Angel

Angel By JL Merrow Nearly Twenty Years Ago “I’m not allowed to go to church.” The new kid said it matter-of-factly, like he didn’t even think it was weird. Donnie gave him a blank look. “Not allowed to?” In his ten-year-old experience, parents only got annoyed about missing church services. Suddenly, understanding dawned. “Oh—you’re Jewish? Or, uh, Muslim or something?” The new kid—Michael, they’d been told by Mrs. Shriver when he’d joined their class that morning—shrugged bony shoulders. “No. We’re not anything, far as I know. I’m just not allowed, that’s all.” “Why?” Donnie kicked at a Coke can lying, crumpled, on the ground by the school gates, then glanced around guiltily, relieved to find there were no teachers outside to yell at him. School had finished a while ago and most everyone had gone, but instead of running home like he usually did, Donnie had stayed to walk with the new kid. Michael didn’t seem to have made any friends yet. He’d hung back when everyone else rushed out at the end of the day, talking and kidding around. Donnie thought that was sad. “I dunno. Mom’s never said. Just that I can’t go in a church. I’ve never been inside one, not even once.” Donnie tried to imagine that. “We have to go to Mass every week. Twice, sometimes. It’s cool, though. I want to be a priest when I grow up,” he added in a burst of enthusiasm, then blushed. He didn’t want Michael to make fun of him for being so religious. Michael just looked interested. “Yeah? What’s it like?” Donnie launched into a description of a typical Mass—the incense, the ritual, the surplice he got to wear as an altar boy. He wasn’t sure Michael really got the idea of the Host, but he didn’t make jokes about it or anything, so that was cool. Actually, he seemed kind of sad. Donnie had the strangest urge to put an arm around those thin shoulders, maybe even stroke the thick dark hair that fell over his collar and made him look wild and exciting. “I could take you to my church, if you like,” Donnie blurted. “Just for a visit, I mean. To see what it’s like. Father Thomas always leaves it open in the afternoons.” “I’m not sure…Mom doesn’t like me to be late home,” Michael said doubtfully. He looked like he wanted to be persuaded, though. “It’s only just around the corner. Come on!” Donnie urged, in his excitement actually taking Michael by the hand without thinking. Michael smiled suddenly. “Well…all right. But just to see it.” They ran down the street, still holding hands because Donnie didn’t want to let go. There weren’t any other kids around to laugh at them. “Here we are,” he said as they reached the old red brick building with its narrow, arched windows and stubby, mismatched towers, one housing the church bell that rang for Mass and the other with a statue of St. Peter on top. Donnie pushed open the heavy wooden door into the church and held it for Michael to go in first, because his mom liked him to be polite. “I don’t think I like it here,” Michael said softly as they walked into the cool, quiet, scented air of the church. “I feel sick.” “That’s just the incense. You’ll get used to it,” Donnie told him. It felt good, showing Michael his world. Knowing things Michael didn’t, and sharing them. “Look, you see this? This is Holy Water. You have to get some on your fingers and make the sign of the cross—like this.” Michael didn’t move. “I don’t think—” “Come on! It’s only water!” Daringly, Donnie scooped up some more water and flicked it at Michael like he’d seen some of the other altar boys do when Father Thomas wasn’t around. Michael flinched as the droplets struck his face—and then he screamed. Loud and high, his cries echoed through the church. “Stop it!” Donnie hissed, horrified. “Father Thomas will hear you!” “It’s burning me!” Michael sobbed, his hands clapped to his eyes. Donnie pulled at them, desperately trying to hush him. “Cut it out! This isn’t funny!” Michael’s cries only got louder and more shrill. “It hurts, it hurts, make it stop!” “You’ve got to be quiet!” “Boys, boys, what in the Lord’s name is going on here?” Father Thomas’ deep tones cut through Donnie’s panic. “Father! He says it hurt him, but it’s only Holy Water, how can it hurt him, it can’t, can it?” Father Thomas frowned. “Young man, I think the joke has worn a little thin.” He pulled at Michael’s hands, getting them away from his face. The skin was reddened, blisters already forming, and bloody tears fell from his eyes. Donnie stared in shock. “Holy Mary, Mother of God…” Father Thomas gasped. His face changed, twisted. Donnie backed away in unconscious fear as the priest carried on in a terrible voice. “I adjure thee, thou most foul spirit, every appearance, every inroad of Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth…” A strange, inhuman cry came out of Michael’s throat. His reddened gaze fixed on Father Thomas, he began to back away towards the door. “Go out, thou seducer, full of deceit and wile, thou enemy of virtue! I adjure thee, that thou depart from the House of God!” A great wind seemed to sweep through the church, and Donnie watched in horror as the doors to the street opened of their own accord and Michael, his blistered, bloody face distorted by terror, was hurled outside, the doors slamming shut behind him. * * * * Now “Got a new one for you, Don.” Marty threw a file across the desk. “Manslaughter case, gets out tomorrow.” He grinned. “Bit of a kinky one. Killed his lover during risky s*x. The guy asphyxiated right in the middle of things.” “Yeah?” Don asked, reminding himself not to judge. At least until he’d actually read the file. “How long’s he been inside?” “Three years. Yeah, I know, doesn’t sound long, but if you ask me, a better lawyer and the guy wouldn’t even have gotten time. The creep he was doing was known for pushing things to the edge. Anyhow, looks like he kept his nose clean while he was inside. Reprimanded once for being disrespectful to the prison chaplain, but that’s all.” Don’s lips tightened. He didn’t have a lot of time for anyone who mocked his religion. He flicked open the file and looked at the mugshot. The guy’s name was Michael Andras. He stared at the camera with a blank, sullen expression and the coldest pair of eyes Don had ever seen. His hair was straight and black, falling almost to his shoulders. His face was…not attractive, exactly, but certainly compelling. A rush of sympathy shot through him. Don wondered what it must have done to the man, to find out he’d inadvertently killed his lover. And then to go to jail, and have everyone knowing he was queer. Still, the face in the photograph seemed to give off definite “don’t mess with me” vibes, so maybe he’d been okay. In any case, as the man’s parole officer, it was Don’s duty to put aside whatever personal feelings he might have toward the guy.