The Trial of Fallen Angels (8 page)

I nearly skip over to the enlisted club to grab a beer and celebrate. But on my way I see two men opening the rear panel of the truck that almost hit me, parked now about fifty yards away. They crawl up inside and begin unloading empty black body bags onto a folding litter, stacked twenty at a time. I stop to watch them. The guys in the morgue detail pretty much keep to themselves, and everyone else stays away from them. A guy will deny any belief in superstitions and yet walk out of his way to avoid getting anywhere near the morgue. I wonder whether the bags are new or whether they just reuse the old ones over and over again. It doesn’t seem right reusing them, violates the privacy of the first guy and insults the second. They gave their lives, for chrissake. The least the Army can do is spring for new bags.

Eleven grand . . . eleven . . . freakin’ . . . grand!

The body bags slap onto the litter like stacks of crisp, new script hitting a counter.

Surplus, Toby. Just surplus,
I tell myself.
The stuff’s just sitting there while some French kid dies because his doctor can’t get enough sulfa and penicillin. A fellow ought to get paid when he puts himself on the line.

Turning into the enlisted club I hear boots racing toward me from behind, pounding like hooves. Before I can turn to see what’s going on I’m knocked to the ground. There’s a sharp pain in my back. I try lifting my head, but it won’t move.
Oh my God, they’re shelling us and I’ve been hit!

“Help!” I yell. “Help! Medic! I’ve been hit! I’ve been hit!”

The pain in my back increases, like a great weight is bearing down on me.

“Stop your damn yelling, Bowles,” a voice says, close behind, just above me. “You’re under arrest for theft.”

Two MPs pull me off the ground and cuff my wrists behind my back. Over their shoulders, I see Collins in the door of the tent, shaking hands with another MP and handing him my money.

—

HAISSEM WAS SITTING
again on the chair at the center of the Courtroom. I felt the same sense of confusion and exhaustion that overwhelmed me after passing among the souls in the train station.

“Can you hear me now, Brek?” Luas said.

“Yes,” I said, barely hearing him, as though he was far away. “What do you mean, ‘now’?”

“I was talking to you during the presentation,” he said. “When you didn’t respond, I asked Haissem to stop.”

“Oh . . .” I replied, lost, trying to separate my identity from Toby Bowles. “I’m sorry. It just seems so . . . real, like I’m remembering my own life.”

“Yes, it is that way, isn’t it?” Luas said. “When Haissem begins again, listen for my voice. At first you’ll hear me speaking through the characters in the presentation, but what I say will seem out of context. If you fail to respond, I’ll bring up the circumstances of your disfigurement again to bring you back. Unfortunately, it isn’t possible to instruct you on how to separate yourself from the soul being presented. You must learn this by doing, which is one of the reasons for having you watch.”

“What other reason is there?” I asked.

“To prepare you to present souls yourself,” Luas said.

10

L
uas nodded and Haissem continued the trial of Toby Bowles’s soul. Again the Courtroom vanished and with it my identity as Brek Cuttler. I became Toby Bowles.

—

THE WAR IS
over and I’m back at home now in New Jersey. I’m in the parish hall of my church during coffee hour after the service and seething with rage because my wife, Claire, has just told people that I don’t make enough money to support her or my kids.

“How dare you tell them that!” I whisper to her through clenched teeth so no one else will hear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Toby,” she replies.

I glare at her before stomping out through the parish-hall doors, humiliated.

In the parking lot, Alan Bickel, one of the parishioners, smiles at me and sticks out his hand.

“Mornin’,” I grunt, brushing past him without shaking his hand or making eye contact.

I climb into our rusting 1949 Chevy Deluxe, slam the door behind me, start the engine, and light a cigarette, drawing the smoke deep into my lungs and holding it there with my rage until they both can be contained no longer. I still can’t believe she said it. I exhale loudly, talking to myself, repeating what Claire said to Marion Hudson: “I’m sorry, Marion, but money’s tight right now. We just haven’t any extra for the building fund.”

How could she? To Paul and Marion Hudson? And there they go now, driving off in their new Cadillac. Every year a new car. From a dry-cleaning store? The guy must be running something on the side or cooking the books.
I bend down and pretend not to see them.

The rear door opens and my kids climb in, Tad and Todd, then Susan and Katie.

“Dibs on the window,” Tad calls.

There’s a big commotion and Tad starts crying.

“Dad, Todd hit me and Susan won’t move. I called dibs first.”

“Knock it off back there or I’ll take off my belt!” I yell. “For chrissake, Tad, you’re the oldest. What are you, eleven now? And still cryin’ all the time like you was a baby. If you don’t like what Todd and Susan are doin’, then give ’em one across the mouth. That’s what I used to do to your uncle Mike when he crossed me. It’s time you started actin’ like a man, son, and I’m tellin’ you right now you’re playin’ football come August. Period. I don’t want to hear another word about it.” I take another drag on my cigarette. “You’re playin’, right, Todd, old boy?”

“You bet, Dad,” Todd says. “Mr. Dawson says he’s startin’ me at linebacker and quarterback.”

Even though he’s a full year younger, Todd stands two inches taller than his brother and weighs at least fifteen pounds more.

“Atta boy,” I tell him.

Claire slides into the passenger seat beside me. “I really don’t understand why you got so upset,” she says.

I’m furious. I throw the cigarette out the window, slam the gear selector into first, and mash the accelerator before she can close the door. We roar out of the parking lot.

“Toby, for heaven’s sake!” Claire screeches. “I haven’t got the door closed and there’s kids in the car!”

“No!” I holler over the engine. “There’s a bunch of cryin’ ingrates in this car and a woman who embarrasses her family in public and don’t even have the sense to know it.” My chest tightens and I feel the veins in my neck swelling. As usual, when I catch Claire doing something wrong, she refuses to respond. “You got nothin’ to say?” I yell. “You ain’t got no idea what I’m talkin’ about?”

“The souls come into Shemaya Station just like you did,” she says. “A presenter is assigned to meet with each postulant before the trial, then they wait in the train station until their case is called and a decision is made. Since they’re not permitted to attend the trial, the presenter must acquire a complete understanding of the choices they’ve made during—”

“What the hell did you just say?” I ask.

“Do what you want, Toby!” Claire yells. “Every day it’s something. I’ve broken one of the invisible rules in your invisible rule book. You’re swearing in front of the kids on Sunday and driving like a maniac.”

I explode. “‘Money’s tight right now, Marion’? ‘Toby can’t take care of his family, Marion’? ‘We barely make ends meet with his job on the railroad, Marion’? Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at Paul Hudson. But you know why I don’t worry? Because there’s no way Paul Hudson would give up what he’s got for big, ugly thighs like yours.”

Claire starts crying. “I hate you, Toby!” she screams. “I hate you! I want you out. Just get out and leave us alone.”

“It’s none of their damn business whether money’s tight!” I yell. “It’s nobody’s business. You got that? Nobody’s! Off they go in their big Caddy to their big country club. I’ll bet they’re Red too. There’s Commies all over the place, Claire. They’re after regular guys like me. That’s why I ain’t got a good job and never will. Marion Hudson’s laughing at us and you don’t even know it. Don’t you get it? She knows we don’t got extra. That’s why she asked, to hear you say it. That’s how they get their kicks. How can you be so stupid?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s not like that, Daddy,” says Susan from the backseat. “When I stay over with Penny, they always ask about you and Mommy and they’re real nice.”

“I don’t want you kids over there again!” I holler. “Do you hear me? My God, Claire, they even do it to the kids. I can just hear it now: ‘How’s your mother and father, Susan? My, aren’t your shoes old . . . and that dress. What? They haven’t taken you shopping in Manhattan? Such a shame.’ And that Penny Hudson, I don’t want her comin’ over to our place anymore either. New bikes, new dresses. She’s always got something new. She’s a spoiled brat.”

I can’t control myself. Embarrassment, jealousy, and hatred pour out of me as if there’s nothing else inside, as if I am nothing else. I want to give my kids and my wife new things. I want to be respected in the community. I want to live where the Hudsons live and eat where the Hudsons eat. I whip down Greenwood Avenue, barely stopping at the lights.

When we get home, I call Bob to see if he’ll pick me up early—then I go upstairs and start throwing things in my duffel bag for the week: work lights, flares, two pairs of work pants, some T-shirts, and two pairs of work gloves. Claire stays downstairs with the kids, fixing them lunch, trying to keep them quiet. I take off my dress slacks, shirt, and tie and fold them neatly into the bottom of my bag along with a bottle of Aqua Velva. Sheila likes it when I dress up and wear cologne for her. She thinks I’m an important businessman. I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I can’t wait to see her. She’s the only one who understands me. I zip the bag closed and put my Wolverines on top. Claire calls up from the kitchen.

“Do you want any lunch before you go?” Her voice is cold, emotionless. She’s still upset but prides herself on not showing it in front of the kids. She knows damn well Bob’s on his way over but asks anyway.

“No. Bob and I’ll grab something on the way to Princeton Junction.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not ’til Friday.”

I carry my things down the stairs. “We’re runnin’ empty dump cars up to Scranton and full ones on through Altoona to Pittsburgh.”

Katie toddles into the living room with a coloring book and crayon, her most prized possessions. She’s just eighteen months old. “Daddy, what happened to your right arm?” she asks. “Did you do it because you were mad at your mommy and daddy?”

“Sure, I’ll color with you, sweetie,” I say, feeling miserable for having yelled and gotten everybody so upset. “Climb up here on my lap.”

“Brek, do you hear me?”

“Luas?”

“Ah, there you are,” he says. “Finally got through, good. I thought we lost you again.”

My personality splits in two. Half of me carries on a conversation with Toby Bowles’s daughter, while the other half carries on a conversation with Luas. I exist simultaneously in two worlds and two lives.

“This is a circle, Katie. Can you say ‘circle’?” She looks up at me with wide brown eyes and rosy cheeks, melting my heart.

“Cirsa.”

“Concentrate on your memories,” Luas says, “Bo, Sarah, your job.”

I think of Sarah and her crayons. She’s not much younger than Katie. I think of Bo, who has never yelled at me the way Toby did at Claire, and I think of my mom and dad. The distance between selves grows until two distinct lives emerge: mine, which has depth, substance, and nuance, and Toby Bowles’s life, which I know well but only episodically. I feel his emotions and see through his eyes, but I finally understand now that he is not me even though he’s someone I have experienced more intimately and completely than I’ve ever experienced another person before.

“So,” Luas says, “what do you think of our Mr. Bowles?”

I can hear Luas but not see him. I see only the Bowleses’ living room. It’s as if Luas and I are commenting on a televised sporting event from the press box, but the field completely surrounds us like a gigantic IMAX screen. We are in the center of the action but apart from it, yet able to know one of the player’s thoughts.

“I don’t much care for—” I catch myself. “I thought we weren’t allowed to make judgments about other souls.”

“Well done,” Luas says. “But a little too far. We’re forbidden from making judgments, if you will, not observations. A lawyer may disapprove of the actions of his client but nonetheless remain an advocate for his client’s rights. Wasn’t that so with your client Alan Fleming? You disapproved of him failing to repay the bank loan but nevertheless you defended him.”

I’m able now to watch the presentation of Toby Bowles’s soul without confusing his life with mine. Although I am no longer inside his body, I somehow know all of his thoughts and feel all of his emotions, as though I am God looking into his mind.

Toby’s friend Bob pulls up in front of the house and honks his horn. Toby wraps Katie in his arms and gives her a kiss. He hates saying good-bye, and it’s worse now because of the awful way he’s behaved. Claire, Susan, and Todd approach timidly. Toby wishes he could take it all back, but an apology would be empty and they wouldn’t understand. He kisses Claire tenderly, and she responds with a lingering hug, at once absolving him of his crime and, at the same time, wounding him with the generosity of her forgiveness.

“I’ll bring you all back something nice,” he whispers remorsefully, still convinced material possessions are what they want from him. Todd and Susan give him hugs, but Tad stays in the kitchen playing walk-the-dog with his yo-yo, unwilling to forgive his father and muttering good-bye only after his mother orders him to say something. Toby doesn’t know how to handle Tad anymore. “I’ll bring him something special too,” he mumbles to himself, “maybe the cap gun and holster set he’s been wanting.” Toby knows he’s been hard on Tad, but it’s been for his own good. Toby’s father was the same way before he abandoned the family when Toby was eleven. At least Toby hasn’t done that. The horn honks again. Bob’s waiting. Toby waves, picks up his things, and walks out the door.

“Haissem is re-creating this?” I ask.

“Yes,” Luas replies. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

—

SEVEN YEARS LATER.
Toby Bowles is now staggering under the weight of middle age. The regrets of lost youth, the deterioration of his body, the fear of approaching death, the vain search for meaning and reaffirmation—all these things sour his life, making him restless and depressed. His hair has thinned and his worry lines have deepened.

He walks up to a small garden apartment in Morrisville, New Jersey, letting himself in with the key Bonnie Campbell leaves for him under a loose brick. The apartment is dark. He turns to lock the door as he’s always careful to do, but Bonnie has been waiting and goes quickly for his ears, sending gusts of hot breath into the sensual pockets of his mind. His hand drops from the knob and they move quickly into her darkened bedroom before his eyes can adjust from the glare of the mid-afternoon sun.

Bonnie’s robe falls to the shabby gold carpet, revealing a middle-aged body of creases and folds desirable to Toby only because the candlelight is forgiving—and because Bonnie’s attraction to him refutes what he sees of himself in the mirror. The sheets are thrown back and their bodies embrace, fingers and lips uniting all that is opposite, other, forbidden. The delights are exquisite, suspending time. But bliss is fleeting, shattered suddenly by the distinct metal-on-metal click of the front doorknob cylinder. Toby bolts upright out of the bed, and Bonnie rolls beneath the covers, popping her head out the other side like a groundhog peering from its hole. A dark silhouette fills the doorway to the bedroom.

“Claire, honey?” Toby says in a voice trembling with remorse, shaken by the overwhelming surge of guilt that has been consuming him during his six-month affair with Bonnie Campbell. Yet he’s almost relieved now that it will all finally be over and he’ll be able to confess his crime and beg her forgiveness. The candles on the dresser flicker low in an unseen draft, then brighter in its wake, illuminating tears streaming down the intruder’s face.

“That’s not Claire!” Bonnie screams, pulling the covers up to her chin. “It’s Tad!”

Bonnie Campbell had known Tad since he was a little boy. In fact, she had been close friends with Toby’s wife, Tad’s mother—Claire—making the humiliation of the encounter for Toby even more complete than if it were Claire herself. Bonnie owned the only pet shop in the small town, and as Tad grew older he purchased at least one of every creature she sold, climbing the evolutionary chain in step with his ability to care for the animals: an ant farm at first, then a fish, a lizard, some gerbils and hamsters, a rabbit, a cat, and, finally, a dog, a German shepherd. He even worked in her store after school. Tad knew her son, Josh, who was much younger. He knew her ex-husband, Joe. He had eaten many meals at their home.

Bonnie switches on the nightstand light, indignant and remorseless, full of pride for what she has accomplished, daring Tad to speak. But Tad does not see her. He sees only his father: naked, panting, stunned. Tears flood down Tad’s face, but he says nothing. He turns and leaves the apartment without saying a word.

Toby’s guilt and remorse vanish as quickly as they arose, replaced by rage and a sense of betrayal. He feels ashamed now, not for his own conduct but for his son’s. He could understand why Claire would track him down, but Tad? His eighteen-year-old son? And to stand there crying the way Claire would have done? This embarrassment crowns all the other embarrassments and disappointments Tad has caused Toby over the years: his lack of interest in sports, his lack of friends, his weakness and inability to stand up for himself, his defense of his mother against Toby’s abuse. Tad had judged Toby and turned on him at every opportunity, but now he had crossed the line.