When the Day of Evil Comes (31 page)

“I think we’re better off blind.”

“I do too.”

“You’re back,” he said.

“I got back last night. Late.”

“You look awful.”

“Thanks. I feel awful. It’s been a long week.”

“Gavin’s better.”

“Yeah. He seems good, doesn’t he?”

“How long do you think they’ll keep him?” Tony asked.

“A day or two. Until they’re sure he’s stable. He’s in pretty fragile shape psychologically. He’s recovering from psychotic symptoms and a suicide attempt. Obviously. You know that better than I do. They won’t send him home until they’re positive he’s out of danger.”

“He’s doing well spiritually. Just seems more at peace. A little wacky still, but more at peace. Said the white guy moved out of his room.”

“He moved out of mine, too, I think.”

“How’d you manage that?” he asked.

“I didn’t go down without a fight, I guess. I spent the entire night swatting flies.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What’d you find out in Chicago?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “And it doesn’t have an ending yet. What I still can’t figure out is, why is this all happening to me?”

“Who said it’s all happening to you?”

“I’m the one in the target zone. You told me that yourself.”

“Yeah, but you’re not the only one. And who’s to say how it’s going to turn out for everyone? Gavin, for one, is better off now than he was before.”

“How do you figure that?” I said, incredulous. “The kid’s in a psych hospital in a town in which he knows no one but you and me. He tried to hang himself from your shower curtain. How does that make him better off?”

“He became a believer,” he said simply “Peter Terry scared him right into the arms of God.”

“You think that’s what this whole thing was about? Salvation for Gavin? Or did he just have the misfortune of living in a dorm room inhabited by a demon? Maybe he just got caught in the middle.”

“No idea. Doesn’t matter, really,” he said. “Those are things you can ask Jesus one day. I got a list going myself. Until then, we don’t get to know the mind of God.”

“I met another angel … I mean besides the fallen one.” I told him about Earl.

“See?” Tony said. “Perfect example.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know for sure there are two forces at work here, right? One good, one bad.”

“And?”

“Which is responsible? Did God put you in this situation? Or did Satan? Did Peter Terry orchestrate all this? Or Earl?”

“Satan. Peter Terry. Whoever.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s obvious.”

“How? How do you know?”

“Look at what’s happened.”

“I’m looking,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

“Well, starting at the beginning, or at least at my beginning with this mess, all my colleagues think I’m nuts. They think I sent them all personalized anonymous gifts and that I’m hitting on Loser John Mulvaney.”

“And what has been the result of that?”

“I’m losing my professional credibility!” I was beginning to think Tony was insane. “Surely you’re not suggesting that any good could come of that.”

“Why not? Maybe you’re not supposed to be in that job forever. Maybe God has other work for you. Who knows? Maybe John Mulvaney needed an ego boost. Plus, you got a great necklace out of it, and you got your mother’s wedding ring back.”

“This entire mess has cost me a fortune,” I said. “I
paid
for
that necklace. And for John Mulvaney’s stupid Day-timer.”

“Who ordered the gifts?”

“Peter Terry,” I said firmly.

“How do you know?”

“It had to be supernatural. I don’t know how anyone could have known what each person would have wanted. It had to be him,” I said.

“Maybe it was Earl,” he said. “I love that name, by the way. Who knew there were angels named Earl?”

“Why would Earl want to get me in trouble like that?”

“Maybe he had some other purpose for it. Angels aren’t omniscient, you know. They don’t know the future. Maybe he took a shot and it backfired.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in the right place,” he said, laughing. “I think there’s a therapy group starting now that we can both catch.”

I thought through the week’s events. It was true, as Tony said, that I couldn’t pinpoint the source of most of this mess. Other than the obvious stuff. Joe Zoçci had beaten his wife, for instance. That much was not up for grabs. But the spiritual layers were thicker, more opaque. I didn’t have the discernment, the clarity of vision, to see through them. I wondered if I ever would.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tony said, standing up.

“Right behind you.”

We walked to the parking lot together.

“Want to come over for dinner?” Tony asked. “Jenny’s got spaghetti and meatballs.”

“I’ll take a rain check. I’m going to spend the evening alone. In my flyless, demon-free house, enjoying the smell of cleaning solutions and chemicals. I’m pretty excited about it.”

“Let me know if you hear from Gavin before we do,” he said.
“We can come pick him up if you want. Or if you get the call, you can just drop him by.”

“You’re going to let him stay with you? After all this?”

“Why not?” Tony said. “Kid’s going through a rough time is all. Besides, he’s a rookie now. He might need a little help along.”

“You’re a nice man, Tony DeStefano.”

“Tell that to my in-laws. They still haven’t forgiven me for taking Jenny off to the mission field.”

“Well, you’re home for a while now, right? They ought to be happy.”

“We’re both getting the itch already. We got a year of hard time in this cesspool,” he gestured around him. “And then we’re out of here.”

“Where to?”

“No idea. Someplace with roaches, probably. That’s what Jenny keeps telling me. I go where the roaches are.”

“Better than flies, though, huh?”

Tony shook his head. “You haven’t seen these roaches.”

We said good-bye and I headed home. My house, as I’d predicted, remained free of flies and egg smells.

I spent the rest of the evening on the front porch returning phone calls.

My father and I agreed to talk next week after I’d had a chance to go over my mother’s files. I’d set aside some time to look them over this weekend.

My brother had called. He’d heard Dad was having trouble tracking me down and wanted to know if I was okay.

Helene had called. The Pink Ice Queen lawyer had phoned her to schedule the Monday noon meeting I’d requested. I told Helene I was heading back to Chicago Monday. She agreed to call the Ice Queen for me. We made plans to meet in the morning, Helene and I, so I could tell her all about Chicago. I
told her to fasten her seat belt and get ready for a strange ride. She sounded appropriately wary.

My last call was to David Shykovsky.

“David. Dylan,” I said.

“You’re standing me up.”

“Why would you say that?”

“A woman never calls a man a day before their first date unless she’s going to break the date.”

“Is this written down somewhere? I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s true. It’s a fact.”

“I’m standing you up.”

“I knew it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve had the worst possible week. I just can’t go out dancing tomorrow night. I don’t have the heart for it.”

“Why don’t we go do something else then? We don’t have to go dancing.”

“Like what?” I said. “Do you have an alternative proposal?”

“Never use the word
proposal
so early in a relationship.”

“Never use the word
relationship
so early in a relationship,” I said.

“I stand corrected.”

“So. What do you think?”

“How about a quiet dinner? At the restaurant of your choice. Someplace with cloth napkins.”

“That sounds perfect.” I suggested a tiny, quiet place with a great wine list and no eggs anywhere on the menu.

“How was your trip, by the way?”

“Rough,” I said. “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow night. And I have to go back to Chicago Monday, I think.”

“World traveler. What for?”

“A funeral.”

“Oh. Want company?”

“You’re inviting yourself to Chicago with me to go to a funeral? You don’t even know who died.”

“What does it matter? Dead people all look alike to me.”

“I bet they do.”

“You should take me up on this. I can be very comforting in the face of the tragic loss of a loved one.”

“You’re being sarcastic.”

“Only partially. But I would be happy to go if you need the company. I’ll stay at an entirely different hotel. No hanky-panky I promise.”

“Let’s see how our first date goes before we plan our first trip together.”

“I’m going to sweep you off your feet, Dylan Foster.”

“We’ll see.”

I
SPENT THE WEEKEND REGROUPING
taping my life back together, reorienting myself. I did mounds of laundry, washing every item in my linen closet and every item of clothing that I owned. I washed all my dishes, running my dishwasher constantly.

I began my attempts to launder my career, meeting with Helene Saturday morning and telling her the entire sordid story.

We agreed to postpone our meeting with the Ice Queen until I’d had a chance to talk to Detective Thornton in Chicago. I was hoping my legal woes would take care of themselves, since Joseph Zocci had been arrested for Erik’s murder. If the boy had been murdered, it stood to reason that I couldn’t be held responsible for his suicide. Maybe I wouldn’t have to meet with the Ice Queen at all.

I spent Saturday afternoon at my dining room table, the legacy of my mother’s generosity stacked in piles around me.

I fought off twinges of resentment as I pored over my mother’s financial records. As my father had said, she had indeed left a sizable estate. My brother and I had each received modest trusts when she died, which, I now realized, represented a very small portion of her estate.

I had never touched a dime of mine. It wasn’t that much to begin with, and it was all in stocks she had chosen as investments long before she died. I’d probably liquidate some now to get myself out of my financial hole, but I felt a little guilty about doing even that. My mother had specified that the money wasn’t meant “to pay the electric bill.” It was for my future, she had said.

I wondered now why she couldn’t have been a little bit more interested in my future, given what she’d had to work with.

Though most of the estate’s giving was left to the discretion of the trustee, who was now me, my mother’s will named various charities as beneficiaries. Some of them I knew about. She’d always donated her time to a homeless shelter in downtown Houston, fixing meatloaf sandwiches once a month and handing them out to shuffling lines of lost-looking men. She had left the shelter some cash.

In the last years of her life, she’d also done some work in adult literacy, teaching classes for folks who somehow had managed to make it through their entire lives without learning to read. She’d left some money to a Houston adult literacy program.

My mother had always had a heart for these types of causes. She always sought out the people who had fallen through the cracks. The ones, as she used to say, “who have no shot in this mean world.”

Halfway through the second box, I saw a name I recognized. Rosa Guevera. I couldn’t place where I’d heard it. Her name was on a list of loan recipients who had received money from a nonprofit my mother supported. The organization gave small business loans—microscopic by U.S. standards—to help women in impoverished countries get on their feet. Rosa Guevera was part of a women’s cooperative in South America
that had received such a gift. Each of the five women in the coop had received a grand total of five hundred dollars.

It took me the rest of the day to dredge the name from my memory.

Rosa Guevera had made my necklace. I’d learned her name in the gift shop of the Vendome. Each piece was one-of-a-kind, the man had said. Handmade.

I went to my bedroom dresser, where I had casually tossed the necklace into a jewelry box, and picked it up, feeling once again that my mother was with me. Here in my room. Reminding me of the importance of her work. Somewhere in Guatemala, Rosa Guevera was making a living because my mother had sent her five hundred dollars. A tiny, slight little sliver of my mother’s estate.

I sat on my bed, holding that necklace, and cried.

Had my mother sent it to me? I’d never believed it was possible for a person to reach beyond the grave. Had Earl sent it? Perhaps he had been her messenger.
Angelos
means messenger in Greek, after all. Perhaps my mother had wanted me to understand fully the weight of her gift. Wanted me to know what five hundred dollars could do.

Or had Peter Terry sent it? Had he tried to frighten me away from finishing my mother’s work? Was that why he had broken the glass in her photos and later in mine? Who had retrieved her wedding ring?

Was the gift of the necklace intended to spook me away from following my mother’s lead? Or to entice me to follow it?

I didn’t know. But I sat there that night, crying for my mother, grateful that she had left that five hundred bucks to Rosa Guevera rather than to me. Up until that moment, sitting on my bed with that handmade necklace in my hand, the money would have been wasted on me. I never would have
understood the reach of her intentions. I vowed to myself to steward her legacy well.