Authors: Andrew Klavan
As this occurred to him in that vague way, Shannon felt a sort of hollow sadness without really knowing why. Without really knowing why, he said: "The little man must miss his father, huh."
"I guess so," Teresa murmured in a faraway voice—watching the boy and speaking as if she wasn't thinking about what she said. For a moment then, just a moment, Shannon saw her again as he'd seen her first. The same wild suffering shimmered beneath the surface of her distant expression, barely there, then gone. She faced him and smiled. "How boring am I, right? I know how much a man likes to hear a mother talk about her kids." She tilted her head over, shut her eyes, and snored loudly to make him laugh.
Shannon ignored the jokiness this time. "What happened to him? Your husband."
"Oh ... please. Don't get me started. Talk about depressing. Just what you need, right? Trying to work with me over here sobbing."
"I don't mind. Sob away. I wondered, that's all."
She gave a big sigh, as if to say,
All right, you win.
"He was a staff sergeant in the infantry in Iraq, in a little city south of Baghdad. Some Iraqi engineers had been brought into his FOB, his base, to do some work, and the base came under rocket fire. Everyone went scrambling for the bunkers, but two of the civilian engineers sort of froze, you know, out in the open. Carter—he was the fastest man. He could outrun lightning. He could've gotten into that bunker, too. But he turned around and ran to the engineers instead. Grabbed each one by an arm and shoved them into the bunker in front of him. Just as they got there, another rocket came in and Carter got hit by shrapnel. He was just outside the bunker entrance. The Iraqis didn't get a scratch, but Carter..."
She took a leather billfold from the front pocket of her jeans. She opened it and handed it to him. Shannon looked down at a snapshot of her husband, Carter. He was a round-faced man with a grin full of youth and friendliness—nothing like the grim, determined heroes he had seen in the black-and-white war movies in the white room.
"They gave him the Bronze Star with the valor device," she said proudly, "and the Purple Heart and the Combat Infantryman's Badge ... and here I go." But there was no sobbing, not at all. Her eyes just grew damp. She touched the corners of them and it was over. "I warned you."
"Sounds like a hell of a brave guy," said Shannon, feeling even more hollow than before. He gave her back the billfold.
"That's what I
really
worry about," she said. She spoke in her light, jokey tone again, but he could hear the tears just underneath. "How am I going to teach him that?"
"To be brave, you mean?"
"Everything. All the things Carter just was. I try to tell Michael what he was but ... you can't even say the words for it anymore without sounding silly. Have you noticed that? Carter had things like honor, things like valor. He was noble. Those used to be good words, right? But somehow they got ... stupid-sounding, you know? Kind of—
ugh
—heavy and overbearing and even comical. How does that happen to a word? He can look on the TV"—she was talking about the boy now—"he can look on the TV, he'll see all these men struttin' around, all muscle and gold and guns. Struttin' around like they somethin' fine, like they tough, you know? Talkin' about slappin' they hos. Carter was nothing like that. Carter was a
man.
He treated me like..." She didn't finish. She fought back her tears. She shook her head. "Even the word
man,
" she said. "How does that happen to a word?"
Shannon, at this point, felt like absolute shit. How could he ever compete with a husband like that? He didn't even admit to himself that he
was
competing with him, but he felt bad anyway. He tried to belittle his rival in his mind.
Yeah, big hero. Killing people for the government. Lets the government sell him some line about God and country or whatever and sucker him off to some war they're probably making money off of somehow. Lets himself get blown up for a couple of ragheads who didn't want him there and probably would've stabbed him in the back soon as look at him. What's so great about that, killing people for the government and getting killed for some poor ragheads in some lousy war?
It was a nice try, but it didn't work. He knew in his heart it was all garbage, just stuff he was saying to keep from feeling so small because he'd never done anything noble or honorable like that. But he still felt small. He felt like absolute shit.
He began his work on the head of the angel. He used the band saw at his job site again. He shaped that special piece of red oak he'd found at the store so that it would fit the broken place where the old head had been. When he got to the Applebee house, he fastened the block of wood to the broken figure with a dowel. Then he went to work on it with a mallet and gouges, hammering away, chipping the block down to the general shape he wanted.
As he worked on it, his misgivings grew. Or that is: he had had misgivings all along, but hadn't acknowledged them until now. Now they came to the surface. When he first accepted the job from Applebee, he had told himself it would be no problem to reconstruct the angel's face from the photographs he had. But the photographs were small and unclear. It was hard to make out the details. Also, there was the wood, this specific block of wood he'd found. It had its own shape to struggle with, its own angel face buried at its core. He saw this face in his mind's eye, but only vaguely, like the angel in the photograph. Like the angel in the photograph, the details were hard to make out.
During the week, he found himself searching people's faces. The faces of the other carpenters and electricians on the site at work. The faces of people at Betsy's restaurant when he ate dinner there. The faces of passersby when he went running for exercise. He was looking for inspiration for his angel, but he couldn't find it. When the weekend came, he chiseled away at the block of red oak, but he didn't know what he was going to make. He began to dread the moment when he would have to start working on the angel's features.
One early morning, he was jogging through a damaged suburb on the edge of the Northern District, the most crime-ridden district in the city. He was in a runner's reverie, focused on his breath and the flap of his sneakers against the pavement. The bald guy didn't register on his mind until he ducked away around the corner up ahead. Only then, when he was gone, did Shannon wonder:
Was that him? Was that the guy from the green Crown Victoria, the drug-thin guy with his cheap suit and his shaved head who seemed to keep showing up everywhere?
Shannon had forgotten about the guy for a while, but now he wondered: Was he back? Was he spying on him?
Shannon increased his speed, hurrying to get to the corner. When he did, he scanned the scene, searching for the bald guy. Instead, his attention was caught by something else: there was a crowd gathered on the lawn of one of the houses here. There were police cruisers parked in the driveway and at the curb out front, their red flashers revolving in the still-shadowy dawn. Shannon slowed to a walk, breathless and sweating. He approached the edge of the crowd. He looked through to see what was going on.
A man had been shot dead. He was lying sprawled in his lover's lap with a black hole in the center of his T-shirt. He was about Shannon's age, small and slender. He had a narrow, weaselly face and a thin moustache. He wore only the blasted T-shirt and his Jockey underpants.
His lover—the lover who knelt on the lawn and held his corpse—was also a man, an older queen wearing a feminine quilted bathrobe and a plastic shower cap on his head. He was holding his lover on his lap and screaming—screaming raggedly, wildly, stretching out his hand to the crowd around him as if appealing to them, begging them to make things right.
A cop stood over the two lovers, looking down at them. Shannon noticed the cop was smirking—probably because the lovers were queers and the older one was wearing that bathrobe and the girly shower cap. But Shannon felt only pity for the screaming man. He could see how much he loved the dead guy. The robe and the cap didn't amount to much next to that. Even them being fags—what did it matter? Look at the poor bastard. His heart was broken.
Shannon started jogging again. He had completely forgotten the bald guy. His mind was playing over what he had just seen. It made him think back to the time he'd seen Teresa standing in the window, crying like that queen, so terribly, so hard. He knew now, of course, that she had been crying for her husband. He understood that she could joke around with him and be cheerful with her son and go to work and do her job and all that, but there was still that part of her screaming and crying inside, the same as the guy in the shower cap screaming on the lawn.
He stopped on the sidewalk at the corner of a broad boulevard. The traffic light was broken here, as many of the lights in the city still were. It hung from the wire above him, dead and dark. The early traffic went whisking past without ceasing. He waited for a break in it, jogging lazily in place with his feet barely leaving the ground.
Slowly, his jogging motions subsided. He came to a full stop. He stood there, going neither forward nor backward, neither left nor right. His lips were parted and he was breathing hard, staring at nothing. This was the first time it dawned on him: he was in love with Teresa. He thought he had been in love a couple of times in his life, but now that he really was, he realized those other times were phony. This was something else, something new. On the one hand, it was a kind of hilarious feeling, like he ought to be wearing a party hat and pulling on his ears and making faces because—
hooray!
—the whole world was a circus. On the other hand, it was agony, total agony—because he felt like he couldn't be whole—like he would never be whole—without her.
It all came together in his mind then. The queer in the shower cap screaming. Teresa crying in the window. This feeling he had, entirely new. The party hat and the agony, the loving and the tears, there was no getting around it: it was all one thing.
On Saturday, when he returned to the backyard of the Applebee house, when he took up chiseling the block of red oak again, he found that he could see plainly the shape that was hidden in the wood. The face of the angel had come clear to him.
NOW HE SET TO WORK
in earnest. He carved the angel's features quickly, half-afraid he would lose the image of the face in his mind, but also knowing somehow that he wouldn't lose it because the image in his mind was also, weirdly enough, the very face that was buried in the wood, imperishably there.
That face haunted him. More and more, day by day. Whose face was it? Where did it come from? How had it happened to be in this particular piece of wood? The questions hammered at him as the features became clearer and clearer in his mind and as he hewed them out of the oak with greater and greater specificity. They kept hammering at him after his work was done for the day. After he went home and got in bed at night, he lay awake with his eyes open and they hammered at him.
He recognized some of those features—or sometimes he thought he did anyway. He thought he saw some of Teresa's expressions in them, some of what her face looked like when he first saw her crying at the window and some of what it looked like now when she wrestled laughing on the ground with her son. He also saw the gentle, distracted, putty-cheeked angel from that black-and-white movie he'd watched in the white room. He also saw the old queen screaming on the lawn with his dead lover. And he saw Teresa's husband, Carter. He hadn't wanted to put Carter in the angel's face, but he sometimes recognized him there all the same. He sometimes recognized the grim heroes from the black-and-white war movies, too.
It was a beautiful face in its way, but strange. Neither man nor woman necessarily, though sometimes he saw more of one or the other in it. Neither kind and gentle as you might expect an angel would be, nor stern and pious as an angel might be on Judgment Day. The only words he could think of to describe its qualities were
sorrow
and
joy.
Which made no sense to him because how could you have both at once? But there it was. It was a face—as he saw it in his mind—as it came to reality under his hands—of simultaneous sorrow and joy, as if it were looking down from heaven and saw all the love and all the death on earth happening together at the same time.
It made no sense to him in one way, but in another way he understood. As he feverishly worked the chisel, then the gouges, then the smaller gouges into the wood, he understood that he was trying to carve out the shape of his feelings for Teresa. He was trying to expel them into an oaken semblance of themselves. He knew he loved her and he knew he couldn't have her and so he was trying to give his joy and his sorrow a face. He hoped then they would be outside him and he would be free of them.
But he wasn't—he wasn't free. The more he succeeded—the closer he came to sculpting the face he wanted—the more that face began to agitate and obsess him. It was as if it was watching him, as if his own emotions were now outside himself and looking back at him, staring at him. It was as if the wooden angel had come to feel about
him
what he felt about Teresa, the same agony and celebration, the same sorrowful and joyful love.
And it made him feel bad. That was strange, too, wasn't it? You would think that, since he loved Teresa—since he loved her more and more as time went on—you would think it would make him feel good to have an angel—even just a wooden angel—looking at him with all the tenderness and warmth he felt for her. But it didn't. It made him feel the way he had felt when Teresa told him how her husband died in the war. It made him feel small and rotten. More and more, day after day.
Finally, there came a night, one terrible, terrible night, when he couldn't sleep, when he kept thinking and thinking about the angel's face. He couldn't stop and, after hours of tossing and turning, he sat up naked on the edge of the bed and buried his own face in his hands hoping he could make the image of the angel's face go away. All he could think was
Stop! Stop! Don't look at me!
Because, really, what a piece of crap he was. What a crap life he had led. He was a crappy little thief, that's what. A crappy little tough-guy punk worth nothing to anyone anywhere because he'd never done anything for anyone ever, and if he'd never been born, the world would be the same or even better than it was.