Grimmie

GRIMMIE

By Linda S. Cowden

Copyright 2007 Linda S. Cowden

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinion of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

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http://auntiemaim.com

This book is dedicated to SSgt. E. Larry Holden,

for the greatest gift ever given, and to all others like him,

both living and lost. All gave some, some gave all.

Acknowledgments:

I thank God for my oddball outlook on life, out of which this book was born.

For my family, I give thanks: Darhl, Carole, and Karen, and all of the Cowdens, Deneens, and many more, who make up the whole tree. To Kevin A. Ranson, my beloved, I bless the day you came into my life. Also, for my extended families, both online and off: the Chain Gang, Safe Haven, Chaos, Brigadoon, MET, CM, YIH, AFF, Predaphiles, Doug Bradley’s Forum, Ich Will and TALC: you are the best friends a person can have.

My undying gratitude also goes to my sister, Karen L. Cowden, for the creation of the cover art. When I saw it for the first time, all of this suddenly felt real.

For Judy A. Holden, widow of E. Larry Holden, thank you for your kindness. Your blessing for the dedication is invaluable.

I owe a lot also to my research and editing helpers, my friends: W.R.R., Juliana Szebehely, Valerie Puntney, Melody Ringo, Scott DeRoch, Debbie Montgomery, Alex Montgomery, and Brandi Campanile. In addition, I give thanks for the help and resources of the Holy Mother Grammatica website. Writers: Google the name and you’ll understand. Assistance on New York City jail research was graciously given by Deputy Commissioner Stephen J. Morello, of New York. For the author photo, thanks goes to Gina Dugat for prep and to James Dugat, photographer. Finally, my thanks go out to Jesse Duplantis, whose sermons have helped me sort out many of the spiritual conundrums in this book.

Special thanks for encouragement selflessly given goes to: Gaye Homann, Shelley O’Neil, Michelle Motta, Gail Ragsdale, Carolyn Taley, Michelle Sigouin, Anna Bentley, Shayna Rohrer, Stephanie Winters, Laura Reuther, Shanna Dudley, John Latiolais, Jane Weir, Randolph Markham, Jack Ketchum, Barbie Wilde, Frazer Lee, Brad Allard, Gail Williamson, Garrett Peck, Scott W. Smith, Richard O’Neal, Hester Zimmerman, and Robert Connell. For all those who have given me treasured feedback through the years; you know who you are, and I hope you all know that I love you.

I would also like the honor of thanking Karen Wylie and Paul Cohen for details on saxophones, Bernard Ott for specifics on headstones, the staff of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, and the Maintenance Department of the Mount Sinai Hospital for information on the Guggenheim Pavilion. The time they took for a stranger was greatly appreciated; as such thoughtfulness is rare in these modern times.

Last, but never least, a great deal of this book was written while listening to the inspiring music of: Ozzy Osbourne, Rammstein, Marilyn Manson, Insane Clown Posse, Alanis Morissette, and Blue Oyster Cult. The edits were also assisted by the tunes of Adam Lambert, Brad Cheeks Bell, and Cassidy Haley. Thanks for keeping the wheels greased guys! – LSC.

Introduction

The Grim Reaper has been a favorite subject of mine from as early as childhood, but it wasn’t until my thirties that I began to take this cultural/religious icon seriously as a potential character for fiction. By then, I’d seen others pop him into movies, books, cartoons, television shows, and even commercials with varying degrees of success. Yet one thing seemed to unite the public’s diverse response, for or against, and that was fascination.

Many fear death, of course, so to begin, I should mention that only those who have already taken the journey truly know what happens. Almost all of us have spent some time pondering the subject, though, with studious interest, curiosity, or even a hesitant shudder. I don’t presume to answer the big questions within the pages of this book, or make any minds up on the subject of what awaits us–we should all make up our own minds, according to our beliefs and how we view things. That’s what the concept of free will is all about.

Therefore, my main purpose and aspiring aim is to entertain and hopefully fascinate, while drawing from my own beliefs and views to create how the world is portrayed in these pages. Is anything more subject to interpretation than entertainment? Possibly, but the old adage is still true: Beauty (and entertainment) is in the eye of the beholder. My brand of it tends to lean into the horror genre. Why? I’m still trying to figure that out; but since I’ve acquired the nickname Auntie Maim along the way, I guess I’m comfortable there. Shall I attempt to explain? Here goes…

Almost from birth, I liked bad guys. My family still teases me about my tendency to root for villains. However, it wasn’t because I approved of what they did, it was because they were fascinating. The good guys were drawn with straight lines, wearing white hats, and few of them had any flaws or real motivations to make them interesting beyond the tried and true, fight for right. Often, no real reason was given for why they cared about right. The real action, at least for me, was in the villains and fiends these two-dimensional heroes fought against. They were larger than life, richly portrayed, and they didn’t keep their motivations and causes a secret. In many cases, what they fought for was pinned on their black sleeves, hoods, masks, and capes.

Then I discovered the concept of the anti-hero, and finally, I had good guys that were interesting. Their struggle to battle personal demons while striving to achieve a goal for the greater good was vital, real and–you guessed it–fascinating. Also, in rooting for them, I was supporting an endeavor a bit more worthwhile than world domination; the ultimate compromise, really.

Along came the Reaper. Often portrayed as evil, or at least callous, I saw more in him than a fearful creature stealing or ruining lives for his own gain. First and foremost, I didn’t see him as an anthropomorphic force of nature, but as the Angel of Death, and being an angel, a servant of God. Mix in a delight in tales of vigilantism and the exploration of the human condition, and Grimmie was born.

The stories that follow are consecutive, and yet each reads like a short story. With a few connecting arcs throughout, they become a novel–one that I hope will entertain. Yet if higher aims may be reached, I’ll leave you with this aspiration: may you be fascinated. For in that moment, I will be able to properly thank the people who entertained and fascinated me all those years ago, as well as those who continue to do so today.

Life and entertainment are endless cycles, and while we all must one day leave this world, it’s what we leave behind that others will remember us for. Each of us has our own pantheon of treasured memories, too, and I remember those old heroes, villains, and anti-heroes fondly–and my personal fascination with them, new and old, will never end. For myself, I would like to see Grimmie counted among them–as hero, anti-hero, or fiend? That, I leave up to you.

- Linda S. Cowden

September 2007

Edited: February 2014

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Part One: Enter the Reaper

1 - Shadow in the Wind

2 - Soon

3 - Call It Fate

4 - The Pearl

Part Two: Trials & Tribulations

5 - Angel

6 - Ronin

7 - Lacrimae Mundi

8 - Loose Ends

Part Three: Of Bondage & Deliverance

9 - Scrolls of Dust

10 - Not Forgotten

11 - Blood Dolls

12 - A Single Light

13 - Sacrifice

Part Four: Redemption & Damnation

14 - Whisper of a Scream

15 - Memento Mori

16 - Dichotomy of Souls

17 - The Destroyer

Part Five: Scythe Song

18 - The Gift

19 - Beginnings

About the Author

Part One:

Enter the Reaper

Chapter 1 - Shadow in the Wind

To covet time and life of another

for pleasure of evil needs

invites Death into the charnel house

of a wicked soul

Beware

for insatiable hungers

of Heaven and Hell

draw thy spirit

under the shadow of fate

Tilt the sands

let slip the scythe

and weep not as thy will

makes Death aware of thee

I was a shadow in the wind when I saw her: a young woman of twenty, sitting on the grass at the edge of a belt of trees in Central Park. I’d love to say that I didn’t know what drew my attention to her, or that it was her beauty that captured my consciousness, but that would be a lie. Her scent stopped me; not the perfume of her skin, but the scent in her soul–she wanted to die.

The sun was sinking beyond the trees at her back, and she watched the world darken attentively, appearing to ignore all others around her, as well as the hammering of her heart.

I discovered her purpose easily enough, in the form of three young men loitering in a knot out on the Great Lawn. Predators in human shape, they watched her hungrily as the light failed, and she waited, the willing prey.

Curious, I moved near, and through her, seeking only this one in the whirl of souls around me. The warmth of her soul enveloped me for no more than an instant before I passed through it to observe her again.

Mary Abbott. Her friend Charlotte had died two months earlier, of leukemia, and now her appointed time was unfixed by her intense will.

The men started across the grass as I began to gather myself behind their prey. Calling to me the atoms and particles I desired, I clothed myself in flesh, and covered it with cloth. Glancing down, I curled the ghostly forming hand into a fist as it became more solid. Smiling, I watched them pause.

What must they think of me, appearing behind her–a dark angel, a ghost? No; they ignore the evidence of their eyes as so many of their kind do, and imagine explanations. Was I a boyfriend they hadn’t seen? Or perhaps a trick of the sunset made me appear like an apparition, but I had merely stepped from between the trees as a shadow passed?

Whatever quaint lie they borrowed to calm the hairs on their forearms, they quickly believed it beyond any doubt. Mary tensed as they came, but when they stopped near her, their eyes rested above her head, on me.

That’s a nice little piece you got, man–she yours?

Not yet. I gave them an icy smile.

Their mark startled and turned to look up at me. Who are you? she asked.

A fresh leap of fear in her heart told me there was hope. It warmed my smile as I answered, A friend, Mary.

Well, friend, the lead fellow sneered, you picked a bad time to come back from a pee, so why don’t you just get walking now and let us introduce ourselves properly to your girl. His hand pulled out slightly from his jacket pocket, showing me the pistol concealed there.

She’s not ready yet, I said, and looked down at her. Are you?

Please don’t play hero, whoever you are. You don’t understand, she whispered to me. Turning to the three, her expression blank, she added, I’ll go with you. Just don’t hurt me.

They will hurt you, Mary, I told her, watching the man with the gun. Louis has to hurt women–he likes it that way.

What the–who the hell you think you are, man? Louis demanded.

Someone who knows you. Remember the blonde from the Lower East Side, Louis? She asked you not to hurt her. That was a month ago. Her son, Russell, still asks his father where she went.

Shut your hole! Louis drew the gun and aimed it where a heart would have been had I bothered to form one. How do you know about that? I didn’t leave no witnesses!

He brings his father a map, Louis, and asks him to point out Heaven. He has enough in his piggybank to get there if it’s on the island. Is Heaven in Chelsea, Louis? Or the Bronx?

Freak!

He fired at the body I wore as Mary screamed, covering her head. In the instant that she wasn’t looking, I let my form fade enough to show Louis the monster I could be. He and his friends went pale. The Catholic one, Jose, shouted in horror, and then they ran across the grass as if Hell itself was chasing them.

I staggered for Mary’s sake, resumed my human form, and fell to the grass beside her. She turned to me in terror.

Oh my God, are you shot? She moved to touch me and the flood of compassion for another in pain radiated out of her like a warm light.

Smiling, I opened the long black leather trench coat I wore and the black silk shirt beneath it and showed her the Kevlar vest. It’ll bruise, but no holes. Handy, don’t you think?

What were you doing? I said to leave it... Eyeing me warily then, she added, You never said who you are, either.

I said I was a friend.

So you just pop out of the trees to save women in distress, is that it?

Sure–why not?

Did you know him? What you said about that boy and the map?

Baffling with bullshit. Odds are, he’d have run into a blonde by now. The rest was improvisation to freak him out.

How do you know my name?

I knew a friend of yours–Charlotte. She told me a lot about you, showed me a photo. Those guys looked like bad news, so I hung back before introducing myself when I saw you sitting here. Nothing like a spooky entrance to get the upper hand on brutes like them.

You knew Charlotte. Did you know that–?

Yes. I saw her just before she passed on.

I never saw you at the hospital.

I’m shy. Darkness swallowed us as the sun went down below the belt of trees. May I walk you home? I wanted to meet you. Charlotte asked me to look after you.

She eyed me, and I smiled again. The scent of death wish was receding from her already, though it might return.

What is your name?

Call me Grimmie.

That’s your name?

That’s what my friends call me. My name is Corwin Grimm.

May I call you Corwin?

I shrugged. Sure. Charlotte did. She thought ‘Grimmie’ was too undignified.

Yes, she would have. She sized me up in silence. Home is that way, she said, pointing across the grass in the same direction that Louis, Jose, and Antonio had run.

Sitting in her kitchen over coffee, I watched as she put vitamin E oil over the ugly bruise on my chest. My coat, shirt, and vest hung off the back of my chair.

This will help to reduce the bruise faster, she lectured. Can’t leave milk skin like that marred; you’re a work of art.

Thanks, but I’m used to taking damage; it’s not a big deal.

How did you know Charlotte? She sat across from me and stirred her own coffee, then laid her spoon on the white Formica table.

She was just kind to me–before she went into the hospital. I saw her at the newsstand for months, on the corner where she lived–finally got the courage to say hello, that sort of thing.

What do you do?

You saw it.

You’re kidding.

’Fraid not. I’m a professional vigilante by trade; also, in my spare time, a struggling musician.

Her disbelief was obvious, but she was humoring me. Rock guitar, right?

Nope. Nothing electric.

Really? You look like the type. You could play Jim Morrison in Hollywood. Aspiring actor, maybe?

No.

So what do you play?

Saxophone.

She laughed. Okay, I get it, you don’t like questions; a man of mystery, right? I’m not surprised Charlotte told you about me; and if she approved of you, that’s a good sign.

I hope so. I sipped the coffee, loving the heat of it, and creating insides to contain and deal with it as it went down. So Mary, tell me–why are you thinking suicide?

What? She tried to look shocked, but caved under my silent stare. How did you know?

I’m very familiar with the look, and how it feels. Tell me, I urged.

Oh. She picked up the spoon and stirred her coffee again. I don’t have friends. Not like Charlotte. My life went to hell quick before she got so sick, and she was there for me for all of it. When it was over, she was the only thing left in my life I cared about. Then she...when she died–I wasn’t there. She’d asked me to hold her hand when it happened; but my ex called me, and I–believed a lot of lies and left to meet him. She died while I was gone. It was only two hours, but...

She wouldn’t blame you for that, you know.

Charlotte wouldn’t, no. She warned me not to listen to him again, though, and she was right; but I left, and I...I broke my promise. She put the spoon down and lifted the cup. You wouldn’t understand. She was my whole life. I just wanted...to see her again? Say I was sorry? Something… I don’t know. I haven’t known how to live without her, and my life was in shambles… When I saw those men–it just...seemed so easy.

Not the best choice for painless, though. Charlotte told me you hate pain.

It was stupid. Momentary insanity, I guess. She put the cup down with a clatter against the spoon, and lowered her face into her hands.

Grief, pain–they have to be dealt with, Mary, one way or another; but you have a lot to live for. Do you know a woman named Francesca?

Y-yes...she’s in my building, she answered, her voice muffled by her fingers.

She’s an agent, right? Ever thought of telling her you’re an aspiring actor?

How–did Charlotte tell you that?

I nodded. All through one of the briefest marriages in history, you wished your life hadn’t gotten off track, didn’t you? You came to New York to act, not to marry an agent whose hobby is amateur porn.

Corwin–do you know my ex?

I’ve seen him around. I shrugged. I told Charlotte I knew him, and she told me about you. She said you were genuinely talented, and shouldn’t give up because of the crap he tried to pull on you. I raised my eyebrows at her. You got him out of your life now, so what’s stopping you from ending up on Broadway?

I–I don’t know. She drew her face up to stare at me through her fingers.

Well, I said, standing and picking up my vest, why don’t you stop and say hi to Francesca when you see her in the hall? I put on the vest and the shirt, buttoning it quickly.

What do I say to her? She stood and held herself tightly.

Borrow a cup of sugar? Improvise. I threw on my long coat.

Are you leaving?

Yep. Got to check on someone.

Oh. Hey, thanks–for the rescue and the talk. I needed a friend.

I know; and you’re welcome.

Where can I find you if I need another talk?

I’m around. I’ll find you.

What, you’re my guardian angel?

Nope; just a friend.

Corwin, thank you. She opened her arms.

I moved to embrace her, feeling her gratitude, which was warmer than the coffee. She smells like life again, I thought. Anytime, I answered. Touching her cheek with my fingertips for a moment, I felt her time stretching out into the future.

The concrete jungle of Brooklyn swallowed me, unchanged from my last visit. There were three souls to escort here before I headed back into Manhattan–routine efforts, and swiftly accomplished.

For a moment, standing outside the home of my last port of call, I glanced around and took in the sights.

The streets were wet from a recent rain, and the lights of the neighborhood were reflected in the black asphalt, miming the stars overhead as the clouds broke and drifted away.

On impulse, I gathered my shell once more just for the pleasure of walking down the street, intending to cast it to the wind again shortly and get back to work.

At the street corner, a beautiful brunette in a scarlet miniskirt smiled at me. I smiled back and changed my plans. She was on a new corner now, and moving up a bit by the looks of her. A quick glance around didn’t produce Tony; perhaps he had seen me and escaped.

Hey, Grimmie, she said with that gorgeous whiskey voice. Got the time?

Always, Angel. I took a lighter out of my coat and lit her cigarette. One year, two months, five weeks, three days, nine hours. You want the minutes?

No, sugar, I don’t.

You could still quit, you know.

Would it change it? she asked, taking a puff.

Probably not; not now.

Then I’d just as soon not bother. How ‘bout comin’ upstairs? It’s gettin’ too cold to work tonight.

Is Tony still a problem?

No, you fixed that. He’s been very cordial since your talk.

I grinned and slipped my arm around her waist for the stroll to her building. As we went up to her room in the old hotel, I told her about Mary just to have something to say. She had always loved to hear happy endings.

Once the door was closed and locked, she turned to me with a hungry mouth. I kissed her, peeled the few clothes away from her chilled body, and then swung her up in my arms to carry her to her sprawling bed. Laying her down like the princesses she always dreamed about in sleep, I stripped off my own clothes as she watched, letting them slip from my body to the floor.

Mary said I looked like Morrison.

Angel’s smile was tolerant. You should tell him; but it is a good look for you. I lay down next to her and she reached out, her fingers toying with my black hair.

What do you really think I am, Angel? I asked her, studying her deep brown eyes.

A charmin’ lunatic, Grimmie, but a harmless dear just the same; don’t you fret ‘bout that. What you are is the best friend I’ve got. She grinned and kissed me. Fascinated, I watched her put a condom on my erection. Don’t want you sick, do we? she teased. You don’t know where I’ve been.

Maybe I do, I whispered, moving over her.

Maybe, she answered. The way you came out of nowhere at Tony, you got him paranoid, thinkin’ you’re watchin’ me all the time.

Good, if it keeps him honest.

I let her passion and need fill me, let it take me over until it became my own. We strained and sought pleasure in a mixture of sweat and whispers, and sometime during the course of love, I allowed my corporeal form to absorb the pain in her lungs again, until she could breathe more easily. Finally, abandoning my office for the pure simplicity of the flesh, I let my body fill with all the systems it needed to complete the act of love.

Grimmie, she whispered, Corwin–yes...you make me feel so alive...

I held her close, losing myself in her body, and in the exquisite sensations of this sublime pursuit of pleasure. When I cried out in release, she clung to me, tears standing in her eyes.

You know I love you, Grimmie, don’t you?

Yes, I do. I love you too, Angel.

When she shifted, I moved off of her to lie on my back. She removed the prophylactic, and when she turned back to me, I pulled her into my arms.

Tell me you got someone. I’m sick, you know that, and I want to know you got someone when I’m gone.

There’s no one but you, I whispered.

I’m not kiddin’. I know you don’t like to talk ‘bout your life, but don’t you have a girlfriend somewhere–or a wife?

No.

She sat up and winked at me. Even a boyfriend? You know I wouldn’t care.

No, I repeated, and smiled. No girl or boy friends. I’m too solitary for that, Angel.

I worry for you, Grimmie.

I know. I turned on my stomach and smiled again when she started to rub my back.

Who did your raven tattoo? Her fingers stroked across the back of my right shoulder blade.

I don’t remember; got it when I wasn’t sober.

Are you sure ‘bout no girlfriend? I could look in those gray eyes and love you forever, I know that. Somebody else must have too, somewhere.

I was silent, enjoying her private delight that she might be the only woman in my life. In a way, it was true–I hadn’t dared to go so far into the web of humanity before. This woman’s spirit had simply held an attraction for me I hadn’t been able to deny.

Her life was fated to end exactly in the time I always counted down for her; but though she might have sensed what I was by now, as those already slated for death often did, she still thought of me as a harmless oddball. I was just her protector, no matter how candid I was with the truth. I wasn’t even sure why I had told her the truth.

Someday, of course, closer to the mark, she would be able to look at me and feel it. Would she fear me then? Or accept her fate with grace and still call me a friend? Either way, I would try to make her passing as easy as I could–damn the rules.

When I got up, picking the clothes up off of the floor, I dressed as she watched me.

Time for reapin’, Grimmie, now that you’ve sown? She laughed sweetly at her favorite joke.

Not yet. I touched her cheek before walking to the door. I wanted to visit another friend before I get back to work.

Take care, sugar. Come by soon and give me my time again; I miss you.

I will.

One block inside Soho, I moved in spirit into the room of a little blonde boy. He sat on his bed with his map of New York State. I glanced over at the ceramic baby-blue pig on the nightstand. It had a crumpled bill or two sticking up out of the narrow slot on its back.

I stood over him and watched his finger tracing lines and words, across the East River and up into Queens.

His baffled grief couldn’t grasp the death of his mother at all, so his father had invented the idea that a taxi ride might visit her in Heaven, once he had enough for the fare. It was a sad lie that could be disproved sooner than expected by the determination of his innocent child.

Touching his wheat curls briefly, I thought, It’s time, Russ. Turning away, I slipped through his wall and out to the streets.

Reaching out for a particular soul, my spirit form rose up from the asphalt. I moved toward my goal, and in moments, the Lower East Side was spread out around me. In a noisy stretch of road full of decadence, I looked across the street and saw him: Louis.

In one second I was beside him, walking through him. His time was near, altered by his own choices, shaving off years he might have had. I didn’t spare a thought for his companions. Their lives were like a pendulum, swinging between Heaven and Hell–but they could wait. This one, I would have now.

My essence reached out for his soul. When it touched him, twining deep, thread by thread, I gave him a gift–the ability to perceive me while the world around him remained blind.

Creating the ghostly image I wished him to see, hooded and draped in black, I appeared behind him.

Louis turned at someone else’s call and saw me. His eyes widened, and there were no quaint explanations now, no lies to shield the mind from the terror of what I was. He turned and fled, as if time or distance could save him from joining the harvest.

Bone fingers curled as the scythe appeared in their grip, completing the image that had made the young man flee. The white skull I wore shifted and smiled, the fleshless mouth whispering words only the prey could hear.

Let the hunt begin.

Chapter 2 - Soon

Rush of uncounted wings

to beat the thinning air

driving away breath

Unending eyes

to know the soul of the world

in one moment

Grain by grain

to measure fading life

the Watcher holds the hourglass

Can you hear the falling sand?

Three hours, three hours, three hours...

The harried man named Nathan Turner looked at his watch again, longing to break out of societal rules and just shove the crowd forward. How many years of cultural inhibitions held him back, tethering the raging feral creature in his soul?

Stop it! a woman two weary passengers ahead scolded whoever was pushing them forward.

Sorry, Nathan muttered, ashamed.

The woman looked like a bundle of white sticks wrapped in a lavender wool shawl and a heavy winter coat. She seemed ancient, but she was of no concern to me. Many years of making hulking athletic brutes ashamed of themselves lay ahead of her. Her heart was strong. I moved closer to Nathan and passed seamlessly through him. Three hours? Not enough.

On the other side, closer to the woman, I watched as they all trooped around me, an exhausted floodwater of humanity sluicing through customs agents unable to share their urgency.

Free at last, my mark shouldered his tattered khaki travel bag and attempted to cross the room without breaking into a run.

Hey, buddy–you dropped this.

He turned and saw a young man holding up a palm-size box wrapped in pink paper and red ribbon.

Thank you! Couldn’t lose that.

The world outside was white and violent. The storm that almost hadn’t allowed his plane to land was gearing up, miming the Apocalypse. His mind was beset by memories of a mild sun and a gentle, clear cold, but then he shoved them away and thought of the child again–the reason for this mad trek.

Taxis were going fast. He and the old woman arrived at the curb at the same moment as the next car pulled up. They looked at each other.

Somebody riding? the cabby called out. It’s getting dodgy out here.

Anguish. You go ahead, ma’am, please. I’ll take the next one.

Thank you, young man. She climbed into the back seat as he held the door in the wind. An airport worker loaded her suitcase into the trunk. There may not be another cab so soon. Are you going into the city?

Yes.

Come on, then, we’ll share. I don’t mind company.

Thank you–I haven’t got much time.

The cabby pulled away from the curb into the creeping traffic. This ain’t the night for needing speed, my friend. Where to?

Soho, the woman replied, and gave the address.

How about you, fella? The cabby’s eyes watched Nathan in the rearview mirror.

Children’s Hospital of New York, at 3959 Broadway.

The woman studied him. Who’s at the hospital?

My daughter. He looked out the window at the savage blizzard, avoiding her pitying expression.

Driver, she said, leaning forward to touch his shoulder with her twig fingers, take us to the hospital. You can drive me home after.

Yes, ma’am.

Thank you, Nathan whispered.

She reached out and patted his hand. I’m Margo O’Donnell.

Nathan Turner.

‘Gift of God.’

What?

Your name, from ‘Nathaniel’–that’s what it means. I’m a pearl, myself. Tell me about your daughter. How old is she?

Five, ma’am.

Call me Margo. What’s her name?

Megan.

Ah, that’s a good name. It means ‘the strong’.

Yeah, and she is. He tried to smile and failed. But not enough; they said she only has a few weeks left, maybe less. Her mother knew that two weeks ago, and she didn’t call me until yesterday morning.

I see.

Then the plane got delayed for three hours.

No wonder you were a bull in a china shop through customs. You don’t live in New York?

No, I live in Philly. Work took me to Italy. They said go or keep walking–didn’t care a whit about the kid being sick.

People can be bastards, Nathan.

Sometimes; other times they’re angels. I really appreciate this, Margo.

She patted his hand again. There’s no one waiting on me but the cat. So tell me about Megan. Does she like cats?

He pulled the little pink box out of the zippered front of his bag between them. She loves butterflies. I got her this–it’s not actually something you’d give a child, I guess. It’s a jeweled brooch, looks like a little pink butterfly–almost looks real.

It sounds lovely.

The back seat went silent. The cabby swore at the traffic and apologized to the woman, over and over. The windshield looked like a white sheet with a few pinpoints of red taillights shining through it.

Nathan Turner’s thoughts tumbled in anger and a strangling impatience. The image of his ex-wife loomed large, her cruelty twisting his gut. He fought to keep it all inside. He knew he couldn’t be this way in front of Megan, knew he would have to pretend that he didn’t want to strangle her mother for not letting him come sooner, not letting him know. The white rage inside mirrored the blizzard perfectly, in all but its withering heat.

Nathan, what is it?

She knew. Through clenched teeth, he almost hissed the words. She knew weeks ago and didn’t tell me. God knows what she told Megan–probably told her I was too busy to come.

You can tell her different when you see her.

I can’t. I won’t. We always pretend for her, that we get along, that we don’t hate each other. I can’t tell her that her own mother tried to keep me away when she was...was...

Margo picked up his huge hand in her tiny one and held it.

She could go any time now, he whispered.

So could we all, but we’re tough; you, me, and Megan too. You never know with these things.

The doctors seem pretty certain.

Oh, pooh. What do they know? Doctors have told me I’m dying for the last ten years, yet here I sit. They don’t know my time, Nathan. They don’t know Megan’s time.

He tried to hear her, tried to believe, but the anger and stress refused to abate. I promised her on the phone I’d get there; told her I had a present.

The old woman talked and drew him out of his angry silence to tell her about his life, about his failed marriage to a woman who had never even met his family, and his daughter, who had been sick all of her short life. As the cab finally reached a decent speed, he seemed to relax a little more; but the respite didn’t last long.

Shit! Oh, beg pardon, ma’am, the cabby said, slowing the car to a crawl again.

What is it? Nathan asked, anxiety and steel in his voice.

A wreck, I think; poor sods. He whistled. They have the road blocked off to one lane. It’ll take me a while to get us over there, and we aren’t the first in line.

Damn it! How far are we from the hospital?

Not that far, but far enough.

Which way?

Straight up the street. We’re on Broadway now.

Fine. He put the pink box in the pocket of his bag and zipped it, gripping the straps in a white-knuckled fist.

What are you doing? Margo asked.

I’ll walk it. I have to get there.

That’s insane! We’re in a blizzard!

This could take hours. Megan may not have hours. Thank you for your kindness, Margo. I won’t forget it.

Nathan!

He slammed the door against the wind, put his head down and made his way through the stalled traffic, his bag over his shoulder. He was a strong man, sure of his ability to withstand the brutal weather.

It seemed he’d been fighting the sleet for hours, his heart pounding in his chest, his mind full of nightmares. Would Megan die before he reached her?

When he saw the hospital in the distance, he began to run, heedless of the snow and ice on the sidewalk. He didn’t see the newly freed taxi that shadowed him on the street, didn’t hear the old woman as she tried to hail him over the howling wind.

A block from his goal, he slipped and fell heavily to his knees, cursing. A sharp pain burned in his chest. He gasped, afraid for a moment that he might faint. Nausea washed over him as he leaned forward over his bag. He was short of breath from the run, lightheaded, and almost dizzy.

Nathan! Are you all right?

Margo? He looked up, bewildered, and saw the taxi stopped at the curb. The old woman got out and hurried carefully to him, huddled in her heavy coat. You’ll freeze, he told her. Get back in the cab.

Come with me. We got out of that bottleneck pretty quickly; you should have stuck it out with us.

The hospital’s right there, he said, lifting his arm to point. The pain in his chest, like a crushing weight, moved down the arm. He dropped it slowly to his side and stared up at the old woman with a stunned expression.

You don’t look well. Are you hurt? Nathan? Nathan!

I felt his thoughts drift away from her insistent fear. His body remained rigid, but his spirit shifted and perceived me kneeling at his side.

Who–what–are you?

You know the answer to that, Nathan.

No, I can’t.

You already are.

He turned away, frantic, and cried out at the sight of his body kneeling in front of him. The cab driver arrived at the old woman’s side, both of them staring down at his body. The cabby gently laid him down on the pavement and took a cell phone out of his coat.

Yes, I have an emergency. We’re on Broadway a block from the children’s hospital–no, the one down from J. Hood Wright Park; might be a heart attack. Hurry!

No, Nathan whispered as he watched himself, and saw that his lips didn’t move as he said it. He looked back at me, his palms up. You don’t understand–I have to get to my daughter.

You still can, I answered, touching his shoulder. Come with me.

Before we left, I pulled the zipper open on his bag and let the little gift box peep out. The old woman, turning her face away from Nathan’s chilling form, saw it. I smiled when she took it out and looked down the block at the hospital. Then, guiding Nathan with my hand on his shoulder, I lifted him with me into the air.

We moved unseen through the hospital lobby, then slipped up through the ceiling and upper floors. Nathan didn’t speak until we rose up through the white tiles of his daughter’s room. The little girl was asleep. A woman in a chair by the bed was slumped in grief. I released Nathan as he went to his child’s side.

Megan, he called, not sparing a glance at the woman.

We can wait, if you like, I told him.

She will die? Soon?

Soon.

I want to wait. I promised her I’d be here; I had a present.

It’s coming.

The door opened and a nurse stepped in, startling the woman in the chair. Sorry to disturb you, Dina, but there’s a woman here, she says she’s Nathan Turner’s mother?

Oh? We’ve been expecting Nathan. I guess he couldn’t be bothered. Yes, fine, let her in.

I laid a calming hand on Nathan’s shoulder when he bristled at her words, but he forgot his anger when the old woman walked in carrying a small pink box.

Hello, dear, she said. I’m so sorry we have to meet like this. I have something for Megan.

The woman sighed, but reached out to gently wake her daughter. Meg, hon, wake up–someone’s here to see you.

Is Daddy here? she asked at once.

Not yet, sweetheart; he might not be able to make it. Your grandmother’s here, though.

Megan, Margo said, smiling at her. I brought a present your father wanted you to have.

Isn’t he coming?

You’ll see him, dear. He promised.

Soon?

I don’t know when, darling; but I know he loves you very much. She handed the box to the child.

Eager and curious as children are, she pulled loose the red ribbon and tore the pink wrapping. The little white fuzzy jeweler’s box fascinated her for a moment, and she stroked it once before opening it.

A butterfly! Mommy, look! It’s so pretty!

The delight on the child’s radiant face brought tears to Nathan’s eyes. She giggled as she held the precious pin, turning it over and over, and then moving it through the air as if to pretend it was flying.

Thank you, the mother said, for bringing it to her. She so wanted to see her father.

May I speak to you outside a moment, Dina? We can leave the door open. The child shouldn’t hear.

Yes, she replied, startled.

We could hear them through the gap in the door. Nathan watched his daughter, but I knew he was listening, too.

You should know–they’ll contact you soon enough. Nathan Turner is dead. He had a heart attack a block from here, just now, trying to get here in time.

Oh my God!

He burst his heart to reach his daughter, to give her that gift. I brought it to her instead. I think he would have wanted me to.

But why–who are you?

Just someone he shared a cab with from the airport. I’m sorry I lied, but she needed to have that gift, and to know he loved her.

I tuned them out and watched the child. Nathan leaned down and touched her hair.

Daddy? She stared around the room.

I’m here, baby.

She turned her head and her eyes locked onto her father’s form. Daddy!

He moved to hold her when she stretched out her arms, the butterfly pin clutched in her tiny hand, but he passed through her body. I came forward and pulled him back away from her, through the chair. Feeling her eyes on me, I gave her a gallant bow.

Hello, Megan. I’m back. Look who I brought to see you.

Hi, Grimmie. Thank you for bringing my daddy. She reached out again, but I stopped Nathan from going to her.

Come to us, Megan. It’s time; you’ve suffered enough. Leave the butterfly for your mother.

She rose to crawl out of the bed. In her physical form, she might have fallen, but it was her spirit that stepped down and ran into her father’s waiting arms.

I turned to lead them out.

Can I say goodbye to Mommy?

She can’t hear you now.

Megan laughed when her father hoisted her up in his arms. I knew you’d come for me, Daddy.

Nathan choked back his tears and held her close.

We went out through the door, through Dina and Margo, and down the hall. I heard Margo’s calm voice behind us.

Dina. Short for Dinah, isn’t it? In Hebrew, it means ‘judged’. I’m sorry for your loss.

I smiled.

Beside me, carrying Megan, Nathan sighed. I wish I could thank Margo for that. I was a stranger. She’s an amazing woman.

I liked her, Megan said. Will she be coming with us?

Perhaps, I answered, but not any time soon.

Chapter 3 - Call It Fate

Listen to the notes that play

in our guts, in our dreams

we know it is Truth

and we try to dance

as our souls recoil

The music doesn’t see

it has no sense but touch

it is we who must hear it

drawn into the cadence

unending flow

Sing if it suits you

or dash your bones on iron flats

pierce your heart on sharps

the scales will climb and fall

the steps will speed and slow

We dance for we must

but the Truth is life and fate

to fortune and despair equally bound

and though we cannot stop the music

the choice is ours to change the notes

An oldie but goodie turned in endless musical rotisserie in my consciousness.

‘I like New York in June, how about you?’

I do, actually; and in October, and March is okay, too. Yet why did the Ghost of Sinatra Past plague me? Maybe it was the booze.

You ever get stuck on a tune, Murph? Can’t get it out of your head with a crowbar? Or even a fine Jack Daniels like this? I asked the intrepid old black man sitting on the sidewalk next to me.

Yep, he replied, reaching for the bottle.

How does it happen? Why?

Usually it’s the last thing you heard, Grimmie. Ain’t no deal, just a song. What song?

‘New York In June’.

How about you? he finished the line, out of tune. That’s Old Blue Eyes; good song, bad town.

Why?

Too cold, too often. Ain’t no better place to be than San Diego. Weather don’t know how to change. People are dieting–they leave a lot behind. Life can be taken on here. Head on, if you’re smart like me.

He passed the bottle back and I took another long pull, but it wasn’t working. I know a girl in New York, I said, wiping my mouth with my sleeve as he did. When in Rome…

Angel, he said. He’d heard it all before.

She’s going to die soon. Not a damn thing I can do about it.

That’s bull. You got the power–don’t go.

It doesn’t work like that.

How long?

This winter.

Winter in New York? You’ll be busy, Grimm. Anybody like me, living on the street up there? If they ain’t got sense to find real shelter, you’ll be leading a herd, not one girl.

I know.

It’s summer now, though–you should go. Love her, don’t you?

Yes, I do–but it’s not like you and Maude; we’ve never had a life together. She doesn’t really believe what I say, either. She can’t see it yet.

She will. Remus Murphy scratched his bushy white hair with weathered fingers. He seemed thoughtful as he took another drink. How’s Maude?

Fine.

Good.

There are times I sincerely hate fate, Murph.

It’s a job. You do it well.

Maybe.

Not maybe, son. Hell, I don’t know what it’s like–but it’s got to have perks, right? You can go after the bad guy, save the day, stuff like that.

I smiled. Sometimes; but fate–destiny, appointed time, what’s the point? It’s never fixed for long. Free will changes it every day, for almost everyone. Just keeping up with it is almost more than I can do.

Got to admit, it’s confusing.

Definitely.

I mean, here you are in California with me, having a sip and a visit; but those newsboys are talking over our heads on them wireless systems about people dying all over the world, at the same time. You got to ferry them all, but how?

Call it talent.

You ain’t God, Grimmie.

No, I’m not; but I do have perks, like you said.

Murphy laughed. You’re just everywhere at once?

In a sense, yes. You know you aren’t in actual fact looking at me. This body is a construct. That’s why I can’t refuse to go to Angel when her time comes. I’ll already be there, just like I am now; and when the time gets close, she’ll know me.

You think she’ll be afraid?

I don’t know. I don’t want her to be.

"Well, tell you this. I’ve been talking to nobody for years, ever since Maude was killed, but I always had the feeling someone was listening. Sometimes I was pretty convinced somebody answered.

"Then one day there you were, plain as that stop sign on the corner. I think we talked an hour before I realized you couldn’t be anybody real. Of course, when I genuinely knew you, knew what you were, I thought maybe you were more real than anybody else I’d ever met, except Maude.

This girl, your Angel–you ain’t going to scare her. She knows you. You said yourself you only go scary on the bad guys.

She thinks I’m a vigilante street kid, making the world safe for good-hearted lowlife. That’s a bit different from knowing your friend is Death.

You think so. I don’t. You were my friend before I knew you; didn’t change the fact a bit. Made it nicer, if nothing else–better your friend than out to get you, huh?

You’re a special case.

So they keep telling me.

You aren’t afraid to die.

Nope. Means I get to see Maude again. Means I don’t have to scratch around for bread and booze no more, too. What’s to be afraid of?

Hell?

Don’t give me that, Grimm. You and me, we both know I’ve got the lottery ticket there, straight up. Even if I did go the other way, Maude would march down there and make Old Scratch give me back. Think he’d sass her? No, sir, and you wouldn’t either.

You’re right, I wouldn’t. I thought about what he’d said then, and frowned. It’s not really up and down, you know. Directions are a human notion.

I figured.

The whiskey was gone, but it wasn’t a problem. Is there anything you’d like me to do for you, Murph?

"Yeah. That little Dodie girl three corners down, she’s pregnant with one on the ground. Husband beats them. She gave me a dollar last week. Said she’d been saving up to leave town, go see her grandmother, or something, just to get away.

Her man found the money and took most of it, of course. She can’t leave on what’s left. I wanted to ask Maude what she did with that savings we had. They killed her for it, but they never found it. When I went back to the house the once, it wasn’t there. She did something with it, before she died, and I’d like that girl to have it. Get her gone. Can you do that? Find it and give it? I’d be grateful.

I can do that.

Thanks, Grimmie. I’ll take my harp now, if it’s all the same.

I nodded. Let’s go.

The warm breeze ruffled the long grass around the tombstone. I stood before it like an old family friend, dressed in a black suit. One grave was old, the other new, but I had been the only mourner at the service that morning.

Etched in fading letters filled in with mold, the names Maude and Remus Murphy were scrolled along the top, followed by the phrase: loving wife, loving husband–In Pace Requiescat. Murph’s name had been here with Maude, just like his heart, from the day she died.

A large family nearby began to disperse from another funeral. Movement among them caught my eye and I turned my head to see a little girl with bouncing blonde curls coming toward me.

She looked so strange in somber clothing. Her pink health and blue eyes wanted brilliant color, not the drab of funeral black. She held a bouquet of flowers in her tiny hands, a bunch of magnificent white and red roses with long stems. Someone had snapped the thorns from them, too, turning them into a symbol of her life–beauty and innocent grace, without threat or pain.

Looking up, I spotted the worried mother, her face streaked with tears. I raised my hand to her in the universal wave of benign strangers. She didn’t smile, but allowed her child to approach me.

Hi, she said.

Hello, Samantha.

Here. She held out the flowers to me.

Are those your grandmother’s roses?

Mommy said to give them to her to make her happy on the way to Heaven, but she has so many, and God has more. You don’t have any.

That’s very kind. I think they would make Remus happy on his way to Heaven, too. Why don’t you put them in that vase there?

The child placed the roses in the dusty stone vase beside the tombstone with great care, and then turned to look at the names and dates.

Why are they so far apart?

Maude went to Heaven a long time ago. Remus just left today.

Oh. She raised her head at her mother’s call.

Thank you for the roses, Sam.

She looked up at me and smiled before running back to her mother’s side. I watched them all go, joining the winding line of cars and driving away. When the graveyard was empty, I knelt behind the Murphy tombstone.

Pushing it forward slightly, I shifted the dirt and insects away from the top of a little marble box set in the concrete foundation beneath the stone. Inside it, undisturbed for thirty years, was a thick roll of green bills wrapped with string. Replacing the lid, I pressed the tombstone down again over the hidden empty box.

Dodie Rhodes was crying. Holding her little son against her swelling belly, she endured the sting of sweat in her fresh cuts, and the wood of the chair biting into the bruises on her pale back. The marks were darkening, making a pattern among the older ones, many of them now as faded as her thin chemise.

The boy’s eyes were hollow, his fists knotted in the front of his long nightshirt. It was torn at the neck where his father had grabbed at him, moments before the cruelty that defined their lives had descended once more.

I appeared outside their window, a shadow beside a streetlight. Moving to the door of the pathetic ruin of a once fine house, I gathered a new form to myself: an older face, short gray hair, and a uniform. When the shell was complete, I raised its fist and knocked.

The man who answered was drunk, unshaven, and afraid of the symbolic clothing I wore. What is it, Officer?

I need to speak to your wife, Mr. Rhodes.

Wait a minute. You got a warrant or something?

I ignored him and stepped up into the house. He moved back instinctively and let me pass, watching as I went to the open door of the back bedroom.

Dodie, I need to talk to you.

Her eyes grew wide. I didn’t call nobody!

No, you didn’t. Do you know a man named Remus Murphy? She looked confused and shook her head. Maybe you didn’t know his name–old black man on the corner down a few blocks? He was homeless, and a little crazy, but harmless. You gave him money once.

Oh–yes. Why?

He passed away this morning, but he left you something and asked me to give it to you. He said you needed it to visit your grandmother.

She’s in Boston, but we can’t go–the money’s gone.

You can now. I handed her the roll of bills.

She stared at it a moment