Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

“Just like Bethlehem,” he said.

He imagined this was what it must have been like for the shepherds all those years ago—the sky filled with angels, their radiance so bright the entire hillside lit up like it was daytime.

At that instant, Billy’s world became as bright as day with a light so bright he could barely see his angels in the tree. He could barely see anything at all. Billy raised his hand to shield his face against the brilliant white light.

The light shuddered, then moved off him a moment. In that moment, between blinks, Billy saw a police squad car at the curb in front of the house. Then the light was on him again, and he saw nothing but glaring light.

He heard car doors open.

Billy sat up quickly, his head hitting branches. Grabbing angels as fast as he could, he threw them into the Nike shoe box. First the pictures, then the ceramic figurines. The second figurine into the box made an awful clank, and Billy was afraid he’d broken it, possibly broken both of them.

Throwing the lid on the box, he scooped it under his arm and scrambled from beneath the tree and out of the spotlight. Two lesser lights hit him in the face. Flashlights held by two policemen. The two lights drove Billy from the La Loma Road residence.

He hurried down the street, periodically looking over his shoulder. The Pasadena squad car followed him until he crossed the city limits.

Cheryl McCormick stood on swollen feet in the aisle of Flight 858 from Chicago waiting to deplane. No Santa Anita thoroughbred was ever out of the gate faster than Cheryl was out of her seat at the sound of the seat-belt tone, despite being pregnant and pulling a three-year-old behind her. She managed to get ahead five rows of seats before the aisle clogged with passengers reaching into overhead bins for their carry-on bags.

It had been a torturous four-hour flight. Cheryl’s back and legs ached horribly, confirming what she already knew to be true—that women in their third trimester should not fly on airplanes. When the boarding agents inquired at the boarding gate how far along she was, she lied. Cheryl told them she was twenty-nine weeks along, when she was really thirty-six weeks pregnant. She felt bad about lying. She punished her fourth-grade students for lying. But this was an exception. She had to get on this flight. And now she had to get to the hotel in Century City. Tens, maybe hundreds, of thousands of dollars were at stake.

Cheryl craned her neck to see what was holding up the line. An elderly couple in first class helped each other out of their seats: What do I do with this blanket? Hand it to the stewardess, dear. Did you get your sweater? My eyeglasses! Where are my eyeglasses? Around your neck, dear. Here, take my arm. I’m not helpless, you know. Did you call Roger? We’ll call him in the airport. Did you bring his phone number? I thought you had it. No, I handed it to you when we were walking out the door.

Finally, the line began to shuffle forward at a pace matching that of the elderly couple. At least they were on the move.

“Mommy?” Little Stacy rubbed her eyes with her free hand. She was asleep on her feet, still wearing her pajamas. Cheryl had yanked her out of her bed at midnight to get her to the airport. As it turned out, they had to wait for hours at O’Hare for a flight.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“Is it morning yet?”

The line started to move. Cheryl adjusted the two straps slung over her shoulder—luggage and her purse—refreshed her grip on her daughter, and maneuvered her swollen belly up the aisle. Once they were in the passageway that connected airport and airplane, she had room to move.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” She pressed past the flow of departing passengers, pulling her daughter behind her.

Stacy began to whimper.

“Stay with Mommy, honey,” Cheryl said. “We’re almost there now.”

Cheryl burst into the waiting area at Gate 27 as though the airplane had spit her out. She’d flown infrequently and had never been to Los Angeles, but she knew what to look for. She hesitated only for a moment before spotting it.

Taking off as fast as her stomach, a three-year-old, and two heavy bags would allow, she ran in the direction of the arrows. Within moments her breathing was labored, her back was on fire, her calves were cramping, and she was sweating like an El Centro day laborer. Still, she ran.

People were staring at her. She didn’t care. Women were telling her to slow down. Not so much with words, but by the stares they gave her. They thought she was a terrible mother. Cheryl told herself it didn’t matter what they thought. But it did.

Little Stacy was crying now.

They reached the baggage claim area. A long line of carousels with computerized letters identified airlines and flight numbers. Cheryl ran past them, even though she’d checked two bags in Chicago. She’d worry about them later. Right now, she was looking for another sign.

She saw it.

In a moment, she was out the door, stumbling, waving for a taxi cab. The first in the long line of cabbies saw her and pulled up to the curb.

“Into the back, honey.” Cheryl lifted Stacy off her feet and almost tossed her into the cab. Then, grabbing the top of the cab, the door, the seat, she maneuvered her bulk into the cab. The driver had gotten out to assist her. She was in the backseat and had the door closed before he could get around the car.

“I would have helped you, lady,” the driver said, climbing back in. He was a short man with a dark complexion and white teeth. His English was broken. Cheryl guessed him to be Filipino.

“Century City,” she said. “Excelsior Hotel. And please hurry. In fact, there’s a twenty-dollar tip if you get us there fast.”

The driver looked over his shoulder. “It’s just a short way up the 405. I can have you there in twenty minutes.”

“Make it fifteen, and there’s forty dollars in it for you.”

The cab driver hit the accelerator.

“Mommy?”

“We’ll be there in a few minutes, honey.”

Cheryl brushed fiery red strands of hair out of her eyes and pulled Stacy next to her. She tried to catch her breath.

Traffic was thick. The cab slowed. Cheryl peered through the windshield pointing out openings when she saw them. Each time, the cab driver was on it even as she was pointing, so she decided to let him drive on his own.

She looked at her watch. The last ten hours had been crazy. Had anyone told her ten hours ago she’d be in Los Angeles the next day, she would have laughed. She had no desire to see Los Angeles. Which reminded her: Call Vivian. If she shows up for lunch and you’re not there, she’ll race to the hospital only to find you’re not there either. Then she’ll worry.

Cheryl looked down at Stacy, who had fallen asleep against her. Her firstborn had black hair and alabaster skin like her father, which was a blessing. While people always commented that Cheryl’s fair and freckled skin was beautiful, they didn’t have to live with it.

Larry had loved it. He couldn’t keep his hands off of it. Which is what got her in this condition in the first place. Twice. Cheryl wondered if she’d be doing this if Larry were still alive. Possibly. He’d always been the crazy one. The spontaneous one. The one who would jump up from the couch and say, “Let’s go get an ice cream,” or “Let’s go dancing,” or he’d want to canoodle at inappropriate times and places, like in her parents’ living room, and in the back of the church, and in her fourth-grade school classroom closet.

Cheryl laid her head back against the seat. Her heart was pounding so hard her chest hurt. Less than twelve hours ago, she’d been looking through TV Guide for something to watch. Flipping to channel seven had set in motion a series of events she never would have imagined possible.