Angel of the Underground Read online

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Dennis wrinkles up his nose. “Because I showed you around town, my turn to feed the old lady has been bumped up. I could use some support, if you don’t mind.” Curious as to why the task seems so daunting, and eager to meet the woman Nathan told me about, I agree to help him.

  I follow Dennis to a green-carpeted stairwell leading to the second floor. Along the way we pass framed photographs of presumed family members. One displays Barry and Lori touching champagne glasses during their wedding ceremony. Lori looks happy and Barry is nearly thin.

  When I step onto the landing upstairs, I hear the sounds of a baseball game through a closed door. The home crowd is in an uproar. I want to peek in to see what’s happening, but suddenly recall Barry’s allegiance to the Yankees, and focus on an alternate sound. Across the hall, behind another closed door, Lori’s faint voice can be heard as though she’s reading aloud.

  Dennis continues down a dark hallway toward a room with a half-open door. Before venturing inside, he takes a deep breath. The dread in his eyes makes me take a deep breath too.

  The bedroom we enter is certainly out of the ordinary, but hardly a call for concern. Common furnishings are in short supply, since the space has been altered into an orderly hospital room. On an adjustable bed lies an elderly woman wearing a white cotton nightgown. A white sheet covers her from the hips down. Her head is turned sideways and her face is buried beneath long, stringy white hair. A metal stand beside her holds an assortment of vials and pills, but a running air conditioner sucks out their medicinal scents. A baby monitor sits on the night stand.

  Dennis opens a dresser drawer and extracts a red plastic pouch and two jars of baby food; mango and pear. He uncaps the jars and shakes their contents into the pouch. I hold the crossbar at the foot of the bed while observing the woman Nathan said had a stroke. “Does she ever come around?” I ask.

  “Enough so they can keep her here,” Dennis replies, “but she rarely makes sense when she is awake. She thinks I’m the train conductor who took her to Peoria when she was four.”

  Dennis scrapes the baby food jars empty with a plastic spoon, screws a perforated tube into the bag’s opening, and retracts a jar of lubricant from the drawer. After smearing two fingers worth of clear jelly onto the hose, he props Gail upright on her pillow so she’s facing forward. Her hair remains over her face. Dennis parts the mass over her mouth and separates her jaws by pressing against her molars. As he slides the tube steadily into her mouth, I make sure to remain still so I don’t cause him to slip. When satisfied with the injected length of hose, Dennis begins squeezing the pouch, which sends baby food streaming through the piping and straight down the old woman’s throat.

  “Do you think she’s suffering?” I whisper.

  “Probably,” he whispers back. “It’s not like you’re allowed to be happy around here. Which is why I wanted to ask you about church.”

  The bed starts to shudder as Gail’s legs suddenly shake. When her foot kicks the crossbar I jump back with a scream. Gail’s hands thrash about as she feels the bed sheets, her nightgown, and eventually the lodged tube. She tries pulling it out, but is biting down at the same time. Dennis attempts to separate her clamped jaws and says in a panic, “Gail, relax! I’ll get it out!”

  The floor rumbles. Barry barges inside. He rushes past me, shoves Dennis into a wall, and yanks the tubing free from Gail’s throat. Baby food, lubricant, and saliva fly in all directions. Barry smacks Dennis across the face with the dripping tube and yells, “Can’t you do anything right? This poor girl must think you’re an asshole!”

  Rather than defend himself, Dennis hurries away. Barry looks at me and tries to fake a smile, but he’s too frenzied to pull one off. He turns to Gail and pets her forehead. When she eases back into stillness, I slip out of the room and head downstairs.

  Dennis is sitting at the edge of his bed and rubbing his hands together. A vein in his temple throbs. “I hate that pig so much,” he growls.

  Rather than address why it’s wrong to put hate into any living creature, I go a route that will alleviate his pain faster. Looking over his movies I ask, “Do any of these have an obese man in peril?”

  “I’m not finding any positives in this dump.” He looks at me with soft, wet eyes. “Religion seems to keep you going. Would you mind if I go to church with you tomorrow?”

  Happiness flows through my head and heart so fast I dizzily drop down into his computer chair. I’ve always been eager to share my religious experiences with someone my own age, and have gotten too used to keeping quiet about my beliefs because nobody ever wants to hear about them. That Dennis takes an interest makes me want to hug him until his eyes bulge, but I’m still not sure if I should make physical contact with him, so I simply say, “I’d love your company.”

  He smiles with contentment and then heads for the hallway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Jeremy will be out for a while. I’m getting C.H.U.D. back.” When Dennis leaves I feel my butterflies whirling with satisfaction. I bounce my legs up and down, then cover my face in case he comes back and sees how red I must be turning.

  Dennis and I sit on his bed, our backs against the headboard, with a bowl of microwave popcorn between us. He loads the film in a gloomy state, but when C.H.U.D.’s title appears after a woman is yanked into a sewer by a monstrous hand, his rigid posture slackens and cheer fills his eyes. Death has once again satisfied him, but it’s the only murder within the first hour of the film. In place of gore are religious connotations I’m not sure Dennis has picked up on. The film centers on a man named Shepherd, who others refer to as Reverend. He’s a cook for the homeless (referred to by a cop as a flock) who live underground and are largely forgotten by the overhead world. The homeless rave about the need for weapons to protect themselves from whatever showed its hand in the opening scene, yet nobody but the Reverend seems to care. Despite how dangerous the situation is, he’ll stop at nothing to protect others.

  Maybe I’ve been primed to see the religious side of even the most sour aspects of life, but C.H.U.D. strikes a chord as to why Dennis would want to seek out religion. On the surface it might seem obvious, that those who live underground long for a savior, and if such is the case I’m more than happy to provide a shot at salvation for someone so undeservedly mistreated. If one good thing can come of my staying here, I hope it’s to help the most destitute member of the household.

  When events in the movie start to pick up, meaning C.H.U.D.s actually appear, knuckles rap loudly on the open door. Barry is observing us with eyes primed to shoot laser beams, even though we aren’t doing anything wrong. We’re merely sitting back against the headboard with our hands near a shared popcorn bowl.

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Barry exclaims. “Boy, get your ass on the floor!” Dennis slides off the foot end with a soft groan. “You’ll want to watch that attitude, sport!”

  Barry looks to me with a much kinder facade. “I’m thinking maybe you should wear something to church you’ve never worn before, like a disguise. I put a few of Lori’s outfits on your bed. Why don’t you go try them on?”

  I get up quickly to appease Barry’s mood, and so I can get back to Dennis as soon as possible. After hurrying into my room, I close the door, strip out of my pajamas, and throw on the outfit on the top of the pile of clothes; an orange sleeveless sweater and a dark green skirt. The skirt is a little tight around the hips, but I’m able to move without hindrance. The sweater fits perfectly. Satisfied, I remove the outfit.

  While standing in just my bra and panties, the doorknob jiggles. I clasp my forearms over my breasts and curl my body sideways as the door swings open. Barry leans inside and says, “Let’s see how they look!” He sees me and blushes, an indication he’ll retreat, but instead his eyes slowly graze me from my bare feet to my concealed chest.

  “Excuse me!” I say.

  Barry finally blinks and backs away as awareness creeps into his
overheated face. I throw on my pajamas and meet him in the hall where he stands with his hands cupped over the naughty spot under his gut. His voice rattles when he says, “You couldn’t have tried them all on.”

  “The first outfit will do, thank you. Is eight-thirty okay to leave?”

  He tries keeping his eyes fixated on mine, but they keep descending toward other areas. His complexion never lightens from its dark hue. “What do you say I join you two for the rest of the movie? Looks like fun in there.”

  My mouth opens but I utter no words. He’ll only cast an uncomfortable cloud over the rest of the evening, but I could never imply something so harsh. When his eyes widen to force a response from me, I hesitantly say, “Sounds good.”

  He glares at me with a corrosive smirk. “Make sure he keeps his distance. You’ll never know when I’ll be back down.”

  After Barry heaves himself upstairs, Dennis reclaims his position on the bed and pats my spot. As much as I don’t want to disregard Barry’s authority, I want Dennis to know he has someone on his side who’s willing to bend the rules in his favor. I compromise by sitting on the bed while keeping one foot planted on the floor. In always watching the doorway during loud moments, or listening for hallway sounds during quiet spots, I never regain the mild enjoyment C.H.U.D. had initially instilled in me.

  Just past midnight, after laying in my own bed for two hours without any signs of falling asleep, I sneak outside and sit atop the pool deck. A breeze lessens the heat, but the humidity is still bonding to my skin. When my mind wanders away from the deceased children and whether or not Sister Alice is able to sleep, I find comfort in thinking about Dennis and having someone to go to church with. The church closest to this house, and the one we’ll most likely attend, opened just three months ago. I’ve never been there, but Sister Alice is always praising its modern designs. Father Vincent Hartman, the priest my group home is named after, was recently issued control over the church and its parishioners. Though I’ve only seen him in passing, perhaps if I run into him he can shed some light on recent events.

  When a car pulls into the driveway, I sneak to the side of the house for a look, fearing Jeremy has returned home and might decide on a midnight dip. Instead, in the light of the moon I find Nathan helping Gail out of Barry’s SUV. Her nightgown and the hair that covers her face appear patched with blood. Worried they need help, I meet them inside at the front door. Nathan greets me with stunned eyes and asks, “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I don’t sleep well,” I reply. “Is she okay?”

  “She fell out of bed and cut her head. She’ll be fine.”

  I keep watching them, because the amount of blood on Gail is extensive. Nathan, clearly upset I won’t leave, sits Gail on the steps, walks closer to me, and softly says, “I appreciate your concern, Robin, but they gave her seven stitches and the bleeding has stopped. Why scalps let out so much blood is beyond me.”

  Gail leans sideways against the railing with an elongated moan.

  “Please don’t tell anyone about this. Barry is one excuse away from putting her in a home. I can’t lose her.”

  “I won’t say anything. I promise.”

  Nathan kisses the top of my head and returns to his wife. He carefully leads her up the stairs one rung at a time. I watch with admiration, as we should all be so lucky to have someone with whom to grow old.

  CHAPTER IV

  Dennis and I head upstairs at eight-thirty on the dot, dressed for church and ready to go. Barry is standing at the kitchen counter sipping coffee. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a tight blue Polo shirt that does nothing to conceal his girth. Before he even looks at us he says with a marginal laugh, “I don’t think so, buddy. Go back to bed.”

  Dennis leans his head all the way back and groans, “But I didn’t do anything!”

  Barry slams his mug down on the counter. Coffee splashes upward and onto the base of his thumb. He shrieks and sucks on the skin. Dennis, clearly unwilling to take the brunt of Barry’s rage, shoots downstairs. Just like that, his company, and my anticipation of sharing my sanctuary with him, are gone.

  Barry looks at me with a bright smile, plucks the front of his shirt from his breast divides, and delightfully says, “Coffee?” I shake my head. I want nothing from him but his ability to drive.

  Barry puts a hand on my shoulder and leads me all the way out to his car. He lets go when I climb into the passenger seat, but as soon as he plunges into the driver’s side his hand lands on my knee. I want to tell him to remove it, but am afraid he’ll refuse to take me where I need to go.

  Barry doesn’t speak during the ride to church. He’s too busy singing along to country music. His voice is enthusiastic, even though the primary singer is melancholy. He taps on my thigh to drum beats, strums his fingers on my forearm to guitar leads, and twiddles his fingers against my neck to chorus lyrics. When his right arm isn’t performing, it lies over my headrest. I have the strangest feeling he thinks we’re on a date.

  Arriving at church, I observe well-dressed strangers as they make their way to God’s newly established house. Unlike the church I’m used to attending, which is white with peeling paint and settled on a lawn of dandelions, this one is built of dark brown wood and stands on a bed of thick green sod. None of the sidewalk grids on the way to the front door have weeds, and the stoop is free of cracks and moss. The inside is much cleaner as well. The tops of the pew backings are still glossy and don’t display the black sludge from grip wear, the stained glass windows are vibrant, and the polished floor squeaks under my shoes. The crucifix behind the altar, though distant, is much more realistic than any I’ve ever seen. Jesus’s pained eyes appear wet and blood seems to drip from his wounds.

  Barry follows me into a pew three rows from the entrance. Nobody around us seems concerned with a newcomer, which is a blessing since I don’t need the attention, but I do feel a bit awkward attending my first mass outside my usual surroundings. That discomfort wavers when mass begins with Father Vincent walking down the aisle swinging an urn of incense. Seeing a somewhat-familiar face sets me at ease.

  Father Vincent proves he’s a worthy alternative to the priest I’m accustomed to. Despite his advanced age, he speaks loudly, has a strong singing voice, and displays an enthusiasm that clears the languidness from most everyone’s eyes. Most importantly, he never seems weary of what he’s preaching.

  Barry maintains his composure throughout the mass, but moans to himself whenever we’re instructed to rise and sit again. He also places fingers in his ears when the woman next to him sings loudly. He doesn’t complain verbally, but his yawns gradually become elongated growls.

  When in line for the Eucharist, which Barry understandably sits out, I feel eager to greet Father Vincent face to face. I hope he’ll be happy to see someone from his group home still practicing the sacraments despite the recent crimes. As he puts the body of Christ in my mouth, however, he looks at me blankly before eyeing the next patron.

  When mass ends, Barry springs upright and motions for me to get moving by waving his arms toward the aisle. “May I have a minute with the priest?” I ask.

  His shoulders slump and he huffs, “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I know, but I need to speak with him and don’t want to have to ask for another ride.”

  “How long will it take? Breakfast has been knocking on my back door since the first psalm.”

  “Just one minute.”

  “Fine. You have a minute. I’ll be in the car.”

  When Barry leaves, I wait in the pew as Father Vincent greets those who wish to speak to him at the front door. After shaking hands with the last person, he heads down the aisle and passes me without noticing my eyes on him. While removing his stole, he stops short and suspiciously looks back. Our eyes meet and I offer him a smile. He cocks his head and says, “Have we met?”

  “I’m Robin,” I reply. He squints and looks upward, as though God will remind him who I am. “Robin Hills?”
/>   “Of course! Robin who lives with Alice.” He approaches me while folding his garment. I scoot over to give him room beside me. He sits close enough that I can smell his breath, which reeks of fruity ammonia. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been having thoughts of God I’ve never had before.”

  “Given the circumstances, I’m not surprised.”

  “Have you ever wondered if He turned His back on us?”

  “I used to, when I was your age. The state of the world would make me wonder if anyone was up there at all. But then I’d ask myself how much worse we’d all be if He wasn’t. Chaos would be everywhere, wouldn’t it? You and I wouldn’t be able to sit here without someone kicking down the door and taking out their aggression on us.”

  “But why do the innocent have to pay the price for the ones who deny God? Why do we have to enjoy every day like it’s our last because their souls are empty?”

  “Maybe God puts them here to make us enjoy life more.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “My best advice is to stay close to those who make life worthwhile. They’re out there. I wouldn’t have remained a priest if I didn’t believe the good outweighed the bad.” Father Vincent’s hands are shaking beneath his stole. He catches me gazing at them, stands from the pew, and rubs his palms together. “If you’ll excuse me, Robin, I have another mass to prepare for.”

  “Of course, Father. Thank you for your time.” He smiles with a nod and walks away while erratically arching his neck.

  Before leaving, I light four votive candles at a shrine of the Virgin Mary; one for the children in God’s kingdom, one for the safety of the survivors, one for Sister Alice to ensure she’ll get by on her own, and one for Dennis to improve his miserable family life.

  When we get home, Barry hobbles inside and hurries upstairs. I plan to call Sister Alice and tell her about the new church she’s been raving about, but am met with an unexpected visitor.

  Detective Morris, head of the murder investigations, is sitting on the couch with a full glass of lemonade in hand. His eyes are dark and dour. I hope he’s come to check on me, and not to spread bad news, but Nathan stands from his chair and heads straight for the stairs without bothering to look at me. When alone with Detective Morris I say, “I don’t want to know.”