing. Like this,” and the boy reached over and pulled Sam's right wing tight into his fist.

Sam drew a breath, but Timothy didn't seem to notice. That darkness in the air, the weird shimmer of the glass. “What happened. When he touched your forehead.”

Timothy blinked. “I — I don't remember.”

“What?”

“I don't remember,” he said, again. “It's . . . fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy?” Sam said. “What do you mean?”

Timothy frowned. “I don't know.” He let the wing go. “I'm cold,” he whispered. “I'm never cold.”

“Timothy.” He gripped the boy's shoulder and shook him gently. “This is important. What happened when he touched your forehead?”

“I don't know!” Timothy cried, and he knocked the drinks to the ground. “
I don't remember. He made me not remember
.”

“Timothy,” Sam said again. Just a hint of pressure, there, in the fingers. It's okay. It will be okay. “Calm down.” He remembered. “You called me. In there, in the coffee shop.”

“What?”

“You called me for help,” he said slowly. He raised his hand and touched the boy's forehead. Touched skin and felt the blood rush beneath his fingers. The ground dissolved beneath his feet. He saw a flash of white light, and — a face? A woman? A boy? Then the light again — light at once soft and heavy, like snow.

He opened his eyes. Heard nothing. Timothy's mouth moved, but there was no sound. Sam blinked, and the world came rushing in.

“What did you see?” said the boy.

“I saw,” and he put a hand to his temple, thinking back, “I saw — a woman? I think. I don't know. Is that what he saw?”

“I don't know,” said Timothy. His ears were red with cold, or shame, or both. “I've never seen him before. I don't know anything.”

Perhaps this was God — this insistent whisper, this uneasy rumble in the stomach. He fought the urge to take the boy's arm again. “What did he look like, the man?” His own memory was hazy now. A dark figure, a long black coat. “Maybe Father Jim will know who he is.”

“Father Jim can't know everything,” Timothy snapped. Then he flushed and looked away. “It feels like a dream,” he said, his voice trailing off. “Or a nightmare.” He lifted his shoulders so that his wings trembled in the air — still bedraggled, still limp. But lighter, now, since the day they'd taken him in. “
You have no power here —
what did he mean?”

“I don't know.” Sam bent and picked the soggy cups off the ground. Adrenaline and confusion fought for space in his head. Power? Did Timothy — did either of them — have any power at all? “We should go home,” he said finally.

“I haven't seen my sister,” said the boy.

“We should go home,” Sam repeated. The drinks made a sticky mess beneath their shoes. He threw the cups into the trash can. Not waiting for Timothy to answer, he started walking.

The boy followed a few moments later. They walked back to the house in silence, watching the road, the cars, each other. As they neared the house, Sam remembered the shimmer of the air around the man, the unfamiliar, accented tones of Timothy's altered voice. The uneasiness in his stomach intensified.

“Should I tell my sister?” asked Timothy. “Maybe she should — I don't know. Maybe she should know.”

“What could you tell her?” Sam said. “She doesn't see you. And anyway,” quickly, to guard against the sadness in Timothy's eyes, “we don't
know
that it's bad.” Nothing but a feeling, a memory growing more unreal as they walked. “We don't know what any of it means.”

“Maybe.” They reached the house. Sam unlocked the door and held it open, let the boy pad down the hall, into the kitchen. He locked the door, rested his forehead against the wood and turned the deadbolt, just in case.

But nothing changed, and the feeling in his abdomen didn't go away.

—

Timothy stood by the counter in the kitchen, scissors in his hand.

“My hair,” he said. “Take it.”

“All right,” said Sam. “Timothy — it's going to be all right.”

“Please,” he said. He shook, barefoot on the tile.

“All right,” Sam said again. He went into the bathroom and got the razor instead. When he came back to the kitchen Timothy was sitting, Chickenhead purring loudly in his lap.

“All of it,” he said. “All of it. Gone. Like yours.”

The hair fell away in seconds. He ran the razor lightly over Timothy's scalp until everything was gone, until his scalp shone ivory and his ears revealed tips that were slightly pointed, like Sam's own.

“There,” Sam said. “It's done now.”

“Thank you.” Timothy stood and brushed off errant bits of hair, then kept brushing, even as the hair disappeared. He rocked his head slowly from side to side.

“I think you're . . . okay,” Sam said. Why were words suddenly so hard? He reached out to the boy.

Timothy shook his head and moved farther away. “No. No. Don't touch me.”

“All right.” Sam put the razor down and held up his hands. “I'm sorry. It's okay, Timothy. It will be okay.”

“No.”

“Timothy. You're home now.” The deadbolt. “It's safe.”

“No,” the boy said again. He shook his head one more time and walked out of the kitchen, dark blue veins spreading out across the back of his head even as Sam stood and watched him go.

—

Father Jim came home an hour or so later, bottle of whiskey tucked under his arm. Sam, huddled by the back door, watched as Chickenhead jumped down from his lap and ran down the hall to the priest. She seemed lighter when the priest was around.

“Hey,” he called. “Get your own cat.”

The priest chuckled, then frowned as he came into the kitchen and saw Sam on the floor. “Are you all right?”

“Something happened,” said Timothy. He came from behind Father Jim and stood between them, hands twitching, eyes looking from the priest to Sam and back. “We saw someone — ”

“Someone who saw Timothy.” Sam spoke the words to the floor. “Someone who saw the wings.”

“And?” Father Jim's voice was crisp, focused. “What happened?”

“He touched my forehead,” the boy recited, moving his hand. His voice had an odd, singsong quality to it. “He touched my forehead, and he said,
You have no power here
.”
He paused with his own hand in the air. “Then he went away.”

“Did you see him?” Father Jim turned to Sam. “Did he speak to you?”

“I was getting coffee,” Sam said. It sounded strange now. “I saw them through the window, and I panicked.” He told them about the darkness of the air, that shimmer of the world through the glass. “But by the time I got outside, he'd left.”