The Teratologist (8 page)

He was getting drunk again. Was it God he was pleading to, the God he claimed to believe in?
God doesn’t do shit for me, but…why should He? I don’t deserve it.
But what about Bryant? What about that kook Farringworth and that fruitcake Michaels? Did God have different conceptions of different people? He must. Everyone truly wasn’t the same, and no culture was the same. There were too many variables. Therefore one god could not save all.
God must have many faces,
Westmore considered, the scotch heating his insides.

Let’s have one more drink, just you and me, okay, God?

Tipsiness urged him to walk more carefully back to the armoire, but not carefully enough because—

Smack!

—
he’d forgotten than he’d left the armoire’s teakwood door hanging open, and he walked right into it, forehead to edge. Pain seemed to bite him like a lunging animal. He had time to think,
What a drunken asshole,
then brought his hands to his head and collapsed.

He blacked in and out. Blood from the gash leaked into his eyes; now the pain was like a piton driven into his forehead. He lay there for a moment, head beating. Was he seriously hurt? Wasn’t that how William Holden had died? Hit his head drunk, then bled to death because the alcohol thinned his blood.
Fuck,
Westmore managed to think. At least his was on par. When he tried to lean up, the pain slammed him back down, like a foot to his chest.

Squinting, dizzy, he saw a shadow before him.
Must be the shadow of the armoire door,
he thought. But it wasn’t.

The shadow leaned over.

“
Michaels?” he murmured. It must be Michaels.

“
No,” the shadow said. A man’s voice but…strange. The voice seemed echoic and dark yet radiant at the same time—an impossible description. The shadow was…

What the fuck is he doing? Mugging me?

The shadow’s hand was on his shirt. It withdrew his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

A snap, a brief flame. The shadow was standing upright again, looking around; Westmore could tell where the person was looking by the lit end of the cigarette.

Smoke creamed before its face, and the strange voice resounded again: “How would I know that your birth mother walked out of the hospital the day you were born? How would I know you almost got run down by Mrs. Korella, in her VW bug, on Stonybrook drive, the day after Kennedy was shot, and you shit your pants? How would I know you used to lust after women in church when you were an acolyte?” A pause, and the impression of a smile. “Gotta admit, some of those chicks were hot—but it’s still lust, and lust is selfish. It’s a piss-ant sin.”

Westmore’s voice groaned like old wood. “Who are you?”

“
My name is a cabalistic secret. I can’t tell you. My name is a word that you are not capable of calculating.”

Westmore dragged himself up to sit slumped at the long table. The man stood at the other end; moonlight lit half of his face like foxfire. Westmore shook his head to try and clear his vision.

“
Your name is…
what?
”

“
I’m an angel. That’s all you need to know.”

Westmore slumped further.
Great. Have another drink, Westmore.

“
You don’t believe me?” The cigarette tip brightened momentarily, then more smoke floated. “How else would I know those things? Remember the guy you wanted to kill in the Army, behind the Bravo Company barracks? He called you a pussy, so you fought him. You wanted to kill him, Westmore. And you were
gonna
kill him, too, weren’t you? Remember?”

Westmore felt sick. He did remember.

“
But you didn’t do it. Why didn’t you?”

Westmore stared as much at the shadow as he did into the past. “I changed my mind.”

“
Wrong. Wanna know why you didn’t?”

“
Why?”

“
Because of me. I was the whisper in your ear. I was your good judgment.”

“
Really?” Westmore chuckled under his breath.
I’m hallucinating, fine. I understand now. I can understand that.
Yet he challenged the mirage. “Why would you do that? Why would you whisper that in my ear?”

“
Because you don’t need murder on your track-record of sin. You’re in deep enough shit already, I can tell you that, asshole.”

“
Great language for an angel,” the photographer retorted.

“
Hey, God doesn’t give a shit about that. It’s all about what’s here”—the angel touched his head—“and here”—the angel touched his heart—“and how you use that out there.” The angel pointed to the window.

Another drag on the cigarette. Westmore squinted more details; his eyes were acclimating. The “angel” wore dark jeans and a black t-shirt that read, in white block letters:
ZZLSEN
. He had long straight hair, like someone in a metal band, a handsome, rugged face.

“
You’re not an angel, you’re just some fuckin’ guy.”

The figure nodded, and then sipped Westmore’s scotch.

“
And, besides,” the photographer added, “angels don’t drink scotch or smoke Marlboros.”

“
Why not? I indulge every hundred years or so—I think I’ve earned it.”

”
But I thought the body is a temple of the lord.”

“
It is, asshole—to
you
. But I’m immune. I’m a higher being.” Another sip, and he put the glass down. “Johnny Blue’s no big deal. Next one, pour some Macallan.” The angel took a step closer, face out of the moonlight. “Listen, and listen good. This is how we do things. You don’t understand, but listen anyway. I’m from an offshoot order of the Seraphim—I’m called a Caliginaut. Angels from my order willingly descend from the rapture. We’re, like, God’s recon crew, his commandos. We condition ourselves to darkness. We’re…
special
angels.”

“
Where are your wings? Angels have wings.”

“
We cut them off ourselves, by the decree of our order. It’s a sacrifice, Westmore. We have to do it ourselves, it’s gnarly.” The angel stepped closer to the French doors, turned, and peeled his t-shirt up. “My attentor joints. See?”

Westmore saw, almost wincing. Two flesh-covered stumps protruded from a y-shaped ridge on his back. “You amputate your own wings is what you’re telling me?”

“
Yeah. We use a tool called a Skttaz, like a giant pair of bolt cutters, man. It’s hardcore.”

Westmore felt winded; he dabbed at the gash on his head with a handkerchief. He pushed past the pain, though, and played along with the illusion. “What kind of a God would expect such a thing? What kind of a God would be appeased by an act like that?”

“
He’s not appeased. He doesn’t want us to do it but we do it anyway, because there’s nothing else we CAN do. It’s a gesture. It’s the only way we can acknowledge our unworthiness in His eyes.”

Unworthiness,
Westmore thought.

The angel was leaning over, right in front of Westmore now. “Still don’t believe me, huh? There’s so little faith anymore. Remember when that kid Nathan beat you up for stealing his army men? Remember when you and Dougie made the crippled kid cry? You stole his book bag. Fourth grade, Summerset Elementary School. How could I know that?”

“
It’s easy,” Westmore countered. “You’re a hallucination, born of my mind. I drank too much and now I’m seeing things.”

“
Maybe you’re right. If you died, right now, you’d go to hell. Be careful.”

“
But isn’t hell really just death?”

“
Yes,” the angel said. The distant clock ticked through a long pause. “And no, not at all. Be careful, Westmore.”

“
How ambiguous.”

“
We have to be. God works in fucked up ways. It’s the only way because you and your kind can’t understand. All of life is a mystery. We’re spirits, Westmore. We live forever.”

Westmore stared up into dark. Whenever he tried to focus on this phantom—something surely born of his subconscious mind—a vertigo shifted in his vision. Then he was shuddering—the angel was touching his forehead—the gash. The touch felt hot, itchy.

“
Parlor tricks for a simpleton.” The voice flowed in the dark. The cigarette tip glowed. Westmore wasn’t impressed when he touched his forehead and found it healed. No gash, no cut, no blood.
When I wake up tomorrow, it’ll be there. I know it’ll be there because I know I cut my head. This is just an hallucination, the D.T.’s or something.

Now the voice sounded like wind blowing through leaves. “You want to see something, you want to see something?” The angel opened his hand over Westmore’s eyes. “Remember that girl you loved so much, the one you never told? Take a look.”

Westmore saw her in the dark behind his eyes. She was passed out. Some scuzzy scumbag was fucking her. In the vision, Westmore could sense the man’s aura—the core of his being. He was just using her for a hole to fuck. He didn’t care the least about her; he’d gotten her drunk just so he could fuck her, and discarded her feelings.

“
You should’ve told her, Westmore,” the angel’s voice hissed.

The photographer’s own voice sounded like something destroyed. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“
Let me tell you something about truth…” Now the angel’s words seemed to issue from everywhere but his mouth. “The truth
always
matters…”

Westmore ground his teeth; tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.

“
And here’s the crippled kid’s digs now. Look, look…”

An executive office, big desk, plaques and certificates of achievement on the paneled walls. On the desk, a framed picture of a happy family.

“
He’s what you aren’t. A success. A benevolent person. He’s what it’s all about. You aren’t.”

Westmore was sinking.

The angel stepped back hastily, as if annoyed. “This is chump change, man. Your life is chump change. I don’t know why I bother.”

“
Why
do
you bother?”

More of the hiss-like whisper. “Because you’ve got to love everyone. You’ve got to love everyone the way Jesus did. Anything else makes no sense. You’re an asshole, but I love you. You’re all assholes. A lot of us were really pissed off about your race. A lot of us got thrown out.”

“
What about you? Did you get thrown out?”

“
No. I live to love and serve the Lord on High. I am His unworthy servant forever.”

The words beat gently in the air, like small birds flying.

“
Because God was right.” Again, the angel pointed to his head. “It’s what’s in here—” and touched his chest—“and what’s in here—” then pointed to the windows, “and how you use it out there. Life’s a gift. Don’t fuck it up. You’re fucking it up.”

Westmore listened to the ticking clock, staring at the shadow.

The angel flicked the cigarette away, to the tile before the French doors. “It’s not possible for you to understand—your brains aren’t big enough.” He kept pointing to his own head, jabbing a finger. “You can’t…cogitate. You cannot…reckon. You do not have the capability of comprehending, man. So that’s why we whisper to you in time-held secrets. That’s why we unfold as myths and fables. That’s why Moses parted the Red Sea. That’s why when Jesus said ‘Lazarus, come out,’ Lazarus came out. It’s parlor tricks. You can’t understand the whole picture, none of your kind can. God gave you paradise, God gave you perfection and bliss, and you still turned your back on Him. You said ‘Fuck you,’ to God. You willingly chose error and sin over God’s perfect gift. ‘You closed the door in My face, so I’m gonna close ALL the doors in your face—all but one. I still love all you assholes, so I’m gonna leave you the option of salvation. I’ll tell you what you have to do to do get. But that’s it. From here on you’re on your own.’ You people all chose the wrong road, so now you gotta drive on it, and during the drive you’re gonna have to deal with all the things God wanted to protect you from: war, hatred, disease, poverty, failure—ALL that shit. It’s no cakewalk. Satan’s owned the title-deed to the world since Eve bit the apple and Adam put his fuckin’ fig leaf on in shame.”