Angel: Ghostlier Demarcations

By R. E. Braithwaite

This is both the lightest and the darkest Angel novel. The love scenes are sweet, poignant, and steamy, but there are infinitely more painful scenes which will wrench your heart. The crescendo of the book is reached nearly two hundred pages before the conclusion, and the emotions and intellect of the reader will be challenged on every page. More than the other two novels, Ghostlier Demarcations has mutliple chapters from the perspectives of Maggie, Wanda, and the unbelievable Rose. Their love for Angel and their other, new loves, are rendered completely from their points of view. This novel should come with a ‘hotness’ warning....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665716680

R. E. Braithwaite

R. E. Braithwaite is the author of the widely acclaimed Angel: A Chant of Paradise. He has been a teacher all his life and has an M.A. in Fiction Writing from the University of Florida and a B.A. from Dartmouth College in literature. At Florida, he wrote for and worked with Harry Crews and Nelson Algren.

Book preview

Angel

GHOSTLIER

DEMARCATIONS

R. E. BRAITHWAITE

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Copyright © 2022 R. E. Braithwaite.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1669-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1667-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1668-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021925411

Archway Publishing rev. date: 5/4/2022

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Oh! Blessed rage for order …

The maker’s rage to order …

Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,

And of ourselves and of our origins,

In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

-Wallace Stevens-

The Idea of Order at Key West

-

For Chanel-

Special thanks to my editors:

Elizabeth Walton and Dushka Petkovich

And all those who contributed to this endeavor …

Chapter One

Christmas Eve 1971

Maggie the Cat

Why on earth was Maggie standing in Angel’s living room?

Why were his parents grinning like satiated baboons?

What the fuck? He peeked out the bay window, but Rose had left. Rapidly.

Was this what Rose meant—her Christmas present? Rose, had you and Maggie—and my traitorous parents—cooked up this surprise for me? After that long, sensuous, spiritual, sexual, oh God date with you, was Maggie your master stroke? After that blowjob? You devious woman …

Where was a joint when you needed one? Or an escape hatch? Where was Scottie to beam him up?

And Maggie looked so forlorn and wistful—Oh, God, Mags—what are you doing here?

Maggie twisted nervously to Angel’s parents. Angel’s face had betrayed nothing, not even surprise. Her stomach had been turning for hours, and Angel wasn’t helping. This was a bad idea. She had known it all along. Abi and Rose and her stupid sister Delilah had talked her into this.

But when Angel spoke, his voice a gentle rain. Hello, Maggie, was all he said, but his tone was so warm and tender—she almost burst into tears.

Hi, Angel, she said. Surprise.

He smiled. Oh, God, that smile. He moved towards her, and she shrank towards his parents. But when he pulled her to his chest, she clutched at his shirt and held on.

Later, as Maggie lay in the guest room staring at the ceiling, she thought about the night. Angel’s parents had gone to bed, smiling conspiratorially. She and Angel hadn’t talked of much. He made coffee while she leaned on the kitchen counter watching him move about and trying to read his mood. As usual, he didn’t betray much, but she felt that, though wary, he was glad she was there, and her nerves grew quieter. How was your date with Rose? she asked.

Angel smiled. Seriously?

She nodded. Unless you don’t want to tell me, or unless you two—you know.

He handed her a cup of coffee and sat on a stool beside her. He studied her face. Even after six months of alienation, that they spoke to each other as though they were treading on eggshells. Every question or answer seemed coded. We didn’t ‘you know,’ he smiled. But I get the impression that you and Rose were complicit in the whole evening. I’ll bet you know without my telling you what we did and where we went.

Damn him. You went to church and out to dinner, she said. But you know that’s not what I was asking. I can read you almost as well as you can read me.

He smiled. No, she couldn’t. They wouldn’t have broken up if she could. Rose and I might easily be lovers, he said. But we aren’t. And I’d bet she told you the exact same thing.

It’s strange to be jealous of someone who doesn’t belong to you, she smiled.

Well, Rose and Wanda and everyone else I know seem to think I do belong to you.

Maggie’s hands trembled in her lap. She looked up at Angel to ascertain whether there was any mockery in his eyes but couldn’t detect any. He simply sat watching her while blowing on his coffee. She wondered what Rose was feeling. Handing Angel over to her must have been difficult. I don’t know about Wanda, but I’ll bet Rose is regretting talking me into coming here.

Angel smiled. Rose is fine. Angel could still see Rose’s determined expression when she took him in her mouth. What was that all about? She couldn’t have planned that, not if she knew he was going home only to find Maggie. Or could she? Maybe his sweet Rose was more manipulative than he thought her. No. Surely, that had been spontaneous.

Right. She was just sitting there, and his dick leapt into her mouth. Oh, look. A dick. I guess I have to suck it. Ah, so perhaps, while it hadn’t been premeditated, it was meant to convey a message. What would that be? If not Maggie, me? Was she giving him a chance to finalize the whole Maggie thing while putting in her bid at the same time? Tricky wench.

Maggie put a hand on his. Angel. I need an honest answer. Are you glad I’m here?

Was he? God, he had always loved her eyes. He leaned towards her, and she met him for a light kiss. I am, he murmured. He was surprised how true it felt.

And now, here she was, after two sleepless hours, lying in a strange bed in a strange house unsure of what she was trying to accomplish. Abi and her sister Delilah had both intoned, as if it were a mantra which needed repeating endlessly, ‘If you want him, tell him.’ Rose had said pretty much the same thing. Maggie smiled. Rose, of course, had said it in Rose, a language as alien to her as Angel’s sometimes was. ‘You can’t fight with gravity or electro-magnetism. You’ll just tear yourself apart.’

Angel’s parents were nice. His house wasn’t as grand as hers, but he was far wealthier than she expected, a fact which shocked her. She knew Angel’s father was an engineer and that Angel didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to, but still, his jeans and boots and scars and attitude were hardly aristocratic. But he was the most elegant man she had ever met when he began to speak of books or history or just about anything else. When had he had time to read so much? She smiled to herself. She knew the answer to her own question—Angel rarely slept. And he never slept when he was working on something, which was nearly always. And her ‘He didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to’ was crap. He worked because he was a worker. Even to her, that sounded like an Angelism.

She heard a light tap on her door and sat up. The door opened, and Angel poked his head in. He saw her sitting and smiled. He went to her bedside and held out his hand. She took it and followed him wordlessly to his room—and to his bed. His back and buttocks took her breath away. Thor was relaxed, so she knew she wasn’t being asked to make love, a fact which relieved her. He pulled back the covers and invited her to lie with him. She did so, but Angel smiled and shook his head. Maggie, blushing as she did so, pulled her gown over her head and slipped between the sheets. He lay beside her and pulled her head to his chest. They stayed, thus, for a long time. Maggie’s eyes began to water. Angel saw them glisten and smiled. I know, he said. This is pretty familiar, isn’t it?

She nodded.

That was very astute of you, he said.

What was?

He smiled. I know why you didn’t launch into your planned speech while we were in the kitchen.

She stifled a laugh. She had forgotten how blunt he could be. He heard things she hadn’t said or asked and answered them in his head. What makes you think I had a planned speech? And why didn’t I ‘launch into’ it earlier? she asked. Everything you say manages to sound priapic.

He smiled. Of course, she would catch the word ‘launch.’ Why do you always ask more than one question at a time? He feigned a deep sigh. "The first answer is easy. Women always plan what they want to say, and then they always botch their speeches up when they deliver them. And they always, always practice in their heads first. You probably rehearsed this one for weeks. The second answer is subtler. I think you let me go to bed sans heavy conversation so I could process my date with and feelings for Rose."

Maggie punched him weakly on the chest with a closed fist. Then, she looked up at him. Well, did you process Rose?

Not really, he admitted. I don’t know her as well as I know you. Plus, she’s a bit of a sphinx. Talking you into coming here perplexed me at first. She did encourage you, didn’t she?

Maggie nodded.

You girls are all so weird. You talked to Wanda about me, too? Guys would never do that.

If I were a man, Maggie said, I’d be panting over Rose. But I’d be wary. She’s almost too perfect.

Angel smiled. Rose has plenty of flaws, he said. She’s not going to cruise through life.

Really? Name one.

Her father is schizophrenic, and her mother has a number of addictions, he said. There’s bad shit in her gene pool.

Maggie laughed. You’re silly. Rose isn’t crazy or an addict.

Give her time, Angel said. She’s been sheltered. Then, too, she has almost no experience with men. Surely, you know what that will mean? Poor choices. Heartache. And like another little rich girl I know, she hasn’t really done any meaningful self-examination.

Ouch, Maggie said, but wrong. I’m sure I’ve done more self-analysis this past year than you have.

Angel kissed her head and murmured. I know, Baby. I really do. She wriggled closer and sighed. So, do I get to hear your speech? he asked.

She shook her head. It sounds silly, now. It went something like, ‘I’m a fool. Blah blah blah.’ There were more details, but you get the gist. You could do a better job than what I prepared. She punched his chest harder this time. And damn you for knowing I practiced in my head. That’s so embarrassing.

Sorry, he said. I don’t mean to do that.

So, let’s hear you impersonate me. That should be entertaining.

He smiled. "Okay. Well, you would have started with alienation and angst—something like, ‘Oh, Angel, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve felt like I wasn’t myself for so long I can’t remember what it’s like to be the girl you called Maggie the Cat.’ Then, you would have buttered me up. ‘Angel, this is the most peaceful I’ve felt in a long time. We were happy together before I messed it up, weren’t we?’ You would have included that question so I would have to admit that we were happy. It would have been a good test. If I had hesitated, you would have known I don’t feel anything anymore. Very clever."

Okay, she laughed. You can stop. It’s infuriating that you can even do my voice.

But you were heading towards a couple of questions. You would have tried to ask them subtly, but they aren’t subtle questions.

Oh? And what questions might those be?

Well, you want to know what’s happening between Wanda and me, and you would have wanted to know about Rose before I volunteered any information. So, here goes. Nothing and nothing. Wanda pulled a mini-Maggie and bailed. She has a new boyfriend whom she can’t even admit is a boyfriend. He frowned. I don’t really approve of him. I know how that sounds and don’t mean it that way. I just think he’s a defense against her feelings for me, feelings which upset her delicate notion of herself as independent. So she’s kind of using him, which is beneath her and unfair to him. He chuckled. I mean, he wears fucking, argyle socks. And Rose and I are just friends. Pen pals. For some reason I can’t quite pin down, she needs to be able to talk to me. She flirts with the notion that she’s in love with me, but that’s absurd. We don’t know each other at all. I think she’s smart and funny. She thinks the same about me. We mesh chemically and spiritually, but we keep a respectful distance when we’re together. That’s why I didn’t make love to her tonight. Part of the reason, anyway.

Maggie was silent.

I think that’s the truth about both women, Maggie.

Angel, do you think Rose would have let you make love to her tonight, even knowing I was coming?

I do. I don’t think Wanda or Rose would refuse me.

So, they do feel something?

Yes. But my time with Wanda has passed and my time with Rose lies in some precarious future.

If your time with Wanda has passed, then you must think ours has, too? she said.

He nodded. I do.

Maggie stiffened.

But all that means, he said, is that we would have to start over.

Maggie was still. Then she looked up at him. Is that possible? Won’t our history always mitigate against us?

Ooh, he said. ‘Mitigate against us.’ I like that. And maybe it will. I don’t know. Despite what Rose thinks, I’m not a prophet. He leaned on an elbow and gazed down at her. He traced a line down the side of her face to a breast which he circumscribed. Maggie shivered. He squeezed the breast and kissed it. History isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Look at where we get to start. We know each other intimately. We like each other. We have common friends. We know we’re compatible.

My heart almost leapt into my throat when you did that.

He kissed her lightly. But you had another important question for me, didn’t you?

She sobered, and her eyes misted. Yes, she whispered. Go ahead. Ask it for me.

You’ve been dying to find out what I know about that night you came to me drunk, he said.

Yes, she whispered.

Angel looked long at her. I think I know more than you do, he said.

Even what I did?

Yes, he said. And I know with whom. You ingested heroin while you were blithering drunk. You cruelly abandoned Mitch, not for the first time. That poor guy must have a complex. I know you don’t worry about your behavior towards him, but that’s probably the worst thing you did that night. You danced at Sigma Nu. I’ve seen you dance. You underestimate the effect it has on men. And you danced with the men who whisked you off to their party pad. How do you think Mitch felt? You were a double shit. You rejected and humiliated him in front of his whole fraternity. Even Cane said you were out of control. Then you left with the strangers and had sex with two of them while other people cheered and laughed. You either initiated the sex or were a willing participant.

I know. I remember. God, that’s the first time I’ve viewed it from Mitch’s point of view. I really am a self-absorbed shit. She shifted. Doesn’t that kind of destroy the idea of our starting over?

He smiled. Not a jot.

"Angel, did you just quote Hamlet while we’re talking about my bad behavior?"

Technically, he said. But if it makes you feel better, Hamlet was quoting scripture, Matthew, I think. I wasn’t trying to minimize what you feel. I promise. But I don’t care what you did. Truly. Not a jot.

She peered at him Why would you want to be with a girl who does things like that?

Well, I wouldn’t be ‘with a girl who does things like that.’ I’d be with Maggie. My Maggie the Cat. Not Jason’s Maggie.

Who’s Jason? she asked. Oh, his name is Jason? What did you do, Angel? Did you hurt him? It wasn’t his fault what I did.

No, he said. We didn’t do anything to him. He actually seemed like an okay guy. He stroked her face. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I didn’t mean to speak his name.

How old is he?

Late twenties. Maybe thirty. He’s in a band. So was the other guy, Erik. I didn’t like him so much. He paused and smiled. You called them Angel all night.

Oh, God, she said. She bit her lip. I know how this question will sound, but is he ugly?

Angel laughed. He looks a lot like I’ll look in a few years. So, yes, he’s not very attractive. He tilted her face up to his. Maggie, I’ve done worse. Much worse.

You’re not a little country club girl from Long Island, she said.

No, he assented. And neither are you. Not anymore. Maggie, define existentialism for me.

She peered at him. He was so odd. Seeing everything as absurd?

No, he smiled. That’s the French version. At its core, existentialism is about accepting that you are responsible for your own life. Every time you have something big happen or make a major decision, you self-create. That’s why Dartmouth guys all have ridiculous nicknames. They’re a sign that a new person is being born. You’re no longer thinking with your parents’ brains. You’re no longer seeing through their eyes. When you decide on a profession or where you want to live or with whom, you change yourself deliberately. You choose whom you will be.

His eyes were hypnotic. She tore away from them and stared at the ceiling. Life wasn’t that easy. She couldn’t just choose whom she would be. Could she? Damn him. He always made things seem simple when she knew they were complicated. Abi had said practically the same thing. But Abi was an Angel acolyte. Tears formed in her eyes. Are you going make love to me tonight, Angel?

No, he said. We need to begin gingerly. Maybe in six or seven months.

Six or seven months? she squawked.

Angel laughed and covered her mouth. Hush. You’ll wake my parents. I was kidding. I swear.

She removed his hand from her mouth. You’d better be.

I know, he said. You need a palate cleanser after being so loose and degenerate.

You’re gross and insensitive, she said. And I have no idea whatsoever why that never bothers me. She raised herself on an elbow. So, do you want me to go back to the other room?

No, he said. I want to fuck you silly until you can’t even walk to the guest bedroom, but that’s not going to happen. So I’ll settle for your sleeping with me.

Why not the fucking silly part?

Because you’re not ready.

What does that mean, Angel? I’m so ready. You wouldn’t believe how ready I am. I fantasize about your making love to me. Oh, God, that’s embarrassing, but it’s true.

Nope. Not ready.

She laughed and beat him on the chest. You’re an asshole.

Maybe,’’ he smiled, but if and when we make love, I want you ready to explode. I mean, Boom."

I can boom, she said.

No, your dominant emotion all night was nervousness. You worried that coming here was a mistake. You worried about my date with Rose. You worried about Wanda for goodness sake. When you relax and trust me again, then, we’ll see. But I make no promises. Thor is choosy.

Maggie stroked his face. When I trust you again? It’s the other way around, isn’t it?

No, Sweetheart. I trust you implicitly. You’re the one who doesn’t trust Maggie, and you’ve never trusted me. That last part is my fault.

Maggie stared at him and sank back on his chest. Leave it to Angel to blame her behavior on him. He was either the sweetest, most forgiving man she had ever met or an insufferable egotist. She closed her eyes and yawned. Maybe he was both. She felt him kissing her eyes and then her mouth.

Why hadn’t she done this months ago?

Sweetheart, he whispered. I’m going to get some work done while you fall asleep. Okay?

She nodded and smiled. She watched him get out of bed and go to his desk. Something was open there waiting for him. It looked to be his Bodley Head Ulysses. He was so proud of that book. She rolled on her side and sighed. This was perfect. Angel was at his desk and she was in his bed. Ha. The warrior and his maiden. It was sexy.

And she lay there open, waiting for him, like his book.

She was home.

Later that night:

Rose lay in her bed, curled on her side, one hip and leg exposed. She stared out of her window. She could no longer see it, but she knew a full moon hovered over the water behind her house. She sighed and got out of bed. Sleep wasn’t going to happen. Between Angel’s being with Maggie and her upcoming trip to Columbia, her nervous system pinged at an alarming pace.

She pulled a sweater over her gown and found her slippers. She took the box of Angel’s letters with her and descended the stairs. She stood a long while, looking out the French doors at the rear of the house. Even from there, she could tell the river sparkled with the moon’s light. She smiled. The sun’s rays bounced off the moon. That light, in turn, was reflected by the ancient river, and the river ran according to the tides which were also influenced by the moon. It was all related. Each and every bouncing photon and each and every cresting wave. And the waters housed so much life, all dependent on the moon and the physics of wave motion. God, she could go on forever like that. The sun’s rays decided the temperature of the waters and dominated the feeding and reproductive cycles of all that marine life. Et Cetera. Until infinity.

And who besides her thought that way? Angel, the man she had just foisted off on another woman. Brilliant, Rose.

She stepped outside. The rains from earlier in the evening had long since stopped, leaving in their wake a wintery scent. The earth had been refreshed and gave off its stolid burial odor, all its vegetative life entombed underground for the winter, waiting patiently for a knock upon the door—’Hello under there. Springtime. Rise and come forth to play.’

She sat on her dock, clutching the box of letters to her chest. There was a breeze on the water, and it chilled her. A tiny frog leapt off the dock and splashed in the river next to her. Had she frightened him? Sorry, frog.

She pictured Angel lying with Maggie. Maggie’s face showed rediscovered bliss. Rose knew that she could have been the girl fastened securely to Angel in his narrow bed. She smiled envisioning Angel’s shock when he walked into his house and discovered Maggie. She laughed to think that he might be lying awake wondering why Rose had brought an old lover to him.

Well, Rose, why did you?

It all seemed simple when it was being discussed and planned. Maggie had written her and told her of her woes. She said her best friend and her sister were conspiring to make her try to win Angel back. What should she do?

Rose had written back. Go to him. Surprise him. At Christmas, perhaps.

Good one, Rose. Really smart move.

And even when Maggie had called her earlier in the week to say she was coming and the two of them had planned Rose’s date with Angel and her handoff of him to Maggie, it still seemed the right thing to do. Rose hadn’t tried to re-knit Angel to her sweet friend Cassie. Angel and Cassie, too, had been lovers. Rose was Cassie’s friend. She could have acted the part and attempted a reconciliation. But she hadn’t. She had done nothing. Instead, she had fallen for Angel. So, getting Maggie together with Angel was a do-over?

Good one, Rose. Really smart move.

She looked for the moon, but it was far behind her, so the trail of light on the water narrowed as it went away from her.

Oh! A shooting star. So evanescent. It had hardly formed in her eye before it winked out. Was that an omen of sorts?

Yes, Rose, because the heavens serve no purpose other than to send you messages. But that Magus had followed a messenger star, and history had been born, so it did happen sometimes. She shivered and pulled her sweater around her. She felt sure Angel wasn’t making love to Maggie. She didn’t know how she knew. Intuitive sympathy with the workings of Angel’s mind? Perhaps. They were pretty much attuned. She was confident that Angel’s delicacy would prevent lovemaking. For one thing, he had just left Rose’s arms and lips. Rose smiled to remember his taste. She murmured a brief apology to Maggie. It had been selfish. So that was what a blowjob was like? Huh. It was so easy.

But it was different than she expected. It wasn’t gross, not at all. She laughed remembering how shocked she was when she got his zipper down and withdrew him from his underwear. Dear Lord, he was big. Either that or Arthur was miniature. And so was that ridiculous Trevor when she was still in high school in Switzerland. Angel’s thing was faintly salty, but, otherwise, it tasted like him. Not his lips. His lips were invariably sweet or smoky, depending on whether he had eaten or smoked more recently. But the rest of him, what little she had tasted, were all the same. His throat. His cheek. His chest.

She shivered again, but this time not from the cold.

She opened the box of letters Angel had crafted for her and untied the ribbon holding them together. She carefully removed the first letter and replaced the lid on the box, lest the breeze carry all the leaves away. She stared at the page. Imagine how many hours he had sat at his desk composing them. And half were ones he had written to simulate her letters to him? How was that possible? She didn’t think she could reproduce his voice or logic on paper.

My Sweet Rose,

It is midnight. Christmas has just begun, and my pugilistic folly at Timuquana is history. I dropped you off at your house a few minutes ago and am already wondering why I didn’t just spirit you away.

Ah, so he began with their first meeting. These letters must mark the past year for the two of them. She wondered if her real letters were scattered in with the fictional ones. Probably not. Angel would have kept them. He worked hard to look careless and carefree, but he was a romantic. Yes, he would have her letters tucked away somewhere.

Why, oh, why did I take you home? Why did I not have the sense to hide you in the boot of my car and keep you forever?

An unbidden tear formed.

You are, by far, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever encountered, more lovely and fragrant than your namesake, the rose. Your voice is sweet and low. (Poetic reference number one. Do you know it? Hint: Yeats) And I’m not referring to your physiognomy or your remarkably abundant breasts. Well, perhaps I am a little. But I meant you, yourself, your mind and your essence.

I worry for you. Part of the sweetness of your nature derives from your innocence. People won’t know how vulnerable you are. They will see your formidable exterior and assume you are tough and experienced. Yes, you are traveled. Yes, you are knowledgeable. Yes, you are wise and brave.

But some vestigial warrior gene in me fears for you, nonetheless, and wants to protect you.

From what? I have no clue. Possibly because I sense you are unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. (Another reference. Hint: Shakespeare)

Rose smiled. She knew that one. It was from a sonnet. Which one? Damn him. She would have to wade through a zillion sonnets to find it. She could picture the line in her mind’s eye, though. When my love declares she is made of truth … then something. Oh, she could almost see it.

When I kissed you tonight as we stood by the river, my world was knocked from its orbit in some undefinable way. I think I kissed you because I was under the tragic spell that I had evoked with my story of the dying woman and child. But, like a true heroine, your lips converted tragedy into beauty and hopefulness.

Ah, I know. I am a hyperbolic sort. Richard Eberhart (my poetry mentor) tells me so all the time.

I hope you read this while sitting on the Thames contemplating the shifting tides and the lazy moon. I speak to her often, and she offers me solace.

One thing I haven’t yet ascertained about you: Are you funny? Are you witty? I know you are smart and well-tutored. But I like funny women. Write me and amuse me.

She put the letter down. She would finish it later. It was too much for her. But then, Angel was too much for her. There was something wild and unpredictable in him which frightened her. She had dreamt in London of Angel’s meeting a violent end. When she awoke, she couldn’t remember what had happened, but images of a broken Angel littered the screen of her mind. She shivered again and put the letter back in its box. She shouldn’t have read Angel’s words so soon. She should have waited until she sat lonely in London. Then, his words might have soothed her.

But now, they surgically opened new wounds.

Wounds which felt self-inflicted.

Angel leaned against his car, watching the skies. A comet flared and disappeared. He smiled. An omen. He closed his eyes and could hear the priest’s reedy voice earlier that night quoting from Eliot’s Journey of the Magi. It was cold out, but the air soothed him, and his joint was tasty. He blew smoke into the cool air and watched it join the water vapor from his mouth. It looked like dragon’s breath, and he felt powerful and sure.

He pictured Rose lying in her room staring at the ceiling or busy at her desk writing him a letter. He knew it must have been difficult for her to drop him off at his house knowing Maggie waited there for him. So she was as generous and kind as she was gorgeous. Rose seemed to be faintly unfair to the rest of the universe, as are all roses to the floral world. He closed his eyes and tried to evoke the scent of a rose but couldn’t. He tried to remember the taste of Rose’s lips, but they commingled with the taste of Maggie, so he gave up.

He intuited, though, that she suffered from her decision to reunite him with Maggie. He thought of walking to her house but knew it would be futile. She would be safely ensconced in her bedroom. He wondered if it was still a young girl’s bedroom. Rose was rarely home, and her mother didn’t seem like the type to redecorate a room she didn’t need to. Plus, she probably thought Rose still a child. Mothers didn’t catch on to their children’s aging very quickly. Why was that? Some hardwiring necessary to the survival of the species?

He went back inside and mounted the stairs to his room. He disrobed and slid between the sheets. Maggie smiled sleepily and wrapped her arms around him.

You’re freezing, she said. Did you go outdoors?

I did.

Did you go see Rose? she asked.

He smiled. No. I talked to another girl, though.

Who?

Whom, he said smiling.

Whom, then?

The moon. She gives me advice when I have to deal with crazy women.

Oh, Maggie said. You must speak with her often.

I do.

Maggie kissed his chest. Were you thinking about Rose?

I was.

Thank you for telling me the truth Angel. She kissed him again. I’m glad to be here, even if you’d rather be with Rose.

He rolled towards her and caressed her face. I’m glad you’re here, too. He kissed her gently. Clearly, your presence is my Christmas present, but I didn’t get you anything. What do you want, Maggie?

What a loaded question. I just want to be here with you and feel free from my thoughts for a while, she said.

I can do that. Not much thought goes on in this household.

She laughed, and he kissed her again. She cuddled against him and closed her eyes. Good night, Angel. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Maggie. He stroked her hair until her breathing slowed. Finally, he thought she was asleep and closed his own eyes. His brain slowed, and he thought sleep might be possible.

Maggie could feel him growing quiet, and it made her proud that she could calm him. He slept so little. A thought crept through her mind, an iteration of a conversation with Abi. Abi, too, had asked her what she wanted.

Maggie had replied, I want an orgasm.

She smiled against Angel’s chest. She felt pretty confident that she had come to the right place.

Chapter Two

Monday December 27, 1971

The Ditch

Angel and Maggie flew down Highway 17, their hair streaming behind them. Maggie, the Northerner, shivered and groused good-naturedly. Angel, no one else is riding around with the top down.

It’s fifty-something degrees, he said. It’s fine.

She shook her head and smiled. She wore her ‘my bad boy’ expression pretty frequently these days. It made him glad. He hadn’t seen it on her face since the spring before. Besides, the cold makes your nipples look good, he said.

She stuck out her tongue and wrapped her jacket around her.

We just passed Green Cove Springs, he said. This next curve is where I saw the woman and her child die. I’ve told you that story, haven’t I?

Maggie shook her head.

I came upon an accident on my way home from work. Christmas Eve last year. Just before my first date with Rose. A car had skidded off the road and down a bank. I pulled a woman out of the car and thought I had rescued her. I dragged her to dry land, but she died soon after. Or maybe she was already dead. I don’t know. A child died, too. He slowed. There, he pointed. Maggie saw a bank dropping off quickly into marshland. It was high tide, he said. The car sank on the edge of the muck just there. Maggie turned her head and stared dourly at the swampy spot. So, that had happened to him.

He sped up again, and Maggie watched him drive. He shifted gears and pushed the clutch effortlessly. She had never driven a manual transmission, and Angel had tried to teach her the day before. She had gotten out of the car and walked back into the house after running over one of Angel’s mother’s bushes and ramming a hedge. Angel almost died laughing.

It was odd. One of the most annoying things about Angel but also one of the most fascinating was that he made everything seem so effortless. Abi laughed about it. But Maggie knew things were harder for her than people thought, so maybe Angel’s life wasn’t as simple as he made it appear? She had never thought of that before. She could still hear pain in his voice as he told the dying woman story. Who knew he held on to bad memories just like everyone else? She reached across and gently tugged on his ponytail. His hair was getting long. He wasn’t a beautiful man, but his profile was strong. There was something about his eyes too. Something mesmerizing and slightly inhuman. She had read a poem in high school. What had it said? Something about Cortez staring at the Pacific while his men looked at each other with wild surmise. That was Angel. He always seemed to be looking forward, anticipating the next car he would pass, and he took such joy in the dance of clutch, brake, accelerator, and gearshift. He was simultaneously in the moment and prescient about the next one. No wonder he liked to drive fast. It was how his brain worked all the time.

He looked over at her and smiled. She’d been in a nonstop good mood since she’d arrived. It was odd how simple life could be. Relinquish your pride and face your fears. Bingo. Life makes sense. Because that was all that mattered—that it made sense. For then, even painful or difficult things seemed doable. One step at a time. He’d always known that Rose was smarter than he was, but her sending him Maggie seemed a brilliant stroke. It had not only filled something in Maggie’s heart, but it had healed him, too. What was it about Maggie that transfixed him? She was lovely and funny and smart, all his favorite attributes. But it pained him how stubbornly she worked to make life uncomfortable. Usually, he shunned those women unless, like Jane, they needed help. He stole another peek at her. They were going to make love that night. They both knew it. He could sense her excitement, and she had grown bolder with her hands, stroking Thor through his jeans and letting lust drip from her eyes.

When they turned into the paper mill, Maggie’s antennae trembled. She had long been curious about this, Angel’s other home. For her, it was like entering hell. A pall, cast no doubt by the stinking fumes which belched from all the blackened smokestacks, hung over the whole place. The smell burned her eyes and nostrils. To her right, long flatbed trucks sat mute and philosophical while fifty-foot pine trunks were taken from them by a huge crane. The trees were fed to a conveyor belt leading to a snarling machine which chewed them up. The sound was as infernal as the odor. How do you breathe this air? she asked.

What does it smell like to you? he asked. I’ve long grown used to it.

It smells like we are in one of Dante’s cruelest circles of hell, she said.

He smiled. So, she had read Dante. She hadn’t yet when they broke up. She must have done so over the summer or this past fall. Which meant that she had read it to please him even while she was trying so desperately to avoid him. Good. She was a paradox. All the better. It smells like money to me, he said. It feeds and houses an entire town. Tonight, we’ll be partying with a bunch of these men. While you watch them dance or drink or shoot pool, or beat me up, which is a distinct possibility, you will be watching a world fed by this place.

But Maggie was more fascinated than repelled, and she hung on his words and on every sight for the next two hours as Angel and his father (who happily joined them) gave her a plant tour. Angel spent the most time on the places he had worked. He even made her peek into the lime kiln. Her throat and eyes tormented her for an hour just from being there for ten minutes while he explained how wood was turned into paper.

The loading dock was her favorite. At least it was out in the air, and she enjoyed the bustle of the tow motors zooming to and fro with pallets full of paper products. She loved the yawning maws of the box cars into which the pallets were dumped. She admired the broad-shouldered men who awaited the pallets and began to sling the bundles of paper into twelve-foot stacks. No wonder Angel came back to school thick through the chest and shoulders each year. Very Carl Sandburg’s Chicago.

"This was my favorite job," Angel said.

You know why? his father asked.

Why?

Repetitious labor, his father said. The same reason you used to like cutting lawns or throwing papers. The body falls into a rhythm, and the mind free floats.

As they walked past the office where Jackie used to work, Maggie nudged Angel. Gee, she said, I couldn’t have told you and your father were related in a million years. You just walk alike, talk alike, and have the same eyes.

Angel smiled. He’d always assumed he was more his mother.

Maggie thought the paper machines awesome. She laughed when she had to skip out of the way of a tow motor that had just picked up a fifty-foot roll of paper from the end of the huge machine.

See those slits in the floor? Angel asked.

Maggie nodded.

When there’s a tear in the paper, everything turns to shit quickly. One of the rolls starts flapping about, spewing long sheets of paper. It’s called a paper break. It’s like a roll of toilet paper when you first start it. Some of the first few feet tear into shreds, and you just have to rip the paper off. That’s what happens here. The excess paper, up to a ton of it, gets crammed through those slits in the floor and drops into the basement below.

What happens then?

That’s what I’m going to show you, Angel said. His father grimaced.

They descended a circular set of iron stairs to the basement. This is called Hell, Angel said. He pointed to the slits in the ceiling. The paper drops through there. He gestured to two men who leaned against a wall talking. They straightened quickly when they saw Angel’s dad. It wasn’t every day they were visited by one of the big bosses. Angel smiled as he watched them. He knew what was going on in their heads: ‘Uh, oh. The Boss. But damn. Would you look at that chick? Can’t wait to watch her climb back up them stairs.’ Angel knew sexy women were far rarer in Hell than bosses.

Angel’s dad took her to the Broke Beater. The torn off paper is put in this. Maggie looked over the edge to see a blade turning. It looked like a rotary lawnmower only bigger and fiercer. The stench was intense. Water flowed in a circular fashion through the beater. The chemicals soften the paper, and the blades chew it up, his father continued. It gets sluiced through that pipe to be remade into paper. Then, the whole cycle begins again.

Maggie nodded. What’s the other pipe? she asked.

That’s where the excess water and chemicals go, Angel said. It feeds into Rice Creek. We drove over it. Remember the bridge that was all foggy?

Maggie nodded. Where does that go? Into the St. John’s?

Angel nodded. Smart girl. He had been watching his father as he spoke to Maggie. He could tell that his father was impressed. Well, he should be. Maggie was a sharp chick.

This is where your friend died, isn’t it? Maggie asked.

It is, Angel said.

Abi told me, Maggie said. So, part of him ended up going through that sluice, she pointed to the one which fed Rice Creek, and ended up in the St. John’s?

Yes.

And you think about him every time you cross that bridge and every time you’re out on the St. Johns, like you were with Jane and Rose, she trailed off.

Angel looked at his dad who smiled at him. He took Maggie’s hand and led her back up the stairs. He went before her so as not to block the view she offered the two workers. He could practically smell their brains overheating.

They walked hand in hand to his car, saying little. Angel watched Maggie, who seemed locked in her head. They drove under the primitive car wash designed to rinse away the black flakes which floated down on the parked cars all day long. Once through it, Angel got out and took the top back down. As they drove away from the plant, they turned south towards Palatka. It had darkened, and Maggie glanced back over her shoulder at the venerable mill. It looked much older than it was, a victim of the black flakes and the steady attack from rancid chemicals. She felt as if she were in Victorian England watching the soot fly up from the myriad chimneys which belched coal ash into the air, only to be repelled by the permanent dark clouds and dropped back down upon the citizenry as sooty rain. A Dickensian world. Bleak House. ‘It smells like money’ fell on her ears like the soot upon the cars.

So, this was how people worked. She had driven through Harlem and Spanish Harlem often enough to know that people lived lives unlike hers. She knew herself to be privileged. It had never occurred to her that there might be a kind of vitality in lives other than hers. But the paper mill breathed an energy and life force which was alien to her. She didn’t see unhappy, truculent workers bitterly doing their shitty jobs. Instead, she saw a bustling world full of purpose. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. Each person knew his job and knew how what he did or didn’t do impacted all the others around him. It was the way the boys in her high school felt about playing football. Not all the positions were glamorous, but each offered that sense of being a part of something, of contributing to something. The plant made paper. That was easy to understand and appreciate. Angel’s precious books wouldn’t exist without paper. Very little of the modern world would.

And it wasn’t that she hadn’t known these worlds existed, but, like studying French in a classroom was different than working a year in Paris, this world, Angel’s world, sprang alive in her imagination.

Glove box, Angel murmured.

Maggie opened the glove compartment and drew forth a joint.

There’s no heroin in it, he smiled. I promise.

Maggie stuck out her tongue and pushed in the cigarette lighter. When it popped out, she lit the joint and inhaled deeply. I’m starving, she said, and this is just going to make me hungrier. She chuckled. I started to say that I hate the way you do those little psych tests, but I actually enjoy them in a perverted sort of way.

What psych tests?

She looked mockingly at him. Your heroin jab? You think I don’t know that you do that on purpose? ‘Let’s find out if Maggie is still hypersensitive about her whorish behavior.’ I know how you think, Mister.

You do, huh? he smiled and took the joint. And what am I thinking now?

You’ve been thinking that you’re glad I’m not as maudlin and depressing as you feared I had become. You’re thinking that your magical presence has cured me of my malaise.

That’s pretty good, he said. But I was actually wondering where we should eat. I pondered my magical presence right before that, though.

Maggie took the joint back from him and gazed at him. I know you, Buster. Want me to prove it? He smiled and nodded. Back at the mill, she said, You had your father go up the ladder first. Then you. Then me. You didn’t want to put your father in the uncomfortable position of checking out my fanny while climbing the stairs, and you wanted the two men working there to gaze in wonder. Then, you cursed yourself for not going last, because I know how much you like my derriere. You think it’s a thing of beauty. And, to top it all off, Thor probably started contemplating how the evening will end. How am I doing, so far?

Angel smiled. He had forgotten how quick she was and how well she read his moods. If anything, the past months had made her smarter, more aware of things outside herself. He liked this new Maggie. Without looking at her, he reached over and kneaded her neck. Maggie said, Oh, fuck, and leaned forward to receive the impromptu rub. When he finished, she said, You used to touch me all the time. I missed that. You do know that other boys don’t do that, don’t you?

I touch you all the time?

Yes, Angel. You do. Like that little rub you just gave me. Or a hand in my back when we walk. You just like to touch me, she said.

Angel smiled. He wasn’t aware that he did that.

I saw you doing it with Wanda this fall, she said. I wanted to come back to you so badly. Then, I saw how you two were at the football game. Your hands were always on her, just like with me. I think that broke my heart.

I’m sorry, he said.

Don’t be, she said. I’m glad that you had whatever you had with Wanda. I was miserable. There was no reason we should both be unhappy. She paused.

Angel shook his head. No, he said.

No, what?

You were going to ask whether I was in love with Wanda.

Was not, she smiled.

Were, too, he smiled back. But I wasn’t, in love with Wanda, that is. I probably could have been, given time, but it didn’t happen.

Maggie leaned back and stretched. Good, she said. Now I have you at my mercy. I can use my wiles.

Your wiles? he asked. You’d do better just using your ridiculous ass and that amazing smile.

Oh, really? she said. So, you don’t like my chest? She cupped her breasts and looked down at them. I guess they pale next to Rose’s.

Angel laughed. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen Rose’s chest.

But you know they’re bigger than mine, she said.

Bigger doesn’t mean better, he said. What if they’re deformed? Or she has ugly nipples?

Hmm, Maggie said. Somehow, I doubt that they’re imperfect in any way, whatsoever. It kind of worries me that you’re not in love with her. She let go of her breasts and leaned back, stretching and sighing. It tells me that you are crazy and have poor judgement. Rose is …

Rose, Angel finished for her. True, I guess I am kind of settling being here with you.

Maggie laughed and punched his arm.

Angel pulled into a parking space and turned off the car. He went to Maggie’s door and helped her out. I do love a gentleman, she said.

Gentleman? he said. I just do that to see your legs as you get out of the car.

She leaned against him and put her face up to his. Oh, really?

Truly, he said and kissed her. She tasted like Maggie.

They walked up Palatka’s short main street. Angel gestured widely. Pick, he said. That’s the nearest thing to fine dining in town, and he pointed to a corner restaurant with a sign which said ‘Restaurant.’ Or there’s pizza. Burger King. Chinese. Anything your little heart desires.

I pick that place, Maggie said pointing.

Angel smiled. And why has Milady picked a drugstore?

Because it’s old, and I’ll bet it has a lunch counter with milk shakes.

Angel led her into the shabby drugstore. It did, indeed, have a lunch counter, replete with a haggard hostess. They plopped down on stools. The placemats were their menus, and Maggie scanned hers avidly.

Angel smiled. Maggie was too much. How do you know about soda fountains? From movies?

You think they’re Southern things? she said. Not hardly. Have you ever heard of Friendly’s?

Sure. I’ve eaten at several of them.

Well, she said, Then you know they were modelled after soda fountains. Now, hush, and let me read the menu.

Who was this playful girl? This Maggie seemed more like her little sister Delilah than the Maggie Angel had dated. Hey.

She looked up, smiling. What?

Just ‘Hey,’ he said. I’m glad you’re here.

I know. You told me already.

Yes, but now I mean it.

She laughed and blushed.

He dug his fingers in her side. She howled with laughter and writhed.

Oh, so I’m funny, am I? he said. He poked her some more and tears sprang to her eyes.

Stop, Angel. We’re in a public space.

A public space? Who talks like that?

Stop or I won’t fuck you later, she gasped, still laughing.

The woman behind the counter turned. All right, you two, none of that in here.

Yeah, Maggie, Angel said. Stop that right now.

Maggie put a finger in his face and waggled it. I’m serious.

Angel grabbed her finger. He bent it back slowly.

Okay, she laughed. I’ll do whatever you want, later. I’m not Jeffrey, threatening my sister.

Angel released her. The dour woman stood with her pen and pad, ready to take their order or throw them out. She didn’t look like she cared which.

I’ll have a cheeseburger, Maggie gasped, trying to stop laughing. And a chocolate milk shake.

And Angel? Your usual? she rasped.

Yes, Lois. Jalapenos, please, he said.

I know, she grumbled. You don’t have to tell me every time. I’m old, but I’m not an idiot. She walked off shaking her head.

Maggie stared at him. This was where you wanted to eat all along, wasn’t it? she asked. And they know you here?

Angel smiled. Maggie punched him in the shoulder and then leaned against him, causing her stool to spin and almost falling off.

Angel caught her, and they laughed. Lois shook her head.

What’s your usual? Maggie asked.

"I like to start with kissing and go almost directly to cunnilingus," he said.

She punched him again. No, silly. What do you like to eat?

Angel stared at her smiling until she heard her question hanging in the air and began to laugh. You make everything dirty, don’t you?

Do I?

Maggie put a hand on his arm. No. You don’t, do you? You make everything sound clean and new and sacred, even when you’re being profane or comical.

Angel smiled and pulled her face to his for a kiss.

Stop that, I said, Lois told them. I’m gonna tell Jackie you was in here fooling around with some Yankee.

Maggie blushed. Who’s Jackie? And how can she tell I’m a Yankee?

Angel smiled. Jackie worked at the plant with me. We dated over the summer. We still keep in touch. We’re just friends, but, yes, we slept together. No, we won’t run into her tonight. She moved to Ft. Lauderdale. You notice I’m answering future questions to save time. The Yankee part? I don’t know. Mannerisms maybe? Your accent? You’re definitely not from around here. Everyone knows everyone, and she doesn’t know you.

Maggie smiled. This is fun.

What? We’re just sitting here.

She nodded. Exactly. We don’t need to be doing anything. Just being together is fun. I’d forgotten that was possible.

Oh, so we don’t need to be at a Beta formal?

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Lois plopped a towering shake down in front of Maggie. Watch out for him, she said. That boy don’t think he’s Moses. He thinks he’s the one gave Moses the tablets. And she slouched back to the griddle.

Maggie snickered at Angel. She’s got you pegged.

Oh, yeah, Angel said dourly. I’ll peg you.

Lois brought their burgers and fries and plopped them down unceremoniously. Maggie inspected Angel’s. What’s so different about yours?

Well done, sautéed onions, jalapenos, and barbecue sauce instead of catsup. Why?

Because, apparently, every woman on the planet is expected to know exactly how you take everything. Like your coffee, she said.

How do I take my coffee?

She took his mug from him, dumped six packets of sugar into it, and added cream. Miss? Do you have any chocolate syrup?

Hold your horses. I was bringing it, Lois said.

Angel smiled and bit into his burger.

At The Ditch

Angel, where are we? They seemed to be driving deeper and deeper into swampy, primordial ooze. Pine trees lined both sides of the road, and the moon’s rays didn’t even begin to penetrate the fog. The road seemed barely wide enough for Angel’s Austin Healey, let alone the slew of pickup trucks Angel promised Maggie she’d encounter.

Technically, it’s just a bar. Picture a roadhouse from a movie, he said.

A roadhouse?

You know, one of those one-story places out in the country with live music and dancing pretty much every night. This place looks like a movie set. It’s a complete dive, but it gets pretty good country-rock bands. I’m sure if you ask the right person, you can go out to a truck and buy moonshine.

But if you ask the wrong person? she asked.

Right, well that would cause problems, he smiled. As is, I’m not sure how we’ll be welcomed. I kind of got into a fight the last time I was here.

Maggie laughed. How can you kind of get in a fight?

It’s a long story. It has to do with Wayne, the guy who fell into the broke beater and got chewed up. The short version is that a guy insulted my date, and I hit him in the face.

And who was this date? Will she be here? Should I be jealous?

There you go again, he said.

I know. Three questions, she laughed.

That would be the Jackie I told you about. She moved away, so, no, she won’t be here. And, yes, you should be jealous. How did I do?

Hmm, she smiled. Okay, how about just one more question? Why on earth do you expect people to be at a roadhouse on the Monday after Christmas?

Ah, well, that’s kind of a local ritual. The paper mill ran all weekend. So, a thousand or so locals worked the last two days. They always have a big party here when Christmas, or any holiday, falls on a weekend, he said. I think it’s a great idea. I worked the whole weekend last year. You get tons of overtime. Shit, he exclaimed and veered around what appeared to be a log.