“And if you’ll look here—please don’t crowd the case, children, and don’t touch the glass—you’ll see what has been verified as a genuine piece of the very Ark Noah himself built on instruction from God.”
Verified? How?
To Bobby Granger, there didn’t seem to be too much crowding going on around the exhibit, but being at the back, his view wasn’t the best. However, if the rest of the class felt the same as he, their boredom thresholds had long since been breached. Not that he’d had much enthusiasm to begin with. When their teacher had announced the trip to a local museum of unusual and religious artifacts, it had been met with a desultory chorus of groans, boos, and sighs from the class, which Miss Appleby had shushed in irritation.
None of that had really registered with Bobby. He took the news with the same numb detachment he greeted most everything with these days.
His interest had been mildly piqued when their school bus had pulled up alongside the ramshackle wooden building on the outskirts of town, even though Bobby had been expecting grand classical architecture the likes of which he’d only ever seen on TV. But even that slight blip of interest had melted as soon as the group swapped the oppressive heat outside for an even more sweltering interior.
Bobby’s spirit had wilted like a paper doll before a flamethrower as they were led around by the museum’s curator, a thin, prissy-looking man in a bow tie, winding their way through a bewildering array of items which ranged from alleged holy relics to bizarre carnival sideshow attractions.
They’d stopped to look at a two-headed snake which Carl Taylor said looked like a badly-stuffed puppet, and since his father was a taxidermist, he should know. Then they’d examined a yellowed letter which supposedly was the actual order for Jesus Christ’s arrest, despite the writing being faded to the point of illegibility. There’d even been a ball of elastic bands bigger than Bobby’s head, an item whose significance or relevance he couldn’t begin to fathom.
Now they were being given a glowing introduction to a piece of broken wood, that by all appearances could have come from any construction yard, yet were supposed to accept that Noah and all the animals had once sailed upon a ship built with it?
Bobby wasn’t much for religious fervor. Even though he’d been raised in a predominantly Christian house and community, he’d always found church tedious, even from a young age.
At the grand old age of eleven, he was of the opinion that God most probably did not exist. Even if he did, he was not the sort of God Bobby would want much to do with. Recent events had both reinforced this view and somewhat muddled its certainty in Bobby’s mind, and he found himself oscillating between complete and despairing unbelief and childish wishful thinking.
Just as he felt this tour was going to crush the last sliver of life from him, his boredom and despondency scattered like dust blown from an old book, when he saw the next exhibit.
Bobby’s eyes widened and his heart stuttered. In front of him, within a large glass case, was a pair of wings, bigger than any he’d ever seen on any bird, either in real life or on film. The hubbub of the other students around him faded to a background murmur as his full attention was consumed by the glorious wings in the case before him. As the droning voice of the curator petered out of Bobby’s awareness, he managed to catch the words, “ . . . wings of an angel, found on an archaeological dig . . . ”
Angel’s wings.
He’d never imagined angel wings would look anything like this. For a start they were black, though not the midnight black of crow feathers, but dusky, with a touch of gray. When he turned his head slowly, Bobby detected flashes of luminescence, a rainbow of transitory colors which disappeared the moment he saw them.
He stood transfixed, his vision narrowing until all he saw were those wings in that case, their depth of color sharpening and intensifying as he took them in, heightening their solidity. They seemed more real than their surroundings; or perhaps it was more that everything around them was drab and dull in comparison. They were majestic, proud, the wings of some forgotten angel warrior long turned to dust.
So taken with them and what they might represent, Bobby didn’t notice the rough stitches and loose threads running up the insides of the wings, nor the very mundane and modern harness which bound the wings together. Even the gaps where feathers had come loose were lost on him. Such minor details were irrelevant to him. Or perhaps he simply ignored these flaws, lost as he was in the grandeur of something so magical to him.
He wondered if it could possibly be true. Could these objects have really once adorned the back of a celestial being? All at once his soft atheism—spoken to no one but himself—seemed a meager nothingness in the presence of such ethereal majesty.
His small frame shuddered as he found himself on the verge of tears. This was an unexpected but all too familiar occurrence lately. His vision blurred and his throat constricted in bitter pain. He turned away and drew a hand across his eyes in anger. Usually he was alone when this happened, but the sight of those wings and the emotions they’d opened within him had caught him by surprise, like the yawning of a mighty sinkhole. Bobby bit back the sadness which ballooned in his heart.
Unaware of Bobby’s inner turmoil, the rest of the class moved on to the next exhibit. Clearly none of what had affected Bobby had touched them, for their eyes remained glazed with boredom, their faces painted with apathy. It took Bobby a few moments to get himself under control, and once he did, he rejoined the other children alongside the next dreary item.
Yet, he didn’t remember anything else they saw after that, for his entire mind was completely, utterly fixated on those beautiful wings.
***
He remembered her voice, soft and low, as she read to him each night when he was younger. The smell of her skin: fresh, warm and soft, not long from the bath. Her hair tickling the sides of his face as she bent close to kiss his forehead goodnight. Warm breath as she whispered, “Sweet dreams”.
He also remembered the ache of loss as her weight left his bed, the hollowness left by her departure a lament in his heart. The swish of the door as it pulled closed across the threadbare carpet. Muffled voices through walls as arguments began. Father growling with anger, mother pleading in cowed supplication. And, on occasion, the dull slap of flesh against flesh, followed by the suppressed choke of sobs.
He remembered how he’d muffle his own tearful sobs with his pillow, trying to ignore the gaping hole within him as he slipped into a shallow, restless sleep.
***
The next day at school, Bobby found his classmates lounging on the steps outside of school, discussing the previous day’s trip, each trying to outdo the other with how dreary they’d found it all. Each statement was clearly an attempt to impress the really cool kids, those who were so cool they didn’t even mention the visit as they passed cigarettes back and forth in cupped hands and affected nonchalance.
Bobby sat apart from them all on a small grassy hill at the back of the schoolyard, trying to read a book in the ever-shifting shadow of a big oak tree. It was another day of crushing heat as the sun beat down without mercy. His skin was greasy inside his uncomfortable and worn charity-store clothes, sweat prickling across his back and trickling down his forehead. His lungs felt compressed, preventing him from taking a proper breath. Through his discomfort, the rising and falling drone of the other children’s voices buzzed around his head like annoying insects.
“Did you see the cat? The one with six legs? Oh my GOD, that was dis-gus-ting!” The shrill tone cut through the air, slicing straight into Bobby’s skull, making him wince. The voice belonged to Terri Brasseaux, a gawky-looking girl nearly two years older than the other kids on account of being kept back. She tended to be obnoxious, and tried to dominate the other children via the status she thought her age conferred upon her.
Bobby didn’t mind her, usually. She wasn’t especially nasty, and could often be maternal to some of the younger kids. He also felt a little sorry for her. He sensed insecurity behind her forceful personality, a strong desire to be liked and accepted.
But at that moment, Bobby’s sympathy for Terri was at an all-time low. The oppressive heat, the inane chatter of the other kids, and Terri’s high-pitched voice all conspired against him, drawing his attention to their discussion when all he wanted was to read, to get lost in fantasy.
“That was nothing. It was the stupid religious things that pissed me off. Bunch of boring old garbage. Only idiots think that crap is real.” Bobby tensed at the condescending drawl. Its owner, Dylan McKendrick, was someone Bobby wasn’t especially fond of, someone whose attention he tried to avoid. Not quite a bully, Dylan was nevertheless a menace to his classmates. The boy was sly about it, never going too far or allowing himself to be caught by the teachers. To Bobby, he seemed like a snake that had learned to talk and wear human clothes.
Bobby gritted his teeth as Dylan continued. “I mean, imagine believing there’s a special place you go when you’re dead. Only fairies and lunatics think heaven is real.”
Bobby clenched the pages of his book. He could no longer read the words, his vision constricting to a single point of light. He didn’t know if Dylan was deliberately mocking him, but it made no difference. His anger had risen unbidden and blazing like it so often did these days. He had no control over its appearance. All he could do was hold himself rigid lest it consume him, and cause him to have an involuntary outburst.
Carl Taylor decided to chip in. “Yeah, those animals in the cases looked terrible. My dad says they’re not even real stuffed animals. They’re fake, made of cloth and plastic. He says the guy that owns the place is a fraudt . . . a frids . . . a con-man!”
“Oh, shut up, Taylor; what would your dad know? He spends all day with his hands shoved inside dead animals. You ask me, he’s a freak.” Even without looking, Bobby knew Dylan was smiling, heard it in his voice, and pictured Carl dipping his head in apology though he had absolutely nothing to apologize for.
Bobby’s fury ratcheted up another notch. He was angry at Dylan, at Carl, at the whole conversation.
“But still . . . he might have a point . . . ”
Now Bobby was sure, utterly positive that Dylan intended his words for him. There was a creeping note of cunning in the boy’s voice, a knowing lilt that sounded to Bobby like a warning.
“I mean, those things were all utter trash. Especially . . . those big wings. Who did that guy think we were? A bunch of kids from the ‘special school’, dribbling and crapping ourselves and believing everything we’re told? Nah, those wings were the worst thing in the whole place. You’d have to be a total retard to think they came from an actual angel.”
Before the boy had even finished talking, Bobby was moving, anger propelling him to his feet.
“You shut your mouth. You just shut your damn mouth, Dylan McKendrick!”
His breaths came fast and hard, sucked into a chest that felt as though it was being crushed. Color and light danced before his eyes, the scene before him playing out in hyper detail.
Most of the other kids stepped back out of surprise and maybe a little fear, though they would never admit to it. But Dylan stayed seated, a snake-like smile on his face.
“What’s got up your butt, Granger? Did you think those wings were real . . . were actual angel wings? Surely not, Bobby. Why would you think that?”
That was when it hit Bobby, the certainty Dylan knew about his reaction to the wings, how they’d affected him. The boy wasn’t stupid. Mean, yes, but not stupid, and in a way that was worse, and made him more dangerous. If Dylan was dumb, he’d be predictable, manageable.
Instead of being calmed by that thought and becoming more cautious, the realization made Bobby even angrier.
Now he knew exactly why Dylan was baiting him.
“Maybe . . . maybe if you thought those wings really were from an angel, you could believe your mom isn’t really gone. That she isn’t just a rotting corpse in the ground.”
Those words served as a starting pistol for Bobby. He launched himself at Dylan, taking fierce delight in the look of astonishment which appeared on the other boy’s face. He screamed in rage, swinging his arms wildly as the other kids scattered in panic.
***
Later that night, Bobby sat in an uncomfortably silent den with his father. Cold television light flickered across the room as a show played out its inconsequential and meaningless plot.
His outburst at school had gotten him suspended. Dylan had played the part of the innocent, feigning surprise at Bobby’s actions. The other kids had backed Dylan’s story, although reluctantly. It seemed to Bobby as if they’d known they were doing something fundamentally wrong.
Bobby had protested his punishment, but no one at school would listen. Phrases such as ‘disruptive behavior’, ‘deteriorating attitude’, and ‘emotional distress’ were mumbled with little sympathy. He sensed they’d already made up their minds about the situation as soon as they discovered he was involved.
Bobby knew he was viewed as a troubled child, and he agreed his personality had significantly changed since his mother’s passing. Surely that was understandable. The death of a loved one was bound to cause emotional instability, was it not?
Even at the age of eleven, Bobby understood what he was experiencing, even if he wasn’t dealing with it particularly well. Having a taciturn father whose emotions were locked away—at least the more tender ones—didn’t help.
He looked at his father, who sat upon his chair in the living room, as though it was his throne, reigning over some remote kingdom of old. The man’s craggy face changed expression rarely, usually to show disappointment in Bobby, as it had done when he’d been informed of the suspension. It also changed when roused to anger, a thankfully rare occurrence as far as Bobby was concerned, though much too frequent when Mother had been alive.
Back then his father’s skin used to twist like a scrunched paper bag and his eyes would glow with fire. In those moments Bobby knew his father had been replaced with a rage-filled monster, a demon in human disguise that subsumed and suppressed his father’s aloof personality.
Despite this, despite potentially risking the ire of this man, Bobby needed to ask the question which had been weighing on his mind since the funeral.
“Um, Dad? Dad?” He said.
No reaction.
Bobby cleared his throat, injecting volume into his voice.
“Dad, can I ask you something?”
The way his father turned to face him was ponderous, glacial. Bobby’s insides trembled but he held his resolve despite the dead look in those eyes.
“Do you think, I mean, is it possible that Mom . . . that she might live on somewhere in spirit? That she might be in Heaven or something?”
Bobby dipped his head quickly as if expecting a blow.
His father remained silent, staring at Bobby for what felt like eternity. Eventually he sighed, closing his eyes briefly. His hands became fists where they lay on the chair’s arms, clenching and unclenching.
“No Bobby, she ain’t. Your mother is dead and in the ground and that’s all there is to it. There’s no such thing as Heaven, no ghosts, spirits or souls. We’re just dirt and that’s what we return to. Now stop asking childish questions and let me watch my show in peace.”
With that, Bobby’s father turned back to the TV and spoke no more.
Bobby’s guts churned, the strength draining from him. If he hadn’t been sitting, he might have collapsed to the floor. Tears pinched the back of his eyeballs and his throat closed over a bitter lump.
Yet beneath his grief, still fresh as ever, was a spark of anger, a kernel of fire which fiercely resisted what his father claimed. It whispered to him: it’s not true, she is in Heaven; or somewhere like that. Her spirit still goes on. The image of the angel wings crept back into his mind, expanding their hold on him.
Bobby waited until he was sure his departure wouldn’t be remarked upon before slipping away to his room, climbing into a comfortless bed.
***
“Momma, when people die do they really go to Heaven?”
Though only six, he was already well acquainted with death and its trappings, though until recently it had remained a mostly abstract concept.
Both grandparents on his mother’s side—his father’s lost before he was born—an aunt, and several pets had given him an almost blasé approach where the demise of loved ones was concerned.
That didn’t mean he didn’t feel the pangs of loss whenever it happened, but he was old enough now to begin more philosophical questioning.
His mother had pulled him close, smoothed her hand through his hair—it was always messy, sticking up in random clumps—and kissed his forehead.
“Well, you know that’s what we believe to be true, and what the pastor tells us when we go to church. Remember?”
He’d nodded, feeling her chin rise up and down with the movement of his skull.
“If people just ceased existing, don’t you think that would be an awful waste of all that life? All those memories and thoughts and ideas and personalities? If all that simply disappeared wouldn’t that be the saddest thing? Hmmm?”
What she’d said had made sense to his little mind, though he’d felt he didn’t quite grasp the full implication. It was as if the thought was too big for him to contain, at least at the time.
Something had occurred to him back then, his thoughts jumping around as they often do in the very young.
“How do people get to Heaven, Mommy? I saw Grammy. She was just lying in the coffin and then they put it in the ground. When did she go to Heaven? How did she get there? Did God come and dig her up?”
His mother’s arms had wrapped around him again. She’d made a strange sound, halfway between a cough and a swallow, but when she spoke, her voice was light and sweet as always and he’d heard the smile in it, with only a tinge of sadness.
“That’s because the part of people that goes to Heaven is invisible, Bobby. It’s called the soul. The soul has their essence which lives on for eternity. You can’t see it, but if you close your eyes and listen hard enough, you might hear it as it departs. It sounds like a hushed chorus singing one continuous, beautiful note. Those who’ve passed on are guided into Heaven by angels. Now, isn’t that better than simply ceasing to exist?”
He’d agreed that it was, but by then his mind had begun to drift onto some unrelated subject.
Many years later, he’d closed his eyes and listened as she’d instructed. All he’d heard was the dull pulse of his own pained heart, the sound of blood rushing through his ears like a lonely, mournful surf washing over him as his mother’s coffin was lowered into the dirt.
***
A few days had passed since the stilted conversation with his father. In that time, the misery and bitterness at his young life had grown in tandem with his obsession regarding the angel wings.
He’d decided he had to see them again, and had snuck out into the night once his father was fully preoccupied with the TV.
The museum wasn’t too far from his house. He’d arrived to find the building shrouded in darkness, but still waited behind a bush for an hour or so to make sure it was empty.
When his impatience could be held in check no longer Bobby circled the building, keeping low to the ground like Special Forces soldiers he’d seen in the movies.
Eventually he found a window that had been left unsecured. Heart thumping in his chest, Bobby eased the window open, tensing in expectation of it screeching on rusty mountings, or getting stuck on a warped frame. But it slid up easily without breaking the hush of night.
He hoisted himself up and through, landing on silent feet, crouching as he wrestled to control his breathing. After a moment, Bobby stood up, fairly sure he was alone in the huge, dark building.
The thought brought him little comfort. Now that he was here he felt afraid, and not just because he was trespassing. The deep gloom of the museum’s interior was relieved only here and there by a small measure of ambient light from outside.
The exhibits he’d seen only a few days before had transformed from the ordinary to extraordinary, taking on a sinister appearance in the darkness. The two-headed snake looked as though it might strike at any moment, glinting eyes keeping watch on Bobby as he walked past. The pig with five legs appeared ready to bolt from its pedestal. A three foot tall figurine of the Virgin Mary now wrapped herself in shadow, taking on an unholy aspect.
Nevertheless, beneath his fear was a growing certainty, a calm reassurance that he was in the presence of something unearthly and wonderful. There was a hum deep within him, a buzz which soothed his nerves and released the tightness in his chest.
Despite the darkness and clutter of displays, it took Bobby mere seconds to find the angel wings. They emitted a subtle glow, a golden sheen which was only barely discernible. If he turned his head, it made the merest impression on his periphery, the barest suggestion of light.
But when he looked directly at the wings, focusing entirely on them, he discovered that all his sadness, anger, fear, and anxiety melted away. Peace and serenity consumed him.
Searching around the case, he quickly found the door at the back and unclasped it. He reached inside and pulled the wings from their display stand, handling them with reverence.
They were far lighter than he’d imagined, lighter than he thought they had any right to be. He nearly fell backwards as he lifted them up, braced as he’d been to take on a weight they failed to possess.
He turned them around in his hands, examining every inch of their fascinating detail. He still could not perceive the frayed stitching, the faded and discolored feathers, or the threadbare gaps. The wings were perfect to him, without flaw or need for improvement. How could it be otherwise? They’d come from a divine being, though he had no idea in what manner an angel might be separated from its wings.
His nose failed to detect the dry, musty odor wafting from them. Instead, Bobby breathed in glorious fragrances, faint yet partly recognizable—sandalwood and cypress were words that came to mind. The sweetness filled his head with images and colors too, blooms of purple and crystalline yellow. He began to feel as though he was floating in the depths of space, as though some massive, unseen planetary body gently pulled at him.
He could have stood there basking in the glory of those heavenly wings forever, but then an idea occurred to him. Although it seemed to arrive fully formed, he guessed it had been growing in his subconscious ever since he’d first seen the wings. So alluring was this idea, he shook off his pleasant stupor and carefully slipped the wings onto his back.
The harness was constructed of stiff plastic bands with canvas straps to secure it, and had obviously been added to the wings at some point in the not too distant past. Bobby was surprised to find how easily they slipped into place, lying snug against his back. His body adjusted quickly to the wings, as though they had always been meant for him, as if they were molding themselves to his form.
He cinched the straps tight as he looked around for a way to get onto the roof.
He found a doorway on the upper level which led to stairs. He climbed them only to find himself in a cramped attic space. Then he spotted his opportunity: a fire escape that led outside was to his right.
Bobby climbed carefully out onto a small metal landing, making sure the wings didn’t get caught. Then he clambered up the fire escape ladder and onto the roof.
As Bobby made his way across the flat roof, he fully believed if he were to hop into the air, he would be carried away on the wind.
Atop the building, a slight breeze rustled through the warm night, so faint it was barely a breath. But the wings caught hold of this slight current, weak as it was, and seemed to grab onto the wind and begin to move. Bobby thought he felt them flexing, as if they were now part of him, alive, not simply some contraption strapped to his back.
Bobby made his way to the far end of the roof.
Looking over the edge, he felt vertigo. From up here, the building appeared far taller than it had seemed when he was on the ground. The drop before him certainly looked like far more than the two stories he knew it was, even allowing for the attic space.
He stepped back from the edge, startled by a sudden urge to step off the roof into thin air.
He knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. That was precisely why he was here. His belief in the power of the wings had compelled him to this point, an odd mixture of fear and excitement sweeping him along, never allowing him to contemplate the final outcome.
As he considered what he was about to do, his confidence faltered. He stared up at the dark sky, into unfathomable measures of distance and time, as stars shone pinpricks of light at him from above. Their seemingly eternal presence calmed him. He took a deep breath.
He thought about his life. The warmest light in his world had been extinguished with his mother’s death, leaving him with a father who showed nothing but contempt and dismissal. How long would it be before that turned into anger and violence? Bobby was certain his father had loved his mother, but that hadn’t stopped the arguments, the beatings, the cruelty.
He was bereft of friends, either due to his own doing or because they’d given up on him. Thanks to his suspension, he wouldn’t be returning to school any time soon. Even the teachers had largely cast him aside as a lost cause.
The future loomed before him like an insurmountable black wall, oppressive and bleak. What else could there ever be for him except more pain, more misery?
Bobby stepped forward once again to the edge of the roof, tears dripping down his face. He reached over his shoulder to touch the wings for comfort, as he looked back up to the stars.
I’m coming, Momma, coming to be with you. I hope you’re waiting for me.
As he launched himself from the roof into the night sky, Bobby thought he heard a soft chorus of gentle voices welcoming him into their ranks, as the wings on his back spread wide in exultation.