Angels in Heaven

to the dial tone. It was getting on to four, almost time to close up, so I
figured I’d leave Lt. Carstairs for another day, and do just that—close up.
    As soon as I got the car started, I
realized that by a strange, almost eerie coincidence, Evonne got off work about
then and that if I stepped on it, I might just be able to catch her before she
left St. Stephen’s High School, where she worked.
    I caught her in the rapidly emptying
parking lot, as it happened, accepted her offer of something cooling, and
followed her back to her place, which was a white frame two-story cottage not
that far away. She liked it there because the ground-floor apartment (hers)
included a garden out back, where she grew tomatoes, parsley, lettuces,
cucumbers, and various other uninteresting rabbit foods. We went in the back
way, I made us a couple of drinks while she did what women call “freshen up,”
whatever that means, then she plumped herself down beside me on the couch, gave
me a short but satisfying kiss right on the old smacker, and said, “Let’s
talk.”
    “A wonderful idea,” I said
mendaciously, not liking the sound of it at all. “Your bed or mine?”
    She pushed back a strand of blond
hair behind one shell-like ear with one hand and took a sip of her gin and
tonic with the other. Sometimes I thought she looked like Blondie in the
movies. Sometimes I thought she looked like Marie Wilson in the movies. She was
so pretty, even with hayfever she was pretty. I adored her. Mind you, she
wasn’t perfect, who is? Max Factor she wasn’t when it came to makeup; a distaff
Mario Andretti she wasn’t behind the wheel (but look who’s talking); she always
left the skins on when she made french-fried potatoes; and I could list other
faults, but why cavil?
    “I’ve been offered a job,” she said,
“and I’m thinking of taking it.”
    I liked the sound of that even
less—rightly, as it soon turned out.
    “A promotion, more money, less work,”
she said. “But it’s in San Diego.”
    “Oh, shit,” I said.
    “Yeah,” she said, giving my cheek a
brisk pat. “Oh, shit.”
    “Lots more money?” I said.
    “Lots.”
    “A promotion?” I said.
    “Up two grades.”
    “Two grades!”
    “Don’t be sarcastic,” she said.
    “I won’t,” I said. “San Diego, eh.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “There’s the rub.”
    “I’m glad to hear there is one,” I
said. “I was getting worried for a while.”
    “I’m still worried,” she said. “But
that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
    “Jesus,” I said. “You mean that’s the
good news?”
    “Not exactly,” she said. “I want to
talk to you about Sara.”
    “Sara?” That one came out of left
field. “Do you mean Safety Pin Sara, the Elizabeth Browning of the punks?”
    “None other, dear,” Evonne said. “I
don’t think you’re treating her right.”
    “God Almighty,” I said, not knowing
what else to say. “Do you know she looks up to you? Do you know she talks about
you a lot?”
    “No, I didn’t,” I said. “And when
have you two been doing all this getting together anyway? I didn’t know you
were seeing each other. Want another drink?”
    “Later,” she said firmly. “You’re not
sneaking off to the kitchen now.”
    “The very idea,” I said. “I am a
grown man after all. So go on, I can take it.”
    “She was over here Sunday, if you
must know,” Evonne said. “When you were busy moving your mom. Do you know why
she’s a poet?”
    “I’ve never even thought about it,” I
said.
    “Well, think,” she said.
    I thought. “I think she’s a poet
because it’s easier than working,” I said. “It gives you an excuse to hang
around the house all day and raid the icebox, and it also gives you something
to tell your friends you are that they’re not.”
    “Be serious, can’t you, unless you
are,” Evonne said crossly. “Sara is an orphan, as you know.”
    “I ought to,” I said, “it was only me
who found out who her real parents were—and for nothing, may I add.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Good old
big-hearted Vic, we all know.”
    I thought that low blow was rather
uncalled for, but I let it pass for the time being.
    “Do you know what she told me orphans
do a lot?”
    I could think of a few things I would
do a lot if I was an orphan, like run away, like sneak into the girls’ dorm,
but I said (perhaps wisely), “No.”
    “Daydream,” Evonne said. “Daydream.”
    “Shee-it,” I said.
    “Yeah,”